Trading Reality (15 page)

He sounded like a schoolteacher disciplining a naughty schoolchild. I didn’t like it. I had spent the day trying to get to grips with a very complex situation, and I thought I had done pretty well. I wanted the same from him: a cool discussion of the facts, followed by a sensible decision. I clenched my teeth, controlling my anger.

‘If we don’t sell, there will be nothing left. I know the shares are down to four and a half dollars, but if we market the company properly we can probably get more for it than that. Maybe eight. That’s over three million dollars for your stake, Dad.’

That shut him up, but only for a moment. ‘It might make financial sense. But if Richard didn’t want us to sell, I’m not going to, and neither should you.’

I bit my lip. I didn’t like being told what I should do by my father. He had lost the right to do that ten years before.

‘What does Walter think?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. I told him my views. He said he’d talk to you later on tonight. Then we’ll discuss it tomorrow. He’s quite keen that we reach agreement, since we’re the two largest shareholders.’

‘All right. I trust his judgement. I’ll talk to him tonight. But I’m not going to change my mind.’

‘OK. Well, bye, Dad.’ I put the phone down.

I was angry. It clearly made sense to sell. And I didn’t like my father telling me what to think.

I stood up, took a few deep breaths, and looked out of the sitting room window at the burn running down to the sea.

Of course, what was really making me angry was that my father was right. The defences I had put up against those ‘emotional considerations’ crumbled and they came flooding in. My father and Rachel wanted to hold on to the company. I didn’t owe my father or Rachel Walker anything, but I couldn’t hide from the reason they didn’t want to sell.

Richard.

The guilt returned. Our row before he died. My refusal to come to his aid when he had asked for it. Dad was right, FairSystems was all that was left of Richard, and I was proposing to get rid of it.

But if I didn’t, it would go bust, and then there would be nothing left anyway. And that would be stupid.

I rang Karen. It was good to hear her voice. I told her about FairSystems and the mess it was in. I told her about my decision to sell, and my argument with my father. It helped to talk about it.

‘So, what do you think?’ I asked her.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re right, it is difficult. I mean, for Richard’s sake, it would be nice to keep the company, but if there isn’t going to be a company, then there isn’t much point.’

‘I’m glad to hear some common sense for once,’ I said, relieved.

‘But I don’t think you can just ignore your feelings for Richard,’ Karen went on. ‘You can try, but it won’t work. You have to do what you think is right. No one else can tell you what to do; not me, not your father, not Sorenson. Trust your own judgement. I do.’

‘Thanks. That helps.’ And it did.

‘How are you coping?’

‘OK.’

‘Is it difficult being up there?’

‘Yes, it is. In a way, it feels good to be surrounded by all Richard’s things. By his life. But it makes his death more real. Unavoidable.’

‘Do you think it’s a good idea to stay in his house?’

‘Yes, I do. I’ve got to face up to the fact that he’s gone. I can’t hide from it.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘Be strong. I miss you.’

‘I miss you too.’

I put the phone down, and looked around me. What I had told Karen was true: it was good to be in Richard’s house. It hurt, but it was the right place to be.

I was stumped in an armchair in Richard’s sitting room. The room was basically the way I had found it. The copy of
Hard Drive
was still lying face down on the sofa, Bill Gates’ teenage face staring petulantly up to the ceiling through huge glasses. I still felt awkward in Richard’s house. I had tried not to disturb anything; I kept all my stuff in the spare room upstairs.

An old writing-desk stood next to the window. He had inherited it from our mother. I had no idea where she had got it, probably from a second-hand furniture shop in Oxford. It hadn’t quite crossed the line from being simply old and beaten-up to being an antique. A few more years.

Curious, I began to look through the drawers. I discovered all kinds of little things that I wanted to dawdle over. Not much in themselves, just reminders of him. Letters from an old girlfriend, his thesis from Edinburgh, an exercise book from prep school.

I came across an instruction leaflet for the MITS Altair 8800 microcomputer. It was covered with notes in Richard’s scrawny handwriting. Dad had brought the computer over from America in kit form, and Richard had spent hours in his bedroom putting it together. At that stage in his life, it all had had to be done in secret. Richard was a cool kid, and he couldn’t let his street credibility be damaged by too close an association with computers. At fifteen, Richard was good-looking and witty, and was becoming very popular with the local school-girls. He made the most of it. I smiled when I remembered the look he gave me when I offered to show one of them his new computer. His popularity never quite recovered.

I suddenly felt very tired. I sank back into the armchair, holding the leaflet loosely in my hand. I stared ahead, my eyes unfocused.

Why had Richard died? What was the point of his life? Why had he put all that effort into FairSystems for it only to go bust months later? Why had it fallen to me to sort out this situation?

I had no answers. There was no point in answering these sorts of questions. I didn’t have the emotional energy to do more than ask them.

I needed to get out. I changed into jeans and a jersey, grabbed a ten-pound note, and set off for the pub.

The Inch Tavern was only a hundred yards or so farther up the burn. It was warm and cosy. It had low beams, brass knick-knocks, an open fire, and a welcoming atmosphere. There were about half a dozen men and one woman spread along the bar, indulging in a general conversation about someone called Archie. Whoever he was, he roused strong passions.

The barman was a big man with a beard and a heavy check shirt over a light jersey. That seemed to be a bit of a uniform in Kirkhaven: two men at the bar wore a similar outfit, with thick warm trousers. I assumed they were fishermen. All of them, including the barman, had big round shoulders. Strong men.

‘What can I get you, Mr Fairfax?’ the barman asked.

For a moment I was surprised he knew my name. But, of course, the whole of Kirkhaven must have known my name. Richard’s murder would have been discussed and dissected at this bar for hours on end.

‘A pint of IPA,’ I said.

The barman pulled my pint, I paid and sat down at a small table a few feet from the bar. I took a long gulp.

The conversation had dropped off for a minute to allow everyone to get a good look at me, but it soon started again. As I sipped my beer, and sat back in the warm tavern listening to the unfamiliar rumble of Fife voices chatting about this and that, the depression I had been feeling began to wear off. I, too, began to relax. I tried to let my mind wander.

I thought about Karen. I remembered the first holiday we had taken together, cross-country skiing in Norway the year before. Karen was an athletic skier, and fit. I could see her now, pushing her long legs rhythmically through the glistening snow ahead of me. I thought about her naked in the firelight of a small cabin we had stayed in one night. My heart beat faster as I remembered the passionate intensity of our lovemaking. We had both returned from that holiday exhausted. I smiled at the bubbles in my beer.

I drank down the last of my pint, and went to the bar to get another one.

‘I’m very sorry about your brother,’ said the barman, as he refilled my glass. ‘He was a good man.’

‘He was,’ I said.

The barman wiped the beer from his hand with a towel and extended it. He had a friendly smile. ‘The name’s Jim Robertson.’

I shook it. ‘Mark Fairfax,’ I said.

I lingered at the bar, taking a sip from my pint. ‘Did you know Richard well?’

‘Just a little,’ said Jim. ‘He used to come in here for a pint and a drop of whisky once in a while. We would chat occasionally. He had a nice way with him. He used to sit over there and read magazines. You know, science magazines.’ He indicated a small table and chair by the window on the far side of the bar. ‘For a boffin, though, he was quite human. In fact, he came in here the night before he died.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye. He was in here with a Chinese man.’

‘Chinese?’

‘Chinese or Japanese. I didnae see them myself. But Annie did.’ He nodded to the group at the bar.

The conversation at the bar had died down as everyone listened to Jim and me. The one woman in the room, a middle-aged lady with dyed blonde hair, put down her white wine and interrupted. ‘Aye, I did. He was only here a couple of minutes. He came in, saw this Japanese man sitting there, and walked right up to him. He was angry.’

‘Could you hear what he said?’

‘No, I couldnae hear anything clearly. But he was upset about something. The wee Japanese man looked surprised. And then he was gone. The Japanese man drank up and left soon after him. He looked bothered about something.’

‘Had you seen him before?’ I asked, interested.

‘No, never been in here before. At least not while I’ve been here.’ Looking at her puffy face, and the easy way with which she took her place at the bar, I could imagine that that covered much of the time that the pub was open.

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Not really. He was youngish. Not a kid, a young man. Apart from that, he looked, well, Japanese. Or Chinese, maybe.’

‘What was he wearing? A suit?’

‘No. It was casual, but smart, ye ken. A blue jersey and smart trousers. The sort of thing tourists wear round here to play golf.’

‘Have you told the police this?’

She let out a tipsy laugh, which was taken up by the rest of them round the bar. Jim explained. ‘The polis have been very thorough. I think everyone over the age of two has been interrogated. They asked us all about him.’

‘Have they identified him?’

‘Not that I know of. But why don’t you ask him?’ He nodded over to the door where a small neat man with a moustache was walking in. It was Sergeant Cochrane. He wore a blue anorak, and red v-necked sweater, every inch an off-duty policeman.

Cochrane gave me a smile of genuine friendliness. ‘So, you’ve found your way in here, have you? Well, I pity you. A pint of Special, please Jim. Can I get you another?’

‘I’m all right with this one, thanks,’ I said. ‘They’ve just been telling me about the Japanese man they saw in here the night before Richard was killed.’

Cochrane laughed. ‘We’ve got the sharpest criminal investigation brains in the country right here, round this bar. I’m surprised we haven’t had the murderer banged to rights already.’

‘How’s the investigation going?’ I asked.

‘It’s very difficult for me to say,’ he answered. ‘Superintendent Donaldson likes to keep things close to his chest.’

‘I can believe that. I almost thought I was a suspect myself this morning.’

‘Everyone is in Donaldson’s mind,’ said Cochrane. ‘But that’s no bad thing in a murder investigation.’

‘I suppose you’re right. I bet it’s kept you busy.’

‘It has that. We’ve spent days interviewing almost everyone in Kirkhaven.’

‘Any answers?’

‘No one saw anything here. It was raining hard, so people were indoors and no one was looking outside much.’ Cochrane took a sip of beer. ‘One thing I’m sure of, the murderer wasn’t anyone from around here. I know what goes on in my patch, and I’d soon find out if anyone local was involved.’

‘Have they identified the man Richard was talking to in here?’

‘Sort of. They had a Japanese man staying at the Robbers’ Arms that night. Hiro Suzuki. But that’s the Japanese equivalent of John Smith. And he didn’t leave any address.’

‘So you’re a bit stuck, then?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Cochrane. ‘Donaldson still has lots of questions to ask. We can carry on until something turns up. He’s very patient, and he has a good track record.’

‘So he’ll find the killer?’

‘I didn’t say that, laddie. I didn’t say that at all.’

I was walking along the stretch of sand beneath Inch Lodge. An empty bottle rolled against the shore, buffeted by the gentle waves. I ran towards it. There was a message inside. It was in Richard’s handwriting, but it was impossible to read. It was smudged, and water droplets on the inside of the bottle made the message almost legible, but not quite. I knew the message was important, but try as I might, I couldn’t make it out.

Suddenly the wind got up, and the waves became bigger, crashing loudly against the shore. I stretched to seize the bottle, but it was carried out of reach of my fingers by the agitated sea. If only I could read that damn message!

I woke up. I propped myself up on my elbow, and looked around the tiny room trying to work out where I was.

Two things hit me at once. I was in Richard’s house, and the noise I could hear wasn’t the sea.

I leapt out of bed and over to the window. The noise was coming from the boathouse just below. I could see smoke in the cold night air. And I could just catch a glimpse of dancing orange.

I grabbed my dressing-gown and ran downstairs. I picked up the phone and dialled 999. Then I ran outside to look. The fire had definitely taken hold at one end of the boathouse. I thought about fetching buckets and trying to put it out, but it looked to me as though it was already too late.

Could I save anything? In my mind I ran through what was in there. I had no idea how valuable the jumble of equipment was, or how easily it could be replicated. Then I remembered Rachel asking me about Richard’s computer. The information on that was definitely worth saving.