Two Women (20 page)

‘Particularly as you weren't able to leave a name.' Carver was pleased at his own hopefully forceful tone, evenly pitched but demanding, someone unaccustomed to being treated inconsiderately.

A reasonable attempt at playing the affronted man, Burcher decided. But only just. He rose, taking a prepared card from his top pocket, but offered it across the desk in such a way that Carver had once again to stand to accept it.

He was going up and down like the other man's marionette, accepted Carver. The two-line inscription on the plain pasteboard read
Stanley Burcher, Attorney at Law
. There was no address or contact details. Carver at once remembered the regular entries in Northcote's diary, S–B. Could he have misread the intervening squiggle as an ampersand to mean Northcote was meeting two people when it had only been this man, Stanley Burcher?

The lawyer said: ‘The name wouldn't have meant anything. I knew the company names would.' He was unsure how long to permit the accountant to imagine his superiority. It was important not to begin wrongly. They were going to have to deal with each other for a long time, years, so there had at least to be an amicable working relationship, if not friendship. Until the very end Burcher had imagined something approaching friendship between Northcote and himself. Mutual respect, certainly.

What, Carver wondered, was the other man's real name? And how many other people had ever posed themselves the same query? Impossible, probably, to guess: as so much else – everything else – in which he was so suddenly and so unwillingly caught up was impossible to guess or to comprehend. The thought was abruptly replaced by another, far more relevant. There had not been time for his severance letters to have reached Grand Cayman. So what had brought this man here today? ‘How can I help you, Mr Burcher?' Bullshit politeness to bullshit politeness – we're quietly talking murder, you know, your murders, yes I know, good of you to put it so discreetly.

Burcher allowed a momentary but perceptible hesitation, for Carver's benefit, and Carver was pleased, misconstruing it as he was intended to. Then Burcher said: ‘I don't think either of us needs to perform, do we, Mr Carver?'

‘I don't understand that remark.'

‘I know we can speak openly,' declared Burcher. ‘George Northcote told my clients just before he died that you knew everything in which he and my clients were involved. Which is convenient for us all: it involves you. Makes you complicit.' After softball comes hardball, to let the man know how irrevocable, inescapable, his position was.

He had to tread – but more importantly, to speak – with extreme care, Carver reminded himself. ‘I have learned certain things, in the last few days: things that greatly concern me. That knowledge, in itself, in no way involves me. Nor makes me complicit, with anyone or in any way, in anything.' He felt good, equal in this confrontation: stupid to have hollowed himself out, near mentally as well as physically. His stomach most definitely wasn't in turmoil any more: all his arguments were ready, logical. There was an immediate lurch – a twitch – of contradiction. How far from the whirling blades had Northcote's face been when he'd talked – screamed in the frantic terror of realization – of long-kept secrets no longer being secret?

Too obviously rehearsed but not a bad attempt, allowed Burcher. ‘We both know what we are talking about, Mr Carver.'

‘We do indeed, Mr Burcher.'

‘I hope this is not going to become a difficult situation,' said Burcher, the voice still politely soft, perfectly modulated. Surely this man wasn't going to be stupid!

‘I see no reason why it should,' said Carver. He was driving, choosing the route.

‘There
is
no reason.'

Carver recognized the beginning of a who's-going-to-blink-first contest. ‘You're obviously not aware of my letters.'

Burcher was put off balance by a remark he did not understand but he betrayed no reaction. ‘No. Tell me about your letters. And what they said.'

‘I yesterday sent letters officially severing all connection between George W. Northcote International and Mulder Incorporated, Encomp, Innsflow International, BHYF and NOXT,' enumerated Carver, with what he judged to be the necessary formality.

‘I most certainly didn't know about those letters,' easily admitted Burcher. ‘It would have been far better if we'd talked before they were sent.' It looked as if moulding Carver as the man had to be moulded was going to be more difficult than he'd imagined. It had been a mistake to imagine otherwise and Burcher didn't like conceding mistakes.

He was still in charge, decided Carver. ‘I don't see any benefit in my having done that. I didn't, after all, have any idea we were going to meet. But why, not already knowing of my firm's disassociation from your clients, are you here today?'

Very definitely not as easy as he had imagined, Burcher recognized. Those whom I represent no longer appear on your computerized client list. I was asked to find out why,' Burcher improvised.

Now it was Carver who was tilted, hesitating, unsure which way to take the conversation. Cautiously he said: ‘I've just told you I've ended my firm's involvement with your clients.'

‘And immediately – before any discussion – erased them from your records?'

‘I don't see any point – any purpose – in our discussing it further. The decision has been made. It's irrevocable.'

‘I think there is need for further discussion, Mr Carver.'

‘I repeat that I don't, Mr Burcher.'

‘There could be some resentment from my clients.' He had to hear Carver out, fully discover the reason for the man's confidence, knowing as he clearly would what had really happened to Northcote and to the woman in Brooklyn.

‘As I have some resentment at learning that your clients have been illegally monitoring my firm's computer system.'

‘Learning that is most definitely a cause for concern,' picked up Burcher, heavily.

‘I'm glad you agree with me.'

‘I'm not agreeing with you, Mr Carver.'

‘Then I don't understand.'

‘My clients regard their security – the security of their affairs – as extremely important.'

‘As I do, with my firm. Hence my irritation.'

‘My clients are more than irritated – far more than irritated – at discovering that very concerted attempts have been made illegally to enter their computerized records both in this country and elsewhere.'

There was an echoing thunder of words in Carver's mind – no reaction, facial or verbal, no reaction, facial or verbal … Even-voiced, sure he remained as expressionless as the man facing him, Carver said: ‘Then they'll understand how I feel about their illegal entry here. I obviously need to update security.'

Burcher let a silence grow between them, staring directly at Carver, who stared directly back. The lawyer broke it. He said: ‘Are you surprised to hear that efforts were made to intrude into my clients' affairs, following George Northcote's death?'

Carver was chilled – physically cold – but sure he gave no indication. ‘As surprised as I was to learn that your clients have been intruding into mine.'

‘Theirs,'
pointedly qualified Burcher, at once.

‘As I am sure you were more aware than I was, until very recently, no records of your clients' affairs were retained here …' Now Carver let in the pause. ‘Which is extremely unusual and not a manner or a practice in which this firm will continue, now that I am in control of it. The fact that it has been allowed to exist, until now, was a major factor in my decision to disassociate from your clients.'

‘We are moving ahead of ourselves, going off at tangents,' protested Burcher.

‘I don't see that we are.'

‘We were talking about illegal computer entry. Hacking.'

‘I did not think there was anything further to talk about on that,' said Carver, the coldness moving through him again. ‘But the fact that your clients considered themselves able to do it – and you felt able to admit it so readily to me – provides a further reason for our parting.'

‘The hacking attempt upon my clients – quite a lot of which they believe to have been successful – originated from here, from Manhattan,' announced Burcher. ‘My clients are confident they'll very shortly find out from where. And by whom.'

‘Which should enable you to complain to the FBI.'

The face confronting him remained unmoving. ‘You disappoint me. That wasn't a very clever remark, Mr Carver.'

‘It depends upon your point of view. Mine is that there is nothing to be gained for either of us by continuing this conversation. I've made my decision, communicated it to your clients, and consider my letters to be the end of the matter. It's unfortunate that you've had a wasted journey.'

‘I am not at all sure that it has been a wasted journey. Or that it is the end of anything.' He was arguing, as if Carver had an argument to put against him, Burcher realized, astonished.

‘Mr Burcher, I have told you – and tell you again, now – that the firm of George W. Northcote International will no longer act for your clients in any capacity or in any way whatsoever! That, surely, is clear enough!'

There was another long silence. Briefly, for the first time, Burcher broke the fixed gaze in which he had until that moment held Carver, to look unseeingly down at some spot near the bottom of the desk, as if in contemplation. He'd been badly wrong, believing that John Carver would roll over at a frontal approach. Coming up again after several moments, the man said: ‘The computer intrusion is not my clients' greatest concern.'

Carver waited, actually imagining the beginning of a renewed confidence.

‘What did George Northcote tell you of his working relationship with my clients?'

He'd be losing control – temporarily at least – by replying to such a direct demand but there was advantage in his doing so, Carver decided. ‘Nothing, apart from confessing that for a very long time he had acted for companies controlled by organized crime. He did not provide any identities. I told him I had no intention of continuing – which I've also told you, today – and he said it was a situation that would not arise: that his retirement ended the firm's association.'

‘George Northcote profited very greatly from his firm's connection.'

‘A benefit limited absolutely between himself and your clients.'

Burcher nodded, although Carver wasn't sure with what the man was agreeing. The lawyer said: ‘At the end of his life, George Northcote proved himself a very stupid man. I hope my clients hope – that you are not going to make the mistakes that he did.'

‘Repeating the mistakes of George Northcote is precisely what I do
not
intend doing.' Carver was satisfied with the retort but the confidence wasn't there any more.

For the first time there was what Carver guessed Burcher intended to be a smile, lips drawn back from sculpted teeth like the brief opening and closing of a curtain. ‘That's good to hear. Northcote's mistake was breaking a long-established understanding. No records were ever kept here. But towards the end, maybe over as long as five or six years, my clients estimate that Northcote retained what built up to be a substantial dossier of original material. This should have been prevented by our own people, of course. But after such a long and satisfactory association, they'd grown complacent. Which was their mistake.' Burcher stopped, waiting.

Uncertainty about what to say – what to admit and what not to admit – surged through Carver. Momentarily he had another mental image of a crushed, near-faceless body. He said: ‘George told me they were to guarantee the end of the firm's links with you.'

‘Aah!' said Burcher, stretching the exclamation as if a profound mystery had been explained. Then, after another pause, he said: ‘How, exactly, did he intend achieving that guarantee?'

The thin ice was creaking beneath Carver's feet again. ‘He didn't make that clear. I remember him saying that there wasn't going to be a problem.'

‘Wasn't going to be a problem,' echoed Burcher, spacing the words to make them into an obvious threat. ‘But there was. And is. A very big and very real problem, Mr Carver. My clients gave George Northcote the guarantee he asked for. And in return he promised to return everything he'd retained. But he didn't. My clients have gone through everything, back more than ten years. And they know there is still material missing. And have even had it confirmed.'

Janice Snow, thought Carver, immediately. ‘How was it confirmed?'

‘You brought a valise back from Litchfield. My clients believe that valise contained missing documents that belong to them. They will be most distressed if, this time, they do not get them back …
all
of them back.'

It was not the admission about Janice Snow that Carver had hoped for but this man was too clever for him to try to get it more obviously with another question. Carver decided he'd played enough and achieved enough. He said: ‘I believe there are some things belonging to your clients … not a lot but some …'

The curtain was briefly parted for another grimaced smile. Burcher thought that maybe it wasn't going to be so difficult after all. ‘I am so glad this is going to be resolved amicably. Sensibly.'

‘You spoke of your clients having given George guarantees?'

Burcher nodded but said nothing, forcing Carver reluctantly on. ‘Which was the return of the documentation on the understanding that all links between this firm and your clients are ended?'

There was another nod, no words. Burcher decided it wasn't going to be resolved today but then what was the hurry? He and Carver had a long life ahead of them.

Carver stopped speaking, waiting. Tensed, too, against his stomach turmoil becoming audible again. There was still no visible shake in his hands, seemingly easy upon the desk in front of him. He didn't want to risk lifting them from the support, as he had before.