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Stewart offered me a wary look and said over-carefully, ‘He did the work we asked of him to our satisfaction.’
‘Would you say he was an achiever himself?’ I smiled. ‘Was he in line for promotion, or anything like that?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Stewart seemed aware that he had spoken too quickly and emphatically. ‘He’s not a dynamic man.’
I said, ‘When did you join the firm, Mr Stewart?’
‘Four years ago. I was brought down from Glasgow when the office was computerized.’
‘At that time did you make any attempt to have Billson fired or transferred to another department?’
Stewart jerked. ‘I … er … I did something like that, yes. It was decided to keep him on.’
‘By Mr Isaacson, I take it.’
‘Yes. You’ll have to ask him about that,’ he said with an air of relief.
So I did. Isaacson was a more rarefied breed of accountant than Stewart. Stewart knew how to make figures jump through hoops; Isaacson selected the hoops they jumped through. He was an expert on company law, especially that affecting taxation.
‘Billson!’ he said, and smiled. ‘There’s a word in Yiddish which describes a man like Billson. He’s a nebbish.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A person of less than no account. Let me put it this way; if a man walks out of a room and it feels as though someone has just come in, then he’s a nebbish.’
I leaned back in my chair and stared at Isaacson. ‘So here we have a nebbish who draws £8000 for a job worth £2000, if that. How do you account for it?’
‘I don’t have to,’ he said easily. ‘You can take that up with our managing director, Mr Grayson.’
‘And where will I find Mr Grayson?’
‘I regret that will be difficult,’ said Isaacson in a most unregretful manner. ‘He’s in Switzerland for the skiing.’
He looked so damned smug that I wanted to hit him, but I kept my temper and said deliberately, ‘Mr Isaacson, my firm is solely responsible for security at Franklin Engineering. A man has disappeared and I find this lack of cooperation very strange. Don’t you find it odd yourself?’
He spread his hands. ‘I repeat, Mr Stafford, that any questions concerning Mr Billson can be answered only by my managing director.’
‘Who is sliding down hills on a couple of planks.’ I held Isaacson’s eye. ‘Stewart wanted to fire Billson but you vetoed it. Why?’
‘I didn’t. Mr Grayson did. He said Billson must stay.’
‘Surely you asked his reasons.’
‘Of course.’ Isaacson shook his head. ‘He gave none.’ He paused. ‘I know nothing of Billson, Mr Stafford, other than that he was … protected, shall we say.’
I thought about that. Why should Grayson be Billson’s fairy godfather? ‘Did you know that Billson was “protected” when Stewart wanted to fire him?’
‘Oh yes.’ Isaacson smiled a little sadly. ‘I wanted to fire him myself ten years ago. When Stewart brought up the suggestion I thought I’d test it again with Mr Grayson.’ He shrugged. ‘But the situation was still the same.’
I said, ‘Maybe I’d better take this up at a higher level; perhaps with your Chairman.’
‘As you wish,’ said Isaacson in a cold voice.
I decided to lower the temperature myself. ‘Just one more thing, Mr Isaacson. When Mr Hoyland asks you for information you do not – repeat not – tell him that what he wants to know is no concern of security. You give him all the information you have, as you have given it to me. I hope I make myself clear?’
‘Very clear.’ Isaacson’s lips had gone very thin.
‘Very well; you will allow Mr Hoyland access to everything concerning Billson, especially his salary record. I’ll have a word with him before I leave.’ I stood up. ‘Good morning, Mr Isaacson.’
I checked back with Hoyland and told him what I wanted, then went in search of the Widow Harrison and found her to be a comfortable motherly old soul, supplementing her old age pension by taking in a lodger. According to her, Billson was a very nice gentleman who was no trouble about the house and who caused her no heart-searching about fancy women. She had no idea why he had left and was perturbed about what she was going to do about Billson’s room which still contained a lot of his possessions.
‘After all, I have me living to make,’ she said. ‘The pension doesn’t go far these days.’
I paid her a month in advance for the room and marked it up to the Franklin Engineering account. If Isaacson queried it he’d get a mouthful from me.
She had not noticed anything unusual about Billson before he walked out ‘No, he wasn’t any different. Of course, there were times he could get very angry, but that was just his way. I let him go on and didn’t take much notice.’
‘He was supposed to go to work last Monday, but he didn’t. When did you see him last, Mrs Harrison?’
‘It was Monday night. I thought he’d been to work as usual. He didn’t say he hadn’t.’
‘Was he in any way angry then?’
‘A bit. He was talking about there being no justice, not even in the law. He said rich newspapers could afford expensive lawyers so that poor men like him didn’t stand a chance.’ She laughed. ‘He was that upset he overturned the glue-pot. But it was just his way, Mr Stafford.’
‘Oh! What was he doing with the glue-pot?’
‘Pasting something into that scrapbook of his. The one that had all the stuff in it about his father. He thought a lot of his father although I don’t think he could have remembered him. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? He was only a little boy when his father was killed.’
‘Did he ever show you the scrapbook?’
‘Oh yes; it was one of the first things he did when he came here eight years ago. That was the year after my late husband died. It was full of pictures cut out of newspapers and magazines – all about his father. Lots of aeroplanes – the old-fashioned kind like they had in the First World War.’
‘Biplanes?’
‘Lots of wings,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t know much about aeroplanes. They weren’t like the jets we have now. He told me all about his father lots of times; about how he was some kind of hero. After a while I just stopped listening and let it pass over me head. He seemed to think his dad had been cheated or something.’
‘Do you mind if I see his room? I’d like to have a look at that scrapbook.’
Her brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t mind you seeing the room but, come to think of it, I don’t think the book’s there. It stays on his dressing-table and I didn’t see it when I cleaned up.’
‘I’d still like to see the room.’
It was not much of a place for a man to live. Not uncomfortable but decidedly bleak. The furniture was Edwardian oversize or 1930s angular and the carpet was clean but threadbare. I sat on the bed and the springs protested. As I looked at the garish reproduction of Holman Hunt’s ‘The Light of the World’ I wondered why an £8000-a-year man should live in a dump like this. ‘The scrapbook,’ I said.
‘It’s gone. He must have taken it with him.’
‘Is anything else missing?’
‘He took his razor and shaving brush,’ said Mrs Harrison. ‘And his toothbrush. A couple of clean shirts and some socks and other things. Not more than would fill a small suitcase. The police made a list.’
‘Do the police know about the scrapbook?’
‘It never entered me head.’ She was suddenly nervous. ‘Do you think I should tell them, sir?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell them.’
‘I do hope you can find Mr Billson, sir,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t want to think he’s come to any harm. He really should be married with someone to look after him. His sister came every month but that really wasn’t enough.’
‘He has a sister?’
‘Not a real sister – a half-sister, I think. The name’s different and she’s not married. A funny foreign name it is – I never can remember it. She comes and keeps him company in the evening about twice a month.’
‘Does she know he’s gone?’
‘I don’t know how she can, unless the police told her. I don’t know her address but she lives in London.’
‘I’ll ask them,’ I said. ‘Did Mr Billson have any girl-friends?’
‘Oh no, sir.’ She shook her head. ‘The problem is, you see, who’d want to marry him? Not that there’s anything wrong with him,’ she added hastily. ‘But he just didn’t seem to appeal to the ladies, sir.’
As I walked to the police station I turned that one over. It seemed very much like an epitaph.
Sergeant Kaye was not too perturbed. ‘For a man to take it into his head to walk away isn’t an offence,’ he said. ‘If he was a child of six it would be different and we’d be pulling out all the stops, but Billson is a grown man.’ He groped for an analogy. ‘It’s as if you were to say that you feel sorry for him because he’s an orphan, if you take my meaning.’
‘He may be a grown man,’ I said. ‘But from what I hear he may not be all there.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kaye. ‘He held down a good job at Franklin Engineering for good pay. It takes more than a half-wit to do that. And he took good care of his money before he walked out and when he walked out.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, he saved a lot. He kept his current account steady at about the level of a month’s salary and he had nearly £12,000 on deposit. He cleared the lot out last Tuesday morning as soon as the bank opened.’
‘Well, I’m damned! But wait a minute, Sergeant; it needs seven days’ notice to withdraw deposits.’
Kaye smiled. ‘Not if you’ve been a good, undemanding customer for a dozen or more years and then suddenly put the arm on your bank manager.’ He unsealed the founts of his wisdom. ‘Men walk out on things for a lot of reasons. Some want to get away from a woman and some are running towards one. Some get plain tired of the way they’re living and just cut out without any fuss. If we had to put on a full scale investigation every time it happened we’d have our hands full of nothing else, and the yobbos we’re supposed to be hammering would be laughing fit to bust. It isn’t as though he’s committed an offence, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. What does the Special Branch say?’
‘The cloak-and-dagger boys?’ Kaye’s voice was tinged with contempt ‘They reckon he’s clean – and I reckon they’re right.’
‘I suppose you’ve checked the hospitals.’
‘Those in the area. That’s routine.’
‘He has a sister – does she know?’
‘A half-sister,’ he said. ‘She was here last week. She seemed a level-headed woman – she didn’t create all that much fuss.’
‘I’d be glad of her address.’
He scribbled on a note-pad and tore off the sheet. As I put it into my wallet I said, ‘And you won’t forget the scrapbook?’
‘I’ll put it in the file,’ said Kaye patiently. I could see he didn’t attach much significance to it.
I had a late lunch and then phoned Joyce at the office. ‘I won’t be coming in,’ I said. ‘Is there anything I ought to know?’
‘Mrs Stafford asked me to tell you she won’t be in this evening.’ Joyce’s voice was suspiciously cool and even.
I hoped I kept my irritation from showing. I was becoming pretty damned tired of going home to an empty house. ‘All right; I have a job for you. All the Sunday newspapers for November 2nd. Extract anything that refers to a man called Billson. Try the national press first and, if Luton has a Sunday paper, that as well. If you draw a blank try all the dailies for the previous week. I want it on my desk tomorrow.’
‘That’s a punishment drill.’
‘Get someone to help if you must. And tell Mr Malleson I’ll meet him at four o’clock at the Inter-City Building for the board meeting.’
THREE (#ulink_13a4440c-e3e7-565f-9664-3246e2e9e720)
I don’t know if I liked Brinton or not; he was a hard man to get to know. His social life was minimal and, considered objectively, he was just a money-making machine and a very effective one. He didn’t seem to reason like other men; he would listen to arguments for and against a project, offered by the lawyers and accountants he hired by the regiment, and then he would make a decision. Often the decision would have nothing to do with what he had been told, or perhaps he could see patterns no one else saw. At any rate some of his exploits had been startlingly like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Hindsight would show that what he had done was logically sound, but only he had the foresight and that was what made him rich.
When Charlie Malleson and I put together the outfit that later became Stafford Security Consultants Ltd we ran into the usual trouble which afflicts the small firm trying to become a big firm – a hell of a lot of opportunities going begging for lack of finance. Lord Brinton came to the rescue with a sizeable injection of funds for which he took twenty-five per cent of our shares. In return we took over the security of the Brinton empire.
I was a little worried when the deal was going through because of Brinton’s reputation as a hot-shot operator. I put it to him firmly that this was going to be a legitimate operation and that our business was solely security and not the other side of the coin, industrial espionage. He smiled slightly, said he respected my integrity, and that I was to run the firm as I pleased.
He kept to that, too, and never interfered, although his bright young whiz-kids would sometimes suggest that we cut a few corners. They didn’t come back after I referred them to Brinton.
Industrial espionage is a social disease something akin to VD. Nobody minds admitting to protecting against it, but no one will admit to doing it. I always suspected that Brinton was in it up to his neck as much as any other ruthless financial son-of-a-bitch, and I used the firm’s facilities to do a bit of snooping. I was right; he employed a couple of other firms from time to time to do his ferreting. That was all right with me as long as he didn’t ask me to do it, but sooner or later he was going to try it on one of our other clients and then he was going to be hammered, twenty-five per cent shareholder or not. So far it hadn’t happened.
I arrived a little early for the meeting and found him in his office high above the City. It wasn’t very much bigger than a ballroom and one entire wall was of glass so that he could look over his stamping ground. There wasn’t a desk in sight; he employed other men to sit behind desks.
He heaved himself creakily out of an armchair. ‘Good to see you, Max. Look what I’ve gotten here.’
He had a new toy, an open fire burning merrily in a fireplace big enough to roast an ox. ‘Central heating is all very well,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing like a good blaze to warm old bones like mine. It’s like something else alive in the room – it keeps me company and doesn’t talk back.’
I looked at the fireplace full of soft coal. ‘Aren’t you violating the smokeless zone laws?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s an electrostatic precipitator built into the chimney. No smoke gets out.’
I had to smile. When Brinton did anything he did it in style. It was another example of the way he thought. You want a fire with no smoke? All right, install a multi-thousand pound gadget to get rid of it. And it wouldn’t cost him too much; he owned the factory which made the things and I suppose it would find its way on to the company books under the heading of ‘Research and Development – Testing the Product’.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The working day seems to be over.’
He pressed a button next to the fireplace and a bar unfolded from nowhere. His seamed old face broke into an urchin grin. ‘Don’t you consider the board meeting to be work?’
‘It’s playtime.’
He poured a measured amount of Talisker into a glass, added an equal amount of Malvern water, and brought it over to me. ‘Yes, I’ve never regretted the money I put into your firm.’
