…’
‘So not especially valuable commercially?’
Haygill shrugged doubtfully.
‘How about ethically? Would it have been ethically sensitive, in the hands of an opponent like Max Springer? Something that could have been used to embarrass you if produced in a public lecture, for example.’
Haygill lowered his eyes to his spread fingers and didn’t answer. Looking at him, Brock knew he didn’t need to. Reggie Grice had been right-despite all the differences in their power and influence, Haygill was vulnerable to the kind of trouble that the wayward Springer could stir up, and he knew it. There was something here, something Haygill had kept hidden, which he now felt that he could almost smell.
‘Thank you, Professor Haygill.’
‘What? Is that all?’
‘For the moment. Are you planning any more trips abroad?’
‘Er… The next is scheduled for the end of the month, but as things stand, it may be necessary-’
‘Don’t make any arrangements without consulting us first, will you? Here’s my contact details.’
Brock handed Haygill a card and got to his feet.
Leon Desai left his coat with the cloakroom attendant and strolled through a pair of large panelled doors into a bar lounge, trying to appear confident and relaxed, as if he came to places like this all the time. It wasn’t at all to his taste. A cross between an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club and a Turkish brothel, Wayne O’Brien had said, and he could see what he meant. The furniture was too amply stuffed, the carpet pile too thick, the port and burgundy colour scheme too livid, so that the effect was bombastic. The theme of the decorations was horsy, in keeping with the club’s name, with large Stubbs reproductions of thoroughbred champions framed around the walls, and bronze horse heads mounted on pedestals. Leon found it all both contemptible and thoroughly intimidating, especially in view of O’Brien’s estimate of the amount of money that passed through here each night.
The place seemed quiet, a few people embedded in the plump furniture around the room. The opulent mahogany bar that formed one end of the lounge was deserted, and Leon walked to it and eased himself onto a leather barstool. The doors in the far wall opened as a couple passed through, and he glimpsed more people in the gaming room beyond.
The barman returned with a silver tray of empty glasses. ‘Good evening, sir. What can we do for you?’ He was as smooth and glossy as the brandy balloons glistening against the mirror at his back.
‘My name’s Desai. I’m a friend of-’
‘Mr O’Brien, sir. Why yes, of course. I’m Rupert. How are we this evening?’
Actually he wasn’t feeling too bad now. Earlier he had been petrified with what he took to be a form of stage fright, his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, his stomach aching. But now that things had begun, he felt much better. ‘Fine, just fine. I might have a glass of champagne.’
As he poured it Rupert leaned forward a little and said, confidentially, ‘The gentleman you’re interested in is behind you, Mr Desai, in the far corner, talking to a blonde lady. They’ve been there for twenty minutes.’
‘Ah, right.’ Leon glanced at the mirror behind the bar and just managed to make out two figures in the distance.
‘Don’t know who she is. Haven’t seen her here before. Let’s hope he sends her packing and comes to the bar, eh?’
While they waited Rupert chatted on about what a great bloke Wayne O’Brien was, a real card, while Leon tried to make appropriate noises. He had a tape recorder in the pocket of his suit, but he didn’t switch it on. He had no intention of recording praise of O’Brien if he could help it.
The barman left to service the seated drinkers and an American came and sat at the bar for a while, resting, as he said, between bouts of losing his children’s inheritance. He went on at some length about his ungrateful children, and Leon began to feel depressed. Finally the American slid out of the stool and lurched away, and Rupert returned, with a wink for Leon.
‘He’s getting her a taxi. I think we’re in luck. Another champers?’
‘Why not?’ Leon reached into his pocket and clicked on the machine.
After a few minutes Leon sensed Darr’s presence behind his right shoulder, and caught sight of him in the mirror. He had an impression of a tall, sombre figure. The hands that rested on the edge of the bar wore heavy gold rings.
‘Another of the usual, Rupert, please. And one of my cigars.’
He watched the barman fixing his order without turning to look at Leon. Rupert lit his cigar and let him draw on it before saying, ‘And have you met Mr Desai, Dr Darr? He’s in the science game too, aren’t you, sir?’ Darr turned slowly and eyed Leon for a moment before offering his hand. ‘Tahir Darr.’
‘Leon. What sort of science are you into then, Tahir?’ Leon thought his words sounded fatuous and utterly false as he said them, and his confidence ebbed away.
Darr eyed him as if he really didn’t want to get into a conversation, but then replied, ‘I work for a research company. Biotechnology.’
‘Oh, right. Important area.’
‘And you?’
‘We do testing. DNA, that sort of thing.’
Darr nodded but didn’t seem inclined to pursue it. He puffed his cigar and raised the glass to his mouth, then cleared his throat. ‘Pakistan?’
‘What? Oh, no. Liverpool. You?’
‘London.’
Rupert obviously sensed that they didn’t seem to be hitting it off, and said brightly, ‘And what sort of a day have you gentlemen had, then? Good start to the week?’
‘An abomination of a day, Rupert,’ Darr pronounced with grim relish. ‘And if this week’s like last week, and the one before it, it will be an abominable shit of a week.’
‘Oh.’ Rupert was a little taken aback by the vehemence of Darr’s words, and turned to Leon. ‘And what about you, Mr Desai?’
Leon watched the smoke curling from Darr’s nostrils and caught his mood. ‘Awful,’ he said morosely. ‘My boss has given me a pig of a job to do and my girlfriend’s run off with a bloody copper.’
It seemed rather lame to Leon, but Darr turned to him and a smile spread slowly over his face. ‘Join the bloody club, old chap.’
Afterwards, when she came to hear the tape, Kathy realised that she had been wrong in doubting Leon’s ability to get Darr talking. Someone with O’Brien’s breezy style would only have alienated Darr. In his dark mood, Leon’s laconic misery touched a chord. And much of this, it seemed to Kathy, was due to the fact that Leon’s gloom was quite genuine, and his tales of woe absolutely true. She felt his real pain when he told Darr about the misunderstanding he had had with his girlfriend, and how she had gone off with someone else, a smooth-talking police bastard who had no soul. She felt it, and responded in kind.
‘And tell me, Leon,’ Darr had said, ‘is this a white girl you’re talking about by any chance? Yes, I thought so. These English women are total bitches, believe me. It’s the way they’re brought up, indulged, spoilt.’
‘You talk from experience, Tahir?’ Leon had asked, and the reply had come:
‘Oh, yes… Oh, dear me, yes.’
They had bought each other further drinks, warming to their theme, turning from the treachery of women to the injustices of work. Darr didn’t go into details, but he was clearly discontented with his lot.
‘We are in the most unenviable position, you and I. Those below us need us to guide their every step, while those above expect us to make their business work. We are under pressure from both ends. We have maximum responsibility without commensurate reward.’
‘You’re right. Does your boss make unreasonable demands on you?’
‘Oh, does he not!’
‘Did you see that psychological study of bosses of British companies, how one in six fulfil the diagnostic criteria for psychopaths?’
‘Hah! Only one in six?’
‘I suppose you’re expected to control everything your staff do, are you, Tahir?’
‘Absolutely. And if they do something, if something goes wrong, then it’s as if it’s your fault. As if you did this stupid thing!’