Cold Light of Day - Emma Page

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is just to let you know I definitely am off to Switzerland next week,’ Charlotte told him. She was eighteen years old, the daughter of an old county family. Her father owned racing stables; he was well known as a sound judge of horseflesh and the breeder of some notable bloodstock. ‘I’m off on Wednesday,’ she added. There had been some talk of Gavin taking her to a race meeting the weekend after next. ‘Sorry I won’t be here for it,’ she said. She was spending a few weeks with an old school friend and her family near Arosa.

      ‘We could have dinner one evening before you go,’ Gavin suggested. ‘Monday or Tuesday?’ They settled on Tuesday. ‘But I mustn’t be late getting back,’ she told him. ‘I’ll have to be up very early on Wednesday to catch the plane.’ The Neales lived at Berrowhill Court, seven or eight miles from Littlebourne.

      Gavin glanced at his watch as he replaced the receiver. Time he was making tracks, it wouldn’t do to be late at the office. He scrupulously followed his father’s habit of always setting a good example, being at his desk spruce and ready to deal with business at the beginning of the day.

      He didn’t give Mrs Cutler any directions about her work before he left the house. She had been with him long enough to know what was needed. He had bought Eastwood after his father died, moving in some two and a half years ago. In the first eighteen months he lived there, before Mrs Cutler came to work for him, he had endured a succession of unsatisfactory daily women. He knew his luck in finding Mrs Cutler and he intended to hang on to her.

      She came out of the sitting room as he opened the front door. ‘Look after that throat,’ he said. ‘We don’t want you falling ill.’

      She followed him outside to shake her dusters. ‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got some lozenges to suck.’

      Gavin walked round the side of the house towards the garage and backed his car out. As he drove down to the front gate he saw with irritation that his neighbour, Leonard Picton, was standing outside the gate, stiff as a ramrod, clearly waiting to speak to him.

      Gavin made a sound of exasperation. He was beginning to find Picton a damned nuisance. When Gavin bought Eastwood, Manor Cottage stood empty. A year later the Pictons bought the cottage and Gavin went out of his way to be helpful and friendly to them. Picton had bought the property at a bargain price and he had a good slice of capital left over from the sale of his previous house; for the first time in his life he had money to invest.

      He learned in the course of a casual chat in the roadway that Gavin was the head of a firm of investment brokers and he asked Gavin’s advice about the investment of his capital – on a purely friendly, neighbourly level. And Gavin, on a purely friendly, neighbourly level, advised him – without the scrupulous care he would have given the matter if Picton had presented himself in the ordinary way as a client at the Cannonbridge office of Elliott Gilmore.

      Always a man with a keen nose for a bargain, Picton was delighted with this free picking of Gavin’s brains. He instructed his bank without delay to buy the stocks Gavin had suggested.

      At first he was delighted with his purchases. Whenever he looked at the financial pages he found his stocks were steady or rising. Until a few months ago. Then they began to fall. He couldn’t understand it, he was horrified. He waylaid Gavin in the road.

      ‘No need to worry,’ Gavin told him cheerfully. ‘Always a bit of a gamble, the market, full of whims and moods. Just hang on, you’ll find your shares will recover.’

      But they hadn’t recovered, they had continued to slide. Picton waylaid Gavin again. ‘It’s only a hiccup in the market,’ Gavin assured him. ‘You didn’t buy in order to make a quick profit, they’re a long-term investment. Forget them for four or five years. You’ll be pleasantly surprised when you look at them again then.’

      But Picton couldn’t or wouldn’t forget them. He continued to study the financial pages and the market continued to hiccup; the hiccups grew more violent. Picton’s anxious enquiries turned to frowns, reproaches, finally to outright accusations of professional negligence. Gavin heartily wished he had never opened his mouth in the matter. The man was an idiot, he should have put his money in a building society and slept at nights; he didn’t have the temperament for anything more adventurous.

      There’s nothing more I can say to him, he thought now with weary resignation as he approached the gate with Picton planted firmly at the other side. He halted the car and stepped out on to the gravel. He bade Picton a civil good-morning and made to open the gate. Picton clung resolutely to it with both hands.

      ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said. ‘You’re going to stand there and listen to what I’ve got to say.’ Gavin made no reply. He stood in a posture of total neutrality, his face wiped clear of expression.

      ‘You’ve heard the news this morning,’ Picton said with fierce intensity. Gavin shook his head. He hadn’t listened to the radio and the village shop no longer delivered newspapers. ‘Wall Street,’ Picton added, seeing Gavin’s uncomprehending look. ‘Another slide, even bigger.’ He darted his head forward suddenly, still maintaining his hold on the gate. Gavin couldn’t prevent himself from stepping back a pace. ‘It’s not good enough,’ Picton said on a louder note. ‘You’ll have to recompense me. For every penny I’ve lost.’

      Gavin expelled a long breath of exasperation. He had already explained to Picton that he – and certainly not the firm of Elliott Gilmore – was in no way legally responsible for the success or failure of Picton’s investments. He had also tried to make him perceive that a loss is never a loss until the stocks are sold. He most assuredly didn’t intend to waste more time and energy going over the same ground again. He made a sudden lunge at the gate and managed to snatch it from Picton’s grasp; he swung it open. He got swiftly back into his car and set it in motion, half expecting Picton to rush over and slam the gate shut again. But Picton made no move, he stood his ground. Gavin had a horrid notion that he wasn’t going to budge, that he would be compelled to get out of his car again and manhandle him out of the way. He continued to inch the car forward.

      At the last moment Picton suddenly stepped aside and Gavin was out through the gate. He felt a strong inclination to keep going and let the gate stand open till Mrs Cutler left. But Picton would undoubtedly see that as some kind of victory, so he halted the car and walked briskly back.

      ‘Don’t kid yourself this is the last you’ll hear of it,’ Picton said as he came up. ‘I’ll see you pay for what I’ve lost. One way or another.’

      Gavin didn’t answer, didn’t look at Picton. He closed the gate, turned and went back to his car. As he moved off he glanced in the mirror and saw that Picton was still standing by the gate, shouting after him, but he couldn’t make out the words.

      He frowned as he drove up the road. Until now he had considered Picton no more than a nuisance, he had laughed as he retailed the story of his encounters with Picton in the office. Now it seemed a good deal more serious, very far from a joke. The man’s not entirely rational, he thought with a faint edge of anxiety; he’ll go over the edge one day.

      He dismissed the notion from his mind with a shake of his head and cast a glance at the day ahead. Friday, February 26th; the usual weekly meeting in the afternoon of the heads of the three Elliott Gilmore branches. He was himself in charge of the Cannonbridge office and his half-brother Howard, twelve years older, was in charge of Wychford, a smaller town ten miles to the west. The newest branch at Martleigh, a town smaller still, twenty-two miles to the north-east, had been open less than a year and was doing well, more than justifying its existence. The manager, promoted after long service in the Wychford office, had suffered from recurrent bouts of gastric trouble during the autumn and winter. He had at last gone into hospital for an operation and was at present in Majorca, convalescing. In his absence the branch was being managed by his number two, Stephen Roche, who had worked at the Cannonbridge office before going to Martleigh.

      Yes, things were going pretty well; his

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