Zack left the building, eyes on the ground, collar raised against a thin December sleet, and stepped blindly out on to the zebra crossing leading to Bank tube station. A silver-green Jaguar, which had been driving too fast along the little street, squealed to a halt, skidding in the wet.
‘Screw you, you goddamn idiot. Look where you’re going.’ A distinguished-looking man with swept-back silver hair stuck his head out of the car window, the better to yell at Zack.
‘Screw you yourself, you geriatric shit-for-brains,’ yelled Zack, pleased to have an opportunity to vent his feelings.
‘Next time I won’t apply the brakes, you jerk.’
The man in the car was really shouting. His silver hair had come away from his head and shook like an angry mane. His accent was mid-Atlantic. Zack couldn’t tell if he was a Brit who had just come back from a long stay in the States, or a Yank who’d been in London too long. Either way, he looked like a viscount and swore like a trooper. Zack couldn’t help liking him. Zack yelled something obscene and stomped off.
He felt better for the row. Sod Hanbury. Zack would never apologise. Besides, he’d had a better idea.
3
David Ballard slowed his black BMW. Meeting a herd of sheep on the road up to Sawley Bridge, he had been forced to squeeze up on to a muddy verge, and one side of the car was spattered with heavy clay. It was a freezing afternoon, and by the time Ballard got home, the mud would be frozen solid. The car took a bigger bite out of his salary than he could justify, but he drove twenty-five thousand miles a year visiting clients, and the BMW gave pleasure with every one. He’d wash the paintwork down that evening.
Ballard drove slowly into the factory yard. Armed with ladders and paintpots, a couple of workmen, swearing at the cold, were getting ready to paint over the sign above the gates. Ballard was angry. Very angry.
He brought the car to a stop in the yard, next to the only other vehicle, a Transit van marked ‘Gissings Modern Furniture’. They’d be painting over that next, thought Ballard and marched angrily upstairs to George’s office.
George was at his desk, immersed in paperwork.
‘Hello, there,’ he said on seeing his visitor. ‘You should have let me know you were coming and I’d have got that five hundred grand ready. As it is, you’ll need to wait a little longer.’
Ballard was in no mood for jokes.
‘What the bloody hell is this I hear about you changing the name of the company?’
George was taken aback. Ballard was a shrewd but genial man, with twinkling eyes and a chuckle never far from his lips. He usually looked and acted like everyone’s favourite uncle. Not now. George responded coldly.
‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with you, as long as we comply with the terms of our loan.’
‘Don’t give me that shit. Is it true or isn’t it?’
‘For your information, yes, it is true.’
Ballard was seething. The red of his face contrasted oddly with the iron grey of his hair. His voice was furious, but controlled.
‘I saw Tom Gissing last night at the Rotary Christmas shindig. He told me you were changing the company’s name. It was the only thing that still mattered to him and you knew it. I honestly think he wouldn’t have minded the insulting way you bought the company, if you had brought it back to life with his name on it. In fact, he’d have been the first to thank you. As it was, he spent the whole damn evening crying on my shoulder. I called him this morning to check he was OK. No answer. I went round to see him and found him dead. Heart attack.’ Ballard paused, before delivering the final accusation. ‘That attack was your fault and God damn you for it.’
White-faced, George rose, went to a filing cabinet and drew out a piece of paper. He tossed it across the table to Ballard.
‘Here’s our application to change the company name. We’re changing the name from The Gissings Modern Furniture Company (Limited) to Gissings Furniture Limited. The original name is hopelessly out-of date, but I’ve never even dreamt of getting rid of the founder’s name. Nor will I now he’s dead.’
‘And what about the sign above the gates? That just says Gissings Furniture as it is.’
George shook his head.
‘I cut everybody’s wages by fifteen percent and said if anyone gave up more than that, I’d write their names in gold up above the gates. My secretary gave up thirty percent, so her name’s going up, just like I said. The Gissings Furniture bit is staying put.’
Ballard breathed out heavily and stroked his moustache with his hand. His face changed back from red to pink.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have accused you until I knew the facts. I take it back and I apologise.’
He extended a hand, which George accepted. ‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t blame you for being upset. I’m sorry to hear about Tom Gissing. I still hope to make him proud.’
‘Yes. I hope you do too. I do apologise, George. It was hasty of me.’
‘Yeah, well, I suppose I am partly to blame,’ said George. ‘I’ve been playing my cards fairly close to my chest here, so it’s only natural that rumours get started. Fact is, I’d like to get more people involved with waking up this corpse, because it’s more than one man can do by himself. The trouble is, I don’t seem to have anyone’s trust. It’s like pulling teeth all day long and I honestly don’t know what’s the matter.’
‘Bit of advice to you, George,’ said Ballard, winking. ‘Never tell your bank manager when you’re having a hard time. He might get scared and call in his loan. But you’re alright. I assume you’ll be getting your hands on your dad’s cash any day now. Good job, given that your loan extension runs out in less than a month.’
Ballard’s face had changed and George could no longer read his expression. There was something odd about it. George didn’t spend time wondering. He’d felt bad about deceiving Ballard and now seemed as good a time as any to come clean.
‘David, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Not bad news, I hope.’ Ballard’s face was secretive, laughing.
‘Well … it’s not good.’
‘Don’t mind what it is, so long as you pay the loan off in a month. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it?’
‘Yes that’s what we agreed –’
‘Well, that’s OK then.’
‘David, I’m not getting the money. The will … it’s a long story. But there’s no money.’
‘No money?’
‘Not a penny piece. I suppose you’ll have to close us down, will you?’
Ballard’s expression was emerging into the open now. He was chuckling.
‘Don’t worry. If there’s a delay, just get me a letter from the executors.’
‘I can’t … what’s funny? This isn’t bloody funny.’
‘D’you