‘You said the petty cash book hadn’t arrived,’ Peter said.
‘Did I? Did you ask them to send it?’
‘Yes, I did, but it hasn’t come.’
I sighed. ‘Ring them again.’
A great many clients saw no urgency at all in getting their accounts done, and requests from us for further information or relevant papers were apt to be ignored for weeks.
‘Tell them both they really will have to go before the Commissioners if they don’t send those books.’
‘But they won’t really, will they?’ Peter said. Not the brightest of boys, I thought.
‘I’ll get adjournments anyway,’ I said patiently, ‘but Trevor will need those books to hand the second he gets back.’
Debbie said, ‘Mr Wells rang three times yesterday afternoon.’
‘Who is Mr Wells? Oh yes. Mr Wells.’
‘He says one of his creditors is applying to have him made bankrupt and he wants to know what you’re going to do about it.’
I’d forgotten all the details of Mr Wells’ troubles. ‘Where are his books?’ I asked.
‘In one of those boxes,’ Debbie said, pointing. A three-high row of large cardboard boxes ran along the wall under the window. Each box had the name of the client on it, in large black letters, and each contained the cash books, invoices, receipts, ledgers, paying-in books, bank statements, petty cash records, stocktakings and general paraphernalia needed for the assessment of taxes. Each of the boxes represented a task I had yet to do.
It took me an average of two working days to draw up the annual accounts for each client. Some audits took longer. I had roughly two hundred clients. The thing was impossible.
Trevor had collared the bigger firms and liked to spend nearly a week on each. He dealt with seventy clients. No wonder Commissioners’ summonses fell on us like snow.
Peter and Debbie did most of the routine work, checking bank statements against cheque numbers, and against invoices paid. Someone extra to share that work would only help Trevor and me to a certain extent. Taking a third fully equal partner would certainly reduce the pressure, but it would also entail dividing the firm’s profits into three instead of two, which would mean a noticeable drop in income. Trevor was totally opposed. Amalgamation with the London firm meant Trevor not being boss and me not going racing... a fair sized impasse, all in all.
‘Debbie and I didn’t get our pay cheques last week,’ Peter said. ‘Nor did Bess.’ Bess was the typist.
‘And the water heater in the washroom is running cold,’ Debbie added. ‘And you did say I could go to the dentist this afternoon at three-thirty.’
‘Sorry about all the extra work,’ Peter said, not sounding it, ‘but I’m afraid it’s my Friday for the Institute of Accounting Staff class.’
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘Peter, telephone to Leyhill Prison and ask if Connaught Powys is still there.’
‘What?’
‘Leyhill Prison. Somewhere in Gloucestershire. Get the number from directory enquiries.’
‘But...’
‘Just go and do it,’ I said. ‘Connaught Powys. Is he still there.’
He went out looking mystified, but then he, like Debbie, dated from after the searchingly difficult court case. Debbie went to fetch the first batch of the papers I needed, and I began on the solicitors’ certificates.
Since embezzlement of clients’ trust monies had become a flourishing industry, laws had been passed to ensure that auditors checked every six months to see that the cash and securities which were supposed to be in a solicitor’s care, actually were there. If they weren’t, Nemesis swiftly struck the solicitor off the Roll. If they were, the auditor signed the certificate and pocketed his fee.
Peter returned as if he’d come from a dangerous mission, looking noble.
‘The prison said he was released six weeks ago, on February 16th.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I had a good deal of trouble in getting through.’
‘Er... well done,’ I said. He still looked as if he thought more praise was due, but he didn’t get it.
If Connaught Powys had been out for six weeks, he would have had a whole month to fix me up with a voyage. I tried hard to concentrate on the checking for the certificates but the sail locker kept getting in the way.
Solicitor Grant’s affair tallied at about the third shot, but I kept making errors with Denby Crest’s. I realised I’d always taken clarity of mind for granted, like walking: one of those things you don’t consciously value until you’ve lost it. Numbers, from my infancy, had been like a second language, understood without effort. I checked Denby Crest’s figures five times and kept getting a fifty thousand pounds’ discrepancy, and knowing him, as he occasionally did work for us, it was ridiculous. Denby Crest was no crook, I thought in exasperation. It’s my useless muddle-headed thought processes. Somewhere I was transposing a decimal point, making a mountain out of a molehill discrepancy of probably five pounds or fifty pence.
In the end I telephoned his office and asked to speak to him.
‘Look, Denby,’ I said, ‘I’m most awfully sorry, but are you sure we’ve got all the relevant papers?’
‘I expect so,’ he said, sounding impatient. ‘Why don’t you leave it for Trevor? He gets back to England tomorrow, doesn’t he?’
I explained about the broken-down car. ‘He won’t be back in the office until Wednesday or Thursday.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded disconcerted and there was a perceptible pause. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘Trevor is used to our ways. Please leave our certificate until he gets back.’
‘But it’s overdue,’ I said.
‘Tell Trevor to call me,’ he said. ‘And now, I’m sorry, but I have a client with me. So if you’ll excuse me...’
He disconnected. I shuffled his papers together thankfully and thought that if he wanted to risk waiting for Trevor it was certainly all right by me.
At twelve-thirty Peter and Debbie went out to lunch, but I didn’t feel hungry. I sat in shirtsleeves before the newly tackled sea of Mr Wells’ depressing papers: put my elbows on the desk, and propped my forehead on the knuckles of my right hand, and shut my eyes. Thought a lot of rotten thoughts and wondered about buying myself a one-way ticket to Antarctica.
A voice said, ‘Are you ill, asleep or posing for Rodin?’
I looked up, startled.
She was standing in the doorway. Young, fair, slender pretty.
‘I’m looking for Trevor,’ she said.
One couldn’t have everything, I supposed.
8
‘Don’t I know you?’ I said, puzzled, standing up.
‘Sure.’ She looked resigned, as if this sort of thing happened often. ‘Cast your mind back to long hair, no lipstick, dirty jeans and ponies.’
I looked at the short bouncy bob, the fashionable make-up, the swirling brown skirt topped by a neat waist-length fur-fabric jacket. Someone’s daughter, I thought; recently and satisfactorily grown up.
‘Whose daughter?’ I said.
‘My own woman.’
‘Reasonable.’
She was enjoying herself, pleased with her impact on men.
‘Jossie Finch, actually.’
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘Every grub spreads its wings.’
‘To where will you fly?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard you were smooth.’
‘Trevor isn’t here, I’m afraid.’
‘Mm. Still on his hols?’