‘I’ll call by around nine: see how she is.’
‘Jane told me you’d examined George.’
The doctor nodded. ‘He told me he was giving up entirely and I told him it was a damned good idea. His blood pressure was sky high. I put him on immediate medication. It could even have been a stroke that made him fall off the tractor…’ He was slowed by a thought. ‘Maybe I should mention it to Pete Simpson.’
‘Maybe you should,’ agreed Carver. He had to end this conversation and this encounter: get on with all the other things. But at the same time, irrationally, he didn’t want the doctor to go. Although it was a tragedy – a tragic accident in everyone’s opinion except his – there was a normality about talking with the other man. But when Jamieson went it wouldn’t be normal any more. What he had to do – the calls he had to make, the arranging and rearranging that had to be done – would be normal in the circumstances of a tragedy but in this case he would be involved – was involved – in murder. Mob murder; organized crime murder; once-you’re-in-you’re-never-out murder. Or was he? Could, despite everything he knew – or thought he knew – George Northcote have genuinely suffered a stroke because of sky-high blood pressure and toppled backwards into the multiple spinning blades of a mowing machine? Could a stroke be, even, why Northcote went too close to the depression in the ground he would have known all too well to be there, and to be dangerous, because he was unconscious in those last few, badly steered seconds? Only George Northcote had known that he knew the firm’s – Northcote’s – link with organized crime. And George Northcote was dead and that knowledge would have died with him. He knew the names of the companies that had to be divested and that could be – would be – easily achieved by the excuse of Northcote’s death. The words and the phrases began to move through Carver’s mind. Retrenchment, necessary reorganization after the death of such a dominant, leading corporate figure, no one any longer available to provide the personalized service that George W. Northcote provided, with obvious regret… It fitted. Fitted perfectly. They’d all be out. Out, home free: no connection, no association, no danger. If…
‘I’ll just look in now, before I go,’ said Jamieson and so lost was he in thought that Carver was actually startled although he didn’t think it showed.
‘Let’s both look in,’ he said.
Jane was lying as they’d left her, on her back, but was deeply asleep, snuffling soft occasional snores, although once another sob shuddered through her. At Jamieson’s gesture they backed out of the bedroom, without speaking until they got outside in the hallway. Jamieson said: ‘That’s good. I didn’t want to have to give her anything stronger.’
Carver met Jennings as he turned from seeing Jamieson out, anticipating the man before he spoke. ‘I don’t want anything to eat. There’s too much to do. I’ll be in the study.’
‘Everyone’s together in the kitchen, if you want anything.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Carver, already walking towards what he considered the most obvious place to find what it was essential he locate.
Carver pressed the door closed behind him but remained against it, confronting his first awareness, which was not within the room at all. The windows looked directly out in the direction of the depression in which the tractor and mower had overturned. It was dark now but beyond the slope there was still a glow from the generator lights illuminating the lifting of the unseen machinery on to an equally unseen removal truck and the word unseen fixed itself in Carver’s mind. Where Northcote had died couldn’t be seen from the house: couldn’t be seen from anywhere. Making it the perfect place for murder.
Carver brought himself back inside the room, as heavily mahogany-panelled as the Manhattan office, unsure where – how – to start. Where? Where would Northcote have kept hidden sufficient secrets to protect the firm? The computer, blank-eyed on its own workstation beside the desk – antique again like its twin in Manhattan – was obvious, but Northcote had a late-starter’s problems with electronic technology. And they dealt in printed, written words and figures: that’s what it had been in Northcote’s safe; written, printed incrimination. So the computer – the computer he’d already accessed and found nothing but titles on the client list, with no cross-referenced file records – was not at all the logical initial search. The desk itself then. But not at once, frustrating though it was to delay. Calls – arrangements – had the priority. Or did they?
Carver saw the neatly stacked paper as he approached and realized as he lowered himself into the padded leather chair that it was Northcote’s intended valedictory speech. For a moment Carver hesitated, as he’d hesitated going into Northcote’s personal safe in the firm’s basement vault, but then, abruptly, he snatched it up. It was comparatively short and easily legible in Northcote’s neat, round handwriting. It really was a genuine farewell address.
He was a proud man, Northcote had written. He was finally, irrevocably, leaving the firm at the peak of its international success and prestige. It was due to the financial business ability and acumen of their overseas divisions as much as to that of the Wall Street head office – ‘command centre’, Northcote had written with a question mark beside it – that they had survived the market upheavals that had affected, in some instances destroyed, other firms of less able people. In entrusting the future ultimate control to John Carver – ‘my worthy and deserving successor’ and the New York partners – ‘an unrivalled team, on any continent’ – he was assuring the continued success of George Northcote International. He wished them well and goodbye.
Carver laid the three sheets directly in front of two silver-framed photographs of Northcote with Muriel, his wife who had died eighteen years earlier, and two others of Northcote with Jane, one in her graduation robes. He’d take the speech back to Manhattan, Carver decided: have it duplicated to be shown to everyone gathering for the conference. Less than a week ago he would have been moved by the words, applauded with the rest of the people for whom they were intended and shaken Northcote’s hand and maybe even needed to clear his throat before he could respond. Now he felt nothing. Not contempt nor sadness and certainly not admiration. It was as if George Northcote had been a total stranger and then, surprised, Carver belatedly acknowledged that was exactly what George Northcote had been, someone with whom he had been in daily contact and whose daughter he’d married but whom he had known not at all, a man playing – performing – a part.
Hilda Bennett answered his call on the second ring and said, ‘Oh my God,’ when Carver told her, hesitating fractionally when he used the word accident. He wanted all the overseas executives advised the moment they arrived – she was to call the Tokyo manager as soon as their conversation ended – and a full meeting convened for the following afternoon. The cocktail party that Jane had been scheduled to host was cancelled, as well as Friday’s gala banquet and the planned reception at Litchfield. The welcoming dinner would, however, still take place. He expected all the incoming delegates to attend the funeral, so hotel reservations had to be extended. She was to advise the funeral directors that Northcote would be buried in the same vault as his wife: there were still legalities to be completed – he had the following morning formally to identify the body – so it was not yet possible to suggest a specific date for the interment. He would speak separately with the firm’s lawyer, with whom she should liaise the following morning about death notices and obituaries. He would also speak separately to his own staff at the East 62nd Street apartment, to move them in permanently, but wanted her additionally to arrange a twenty-four-hour nursing staff there to care for Jane. He’d talk personally with their Manhattan doctor and put the man in contact with Dr Jamieson, up here in Litchfield. He wanted the helicopter to collect them at noon, from the Northcote estate. He couldn’t think of anything else that had immediately to be initiated but if he did he’d call back, providing it wasn’t too late. Hilda said it didn’t matter how late: she probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. Should she tell Janice Snow?