“I might,” said Isabel. “I’m thinking about it.” But she was thinking about Johnny Sanderson, who must be the man at Peter Stevenson’s side, being led in her direction by her host, and looking at her through the crowd.
“I wanted you two to meet,” said Peter, effecting the introduction. “We might be able to persuade Isabel to join us, Johnny.
She’s much better than us but we could do with another flautist.”
“You could do with everything,” said Johnny. “Music lessons, to start with . . .”
Isabel laughed. “They weren’t too bad. I liked ‘Yellow Submarine.’ ”
“Their party piece,” said Johnny, reaching for a slice of brown bread and smoked salmon.
They spoke about the orchestra for a few minutes before Isabel changed the subject. He had worked with McDowell’s, she had heard; had he enjoyed being there? He had. But then he thought for a moment and looked at her sideways, in mock suspicion. “Was that why you wanted to meet me?” He paused. “Or rather why Peter wanted us to meet?”
Isabel met his gaze. There was no point in dissembling here, she thought; she could tell that Johnny Sanderson was astute.
“Yes,” she said simply. “I’m interested in finding out about them.”
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He nodded. “There’s not much to find out,” he said. “It’s a pretty typical setup. They’re rather dull, in fact, most of them.
I was on social terms with a few of them, I suppose, but for the most part I found them somewhat . . . tedious. Sorry. That sounds a bit arrogant, but that’s what they were. Number people.
Mathematics.”
“Paul Hogg?”
Johnny shrugged. “Decent enough. A bit earnest for my taste, but good at his job. He’s typical of the type that used to work there. Some of the new appointments are a bit different. Paul’s old-style Edinburgh finance. Straight down the middle.”
Isabel passed him the plate of smoked salmon, and he helped himself to a further slice. She lifted her glass and sipped at the wine, which was of a far better quality than the wine which was normally served at such events. That was Peter’s doing, she thought.
Something he had said had interested her. If Paul Hogg was typical of the type that used to work at McDowell’s, and if he was straight down the middle, as Johnny had put it, then what were the new people like? “So McDowell’s is changing?” she said.
“Of course,” said Johnny. “Just like the rest of the world.
Everything. Banks, finance houses, brokers—everybody. There’s a new spirit of toughness. Corners are cut. It’s the same everywhere, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Isabel. He was right, of course; the old moral certainties were disappearing everywhere and were being replaced by self-interest and ruthlessness.
Johnny swallowed his brown bread and salmon and licked at the tip of a finger. “Paul Hogg,” he mused. “Paul Hogg. Mmm. I thought that he was a bit of a mummy’s boy, frankly, and then he went and produced this eighty-four-horsepower bitch of a fiancée, Minty something or other. Auchtermuchty. Auchendinny.”
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“Auchterlonie,” prompted Isabel.
“Not a cousin of yours, I hope,” said Johnny. “I hope I haven’t trodden on any toes.”
Isabel smiled. “What you said about her was roughly my own estimation, but perhaps a bit more charitable.”
“I see that we understand each other. She’s as hard as nails.
She works for that setup in North Charlotte Street, Ecosse Bank.
She’s an absolute tart, if you ask me. She runs round with a couple of young men from Paul’s office. I’ve seen her when Paul has been out of town. I saw her down in London once, in a bar in the City when they thought that nobody else from Edinburgh was around. Well, I was there and I saw her. Hanging all over a rising star from Aberdeen who got his knees under the table at McDowell’s because he’s good at juggling figures and taking risks that paid off. Ian Cameron, he’s called. Plays rugby for some team or other. Physical type, but clever nonetheless.”
“Hanging all over him?”
Johnny gestured. “Like this. All over him. Nonplatonic body language.”
“But she’s engaged to Paul Hogg.”
“Exactly.”
“And Paul, does he know about this?”
Johnny shook his head. “Paul’s an innocent. He’s an innocent who’s taken up with a woman who’s probably a bit too ambitious for him. It happens.”
Isabel took another sip at her wine. “But what does she see in Paul? Why would she bother?”
“Respectability,” said Johnny firmly. “He’s good cover if you want to get on in the Edinburgh financial world. His father was a founding partner of Scottish Montreal and the Gullane Fund. If you were nobody, so to speak, and you wanted to become someT H E S U N D A Y P H I L O S O P H Y C L U B
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body, no better choice than poor Paul. Perfect. All the right connections. Dull Fettesian dinners. Corporate seats at the Festival Theatre, with opera supper. Perfect!”
“And in the meantime she gets on with her own career?”
“Absolutely. She’s interested in money, I would say, and probably not much else. Well, I correct myself. Men friends. A bit of rough like Ian Cameron.”
Isabel was silent. Faithlessness, it seemed, was nothing unusual; the discovery of Toby’s conduct had surprised her, but now that she had heard this story about Minty, perhaps this was exactly what she should expect. Perhaps one should be surprised by constancy, which is what the sociobiologists were hinting at anyway. Men had a strong urge to have as many partners as possible in order to ensure the survival of their genes, we were told.
But women? Perhaps they were subconsciously attracted to the men who were subconsciously ensuring the maximum chance of gene perpetuation, which meant that Minty and Ian were perfect partners.
Isabel felt confused, but not so confused as not to be able to ask her next question in such a way as to make it sound innocent.
“And I suppose Ian and Minty can engage in pillow talk about deals and money and things like that. Can’t you picture it?”
“No,” said Johnny. “Because if they did it would be insider trading and I would personally take the very greatest pleasure in catching them at it and nailing their ears to the New Club door.”
Isabel imagined the picture. It was almost as good as imagining Toby caught in his avalanche. But she stopped herself, and said, instead, “I think that is exactly what has been happening.”
Johnny stood quite still, his glass halfway to his lips, but halted. He stared at Isabel. “Are you serious?”
She nodded. “I can’t tell you exactly why I think this, but I 1 8 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h can assure you that I have good reason to believe it. Could you help me to prove it? Could you help me to track the deals? Could you do it?”
Johnny put down his glass. “Yes. I could. Or I could try. I’ve got no time for financial dishonesty. It’s ruining the market. It undermines all of us—really badly. These people are a pest.”
“Good,” said Isabel. “I’m glad.”
“But whatever you do, you must keep this quiet,” added Johnny. “If you’re wrong, then we would be in serious trouble. You can’t make defamatory allegations about these things. They’d sue us. I’d look stupid. Do you understand?”
Isabel did.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y
E
ON THE EVENING of that unpleasant afternoon when Isabel had voiced her fears in the face of Cat’s good news, Cat and Toby had gone to the restaurant earlier than they had intended, as a table had not been available later on. A meeting of the Franco-British Legal Association had been held by the Faculty of Advocates and many of the members had booked tables for dinner afterwards. It would be a good place to talk about the jurispru-dence of the Conseil d’Etat, and other matters, of course.