Denby complied with bad grace. ‘I had a chance,’ he said, ‘of buying a small block of flats. Brand new. Not finished. Builder in difficulties, wanted a quick sale, that sort of thing. Flats were going cheap, of course. So I bought them. Too good to miss. Done that sort of deal before, of course. Not a fool, you know. Knew what I was doing, and all that.’
‘Your own conveyancer?’ I said.
‘What? Oh yes.’ He nodded. ‘Well, then, I needed a bit more extra capital to finance the deal. Perfectly safe. Good flats. Nothing wrong with them.’
‘But they haven’t sold?’ I said.
‘Takes time. Market’s sluggish in the winter. But they’re all sold now, subject to contracts. Formalities, mortgages, all that. Takes time.’
‘Mm.’ I said. ‘How many flats in the block, and where is it?’
‘Eight flats, small, of course. At Newquay, Cornwall.’
‘Have you seen them?’ I said.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you mind if I do?’ I said. ‘And will you give me the addresses of all the people who are buying the flats, and tell me how much each is paying?’
Denby bristled. ‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’
‘I’m an auditor,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe. I check.’
‘You can take my word for it.’
I shook my head. ‘You sent us a forged bank statement. I can’t take your word for anything.’
There was a silence.
‘If those flats exist, and if you repay that money this week, I’ll keep quiet,’ I said. ‘I’ll want confirmation by letter from the bank. The money must be there by Friday, and the letter here by Saturday. Otherwise, no deal.’
‘I can’t get the money this week,’ Denby said peevishly.
‘Borrow it from a loan shark.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. The interest I would have to pay would wipe out all my profit.’
Serve you right, I thought unfeelingly. I said, ‘Unless the clients’ money is back in the bank by Friday, the Law Society will have to be told.’
‘Ro!’ Trevor protested.
‘However much you try to wrap it up as “unfortunate” and “expedient”,’ I said, ‘the fact remains that all three of us know that what Denby has done is a criminal offence. I’m not putting my name to it as a partner of this firm. If the money is not repaid by Friday, I’ll write a letter explaining that in the light of fresh knowledge we wish to cancel the certificate just issued.’
‘But Denby would be struck off!’ Trevor said.
They both looked as if the stark realities of life were something that only happened to other people.
‘Unfriendly,’ Denby said angrily. ‘Unnecessarily aggressive, that’s what you are, Ro. Righteous. Unbending.’
‘All those, I dare say,’ I said.
‘It’s no good, I suppose, suggesting I... er... cut you in?’
Trevor made a quick horrified gesture, trying to stop him.
‘Denby, Denby,’ he said, distressed. ‘You’ll never bribe him. For God’s sake have some sense. If you really want to antagonise Ro, you offer him a bribe.’
Denby scowled at me and got explosively to his feet.
‘All right,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’ll get the money by Friday. And don’t ever expect any favours from me for the rest of your life.’
He strode furiously out of the office leaving eddies of disturbed air and longer trails of disturbed friendship. Turbulent wake, I thought. Churning and destructive, overturning everything it touched.
‘Are you satisfied, Ro?’ Trevor said gently, in sorrow.
I sat without answering.
I felt like a man on a high diving board, awaiting the moment of strength. Ahead, the plunge. Behind, the quiet way down. The choice, within me.
I could walk away, I thought. Pretend I didn’t know what I knew. Settle for silence, friendship and peace. Refrain from bringing distress and disgrace and dreary unhappiness.
My friend or the law. To which did I belong? To the law or my own pleasure...
Oh great God almighty.
I swallowed with a dry mouth.
‘Trevor,’ I said. ‘Do you know Arthur Robinson?’
There was no fun, no fun at all, in looking into the face of ultimate disaster.
The blood slowly drained from Trevor’s skin, leaving his eyes like great dark smudges.
‘I’ll get you some brandy,’ I said.
‘Ro...’
‘Wait.’
I fetched him a tumbler, from his entertaining cupboard, heavy with alcohol, light on soda.
‘Drink it,’ I said with compassion. ‘I’m afraid I’ve given you a shock.’
‘How...’ His mouth quivered suddenly, and he put the glass to his lips to hide it. He drank slowly, and took the glass a few inches away: a present help in trouble. ‘How much... do you know?’ he said.
‘Why I was abducted. Who did it. Who owns the boat. Who sailed her. Where she is now. How much she cost. And where the money comes from.’
‘My God... My God...’ His hands shook.
‘I want to talk to him,’ I said. ‘To Arthur Robinson.’
A faint flash of something like hope shone in his eyes.
‘Do you know... his other name?’
I told him what it was. The spark of light died to a pebblelike dullness. He clattered the glass against his teeth.
‘I want you to telephone,’ I said. ‘Tell him I know. Tell him I want to talk. Tell him, if he has any ideas of doing anything but what I ask, I’ll go straight from this office to the police. I want to talk to him tonight.’
‘But Ro, knowing you...’ He sounded despairing. ‘You’ll go to the police anyway.’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ I said.
He stared at me for a long, long time. Then with a heavy half-groaning sigh, he stretched out his hand to the telephone.
We went to Trevor’s house. Better for talking, he suggested, than the office.
‘Your wife?’ I said.
‘She’s staying with her sister, tonight. She often does.’
We drove in two cars, and judging by the daze of his expression Trevor saw nothing consciously of the road for the whole four miles.
His big house sat opulently in the late afternoon sunshine, nineteen-twenties respectability in every brick. Acres of diamond-shaped leaded window panes, black paint, a wide portico with corkscrew pillars, wisteria creeping here and there, lots of gables with beams stuck on for effect.
Trevor unlocked the front door and led the way into dead inside air which smelled of old coffee and furniture polish. Parquet flooring in the roomy hall, and rugs.
‘Come into the snug,’ he said, walking ahead.
The snug was a longish room which lay between the more formal sitting and dining rooms, looking outwards to the pillared loggia, with the lawn beyond. To Trevor the snug was psychologically as well as geographically the heart of the house, the place where he most felt a host to his businessmen friends.
There was the bar, built in, where he liked to stand, genially pouring drinks. Several dark red leather armchairs. A small sturdy dining table, with four leather-seated dining chairs. A large television. Bookshelves. An open brick fireplace, with a leather screen. A palm in a brass pot. More Stubbs prints. Several small chair-side tables. A leaf-patterned carpet. Heavy red velvet curtains. Red lampshades. On winter evenings, with the fire lit, curtains drawn, and lights glowing warmly, snug, in spite of its size, described it.
Trevor switched on the lights, and although it was full daylight, drew the curtains. Then he made straight for the bar.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he said.
I shook my head. He fixed himself a brandy of twice the size I’d given him in the office.
‘I can’t believe any of this is happening,’ he said.