More Than Meets the Eye (7 page)

And she was good in bed, was Ally. They were good together. But Peter had been good with others in his time. With the power and money he had now, he could summon women twenty years younger than Ally to his bed – a succession of them in a variety of shapes, if sex was all he wanted.

But Ally gave him more than that. And some unsuspected adolescent streak lurking still within Peter Nayland made him proud of his feelings for her. He might move through sordid channels to make his money, but he was capable of higher sentiments in his own life. He would show those people who thought he was a crude and ruthless money-maker that he was more than that. But first he would show it to himself.

There were certain obstacles, of course, but nothing which couldn't be easily overcome. He buzzed his PA and asked her to let Chris Horton know that he wished to see him at three p.m. today. Horton wasn't part of his muscle, nothing as crude as that. He was an expert at acquiring information on other businesses and the people who ran them. Because of Horton's researches, Nayland went into any meeting better aware of the strengths and weaknesses of his rivals, equipped to strike wherever they were most vulnerable, if negotiation did not secure what he wanted.

When Horton came into his office, Peter Nayland sat back comfortably in his chair. Love would be preposterous in this context. He wouldn't declare such a weakness to this subtle and efficient man. He said almost casually, ‘I want you to find out all you can about a man called Dennis Cooper.'

Horton nodded and made a note of the name. It was not familiar to him and the boss did not volunteer anything to help him. He looked up and said, ‘Where does this man work?'

‘Cooper works at Westbourne Park, the famous gardens. He lives on the site. He was appointed by the National Trust to run the place and exercise a loose control over other Trust properties in the area.'

If Chris Horton was surprised, he was too practised to show it. ‘Any other details you can give me?'

‘Nothing more at the moment.' It was all he had been able to pick up from Alison; most women didn't want to talk about their husbands when they were with a lover. ‘I'm relying on you to provide me with that, Chris.'

He gave him a smile of encouragement, and Horton, a small man with a narrow, inquisitive face, gave him a brief, almost conspiratorial grin in reply. ‘Usual stuff?? Sexual preferences, shagging away from home: financial peccadilloes; lies told or facts concealed in applications for posts; tax evasions?'

Peter nodded. ‘Anything that you can dig up. You might find this one more difficult than most. On the face of it, Cooper's a pillar of rectitude, operating in a blameless area. A highly meritorious area, some might say. But he'll have his weaknesses. All of us have.'

Horton looked down at the name and the brief notes he had already made. The smile he offered this time was more malicious, in line with the assignment he had been given. ‘You're right. Even pillars of rectitude have their weaknesses, sir.'

‘And they crash to the ground even harder when they're exposed. You've got the idea, Chris. But work discreetly. I don't want this man to know that he's being investigated. He doesn't even know that I exist, as yet.'

‘Right you are, sir. It might take a little longer to gather material without his knowing we're after him. Should I give it priority?'

‘Yes. Top priority. Let me know as soon as you have anything useful on him.'

Chris Horton nodded and left. He wondered why Nayland wanted to dig the dirt on a man like this. Quite different from the people he usually worked on. All the same, if Peter Nayland had him down as an enemy, he wouldn't like to be in this Dennis Cooper's shoes.

H
ugo Wilkinson was thirty-eight, a head chef with a wealth of experience. But he felt like a schoolboy as he waited outside Dennis Cooper's office.

He had come ten minutes early for the appointment. He planned to say that he needed to be away quickly to ensure that the serving of lunches in the restaurant went ahead smoothly. That would show that he was conscientious.

It turned out to be a bad tactic. He was left waiting on his chair in the outer office for the full ten minutes. Whilst Cooper's PA worked busily at her PC, Hugo became increasingly nervous. He wasn't used to nervousness, not in his working life. His hobby caused him plenty of anxiety, but that was another matter altogether.

Chefs were powerful people, and head chefs the most powerful of all. Whatever the official pecking order in a hotel or restaurant, everyone knew that if the head chef walked out the enterprise would be threatened with chaos; his departure would be followed by a plethora of customer complaints. Head chefs were allowed, even expected, to be temperamental creatures. They were given more rope than other employees.

All this passed through Hugo Wilkinson's mind as he sat on the upright chair in the outer office, crossing and uncrossing his legs. But he remembered his father telling him when he was no more than thirteen that if you gave some people enough rope they would hang themselves. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have used his position to hang himself. You had to be more politically correct when you worked for the National Trust than you did when retained by a private employer.

It seemed to Hugo warm and airless here, though the PA in her white blouse and others who arrived and departed seemed cool enough. Everyone who came into the room gave him a curious glance, though none of them spoke to him. Here was another aspect of this business, which he had not considered previously. The junior staff who entered and left this busy anteroom would be surprised to see him here, would speculate to their fellows about seeing the head chef waiting like a schoolboy outside the headmaster's office. He told himself that they would merely think he was waiting to confer with Cooper about budgets and menus, but that didn't seem to help much.

He was sweating hard when Cooper eventually called him in. The curator did so with a professional courtesy, betraying no sign to any curious watcher that this senior employee was in trouble. His expression changed once the door was closed and the two men took their positions carefully on either side of the big desk. The curator studied him for a moment before he said, ‘As I told you when I asked you to come here this morning, I have received a complaint. Complaints, in fact.'

‘He's quick to take offence. He doesn't know how a kitchen—'

‘Complaints from the public, Mr Wilkinson, not the man you insulted. Two visitors came to my office on the day. There have been three written complaints since then. There may well be more.'

Hugo licked his lips. He knew he hadn't a leg to stand on here. He needed to make the best plea of mitigating circumstances he could and then get the hell out of here. ‘We were short-staffed and under pressure. These things happen.'

‘These things should not happen, Mr Wilkinson, whatever the circumstances. Do you dispute the facts of the case?'

This perpetual use of his title and surname was disconcerting him. Ever since he'd moved in here, he'd been ‘Hugo' to Dennis Cooper. Now the man was behaving like an old hanging judge preparing to put on his black cap. Hugo wanted this over and done with. He would do anything to accelerate that process. ‘No, I don't dispute the facts. I called Shoab Junaid a “fucking coon”. I should not have done that.'

He looked up to see Cooper's reaction, but the curator gave him no relief. Cooper's face was set in stone. He studied his man as dispassionately as if he had been a specimen under a microscope. Eventually he said, ‘Can you repeat for me the full sentence you used?'

Hugo swallowed. ‘Yes. I believe I said, “For God's sake move your arse, you fucking coon!”'

Cooper nodded coolly. ‘That tallies with what I have heard from others.' He leaned forward, earnest and unsmiling. ‘You're not stupid enough to think you can get away with this sort of thing.' It was a statement, not a question.

‘I was stupid enough to say it.'

‘True. I find that disturbing. You'd better give me a full account of any extenuating circumstances. I know at least one complainant has sent a copy of his letter to me to the Chairman of the National Trust. I may have to account for my decision to him. Perhaps to Prince Charles, if news of the incident reaches him as our president.'

‘You're really training the big guns on me, aren't you?'

‘You trained them upon yourself, Hugo, when you used those stupid words.'

At least they were back to ‘Hugo'. And Cooper seemed to be admitting he'd been no more than stupid. ‘I appreciate that. I've already said I was stupid. But you don't think of the repercussions when you shout something in a red mist of fury.'

‘But you should do, Hugo. In most respects, you have easier conditions here than in your previous post. As you've pointed out yourself on occasions, you don't often operate far into the night and the standard of cuisine expected is not as high as Michelin three star. But you are working in a more public context than you have ever done before. When you took employment with the National Trust, you accepted that. You should have realized that a lapse like this could have far-reaching consequences.'

Hugo Wilkinson was suddenly sick of the man and his scoldings. He'd taken a step down professionally when he came here. He could get other jobs, if he needed to. ‘Look, Dennis, if you're going to sack me, stop pissing about and get it done. I won't be short of offers, if you want me out of here.'

‘You might not find the offers you anticipate. Prospective employers are sure to ring me up to find out why you left here. Are you in fact saying that you wish me to terminate your employment here?'

There was a long pause, whilst Hugo strove to control his anger. His palms felt very damp. ‘No. I'm happy here. I can do the job and it suits me. You haven't had any complaints about the quality of the food or the way I run my kitchen.'

‘No. But you're sitting in that chair today because of your own actions, not anyone else's. And you shouldn't have any illusions about this. It is a more serious complaint than someone finding your steak isn't tender or your broccoli is overcooked.'

‘We were three short on staff, on a day when we served more meals than any other day so far this year. Shoab Junaid was very slow when we needed speed. Everyone else was operating at maximum capacity and he was holding things up. I'd already told him twice to get a move on. What I said was over the top, but I was under extreme pressure.'

‘It was racialist, Hugo. You might get away with obscenities under the stress of that situation, but not racialism.'

‘I know that. I know the law. I've already admitted I was stupid.'

‘The question any barrister would ask in court is what this says about you. Did you reveal the real Hugo Wilkinson in a moment of stress? Is the racialist in you concealed only by a thin cloth of courtesy which is ripped apart by a bit of pressure?'

Hugo knew what he had to say here. ‘I've asked myself that. My answer is that I'm not a racialist. I was looking round for the most violent words I could find to stir the man into action. I picked the wrong ones, that's all.' He'd no idea himself whether this was correct or not, but he knew it had to be stated.

‘Does Mr Junaid intend to take the matter any further?'

‘No. I've told him that I lost my temper under pressure and spoke without thinking. I've apologized to him and he's accepted that his speed of work was unacceptable and a contributory factor in the incident. We're working together amicably again.'

It was more or less what Shoab Junaid had said to Dennis Cooper when he had spoken to him on the previous day. He seemed a willing if limited worker, more anxious about keeping his own job than about exacting retribution from Wilkinson. Cooper reached forward and moved his pen minimally on the desk in front of him. ‘If what you said represents your real attitude, Hugo, you'd be better getting out now. Neither we nor you can afford any repetition of the incident.'

Hugo knew now that he was not going to be told to pack his bags and get out. His relief was more overwhelming than he had ever expected it to be. He must say the correct, contrite things now. It would soon be over, if he ate a little humble pie. ‘There won't be any repetition. I can guarantee that.'

‘There mustn't be, Hugo. I shall send you a formal written warning about this incident, which will state among other things that any recurrence will mean immediate dismissal. A copy will be placed on your file.'

‘I understand that.'

‘I hope you do. And I hope we can put this happening behind us and never discuss it again.'

He stood up and Wilkinson followed suit, realizing that the meeting was at an end, hesitating awkwardly for a moment as he wondered whether the curator was going to shake his hand.

Dennis Cooper sat still for a long time after the head chef had left his office. He pondered whether he should have raised his other concern with Wilkinson, but decided that he had been right not to do so. This was a formal reprimand and a formal warning about a serious incident in the man's working environment. It wouldn't have been appropriate to raise anything else.

Cooper unlocked the top right-hand drawer of his desk and made a note in the small notebook he kept there. He'd need more than mere suspicion, to raise anything as serious as what he suspected.

Most of the younger gardening staff at Westbourne thought Alex Fraser was a loner. In his first few months there, he had been quite prepared to foster that impression.

He'd never had to think about company in Glasgow. The gang had seen to that. But when he'd moved south into an alien world, he'd chosen to keep himself to himself. That had been the advice of the only social worker for whom he'd had any respect, the man who'd hauled him out of trouble and then helped him to keep out of it, in the teeming Scottish city where he'd spent his turbulent adolescence.