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tie and undoing his top shirt button, he got up, walked over to the drinks tray and poured himself three fingers of whisky. The splash of soda he threw into it was so brief it was virtually all spray, but psychologically perhaps he could tell himself that he wasn’t drinking neat spirits. Then he sat down heavily in a wing chair and stared vacantly into the dying embers of his fire.
     
    James FitzGerald let himself into the rear entrance of the office block using his own key. Frederick Doggett and Jeremy Kemp were waiting for him in the ridiculously oversized office that Fred insisted on, and he gave them one of his smiles. He knew that it would unsettle them and the thought made him grin even more broadly.
    ‘Evening, gents!’ He had never bothered to change his working-class Sussex accent and he enjoyed watching their joint suppressed shudder at his tone. ‘I’ll have one of whatever it is Jeremy’s drinking, thanks.’
    Doggett handed him an iced gin and tonic and he took a swig.
    ‘Lovely. Let’s sit down then, no point standing around like spare pricks at a wedding.’ He took the chair closest to the low fire and waited for the others to settle before asking, ‘So what’s your considered opinion, Fred?’
    ‘Of Alexander Wainwright-Smith? He’s very curious and far from the pushover Alan led us to believe.’
    ‘He’s a Wainwright; bound to be an awkward bastard. When we agreed to him becoming the next MD on Alan’s retirement, we had assumed that the old man would replace George as chairman and be able to keep his nephew in check. Now he’s dead you’ll just have to do it yourselves. I’ll get you both on the board.’
    James watched their reaction as his shot went home. They were neither of them made of the same stuff as their fathers, and he missed his old contemporaries with a sudden yearning. With Alan’s death he was the only survivor of the original team that had restructured Wainwright’s to suit their own ends. FredDoggett’s father had died a grand old man at the age of ninety, leaving his wimp of a son to run the accountancy practice and play with young men in his spare time. Jeremy’s father had died of a heart attack less than a month later.
    ‘I’m not sure going on the board would be appropriate, James. I’m your auditor; it would cause raised eyebrows.’
    ‘Fair enough. How about you then, Jeremy?’
    The solicitor flushed and took a long swallow from his crystal glass.
    ‘I, er, well … It’s a very close connection, and I am Wainwright’s legal adviser …’
    ‘I see. No takers, then.’ James hadn’t expected either of them to want to be so closely associated with the firm, but he had tested them anyway. That was the problem with the second generation: they were poor copies of their fathers and couldn’t be relied upon in a crisis. Not that this was a crisis, yet. They were watching him as a mouse watches a snake, waiting for the strike that might not come but wouldn’t miss if it did. He let them wait and sipped slowly on his drink as he considered his options. After a long pause, during which the tension in the room had turned Doggett’s baby face puce, he replaced his empty glass on the side table and stood up to leave.
    ‘We’ll do nothing for the moment; let’s see how he settles in. Fred, make sure you stay close to him, and Jeremy, you keep in touch with his delightful wife. That shouldn’t be too difficult, even for you!’
    Without waiting for their replies, he turned and left them to their evening, which he knew would now be filled equally with a dread of ghosts from the past and a fear of the shadows cast by an uncertain future.

CHAPTER THREE
    Graham pulled out an upholstered gilt chair and Julia backed into it graciously. Colin settled Jenny into a matching seat on the opposite side of the dining table and then sat down heavily in his own and raised his glass to drain his strongly ginned martini.
    The restaurant was full, but the high level of