The Puppet Show

by Patrick Redmond

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Michael Turner is about to make a big mistake. Having struggled for years to escape the demons of his childhood - an orphan lost in a maze of institutions and foster homes - he is finally happy. Now in his early twenties, he has a loving fiancée and is taking the first steps in a promising legal career. And then he meets Max. The father figure that Michael has always craved, Max strides into Michael's life, realising all the childhood dreams that have lain dormant for so many years. But dreams come with a price. Despite his supportive exterior, Max is plagued by his own demons and is a violently skilled manipulator when it comes to getting exactly what he wants from everyone around him. As Michael's fears and vulnerabilities begin to push everyone else away, Max sets to work . . . A taut, sophisticated and engrossing thriller that will have you turning pages furiously into the night.

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 470

Sample

The Wishing Game

‘The setting is genuinely chilling, and the atmosphere of menace and sterility riveting’ – Daily Express

‘Patrick Redmond’s chilling debut novel is a first-rate page-turner’ – Daily Mirror

‘The repressive world of single-sex boarding schools is a fertile ground for novelists, and Redmond grasps every opportunity for delineating the resulting psychological deformations with relish… Such is the hard-edged skill of Redmond’s writing that the carefully structured revelations about the past have a bitter and compelling power’ – Times Literary Supplement

‘Assured writing sets up evil to overcome the weak in this deft, Hitchcockian portrayal of a malevolent microcosm of warped power’ – Publishing News

‘The Wishing Game is dark and gripping, like an anaconda. I could not pull myself away: an astonishing debut’ – Tim Rice

‘Thanks to Redmond’s masterfully subtle fore-shadowing, a brooding sense of impending disaster is maintained throughout his gripping suspense thriller’ – Publishers Weekly

‘Redmond has a way of making individuals seem both more human and more vile as new levels of detail are unearthed. Even his villains manage to become more understandable, vulnerable and complex as the book marches on… An impressive debut’ – Washington Post

The Puppet Show

‘Redmond marries a sure grasp of psychology with a beguiling narrative that allows its series of revelations to unfold in a totally organic fashion… But his principal gift, as in The Wishing Game, is an effortless grasp of narrative texture, and multiple levels of sympathetic insight into his brilliantly drawn characters – Crime Time

‘A highly successful thriller: a page-turner, certainly, but also original, well-constructed and intelligent’ – Spectator

‘As dark psychological thrillers go, this is dark… A good read’ – Maxim

‘His style is strictly no frills – simple, sparse and straightforward… but he does have a way of making you gag to know what happens next’ – Daily Mirror

‘A mesmerising narrative, plainly but urgently told. Redmond’s particular talent lies in the book’s careful structure, its plotting and steadily accelerating pace – and in the psychological veracity that made the previous book a stunner… An excellent novel: clearly a talent to watch’ – Tangled Web

Apple of My Eye

‘A dark and bloody tale which keeps the tension going right until the last page… A superb, intelligent read’ – Joanne Harris

‘A compelling novel that draws you deep into the world of children at the mercy of the dangerous adults. Disturbing and gripping’ – Natasha Cooper

‘An intense, gripping read’ – Heat

All She Ever Wanted

‘The lurking tension and twisting cruelty in Redmond’s writing and plotting make for a hypnotic, compelling read’ – The Bookseller

‘The ghastliness of the English class system lies at the heart of Redmond’s creepy psychological thriller… Du Maurier meets Patrick Hamilton’ – Guardian

Bow, East London, 1984



‘Where’s Michael? Why isn’t he here? I want to say goodbye.’ Sean put down the bag he was carrying and stared at the ground. His face was flushed, his lip starting to tremble.

Susan Cooper, who had been following with his suitcase, took a deep breath. ‘I told you, Sean, we can’t find him.’

‘But I want to say goodbye. I won’t go without saying goodbye!’

The two of them stood on the pavement outside the Children’s Home. It was a square slab of Victorian grey stone; the only detached house on its side of the street. Facing it was a council estate, a concrete maze that blocked out the sun and cast the narrow street into shadow.

Tom Reynolds, waiting in the car, now turned off the engine and made as if to get out. Susan shook her head. They were running late as it was. A few more minutes and there was no chance of avoiding the rush-hour traffic. A group of boys from the council estate played football in the road, trading insults with every shot, oblivious to the farewell scene that was being enacted before them.

She shivered. Though only early October, there was a sharpness in the wind that warned of approaching winter. An elderly couple walking by, laden with groceries, gave Sean a sympathetic look. Silently she cursed Michael. She really didn’t need this now. ‘I told you, Sean,’ she said, more sharply than she intended, ‘we can’t find him. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.’

‘Then I’m not going! I don’t want to go! You can’t make me!’

His gentle eyes were full of fear. Immediately she felt ashamed. Crouching down beside him, she brushed a lock of blond hair from his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. We have tried to find him, really we have. You know what he’s like. He’s probably just got held up.’

‘He doesn’t want to be here.’

‘Of course he does.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘He’s your best friend. He wouldn’t want to miss this.’

‘He said he hated me and that he was glad I was going away. He said–’ Sean’s eyes were filling with tears ‘–he said that foster parents just act nice to trick you, and once I’m in their house they’ll keep me in their cellar and pay the social worker not to say anything and …’

Susan made soothing noises. ‘He’s just teasing you. The Andersons are kind people, Sean. You don’t think I’d let you stay with people who weren’t kind, do you?’

He didn’t answer. She took his chin in her hand and looked into his face. ‘Do you?’

Slowly he shook his head.

‘They’ve got that lovely big garden and two dogs. You’ll be happy with them, Sean. I promise you will.’

A horn blasted, followed by a raised voice: a driver cursing because the road was blocked by Tom’s car. She couldn’t delay any longer. ‘Let’s get you settled. Tom said you can sit in the front and listen to one of your tapes.’

Tom opened the passenger door and grinned at Sean. ‘Ready then, mate?’ There was another blast from the horn. Tom leaned out of his window. ‘Hang on!’ He ruffled Sean’s hair. ‘Let’s see if we can break the land speed record on the motorway, eh?’ Sean managed a smile while Susan helped him fasten his seat belt. ‘You will come and see me?’ he asked her anxiously.

‘Try and stop me.’

He still looked worried. ‘You won’t forget about my photograph? You will keep looking?’

‘Of course. We’ll find it. Don’t worry.’

She watched the car move away down the road. The boys from the estate let the vehicle pass, then continued with their game. As she watched, an unspoken prayer echoed in her mind. Oh God, please let this be a happy ending. He’s only nine, and he’s suffered enough. He deserves a happy ending.

Sadly, she turned and walked back into the house.

Michael stood at the end of the road, watching Susan hug Sean.

His school bag hung from his shoulder. He should have been back an hour ago. Instead he had wandered the streets, killing time. It should have been over by now.

He could tell that Sean was crying. Knew that he was frightened. Knew whose fault it was too.

Shame rose up in him, together with other, more complicated feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge. Angrily he pushed them down. Sean was a baby and deserved to be scared.

He turned away, towards the tiny garage on the corner. The forecourt gate was unlocked, and he darted across it, jumped on to a crate and up on to the wall that ran along the back of the houses. Behind him he heard an angry roar from the garage owner.

After walking along the wall, slowly to keep his balance, he dropped down into the back garden of the Home. A postage stamp with weeds. Entering by the back door, he moved through the storage room and past the kitchen. He could hear voices. Preparations had started for the evening meal. Bolognese, judging by the smell. Mince and tins of processed tomatoes, seasoned with wedges of onion, ladled on to spaghetti. They’d had the same dish four nights ago. But it was a simple meal, and there were twenty of them to feed.

He came to the main hall. The air was stale and tinged with the smell of damp. The paint on the walls was dirty. From the outside the house had a certain grandeur, but inside everything was shabby and in need of repair. The front door faced him. Beside it was a noticeboard and a pile of coats and bags. To his left was the television room. The older children were watching motor racing while the younger ones shouted in vain for cartoons.

The front door was opening. Not wanting Susan to see him, he darted up the stairs to the first floor, a hall surrounded by bedrooms. Someone was listening to Duran Duran behind one of the doors. Another door opened and Mr Cook stepped out. He was one of the members of staff who lived on the premises. He smiled at Michael, his cherubic face, pale beard and bright red cardigan making him look like an oversized teddy bear. ‘Did you say goodbye to Sean?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must be feeling sad. Do you want to talk?’ His voice was warm, his expression friendly. Michael felt his skin crawl. Everyone knew what Mr Cook’s friendship was all about. Scowling, he hurried up to the second floor.

His room was at the front of the house, buried in the eaves of the roof. It had a low ceiling, two beds and bare walls. When first he’d come here they had been allowed to hang posters, but not now. Something about damaging the paintwork. As if pieces of Blu Tack would make it any worse.

His own bed was a mess of sheets and blankets. What had been Sean’s bed for the last year was now just a bare mattress. The bedding was at the laundry, being cleaned in preparation for the new occupant who would arrive next week. A boy of his own age whose name he couldn’t remember, though Susan had told him. She had also told him that he must help the new arrival settle in. Show him the ropes. Just as he had done with Sean.

He sat down on his bed, facing the window. His only view was of the council estate. The views at the rear were better. From Brian’s room, over the rows of houses, you could see the tops of the skyscrapers of the City of London itself. The City. The magic square mile. The financial heart of the country, so Brian had told him, where unimaginable fortunes were won and lost every day.

Brian was fifteen. Soon he would be leaving the Home, going to make his own fortune. Brian boasted that he would be a millionaire by the time he was twenty-five, with a big house in the West End and a mansion in the country, a fleet of expensive cars, a wardrobe of designer clothes, and servants to carry out his every command. Brian was full of dreams. Perhaps they would come true. In spite of everything he had experienced, Michael still hung on to the belief that sometimes dreams did come true.

He gazed out of his window but saw nothing. In his head he imagined himself as Dick Whittington, walking through the City, dazzled by the glare of streets that were paved with gold.

He was still sitting there half an hour later when Susan came to hunt for Sean’s photograph. His presence startled her. She hadn’t realised that he’d returned.

‘What happened to you?’ she demanded.

He ignored her.

‘You should have been there.’

A shrug of the shoulders.

‘Sean was really hurt.’

‘So?’

‘So, you should have been there. You’re his best friend.’

‘I don’t care.’

The sight of his back was annoying her. ‘That was a wicked thing to do. Telling him all those lies about the Andersons.’

‘They’re not lies.’

‘You really frightened him. You know he believes every word you tell him.’

‘Not my fault. Stupid baby. Stupid fuckin’ baby!’

A reprimand was called for but she didn’t have the heart. She understood the reasons for his anger, even if there was nothing she could do to alleviate them.

‘It doesn’t have to be the end,’ she said gently. ‘You can still visit each other.’

‘Oh sure! Canterbury’s just down the road. I can walk there after school!’

He turned to look at her. She studied his face: the thatch of black hair, the harsh features that seemed too old for a boy of ten, and the accusatory blue eyes that always made her feel guilty. An angry face, with nothing that could be called attractive. Jenny, one of the social workers, believed that one day he would grow into his looks and be quite the lady-killer. She hoped so. Good looks were an advantage, and children like Michael needed all the advantages they could get.

It had gone six o’clock. Her own family would be waiting for her. ‘I have to go. Will you be OK?’

He turned back to the window. ‘Course.’

She didn’t want to leave it like this. He needed her, in spite of the show of bravado. But so did her own family.

Where are they, she thought suddenly, all the barren couples searching for a child to take into their homes and pour their love upon? She knew they existed. But she also knew that most wanted a newborn baby or a sweet child like Sean who was still sufficiently undamaged to be able to respond to that love. Few wanted a child like Michael, a child who had somehow fallen through the cracks and who stared out at the world with eyes that were centuries old, full of suspicion and the dark shadows of neglect.

‘I can stay a bit longer if you want.’

Another shrug.

She felt bad, but not as much as she would have done once. She had learned long ago not to care too much. It would just break her heart if she did.

‘I’ll be here tomorrow. We’ll talk after school. You haven’t lost him, Mike. Canterbury’s not that far away.’

‘Don’t care.’

‘Yes, you do.’

She left the room. He remained on the bed, facing the window.

That night, while the rest of the Home slept, he ran away.

After gathering together some clothes and those few possessions he wished to keep, he crept downstairs. As he slid through the dark, he could hear the occasional sigh of someone’s breathing, but otherwise all was silence. The Home was always so full of noise. Sometimes he thought it would drive him mad, but now he found its absence eerie.

In the hallway he searched through the school bags and crammed his belongings into one that was bigger than his own. Then he began to move from room to room. The front and back doors would be locked. The windows were supposed to be locked too, but he knew that this was often overlooked. He found what he was looking for in the television room and climbed out into the night.

He walked through largely empty streets, the houses packed so tightly together that they looked as if they might burst. He passed the corner shop, from which he’d stolen sweets and comics, and the old church with the derelict graveyard that he had told Sean was haunted. His way was illuminated by the weak streetlamps and the occasional light from a window. The night was cold and still. The few people about were mostly returning from pubs and paid him no attention, though one middle-aged man, walking his dog, did turn and stare. He quickened his pace, hurrying away towards the light and noise of Mile End Road.

The road itself was quietening now, the huge thoroughfare empty save for the last of the evening’s traffic making its way home to Essex or down into the City and on towards the late-night drinking clubs of the West End. The pavements, too, were emptying as the pubs and restaurants had closed. What life there was now congregated around a handful of takeaways and late-night cafés.

It started to rain. He went into one of the cafés, a small but cheerful place full of the smell of greasy food, with pictures of film stars on the wall and jazz music playing softly from a battered loudspeaker. The smell made him hungry. Though he had eaten nothing at supper, he wanted to conserve what money he had, so he bought only a coke and a packet of crisps before sitting at a table in the corner by the window, waiting for the rain to stop.

As soon as he returned from the kitchen, Joe Green noticed the boy sitting alone.

He nudged his nephew Sam, whose head was buried in a music magazine. ‘Did that kid come on ’is own?’

‘What kid?’ asked Sam, without looking up.

‘How many kids are there?’

Sam raise his head, nodded and returned to his magazine.

The boy had finished his crisps and was now sipping from his can. The sight of him troubled Joe. He shouldn’t be out on his own. Not at this time of night.

The café was virtually empty, the only other customers two youths who were laughing as they tucked into pizza and chips. Joe assumed they were students from Queen Mary College, on their way back after a party. The boy’s eyes were continually drawn to them. Joe guessed the reason why. He went back to the kitchen, piled chips on to a plate, then approached the table in the corner. The pavement outside was covered in litter and he made a mental note to sweep it away later.

He cleared his throat. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

The boy stared at him with eyes that were suspicious and hostile. Joe smiled. ‘Well?’

No answer. Taking silence as consent, Joe sat down and pushed the plate towards the boy. ‘My supper. Can’t manage ’em all. Want some?’

The boy looked at the plate, then back at Joe. His eyes were still wary. Joe continued to smile. ‘Go on. You’ll enjoy ’em more than me.’

The boy reached for a chip. He ate it slowly and then reached for another. His eyes remained fixed on Joe. Unsettling eyes; troubled and full of anger. Joe gestured to the plate. ‘Taste OK?’

The boy nodded.

‘Don’t want this place gettin’ a bad name. Want ketchup?’

Another nod. Joe reached for the plastic tomato at the centre of the table and poured some sauce on to the side of the plate. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘What’s yours?’

‘Joe Green. To you, it’s Joe sir.’

The eyes softened a little. ‘Stupid name.’

‘What’s yours, then?’

No answer. ‘The man with no name,’ said Joe. ‘Like Clint Eastwood. Where you goin’, Clint?’

‘Michael,’ said the boy suddenly.

‘Michael or Mike?’

‘Don’t mind.’

‘Mike, then. Where you goin’, Mike?’

The boy shrugged.

‘Must be goin’ somewhere. Gone midnight. No one’s out this late ’less they’re goin’ somewhere.’

The boy lowered his eyes, reached for another chip and dipped it in the ketchup.

‘Do your mum an’ dad know you’re ’ere?’

‘Don’t ’ave none.’

Joe whistled softly. ‘Sorry about that, Mike. I really am.’

The boy gave another shrug. He had a spot of ketchup below his bottom lip. Joe fought an urge to reach across the table and wipe it away. ‘It’s late, Mike. Ain’t you got somewhere to go?’

No answer.

‘Shouldn’t be out on your own. Not at your age. Ain’t there somewhere you can go?’

‘There’s some people. The Andersons. They live in Canterbury. Got a big house with a garden.’ The boy stared down at the table. ‘Want me to live there. Said I can ’ave my own room and anythin’ else I want. I could go there.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘I could go there,’ repeated the boy. He swallowed. ‘If I wanted to.’

‘Bit late to go tonight, though,’ suggested Joe.

A nod.

‘So what you goin’ to do, then? Wander round on your own?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

Joe sat back in his chair and looked out of the window. The pavement was empty now, save for a lone figure in a dirty coat, shuffling along on the other side of the road carrying a collection of bags. A tramp, judging by the state of him. Someone with no home and nowhere to go. Joe turned back to the boy. ‘It’s a rough world out there. Too rough for a kid like you.

No answer. Joe took the boy’s chin in his hand and looked into his face.

‘Listen, Mike. I don’t know where you’ve come from. What you’re runnin’ from. If you don’t want to tell me, then that’s your business. But believe me, anything’s got to be better than being out there on your own.’ He paused, smiling gently. ‘Don’t you think?’

At first nothing. Then slowly the boy nodded.

‘So,’ continued Joe. ‘You got somewhere to go?’

For a moment the eyes were filled with a desperate longing. Just for a moment. Then they became as blank as glass. Another nod.

The plate was empty. Joe looked at his watch. ‘Still hungry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We don’t close for half an hour. Think we’ve some chocolate cake left. What d’you say I get you a piece, and then I’ll run you back to where you’ve got to go. Shouldn’t be walkin’ round on your own. Not this time of night.’

The boy nodded.

‘You sit there. Back in a minute.’

Joe went into the kitchen. There was some cake left. He cut a large slice.

But when he returned to the table the boy was gone.

*

Michael let himself back into the Home through the window in the television room. He returned the bag to its place in the hall, then crept up the stairs.

He sat on his bed in the darkness of his room. In his hand was a small torch. He reached under his mattress, pulled out a small object and held it up to the light.

It was a shabby photograph of a much younger Sean, standing in a garden with his mother. She had been a tall, slender woman with the same blonde hair and gentle features as her son. She smiled for the camera, happy and healthy, before the cancer came and ate her alive.

Sean had had other pictures of his mother, but this had been his favourite, the one that could still make him cry. He had cried all the time in those first weeks. The other children, already conditioned to despise weakness, had victimised him. Sean, frightened and alone, had looked for protection from the person closest to him. The boy whose room he shared.

At first Michael had found Sean a nuisance. A shadow he couldn’t shake. But as the weeks turned into months, annoyance had turned into affection. Sean had needed him to be strong and so he had been, burying his own fears and anxieties beneath a mask of confidence intended to reassure the younger boy, who rewarded him with an uncritical admiration he had never known before.

Now Sean was gone. Off to a new home and a new life. Sean had cried before he left, scared of what the future might hold. Sean had been a baby, always in need of protection. A millstone round his neck. He was glad to be rid of him.

He wondered what Sean was doing now. Perhaps the Andersons had locked him in a cellar, just as he had told Sean they would. He hoped so. He liked the idea of Sean in the dark, frightened and alone, with no one to care.

Just as he was now.

He stared at the photograph. Sean was terrified of its being lost. His hand tightened around it, ready to tear it into pieces.

But he couldn’t do it.

Instead came the tears that he had been fighting against all day. He shed them in silence. Tears only mattered if there was someone to see, and there was no one here.

He returned the photograph to its place beneath his mattress. Tomorrow he would give it to Susan, tell her he had found it on the floor and ask her to send it to Canterbury.

Turning off the torch, he lay down on his bed and looked up into the darkness. In his head was a distant memory of someone in one of the countless foster homes telling him that he should never be afraid of the dark because God lived there.

He had been told a lot of stuff over the years. And all of it was crap.

In the still of his room he waited for sleep to come.

The next day he gave the photograph to Susan so she could send it on to Sean. But in the weeks that followed, when letters came from Canterbury, he tore them into shreds.

The City of London: 1999



‘Which one of you two has more capacity?’ demanded Graham Fletcher.

The two occupants of the cramped office looked at each other. Stuart’s desk was bare, save for the acquisition agreement he had just received, two days later than promised and in need of urgent review. Though Michael’s desk was covered with papers, he had spent much of the afternoon sending emails to his friend Tim. The prospect of what lay ahead was a powerful incentive to keep quiet, but in the end Michael's conscience won out. He spoke up.

‘I have.’

‘Oh.’ Graham looked disappointed. ‘What are you doing, Stuart?’

‘Project Rocket. The redraft’s only just arrived and we have to get our comments to the client this evening.’

‘I see. Michael, my office, two minutes. Bring a pad.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Stuart once Graham had left.

Michael sent a final email and rose to his feet. ‘My heart soars.’

Stuart smiled. He was older than Michael – over thirty – and had come into the legal profession after years as a physics lecturer. The two of them had qualified six months ago and had shared an office ever since.

‘Sure you don’t want me to volunteer?’

‘No, thanks. You stick with Project Rocket.’ Michael rolled his eyes. ‘Project Rocket! God, who thinks up these names?’ Picking up his notepad, he headed for the door.

‘Watch the body language,’ Stuart told him.

Michael gave him the finger. ‘How about this?’

Stuart laughed. ‘Good luck.’

Michael walked along the corridor towards Graham’s office. Secretaries sat in booths outside the doors of the solicitors they worked for. The air was full of the tapping sound of fingers on keyboards, discussions of last night’s television, complaints about illegible handwriting and the constant hiss of the air-conditioning. Solicitors kept emerging from their offices to give tapes to their secretaries, to visit colleagues for advice on technical issues, to delegate unwanted work or simply to chat.

He approached Graham’s corner office. One of the partners, Jeff Speakman, stood over his secretary Donna, dictating orally. Donna’s mouth was a thin line. She hated Jeff’s habit of doing this. Michael gave her a conspiratorial smile as he passed.

A group of trainee solicitors lingered by the coffee point, complaining about a boring lunchtime lecture they’d been forced to attend. A few weeks ago they would have been more circumspect, but as the latest rumour was that the commercial department would not be recruiting in September, the desire to impress was fading.

As always, Graham’s office was a mess, with open files covering every available surface. Graham was speaking fast into his hand-held Dictaphone, a cigarette clenched between his fingers. In the corner of the room, Graham’s trainee, Julia, worked quietly at her desk.

Sitting down, Michael gazed out of the window at the drab offices across the road. His friend Tim worked at Layton Spencer Black and had a panoramic view of the City. But, as Graham would have been quick to remind him, one came to Cox Stephens for the quality of its work, not its scenery.

Graham finished dictating and bellowed the name of his secretary. No answer. He swore. ‘Julia, track her down. Tell her I need this urgently.’ Julia took the tape and left the room.

Graham stared at Michael. He was a tall, thin man of about forty, with thinning hair, sharp features and aggressive eyes. He was renowned as one of the biggest bullies in the firm, notorious for giving his underlings minimal support and then blaming them for all mistakes, including his own. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Not busy, then?’

‘Not especially, Graham.’

‘Well, you’re about to be.’

‘Yes, Graham.’

‘A new takeover’s just come in.’

‘Really, Graham.’

Graham’s face darkened. Cox Stephens operated on a first-name basis. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here,’ the senior partner had announced to Michael and his fellow trainees on the day they joined. Michael knew that Graham considered this policy demeaning to his partnerial status, and consequently made it a point of honour to call him by his first name at every opportunity. Last Thursday, at their fortnightly department meeting, he had managed to use it four times in a single sentence, forcing Stuart to fabricate a coughing fit.

‘We’re acting for Digitron. Heard of them?’

‘No, Graham.’

‘They’re a software company. One of Jack Bennett’s clients, but as Jack’s frantic I’ll be in charge.’

Michael opened his pad and began to make notes. In the background he heard Julia return to her seat.

‘Digitron produce operating systems for businesses. Small scale at the moment, but they’re looking to expand their presence in the market and want to buy Pegasus, which is a subsidiary of Kinnetica. They’re paying a fortune. The assets are worth bugger all, but the trump card is Pegasus’s long-term software supply contract with Dial-a-Car. That’s really what Digitron are paying the money for. You have heard of Dial-a-Car, I take it.’

‘Yes, Graham.’

There was a knock on the door. Jack Bennett entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I’ve just had Christian Webb at Digitron on the phone. He wants a conference call at 8.30 tomorrow morning. Is that possible?’

Graham nodded, then gestured across his desk. ‘Michael’s going to be helping me.’

Jack beamed. ‘Well, I’m very grateful to both of you.’ He was a short, stocky man with a rugby player’s build and a jovial face. He had joined the firm six weeks ago, arriving from Benson Drake with a client list of computer companies that was the envy of most of the competition. Still seeming to feel the new boy, he was extremely affable with everyone. As most of the partners had had to be forcibly restrained from shouting ‘Hosanna!’ when he arrived and covering the corridor with palm leaves, such behaviour seemed unnecessary. But it was an attractive trait.

Michael smiled back.