The stage beyond the front row of seats didn’t look permanent. It supported a long table with a blue velvet cloth draped over it. Four place cards with names on them, but too far away for Fox to make out the actual names themselves. Carafes of water and pre-filled tumblers. Microphones. There were loudspeakers stage-right and left. People in the audience greeted each other with curt nods. A young man stopped in front of Fox, but Fox was ready for him. He held his warrant card an inch from the lackey’s nose and identified himself as a police officer.
‘I can say it louder, if you want everyone else to hear,’ he offered. MacIver gave a little growl and the young man took a step back, then turned and fled. He went into a confab with others in the team. Someone punched a number into their phone and started a whispered conversation, holding their hand over their mouth as if fearing lip-readers.
Good: Fox hoped the news would get backstage.
Maybe the call had come too late, though, for now four men were arriving by way of a side door. They strode purposefully towards the stage, climbed the steps and settled themselves behind the table. Stephen Pears tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and checked the straightness of his tie. When introduced, he nodded and smiled, taking in the whole room. There were others standing at the back now – not just Fox, MacIver and the two attendants, but the team working for Pears, plus some latecomers. One person in the third row started having a coughing fit, and a staffer was quick to take them some water. The four men on the stage tried not to let this distract them. A statement of the company’s achievements during the previous twelve months was being recited. Fox had eyes only for Stephen Pears, though Pears appeared focused on the rows of seats – these were his constituents. He had brought no papers with him. When a phone chirruped in the room and went unanswered, he tried not to look annoyed.
The attendant next to Fox nudged him, letting him know it was his phone that was the culprit. It stopped, but half a minute later started ringing again. The ringtone had been set to maximum volume. When Fox lifted the device from his pocket and checked the screen, he saw that it was Tony Kaye, right on cue. The man reading out the report had come to a stop, reminding the room that all phones should be switched off. People were turning their heads to look at Fox. He did eventually cancel the ringing, but only when he was satisfied that he had at last gained Stephen Pears’s attention.
Fox stared back at him, nodding an acknowledgement. The report was in full flow again, but Pears’s body language had changed. He was stiffer, less sure of himself. When he looked towards the back of the room a second time, Fox leaned past the attendant and touched MacIver’s arm, whispering something to him.
‘You all right there, Mr MacIver?’
An innocent enough question, to which MacIver responded with the nod Fox had wanted from him.
‘Sure?’
Another nod. Fox turned his attention back to the stage and gave Pears a little smile, hoping it looked satisfied enough. Pears ran a hand through his hair, leaned back in his seat, gave the ceiling his full attention, then the tabletop. The report was winding to its conclusion. He was being invited to say a few words about the future. When people clapped, Fox clapped with them. The noise didn’t agree with MacIver. He pressed his hands over his ears and gave a low moan. As Pears stood up and the applause ended, that moan could still be heard. Pears had taken hold of the microphone, but he didn’t say anything. The attendants were trying to calm MacIver.
‘No,’ he said, repeating the word a few times.
‘Better take him out,’ the attendant nearer to Fox said. Fox nodded his agreement.
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he replied.
The whole room watched as MacIver was led away. Then they turned back to Pears, expecting the usual poised performance, the noteless tour de force. Pears had finished all the water in his glass. More was being poured. After fifteen or twenty seconds, he started his speech.
And it was fine. Fox doubted anyone who had heard him before would notice anything different about the delivery.
Quite the actor, he thought to himself.
But then he knew that already. Five minutes in, he caught Pears’s eye again, and offered a mimed handclap, along with a slow nod. Then he headed for the doors, taking out his phone as if to make a call.
MacIver was seated in the hotel’s reception area, running a finger along the stories on the front of a morning paper.
‘Back to normal,’ one of the attendants assured Fox. Fox settled himself next to MacIver and asked if he’d recognised anyone on the stage. MacIver shook his head.
‘You sure?’ Fox persisted.
‘Sure,’ MacIver echoed.
Fox held out his copy of Future-Proofing Your Dreams. Its back cover consisted of smiling portrait photographs of the main players. ‘Him?’ Fox asked, dabbing a finger against Stephen Pears.
‘He was in the room.’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘He’s been on TV and in the newspapers. His name’s Stephen Pears. I’m pretty sure you’d have known him as Hawkeye.’
MacIver stared at him. ‘You’re wrong,’ he stated.
‘The war’s over,’ Fox persisted. ‘No need to lie for a cause that’s won.’
But MacIver was shaking his head slowly and defiantly. ‘Can I go back?’
‘Back?’ Fox thought he meant to the ballroom.
‘Home,’ MacIver corrected him.
‘He means Carstairs,’ one of the attendants clarified. ‘Isn’t that right, Donald?’
‘That’s right,’ MacIver confirmed. ‘I don’t like it here.’ He glared at the attendant. ‘And it’s Mr MacIver to you until you know me better.’
‘I’ve known you almost two years.’
‘You’re still on probation.’
‘What if we went back to the hall for a minute,’ Fox suggested, ‘just so you could hear him speak?’
MacIver was shaking his head again.
‘We don’t want to make things worse,’ the other attendant cautioned.
Fox considered his options. Hadn’t he got what he wanted? MacIver was back to his reading, asking the attendants if they had a crayon.
‘I’ve got a pen,’ Fox offered.
‘Has to be a crayon,’ the same attendant told him. ‘And not too sharp.’
Fox nodded his understanding. His phone bleeped a message. It was Tony Kaye, asking if it had worked.
More or less, Fox texted back. MacIver was studying the portraits on the back of the annual report. But then he seemed to dismiss it and went back to his newspaper.
‘Ready when you are, Mr MacIver,’ Fox announced. ‘And I want to thank you for everything.’
MacIver got to his feet and took a last look at his plush surroundings. ‘Russians or Arabs?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Who owns this place? It’ll be one or the other, mark my words. And next year or the year after, it’ll be sold on to China. A nation bought and sold…’
The attendants shared a look. One rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again,’ he said.
MacIver’s grievances were growing louder as they accompanied him to the door.
Having dropped the three men back at Carstairs, Fox was halfway to Edinburgh when his phone started ringing. He had a good idea who it might be and was content not to answer – not straight away. Eventually there was a sign pointing to a lay-by, so he signalled and pulled to a stop. The number wasn’t one he recognised, and no message had been left. He took a hand-held digital recorder from his pocket. Joe Naysmith had assured him the batteries were brand new and it would be good for eight hours of continuous use. Fox switched it on, then called the number and engaged the speakerphone mode.
‘Hello?’
It wasn’t the voice he’d expected. Female. Sounds of chattering all around.
‘Stephen Pears, please. He just phoned me from this number.’