Carver told her to wait fifteen minutes, for him to break the news to Northcote’s personal assistant.
Janice Snow broke down at once and kept asking what she should do and Carver started to suggest she work with Hilda on the arrangements he’d already asked Hilda to make, but suddenly stopped, realizing his oversight. He allowed himself a rehearsing pause before asking if Janice had personally programmed Northcote’s computer, his irritation at himself transferring itself to Janice’s reply that it was one of her daily functions. Mr Northcote hadn’t liked or understood computers: scarcely known properly how to operate one. Just as promptly, without the need for any reference, she gave him what she insisted were all George Northcote’s entry codes and passwords.
Carver remained undecided for a few moments, before saying: ‘This may seem a strange question in the circumstances. But it’s extremely important. Is there a special code or password that George used for extremely sensitive stuff… secret stuff, in fact?’
Now the hesitation came from the woman. ‘You’ve got them all. They all duplicate with Manhattan, of course.’
‘In which file or folder, of those you’ve given me, would George’s personal accounts have been kept?’
The curiosity was discernible in Janice Snow’s voice. ‘I already told you, Mr Carver. He didn’t work like that.’
‘You telling me there isn’t one?’
‘That’s very much what I’m telling you. That there isn’t a specific one.’
Could Janice Snow be part of it, whatever it was? She’d have to be if she was the person who’d entered all Northcote’s computer information. Would Northcote have told Janice what he knew? He’d be exposing himself, disclosing names to her. But only if she were part of it: was complicit. If she wasn’t, it would be an enquiry that only had relevance to him.
He said: ‘I’ve some names I want to put to you. Do you know where the files are on a company named Mulder Inc.?’
Janice gave time for her answer. ‘No.’
‘Have you ever handled accounts on behalf of George for Mulder Inc.?’
‘I’ve typed completion letters to them, in the Caymans, after an audit.’
To go with the returns?’
There was another hesitation. ‘They were sent separately.’
‘So how were the returns made?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know!’
‘Mr Northcote had a special way of working, with some clients. Mulder was one of them. There were a lot of personal meetings.’
‘You know the names of some Mulder executives: their in-house accountants?’
‘No.’
She had to be part of it, thought Carver. ‘Did George ever have you computerize any details of Mulder?’
‘No.’
‘What about anyone else on his personal staff? Other girls?’
‘I did all that.’
‘What about a company named Encomp?’
There was a further pause. ‘I’ve typed some sign-off letters, to Grand Cayman again.’
‘But no returns?’
‘No.’
‘What about Innsflow?’
‘The same.’
There was no purpose in continuing this long-distance conversation. With the passwords he could make a computer check of his own, despite what Janice had told him. ‘I want you to help Hilda, like I said. We’ll talk some more about George’s personal files when I get back.’
‘OK.’
If the woman were involved his asking about them would give her all the time in the world to hide or destroy everything.
‘Is there something wrong?’ demanded Janice, openly.
‘Nothing wrong at all,’ said Carver. ‘With everyone here in New York – with meetings and discussions to be held – I’m trying to bring myself as fully up to date as possible, as quickly as possible.’
‘I’ll have it done by the time you get here tomorrow,’ promised the woman.
Now with increasing impatience Carver endured fifteen minutes going through what the firm’s lawyer thought important to emphasize in the death notices and obituaries, which mostly concerned the assurance that Carver’s already agreed succession would ensure the uninterrupted business continuity of George W. Northcote International. Manuel said he and his wife would return to East 62nd Street that night, to ensure that everything would be ready before anyone arrived. He was very sorry about Mr George. It was terrible.
Alice started lightly: ‘I thought you’d forgotten me…’ But at once became subdued when he talked over her to tell her what had happened. She said: ‘Shit,’ and then: ‘An accident?’
‘That’s what it’s going to be described as.’
‘Do you really think he was killed?’
‘The doctor says he could have suffered a stroke, from high blood pressure: that it could have been the cause of his falling into the blades.’
‘I asked what you thought,’ persisted Alice.
‘I don’t want to, but I think he was killed,’ said Carver, hearing the casual, conversational tone of his own voice. He was talking of murder as if it was a normal topic, like the weather or some commuter gridlock and wasn’t Manhattan a shitty place to try to get around in.
‘This doesn’t seem reaclass="underline" sound real,’ said Alice, matching his thinking, which she often did.
‘No.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I can’t think of anything to do.’
‘He didn’t give you what you asked for?’
‘No. But it should be here somewhere.’ Carver was impatient to get off the line.
‘How’s Jane?’
‘Sedated.’
‘It won’t be easy for us to meet?’
Now it was Alice who sounded remarkably sanguine: unmoved. But then although she’d been impressed by the man – wrongly as it transpired – she’d only met George Northcote two or three times. ‘Not over the next few days,’ he agreed.
‘Call me, when you can.’
‘When I can.’
‘And be careful, darling.’
‘I will,’ said Carver, wishing he knew how to be.
Carver pushed the chair slightly back with the same motion of replacing the telephone, momentarily looking between the desk and the workstation before deciding he couldn’t wait for Janice’s search the following morning: that he had to look – try to look – for himself. The moment he booted up he recognized the duplication with the Manhattan office, curious that Northcote had required the copies here in the country in view of his operating difficulties. Carver scrolled his way through every one of Northcote’s personal files and accessed every password and entry code, each time carefully entering the names of the three hovering, criminal and incriminating companies. None registered.
He turned, hurriedly, to the desk. The top left-hand drawer contained receipted bills, each annotated with the number and date of the cheque that had settled it, the one below that cheque books with the stubs meticulously completed and coordinated with the invoices above. The bottom drawer held only stationery. The diary, a duplicate of the appointments book from which they all worked in Wall Street, was in the top right-hand drawer. Carver momentarily hesitated before picking it up, aware as he did so of the shake in his hand, reminding himself how important it was going to be when he reached the office the following day to retrieve Northcote’s office copy.
Carver initially held it up by its spine, hopefully shaking it, but it concealed nothing loose. After that he turned at once to the day Northcote had been in New York for the supposedly severing encounter with his mob controllers. The entry read: ‘S-B. Dinner. Harvard.’ There was a dash between the two letters and against the name of the club there was an asterisk. There was also an asterisk against today’s entry, which simply read: ‘J. 2.30.’ When, according to Jennings, Northcote was on his tractor, hauling across a field completely hidden from anyone’s view the cutting machine beneath which he’d fallen.