On one of the many levels of Birmingham’s Rotunda tower block is the not very imposing boardroom of an unpretentious but thriving company that deals in refrigerated containers. There are four men at the meeting. In the chair is James Birch. Aged around seventy, he’s significantly older than the others. To one side is the Company Secretary, Peter Jenkinson – a humourless accountant in his mid-forties. Across the table sits fifty-year-old Mark Hetheridge, Managing Director. By his side, both literally and figuratively, is Production Director Bert Carter, a relative youngster at forty. He’s the reverse of the same counterfeit coin as Hetheridge – a ‘professional’ working man. There’s a vacant place at the boardroom table.
Hetheridge moves to vote on the item under discussion. Carter seconds the motion. It’s all going a bit too fast for Birch’s liking. “Any further discussion?” he asks. “We’ve a little time in hand.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” says Jenkinson. “The item has been moved and seconded.”
Carter calls for a vote. One by one, the directors raise their hands. Jenkinson declares the vote carried nem con. Hetheridge is keen to proceed to the next item on the agenda. Carter moves that they adopt. Hetheridge seconds that. Birch can’t see why they have to be so precipitate. “Now, just a minute, Bert,” he protests, “Only last meeting –”
“Changed my mind,” says Carter, quickly.
Birch shakes his head. “I really think –”
“You have a motion on the table, Mr Chairman,” Hetheridge reminds him.
Birch doesn’t like being coerced. “I’m bound to accept it, am I?” he asks, dangerously.
“Well,” says Jenkinson, “if you wish to vacate the chair…” The Company Secretary speaks without emotion, but the threat is clear.
“Do you accept it?” hassles Hetheridge.
Birch nods, resignedly. “I suppose so.”
The other men vote unanimously. “Carried,” declares Jenkinson, who then swiftly moves on. “Item 7.”
Suddenly, the boardroom door opens and another man – Sales Director Hugh Clayton, early fifties – walks in. Birch is surprised but delighted to see him. The others, even more startled, are anything but pleased. “Hugh!” cries Birch. “I thought you were in Geneva.”
“I just got in,” replies Clayton. He’s carrying a weekend bag and appears strained.
“The rate we’ve been going this morning, another ten minutes and you’d have missed all the fun.”
“Where are you?” asks Clayton.
“Just got to Item 7.”
“Perfect timing.” Clayton slips into the vacant seat.
“Well,” smiles Birch, “let’s just hope we can give this item a thorough airing.”
“Been rushing you, have they?”
“You’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I wonder why.”
“Shall we get on?” prompts Hetheridge.
Carter pipes up. “I did ask if I might introduce this item, Mr Chairman.”
“Does it need an introduction?” asks Clayton.
“What does that mean?” replies Carter, defensively.
“Well, surely,” says Clayton, “the advantages are obvious.” Carter expresses confusion – this is not what he’d been expecting. “Aren’t they?” continues Clayton. “Rationalisation? Increased production? No more directly competitive advertising? Really, I’m not blind.”
Hetheridge is frowning. “Then you haven’t rushed back to oppose it?”
“On the contrary,” replies Clayton. “I’m all in favour of acquiring Parsons and Hammond. But you’re proposing to pay roughly twice the price the business is worth. I want to know why.”
“Twice the –?” Carter chuckles. “You’d best stick to selling, Hugh. We’re not bidding for some little tuppenny-ha’penny concern, you know.”
“Their assets are grossly undervalued,” adds Jenkinson.
“They’ve a good name in the trade,” continues Carter.
“And, let’s face it,” says Hetheridge, “Sam Parsons drives a hard bargain.”
Clayton is unconvinced. “I rang Sam from Geneva, as soon as I got notice of this Board meeting.” Carter and Hetheridge react uneasily to this news. Clayton goes on. “He told me he’d settled for £500,000.”
Birch is astonished. “But… we’re being asked to approve nearly double that!”
“Salt in the wound,” suggests Hetheridge. “Having got what he asked, to then tell you he’d have settled for half.”
Carter concurs. “That’s Sam all over. Typical.”
Clayton makes himself clear. “He said he had settled for half – not that he would have done.”
Birch turns to him. “You realise what you’re saying?”
Clayton does. “I didn’t come home for the lunch.”
Carter looks annoyed. “He’s saying we’re swindling our own company.”
Jenkinson agrees. “A definite insinuation.”
“I’m not standing for that,” continues Carter.
Hetheridge calls for calm. Jenkinson thinks an apology is in order, but Clayton sticks to his guns. “I merely stated a fact,” he says.
Carter gets angrier. “Damn your impudence!”
The Chairman hammers for order. The men quieten down. “I believe you were trying to make a point, Hetheridge,” says Birch.
“Thank you,” the Managing Director replies. “I’m bound to say that, ever since the Board of this company was reconstituted, Hugh’s been liable to see ogres where, in fact, there have been none. Jealousy, perhaps?” Clayton denies it, but Hetheridge goes on, snidely. “I don’t see why you should have the monopoly on offensive insinuations.” His colleagues laugh, obediently.
“We’ll call that honours even, shall we?” suggests Birch. “Now, let’s try and conduct ourselves like grown men.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to make capital of old differences,” claims Hetheridge. “There does seem to be some sort of genuine misunderstanding this time.”
Clayton interjects. “To the tune of half a million.”
Hetheridge ignores him. “Now, it’s not for me to say how this arose. Perhaps you misheard Parsons. Perhaps he was having you on –”
“I tell you –”
Jenkinson interrupts. “Let him finish.”
Birch turns to the Company Secretary, asserting his authority. “When I want your assistance in running this meeting, Jenkinson, I’ll ask for it.” To Hetheridge, he says, “Go on.”
“As I was saying,” says the Managing Director. “There’s not much point in our having a slanging match about how it happened. The fact is there is an area of confusion surrounding these negotiations. Hugh’s very properly raised it.”
“And made some most improper imputations,” Jenkinson points out.
“Whatever he may or may not have tried to make of it, he was absolutely right to raise it,” continues Hetheridge. “And luckily he’s done so before contracts have been exchanged.” Hetheridge proposes that they defer the matter until the next Board meeting. In the meantime, they should ask their negotiators to go back to Parsons and Hammond. “I don’t suppose they’ll meet us all the way – on the strength of one unguarded telephone call. But… we ought to be able to shame them into coming down a bob or two. What do you say?”
“Sounds eminently sensible to me,” says Birch. “May I take it as a resolution?” Hetheridge gestures his assent. Clayton agrees as well. Slowly, the others vote in favour. Carter is the last to raise his hand. Birch smiles, relieved. “There it is, then. Good sense prevails.” He suggests the first Tuesday of next month for the next meeting – the fifth. The others consult their diaries and agree. “Usual time,” continues Birch. “Same place. Meeting closed.” He rises from his chair. “Right, let’s have some lunch, shall we?”
Clayton declines. “If you’ll excuse me, I came here straight from the airport. I’d like to get home, have a bath and so on.”
“Yes, of course,” replies Birch. “Remember me to Jean, won’t you?”
“I will.” Clayton bids them all goodbye.
Birch goes with him. “Walk you to the lift. Pay a visit. See the rest of you down in reception.”
Once they’re alone, the others confer. “Well, that’s torn it,” says Jenkinson.
“I don’t think so, somehow,” says Carter.
Hetheridge concurs. “No. Poor old Hugh.”
Jenkinson doesn’t follow. “Poor old –?”
Carter turns to Hetheridge. “Rushing back like that, you mean?”
“Yes,” sighs Hetheridge, with mock regret.
“Done himself a bad turn, really,” adds Carter.
Hetheridge nods. “A very bad turn.”
* * *
The following Tuesday afternoon, Marker is in Birch’s office, tutting flatly as he inspects a compromising photograph. The Chairman is surprised by his blasé reaction. “I don’t shock easy,” Marker tells him. “Can’t afford to.” He returns the photograph to its envelope and makes to hand it back.
Birch tells him to keep it. He explains that the man in the photograph is Hugh Clayton, one of the company’s directors. “Hugh Clayton’s married. The girl’s an employee of the company.” Her name is Maitland – Miss Ann Maitland.
“That’s good,” says Marker. “It always seems muckier, somehow, when they’re both wed.” He pauses to consider. “I suppose it is, morally speaking. Twice as bad.”
Birch frowns, impatiently. “I’m not concerned with the degree of immorality.”
“Well, it’s not a crime.”
“I haven’t called the police in, have I?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Heaven knows, it’d be a distasteful enough business anyway, but…” Birch pauses, uncomfortable with the subject. “I heard about this… er… relationship some four years ago – in fact, soon after I’d taken over the Chairmanship. Nothing definitive. A word here, a word there. You know.”
“I know,” says Marker.
“Well, I don’t think I’m a prude,” continues Birch. “Knocked about a bit. But on your own doorstep… Can’t have that, can you? I took Clayton to one side. Told him straight – no fouling the nest. And then… couldn’t help but add for good measure that he’d no business playing the giddy goat. Top-notch job, perfectly good wife of his own, nice little family. Pitched into him good and proper.” He shakes his head. “The mess people manage to get into – never ceases to amaze me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Mm? Yes, I suppose so. Well, it seems he’d never meant to get embroiled to that extent – at least, that’s what he said. Marriage hit a bad patch, moment’s consolation, thing got out of hand, wife cottoned on. A most unholy drama, by the sound of it. Made out the one thing he wanted was to be shot of the unfortunate Miss Maitland. Only he didn’t have the heart, after all –”
Marker’s heard it all before. “It wasn’t her fault he and his wife de-dum-de-dum…”
Birch looks amazed. “How did you know?”
Marker shrugs. “I could set it to music.”
“Rang true to me at the time,” says Birch. He arranged for Miss Maitland to be posted to the company’s Scottish office, and that seemed to be that. “Clayton settled down.”
“So much for absence making the heart grow fonder.”
“In the fullness of time, Miss Maitland returned –”
“And now this,” says Marker. Birch nods. “I wouldn’t pay,” recommends Marker, assuming this to be a blackmail case.
“It’s not for sale,” explains Birch. “My information is that that… picture… was taken a fortnight ago.” Marker asks where. Birch tells him: “The Carlton Hotel, Edgbaston.”
“And your informant?”
“Is wholly reliable.”
Marker processes this new information. “After four years… Quite a reunion.”
Birch scoffs. “Four years nothing! Don’t you see? It’s perfectly obvious they used me to pull the wool over his wife’s eyes.”
Marker considers. “Could be. Must have been a hard graft when the girl was in Scotland.”
“He’s the Sales Director,” Birch explains. “He travels, doesn’t he?”
“What do you want to do about it?” asks Marker.
“A man who can lie to me, quite gratuitously, on a personal matter isn’t fit to be trusted with a responsible executive position. Surely you can see that?”
“All you have to do is give the orders. You don’t have to justify them.”
“Then get his resignation!”
Marker indicates the envelope. “Using this?” So it is a blackmail case – with Marker as the blackmailer. He says as much to Birch.
“So long as I have his resignation within the week, we’ll compensate him for his service agreement.”
“Going to give me a limit?”
“You’re not to exceed £30,000.”
“How about commission on the difference if I get him for less?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then I doubt he’ll take a penny less than £30,000,” says Marker, sagely.
“We could fire him,” Birch points out.
“Why don’t you?”
“We don’t want the scandal.”
“Don’t worry,” says Marker. “I need the fee.” He gets ready to leave.
“Don’t think I like doing this.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor devil, as a matter of fact, but –”
Marker has a different opinion. “Your feelings do you credit – even if they are misplaced.”
Birch looks confused. “Misplaced?”
“Presumably he told his wife what he told you – that it was all over. Now it’s going to blow up in her face – after four years. Strikes me she’s the one could do with a bit of sympathy.”
* * *
The Claytons’ house has a contemporary, open-plan ground floor. The sitting area and dining area are divided by an invisible line that extends from the serving hatch to the French windows. The only interior door is to the kitchen. Jean Clayton, in an elegant evening dress, lays the table in the dining area – Swedish glass and cutlery, tricksy candle holders – then crosses to check the drinks. Uplifting, romantic music plays on the radio. The stage is evidently set for a souper intime – an intimate dinner.
Jean turns as Hugh Clayton comes down the open-tread wooden staircase, wearing a dinner jacket. He stops, straightens his tie, and mimes knocking on a door, stamping his foot on the floor to provide the noise. Jean flutters, dabs her hair into place, adjusts her neckline, and crosses to the imaginary door. She mimes opening it. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, as if surprised to see him.
“Not late, am I?” asks Hugh, uncertainly, as though on a first date.
“I don’t think so.”
“Or too early?”
Jean considers. “No. You’re just right.”
Hugh looks relieved. “Oh, good.” Jean invites him in. Hugh mimes closing the door behind him, then looks around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. “I say!” he declares. “This is nice.”
“I like it,” agrees Jean.
“Awfully jolly.”
“Never mind the room,” says Jean, impatiently. “How do I look?”
Hugh looks, and comments with the required level of eagerness. “Gosh!” Then, lapsing into his normal voice, he indicates the oven cloth draped over his wife’s shoulder. “That’s original.”
Jean registers it, picks it off and hurls it to the floor. “I’ll never be one of the world’s best-dressed women,” she admits.
“Never mind,” says Hugh. He leans in to kiss her.
Jean backs away, resisting his advances – for now. “I can tell you’ve been away.”
“Darkest Switzerland,” replies Hugh. “Haven’t set eyes on a woman in months.”
“No little Swiss miss?”
“Have you seen them?”
“Buxom, I’m told.”
“The word is voluminous. They’re worse than the Rhine maidens. It’s how yodelling began – the wretched Swiss males had to have some form of early warning system.” Hugh corners Jean against the dining table. She picks up a glass and offers him a drink. “It’s no substitute,” says Hugh. He kisses her.
“Stop it,” says Jean. Hugh asks why. “I like it,” replies Jean.
“Then…” Hugh leans in for another kiss.
Jean indicates the table. “Later.”
“To hell with dinner.”
“I’ve only just put my hair up!” protests Jean, regardless of her short haircut.
Hugh laughs. “You win.” He pulls away. “What’ll it be?”
“It is – in the shaker.” Jean gestures towards the open kitchen door.
“Such service!”
“It’s the geisha in me.”
Hugh looks interested. “I thought that geishas –”
“There are a lot of misconceptions about them.”
Hugh looks disappointed. “Shame.” There’s a pause.
“They accept gifts, though,” says Jean. After a moment, she adds, “I thought you’d like to know.”
“Without strings?” asks Hugh.
“Naturally.”
“Could be their undoing. Pun.”
“Funny man,” says Jean. Her husband still hasn’t produced a gift, so she gives up and turns towards the kitchen. “Well,” she declares, “I’d better get on with dinner.”
“Good idea,” agrees Hugh.
Jean feigns exasperation. “Oh!” She starts to go.
“You’ll save this, won’t you?” says Hugh. Jean turns to see that he’s holding a perfectly wrapped package. “Present from Geneva,” he explains. “You’ll enjoy it better after dinner.”
Jean shakes her head as she returns. “You can be the most exasperating man!” Not caring to wait, she snatches the present from him, eagerly.
Hugh nurses his hand, as though injured. “It’s enough to make a fellow hand shy…”
Jean rips open the package. It contains a very pretty fob watch, hung from a pin on an antique chain. “Oh, Hugh,” she sighs. “It’s lovely.” She kisses him.
As she breaks away, Hugh comments, “I thought you said you liked it.” She kisses him again, more lingeringly this time. Then the doorbell rings. Hugh sighs as they separate. “It’s a conspiracy,” he declares. “Bet it’s Janet – run short of potatoes or something.”
Jean laughs and goes to answer the door. Hugh wipes the lipstick from his mouth, then turns as Jean comes back. “Someone called Marker,” she reports. Hugh looks confused. “He says you’re expecting him,” adds Jean.
Marker wanders in, carrying his envelope. “I telephoned,” he says.
Hugh remembers. “So you did. I’m sorry, I’d clean forgotten. You’d better come in. You’ve met my wife.”
“Yes,” replies Marker. He notices that the table is set. “Not interrupting anything?”
“No,” lies Jean.
“I mean, I could come back. Only you did say –”
“I’m entirely to blame,” says Hugh.
“Anyway, it’s nothing, really,” reiterates Jean.
“My homecoming,” explains Hugh.
“Sort of a ritual.”
“With the kids at school –”
“I understand,” says Marker. Jean offers Marker a drink. He declines. Hugh asks what his visit is about. Marker glances awkwardly at Jean, then turns back to Hugh. “It’s a matter of some delicacy, Mr Clayton.”
“I don’t have secrets from my wife,” states Hugh.
“Very commendable,” says Marker.
Tactfully, Jean breaks the deadlock. “Perhaps Mr Marker has things he’d prefer not to say in front of me?”
“Have you?” asks Hugh.
Jean gestures towards the kitchen. “I ought to see to dinner, anyway.”
“Thank you, Mrs Clayton,” says Marker.
Jean goes. “I’ll knock when I’m ready to come back.” She closes the kitchen door on them. Marker still doesn’t speak. The serving hatch is open. After a moment, Jean bangs it shut.
“Satisfied?” asks Hugh.
Marker breaks his silence. “It’s no skin off my nose if she hears what I’ve to say.”
“About what?”
Marker opens the envelope. “I was given this by your Chairman.” He shows the photograph to Hugh.
Hugh flinches. “And where did he get it from?”
“Search me,” replies Marker. “A ‘reliable’ informant – that’s what he said.”
Hugh looks sickened. “He sent you to see me? With this? Is that what I’m expected to believe?”
“You can believe it or not,” says Marker. “That’s what he did.” Hugh asks why. “To make a proposition,” replies Marker.
“Why you, though?”
“People don’t want to get their own hands dirty, they use a private detective,” explains Marker. “This kind of job… it’s part of the price of not being too successful. Kind of a fringe handicap, you might say.”
“You said something about a proposition.”
“That’s right. You resign, they’ll make with the golden handshake.”
“And if I don’t?”
“They’ll fire you.”
Hugh indicates the photo. “Using this?”
Marker nods. “That’s about the size of it.”
“I’ll fight it,” warns Hugh.
“Is that wise?” asks Marker. “Think of the publicity.”
“They’ll hate that.”
“I dare say. It won’t harm them, though, not in the long run. But you – your wife… Then there’s the children to think of – their friends. Kids can be cruel, can’t they?”
Hugh looks at Marker in disgust. “They certainly picked the right man for the job.”
“I wouldn’t have chosen it.”
“I’d never have guessed.”
“There it is, then,” Marker concludes. “£30,000 and we destroy the evidence. Or you take what’s coming to you.” Hugh moves to tear the photograph. Marker stops him. “I wouldn’t waste the gesture, if I were you. There are copies.” He takes the photograph back.
Hugh looks overwhelmed. “If you knew the shock… I thought this was all over.”
“The old man did, too. That’s why he’s so cheesy, really.”
Hugh shakes his head. “To have that turn up after all these years… I must have time. I must –”
Marker gives him 24 hours. “I’ll drop round tomorrow night. Same time be okay?”
Hugh nods, reluctantly. “I suppose so. My wife –”
Marker offers him a cover story. “I’m a salesman – you’re thinking of buying her a dishwasher.” Then he loses patience with the man. “For Pete’s sake! You’ve been lying to the poor woman for years, haven’t you? Don’t start having scruples on account of me.” He stalks away.
Hugh watches him go, frowning. Then he jumps at the sound of an elaborate knock on the serving hatch. It opens to reveal Jean. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “Where’s the creepy man gone?”
“Flounced out,” replies Hugh.
“Good,” says Jean. “I forgot my drink.” She comes in from the kitchen to collect it. “What did he want?”
“Nothing,” lies Hugh.
“Took his time about it, didn’t he?” Jean picks up her glass and takes a sip. Hugh tops up their drinks, then turns away to fuss the fire. Jean takes a seat. “I’m sitting down,” she announces. “You’d better tell me. It’s that woman, isn’t it?” Hugh nods. “I knew it,” says Jean. “Your face… Every time, whenever anything to do with her… You actually become a stranger. I mean, you look like one. And just these last few weeks, I was beginning to think… Are we ever going to be rid of her?”
Hugh grimaces. “Don’t.”
“What is it this time?”
“A photograph.”
“You and her?” guesses Jean. Hugh nods. “So that’s it!” declares Jean. “She’ll even stoop to blackmail to try and get you back.”
“She’s not like that.”
“You still have to defend her, don’t you?”
“It wasn’t her fault that we –”
“Did you defend me to her?” demands Jean.
Hugh looks down, sadly. “I don’t suppose so.”
“Are you sure you gave up the right woman, Hugh? I suppose you have given her up?”
“For pity’s sake, don’t start all that again.”
“Who started it?”
“Heaven knows I didn’t.”
“Then just what was all that about?”
“The Board,” explains Hugh. “They want me to resign because somehow they’ve got hold of a compromising photograph of Ann and me.”
“How compromising?” asks Jean.
“As compromising as can be,” admits Hugh. Jean winces as if he’s just hit her. “I’m sorry,” says Hugh, making a small, dismissive gesture.
“What’re you going to do?”
“What can I do?”
“It’s four years old.”
“There’s no statute of limitations on immoral behaviour – unfortunately,” says Hugh. Then he frowns for a moment. “Although that character did say –”
“Poor Hugh.”
“If only one could just wipe out…” wishes Hugh. “We tried so hard. We both did.”
“I know,” agrees Jean. “We’ll survive, I dare say.” There’s just one thing she has to ask. “Forgive me. Before…” She falters. “But now this awful, nagging doubt…” She presses on. “The photograph. It is four years old?”
“You can ask that?” says Hugh, disappointed.
Jean nods, reluctantly, tears welling in her eyes. “I have to.”
Hugh looks sadder than ever before. “For the first time… I think something may have been damaged beyond repair.”
“Trust?” suggests Jean.
“Perhaps,” replies Hugh. “Truth?”
“Perhaps,” replies Jean.
“Love?”
Jean shakes her head. “It’d all be so much easier without love.” Her tears begin to fall.
Hugh implores her. “After all we’ve been through, all those terrible, interminable… You can’t really think I managed to lie through it all, can you? Do you think I could? Do you think I did?”
“I hope not,” says Jean. “With all my heart, I hope not.” Hugh shakes his head. It’s not enough – but it’s all she can give him.
Hetheridge moves to vote on the item under discussion. Carter seconds the motion. It’s all going a bit too fast for Birch’s liking. “Any further discussion?” he asks. “We’ve a little time in hand.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” says Jenkinson. “The item has been moved and seconded.”
Carter calls for a vote. One by one, the directors raise their hands. Jenkinson declares the vote carried nem con. Hetheridge is keen to proceed to the next item on the agenda. Carter moves that they adopt. Hetheridge seconds that. Birch can’t see why they have to be so precipitate. “Now, just a minute, Bert,” he protests, “Only last meeting –”
“Changed my mind,” says Carter, quickly.
Birch shakes his head. “I really think –”
“You have a motion on the table, Mr Chairman,” Hetheridge reminds him.
Birch doesn’t like being coerced. “I’m bound to accept it, am I?” he asks, dangerously.
“Well,” says Jenkinson, “if you wish to vacate the chair…” The Company Secretary speaks without emotion, but the threat is clear.
“Do you accept it?” hassles Hetheridge.
Birch nods, resignedly. “I suppose so.”
The other men vote unanimously. “Carried,” declares Jenkinson, who then swiftly moves on. “Item 7.”
Suddenly, the boardroom door opens and another man – Sales Director Hugh Clayton, early fifties – walks in. Birch is surprised but delighted to see him. The others, even more startled, are anything but pleased. “Hugh!” cries Birch. “I thought you were in Geneva.”
“I just got in,” replies Clayton. He’s carrying a weekend bag and appears strained.
“The rate we’ve been going this morning, another ten minutes and you’d have missed all the fun.”
“Where are you?” asks Clayton.
“Just got to Item 7.”
“Perfect timing.” Clayton slips into the vacant seat.
“Well,” smiles Birch, “let’s just hope we can give this item a thorough airing.”
“Been rushing you, have they?”
“You’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I wonder why.”
“Shall we get on?” prompts Hetheridge.
Carter pipes up. “I did ask if I might introduce this item, Mr Chairman.”
“Does it need an introduction?” asks Clayton.
“What does that mean?” replies Carter, defensively.
“Well, surely,” says Clayton, “the advantages are obvious.” Carter expresses confusion – this is not what he’d been expecting. “Aren’t they?” continues Clayton. “Rationalisation? Increased production? No more directly competitive advertising? Really, I’m not blind.”
Hetheridge is frowning. “Then you haven’t rushed back to oppose it?”
“On the contrary,” replies Clayton. “I’m all in favour of acquiring Parsons and Hammond. But you’re proposing to pay roughly twice the price the business is worth. I want to know why.”
“Twice the –?” Carter chuckles. “You’d best stick to selling, Hugh. We’re not bidding for some little tuppenny-ha’penny concern, you know.”
“Their assets are grossly undervalued,” adds Jenkinson.
“They’ve a good name in the trade,” continues Carter.
“And, let’s face it,” says Hetheridge, “Sam Parsons drives a hard bargain.”
Clayton is unconvinced. “I rang Sam from Geneva, as soon as I got notice of this Board meeting.” Carter and Hetheridge react uneasily to this news. Clayton goes on. “He told me he’d settled for £500,000.”
Birch is astonished. “But… we’re being asked to approve nearly double that!”
“Salt in the wound,” suggests Hetheridge. “Having got what he asked, to then tell you he’d have settled for half.”
Carter concurs. “That’s Sam all over. Typical.”
Clayton makes himself clear. “He said he had settled for half – not that he would have done.”
Birch turns to him. “You realise what you’re saying?”
Clayton does. “I didn’t come home for the lunch.”
Carter looks annoyed. “He’s saying we’re swindling our own company.”
Jenkinson agrees. “A definite insinuation.”
“I’m not standing for that,” continues Carter.
Hetheridge calls for calm. Jenkinson thinks an apology is in order, but Clayton sticks to his guns. “I merely stated a fact,” he says.
Carter gets angrier. “Damn your impudence!”
The Chairman hammers for order. The men quieten down. “I believe you were trying to make a point, Hetheridge,” says Birch.
“Thank you,” the Managing Director replies. “I’m bound to say that, ever since the Board of this company was reconstituted, Hugh’s been liable to see ogres where, in fact, there have been none. Jealousy, perhaps?” Clayton denies it, but Hetheridge goes on, snidely. “I don’t see why you should have the monopoly on offensive insinuations.” His colleagues laugh, obediently.
“We’ll call that honours even, shall we?” suggests Birch. “Now, let’s try and conduct ourselves like grown men.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to make capital of old differences,” claims Hetheridge. “There does seem to be some sort of genuine misunderstanding this time.”
Clayton interjects. “To the tune of half a million.”
Hetheridge ignores him. “Now, it’s not for me to say how this arose. Perhaps you misheard Parsons. Perhaps he was having you on –”
“I tell you –”
Jenkinson interrupts. “Let him finish.”
Birch turns to the Company Secretary, asserting his authority. “When I want your assistance in running this meeting, Jenkinson, I’ll ask for it.” To Hetheridge, he says, “Go on.”
“As I was saying,” says the Managing Director. “There’s not much point in our having a slanging match about how it happened. The fact is there is an area of confusion surrounding these negotiations. Hugh’s very properly raised it.”
“And made some most improper imputations,” Jenkinson points out.
“Whatever he may or may not have tried to make of it, he was absolutely right to raise it,” continues Hetheridge. “And luckily he’s done so before contracts have been exchanged.” Hetheridge proposes that they defer the matter until the next Board meeting. In the meantime, they should ask their negotiators to go back to Parsons and Hammond. “I don’t suppose they’ll meet us all the way – on the strength of one unguarded telephone call. But… we ought to be able to shame them into coming down a bob or two. What do you say?”
“Sounds eminently sensible to me,” says Birch. “May I take it as a resolution?” Hetheridge gestures his assent. Clayton agrees as well. Slowly, the others vote in favour. Carter is the last to raise his hand. Birch smiles, relieved. “There it is, then. Good sense prevails.” He suggests the first Tuesday of next month for the next meeting – the fifth. The others consult their diaries and agree. “Usual time,” continues Birch. “Same place. Meeting closed.” He rises from his chair. “Right, let’s have some lunch, shall we?”
Clayton declines. “If you’ll excuse me, I came here straight from the airport. I’d like to get home, have a bath and so on.”
“Yes, of course,” replies Birch. “Remember me to Jean, won’t you?”
“I will.” Clayton bids them all goodbye.
Birch goes with him. “Walk you to the lift. Pay a visit. See the rest of you down in reception.”
Once they’re alone, the others confer. “Well, that’s torn it,” says Jenkinson.
“I don’t think so, somehow,” says Carter.
Hetheridge concurs. “No. Poor old Hugh.”
Jenkinson doesn’t follow. “Poor old –?”
Carter turns to Hetheridge. “Rushing back like that, you mean?”
“Yes,” sighs Hetheridge, with mock regret.
“Done himself a bad turn, really,” adds Carter.
Hetheridge nods. “A very bad turn.”
* * *
The following Tuesday afternoon, Marker is in Birch’s office, tutting flatly as he inspects a compromising photograph. The Chairman is surprised by his blasé reaction. “I don’t shock easy,” Marker tells him. “Can’t afford to.” He returns the photograph to its envelope and makes to hand it back.
Birch tells him to keep it. He explains that the man in the photograph is Hugh Clayton, one of the company’s directors. “Hugh Clayton’s married. The girl’s an employee of the company.” Her name is Maitland – Miss Ann Maitland.
“That’s good,” says Marker. “It always seems muckier, somehow, when they’re both wed.” He pauses to consider. “I suppose it is, morally speaking. Twice as bad.”
Birch frowns, impatiently. “I’m not concerned with the degree of immorality.”
“Well, it’s not a crime.”
“I haven’t called the police in, have I?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Heaven knows, it’d be a distasteful enough business anyway, but…” Birch pauses, uncomfortable with the subject. “I heard about this… er… relationship some four years ago – in fact, soon after I’d taken over the Chairmanship. Nothing definitive. A word here, a word there. You know.”
“I know,” says Marker.
“Well, I don’t think I’m a prude,” continues Birch. “Knocked about a bit. But on your own doorstep… Can’t have that, can you? I took Clayton to one side. Told him straight – no fouling the nest. And then… couldn’t help but add for good measure that he’d no business playing the giddy goat. Top-notch job, perfectly good wife of his own, nice little family. Pitched into him good and proper.” He shakes his head. “The mess people manage to get into – never ceases to amaze me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Mm? Yes, I suppose so. Well, it seems he’d never meant to get embroiled to that extent – at least, that’s what he said. Marriage hit a bad patch, moment’s consolation, thing got out of hand, wife cottoned on. A most unholy drama, by the sound of it. Made out the one thing he wanted was to be shot of the unfortunate Miss Maitland. Only he didn’t have the heart, after all –”
Marker’s heard it all before. “It wasn’t her fault he and his wife de-dum-de-dum…”
Birch looks amazed. “How did you know?”
Marker shrugs. “I could set it to music.”
“Rang true to me at the time,” says Birch. He arranged for Miss Maitland to be posted to the company’s Scottish office, and that seemed to be that. “Clayton settled down.”
“So much for absence making the heart grow fonder.”
“In the fullness of time, Miss Maitland returned –”
“And now this,” says Marker. Birch nods. “I wouldn’t pay,” recommends Marker, assuming this to be a blackmail case.
“It’s not for sale,” explains Birch. “My information is that that… picture… was taken a fortnight ago.” Marker asks where. Birch tells him: “The Carlton Hotel, Edgbaston.”
“And your informant?”
“Is wholly reliable.”
Marker processes this new information. “After four years… Quite a reunion.”
Birch scoffs. “Four years nothing! Don’t you see? It’s perfectly obvious they used me to pull the wool over his wife’s eyes.”
Marker considers. “Could be. Must have been a hard graft when the girl was in Scotland.”
“He’s the Sales Director,” Birch explains. “He travels, doesn’t he?”
“What do you want to do about it?” asks Marker.
“A man who can lie to me, quite gratuitously, on a personal matter isn’t fit to be trusted with a responsible executive position. Surely you can see that?”
“All you have to do is give the orders. You don’t have to justify them.”
“Then get his resignation!”
Marker indicates the envelope. “Using this?” So it is a blackmail case – with Marker as the blackmailer. He says as much to Birch.
“So long as I have his resignation within the week, we’ll compensate him for his service agreement.”
“Going to give me a limit?”
“You’re not to exceed £30,000.”
“How about commission on the difference if I get him for less?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then I doubt he’ll take a penny less than £30,000,” says Marker, sagely.
“We could fire him,” Birch points out.
“Why don’t you?”
“We don’t want the scandal.”
“Don’t worry,” says Marker. “I need the fee.” He gets ready to leave.
“Don’t think I like doing this.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor devil, as a matter of fact, but –”
Marker has a different opinion. “Your feelings do you credit – even if they are misplaced.”
Birch looks confused. “Misplaced?”
“Presumably he told his wife what he told you – that it was all over. Now it’s going to blow up in her face – after four years. Strikes me she’s the one could do with a bit of sympathy.”
* * *
The Claytons’ house has a contemporary, open-plan ground floor. The sitting area and dining area are divided by an invisible line that extends from the serving hatch to the French windows. The only interior door is to the kitchen. Jean Clayton, in an elegant evening dress, lays the table in the dining area – Swedish glass and cutlery, tricksy candle holders – then crosses to check the drinks. Uplifting, romantic music plays on the radio. The stage is evidently set for a souper intime – an intimate dinner.
Jean turns as Hugh Clayton comes down the open-tread wooden staircase, wearing a dinner jacket. He stops, straightens his tie, and mimes knocking on a door, stamping his foot on the floor to provide the noise. Jean flutters, dabs her hair into place, adjusts her neckline, and crosses to the imaginary door. She mimes opening it. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, as if surprised to see him.
“Not late, am I?” asks Hugh, uncertainly, as though on a first date.
“I don’t think so.”
“Or too early?”
Jean considers. “No. You’re just right.”
Hugh looks relieved. “Oh, good.” Jean invites him in. Hugh mimes closing the door behind him, then looks around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. “I say!” he declares. “This is nice.”
“I like it,” agrees Jean.
“Awfully jolly.”
“Never mind the room,” says Jean, impatiently. “How do I look?”
Hugh looks, and comments with the required level of eagerness. “Gosh!” Then, lapsing into his normal voice, he indicates the oven cloth draped over his wife’s shoulder. “That’s original.”
Jean registers it, picks it off and hurls it to the floor. “I’ll never be one of the world’s best-dressed women,” she admits.
“Never mind,” says Hugh. He leans in to kiss her.
Jean backs away, resisting his advances – for now. “I can tell you’ve been away.”
“Darkest Switzerland,” replies Hugh. “Haven’t set eyes on a woman in months.”
“No little Swiss miss?”
“Have you seen them?”
“Buxom, I’m told.”
“The word is voluminous. They’re worse than the Rhine maidens. It’s how yodelling began – the wretched Swiss males had to have some form of early warning system.” Hugh corners Jean against the dining table. She picks up a glass and offers him a drink. “It’s no substitute,” says Hugh. He kisses her.
“Stop it,” says Jean. Hugh asks why. “I like it,” replies Jean.
“Then…” Hugh leans in for another kiss.
Jean indicates the table. “Later.”
“To hell with dinner.”
“I’ve only just put my hair up!” protests Jean, regardless of her short haircut.
Hugh laughs. “You win.” He pulls away. “What’ll it be?”
“It is – in the shaker.” Jean gestures towards the open kitchen door.
“Such service!”
“It’s the geisha in me.”
Hugh looks interested. “I thought that geishas –”
“There are a lot of misconceptions about them.”
Hugh looks disappointed. “Shame.” There’s a pause.
“They accept gifts, though,” says Jean. After a moment, she adds, “I thought you’d like to know.”
“Without strings?” asks Hugh.
“Naturally.”
“Could be their undoing. Pun.”
“Funny man,” says Jean. Her husband still hasn’t produced a gift, so she gives up and turns towards the kitchen. “Well,” she declares, “I’d better get on with dinner.”
“Good idea,” agrees Hugh.
Jean feigns exasperation. “Oh!” She starts to go.
“You’ll save this, won’t you?” says Hugh. Jean turns to see that he’s holding a perfectly wrapped package. “Present from Geneva,” he explains. “You’ll enjoy it better after dinner.”
Jean shakes her head as she returns. “You can be the most exasperating man!” Not caring to wait, she snatches the present from him, eagerly.
Hugh nurses his hand, as though injured. “It’s enough to make a fellow hand shy…”
Jean rips open the package. It contains a very pretty fob watch, hung from a pin on an antique chain. “Oh, Hugh,” she sighs. “It’s lovely.” She kisses him.
As she breaks away, Hugh comments, “I thought you said you liked it.” She kisses him again, more lingeringly this time. Then the doorbell rings. Hugh sighs as they separate. “It’s a conspiracy,” he declares. “Bet it’s Janet – run short of potatoes or something.”
Jean laughs and goes to answer the door. Hugh wipes the lipstick from his mouth, then turns as Jean comes back. “Someone called Marker,” she reports. Hugh looks confused. “He says you’re expecting him,” adds Jean.
Marker wanders in, carrying his envelope. “I telephoned,” he says.
Hugh remembers. “So you did. I’m sorry, I’d clean forgotten. You’d better come in. You’ve met my wife.”
“Yes,” replies Marker. He notices that the table is set. “Not interrupting anything?”
“No,” lies Jean.
“I mean, I could come back. Only you did say –”
“I’m entirely to blame,” says Hugh.
“Anyway, it’s nothing, really,” reiterates Jean.
“My homecoming,” explains Hugh.
“Sort of a ritual.”
“With the kids at school –”
“I understand,” says Marker. Jean offers Marker a drink. He declines. Hugh asks what his visit is about. Marker glances awkwardly at Jean, then turns back to Hugh. “It’s a matter of some delicacy, Mr Clayton.”
“I don’t have secrets from my wife,” states Hugh.
“Very commendable,” says Marker.
Tactfully, Jean breaks the deadlock. “Perhaps Mr Marker has things he’d prefer not to say in front of me?”
“Have you?” asks Hugh.
Jean gestures towards the kitchen. “I ought to see to dinner, anyway.”
“Thank you, Mrs Clayton,” says Marker.
Jean goes. “I’ll knock when I’m ready to come back.” She closes the kitchen door on them. Marker still doesn’t speak. The serving hatch is open. After a moment, Jean bangs it shut.
“Satisfied?” asks Hugh.
Marker breaks his silence. “It’s no skin off my nose if she hears what I’ve to say.”
“About what?”
Marker opens the envelope. “I was given this by your Chairman.” He shows the photograph to Hugh.
Hugh flinches. “And where did he get it from?”
“Search me,” replies Marker. “A ‘reliable’ informant – that’s what he said.”
Hugh looks sickened. “He sent you to see me? With this? Is that what I’m expected to believe?”
“You can believe it or not,” says Marker. “That’s what he did.” Hugh asks why. “To make a proposition,” replies Marker.
“Why you, though?”
“People don’t want to get their own hands dirty, they use a private detective,” explains Marker. “This kind of job… it’s part of the price of not being too successful. Kind of a fringe handicap, you might say.”
“You said something about a proposition.”
“That’s right. You resign, they’ll make with the golden handshake.”
“And if I don’t?”
“They’ll fire you.”
Hugh indicates the photo. “Using this?”
Marker nods. “That’s about the size of it.”
“I’ll fight it,” warns Hugh.
“Is that wise?” asks Marker. “Think of the publicity.”
“They’ll hate that.”
“I dare say. It won’t harm them, though, not in the long run. But you – your wife… Then there’s the children to think of – their friends. Kids can be cruel, can’t they?”
Hugh looks at Marker in disgust. “They certainly picked the right man for the job.”
“I wouldn’t have chosen it.”
“I’d never have guessed.”
“There it is, then,” Marker concludes. “£30,000 and we destroy the evidence. Or you take what’s coming to you.” Hugh moves to tear the photograph. Marker stops him. “I wouldn’t waste the gesture, if I were you. There are copies.” He takes the photograph back.
Hugh looks overwhelmed. “If you knew the shock… I thought this was all over.”
“The old man did, too. That’s why he’s so cheesy, really.”
Hugh shakes his head. “To have that turn up after all these years… I must have time. I must –”
Marker gives him 24 hours. “I’ll drop round tomorrow night. Same time be okay?”
Hugh nods, reluctantly. “I suppose so. My wife –”
Marker offers him a cover story. “I’m a salesman – you’re thinking of buying her a dishwasher.” Then he loses patience with the man. “For Pete’s sake! You’ve been lying to the poor woman for years, haven’t you? Don’t start having scruples on account of me.” He stalks away.
Hugh watches him go, frowning. Then he jumps at the sound of an elaborate knock on the serving hatch. It opens to reveal Jean. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “Where’s the creepy man gone?”
“Flounced out,” replies Hugh.
“Good,” says Jean. “I forgot my drink.” She comes in from the kitchen to collect it. “What did he want?”
“Nothing,” lies Hugh.
“Took his time about it, didn’t he?” Jean picks up her glass and takes a sip. Hugh tops up their drinks, then turns away to fuss the fire. Jean takes a seat. “I’m sitting down,” she announces. “You’d better tell me. It’s that woman, isn’t it?” Hugh nods. “I knew it,” says Jean. “Your face… Every time, whenever anything to do with her… You actually become a stranger. I mean, you look like one. And just these last few weeks, I was beginning to think… Are we ever going to be rid of her?”
Hugh grimaces. “Don’t.”
“What is it this time?”
“A photograph.”
“You and her?” guesses Jean. Hugh nods. “So that’s it!” declares Jean. “She’ll even stoop to blackmail to try and get you back.”
“She’s not like that.”
“You still have to defend her, don’t you?”
“It wasn’t her fault that we –”
“Did you defend me to her?” demands Jean.
Hugh looks down, sadly. “I don’t suppose so.”
“Are you sure you gave up the right woman, Hugh? I suppose you have given her up?”
“For pity’s sake, don’t start all that again.”
“Who started it?”
“Heaven knows I didn’t.”
“Then just what was all that about?”
“The Board,” explains Hugh. “They want me to resign because somehow they’ve got hold of a compromising photograph of Ann and me.”
“How compromising?” asks Jean.
“As compromising as can be,” admits Hugh. Jean winces as if he’s just hit her. “I’m sorry,” says Hugh, making a small, dismissive gesture.
“What’re you going to do?”
“What can I do?”
“It’s four years old.”
“There’s no statute of limitations on immoral behaviour – unfortunately,” says Hugh. Then he frowns for a moment. “Although that character did say –”
“Poor Hugh.”
“If only one could just wipe out…” wishes Hugh. “We tried so hard. We both did.”
“I know,” agrees Jean. “We’ll survive, I dare say.” There’s just one thing she has to ask. “Forgive me. Before…” She falters. “But now this awful, nagging doubt…” She presses on. “The photograph. It is four years old?”
“You can ask that?” says Hugh, disappointed.
Jean nods, reluctantly, tears welling in her eyes. “I have to.”
Hugh looks sadder than ever before. “For the first time… I think something may have been damaged beyond repair.”
“Trust?” suggests Jean.
“Perhaps,” replies Hugh. “Truth?”
“Perhaps,” replies Jean.
“Love?”
Jean shakes her head. “It’d all be so much easier without love.” Her tears begin to fall.
Hugh implores her. “After all we’ve been through, all those terrible, interminable… You can’t really think I managed to lie through it all, can you? Do you think I could? Do you think I did?”
“I hope not,” says Jean. “With all my heart, I hope not.” Hugh shakes his head. It’s not enough – but it’s all she can give him.