Paranoia

14

Paranoia

    They got back to the hotel just in time to catch the hunt’s chaotic milling around on the sweep as the bride and groom left. His passengers just sat there in the Range Rover and gaped, as Hill pulled over to the side.

    “It’s a wedding,” he said without hope as some idiot blew a blast on a hunting horn and the hounds gave tongue.

    “Wedding!” gasped the youngest aide.

    “Um, yes. They’re local people: that’s the local hunt.”

    “Hai! Hunt on horruh-suh!” he gasped. Of course, he was the one that had heard of the Derby, poor young sod. “Horruh-suh with-ah wedding?”

    “Yes. Um, there go the bride and groom,” said Hill feebly as a young couple, in what were presumably their going-away clothes, descended the shallow steps of the Boddiford Hall Park Royal between the Italian marble pillars of its portico and got into a car to the accompaniment of clouds of confetti, excited shrieks and laughter, more hunting horns, more yelping, horrible milling, and Uncle Tom Cobbley and—

    Oops! As the milling horse rumps shifted he became aware that not all of the large, shiny vehicles pulled in at the head of the sweep were part of the wedding party, ’cos out of that shiny black Rolls were emerging as of this moment two Arab head-dresses and a driver in a peaked cap, speaking volubly and waving his hands in, or he, Hill, hadn’t been attempting to communicate with uncomprehending foreigners all day, a vain attempt to apologize and explain. Well, it was getting better, really, wasn’t it? Very Old-ee English-ee and then some! Arabs in ’ead-dresses on top of bridally milling ’untsmen, ’orses and ’ounds? Worthy of Lewis Carroll!

    Watanabe made a hissing noise and then said something very loudly to his entourage. Terrific fluffing around, laptops being consulted madly—

    The bridal couple’s car started up and began edging its way cautiously through the milling legs. A chap on a horse—possibly a whipper-up or some such—attempted to whip up the hounds out of harm’s way: N.B.G. Clatter, clatter— Some stupid sod had bloody well tied strings of cans to the car! The hounds were going berserk, some of the slightly more sensible members of the hunt were trying to back out of the mêlée, the whipper-up was still trying to draw the hounds off, a stout gentleman in a pink coat was bellowing, his cheeks pinker than his coat, some fool down behind them near the bottom of the drive was honking his horn angrily, the bloody idiot of a groom was now honking his horn, the hounds were going berserk—

    “That is-ah Khalil Al-Abbadi, what he do here?” shouted Watanabe.

    Eh? “Pardon?” he offered, as no-one else spoke.

    “Khalil Al-Abbadi, what he do here?”

    “Um, sir, the house has a lot of Arab guests,” offered Hill feebly.

    “Khalil Al-Abbadi! Not guest!” he choked.

    Okay, the Arab wasn’t a guest. In that case, why had he rolled up to the hotel in a Roller in time for a late tea? Takagaki was speaking urgently to his boss, but Hill didn’t think it was about tea. In fact the words “Khalil Al-Abbadi,” or approximately that, could be discerned.

    There was nothing Hill could do about any of it, so he just waited.

    “Wedding-ah… go,” offered the youngest aide in a very small voice as the groom finally managed to get his car up level with them.

    “Uh-huh. Happy honeymoon, eh?” replied Hill cheerfully, giving the young couple a wave, why not?

    “Ah… yes. Happy honeymoon!”

    Oops, wrong move, ’cos old Mitsubishi then growled something at him and the poor little fellow had to apologize. Well, it was in the Nipponese tongue but if it wasn’t an apology, he, Hill, was a Hollander in his clogs. The hounds and horses were still milling—in fact, now that the car had crept through them, milling even more aimlessly—the confetti-throwers, far from heading off home, were milling round chattering, some idiot was still sounding that hunting horn—

    “My father be berry angery!” stuttered Watanabe.

    Gawd, now what? “About what, sir?” he said mildly.

    “Khalil Al-Abbadi at hotel!” he cried grimly.

    “Oh, I see; so he’s an Arab your father doesn’t care for?” –The hotel’s doorman, who had been noticeably absent from the proceedings, had now emerged onto the portico and the Arabs’ driver had fought his way through the wedding guests and was visibly haranguing him. Waving and pointing angrily at, not necessarily in this order, his carful of Arabs, his watch, the general chaos, the specific red-faced gent on the large chestnut—

    “He is Arab own Paris Goal hotel!” he snapped. “Why come hotel when Sir Maurice expec’?”

    Possibly he thought that Sir Maurice might like to spend a night or two for free in this Paris G—no, be Paris Gaule—of which he, Hill, had never heard, possibly as a swap for his weekend here, or possibly— Hang on.

    “Sorry, Mr Watanabe: was that ‘Palace Gold Hotels’?” he croaked.

    “Hai! Yes! My father be berry angery!” he snapped.

    Gulp. Hill just betted he would. The Palace Gold Hotels—most of them, certainly the ones he’d been privileged to see, as frightfully lavish as their name would suggest—were YDI’s big rivals for the top-end tourist dollar. Where Sir Maurice offered authenticity and antiques with swaddling central heating and air conditioning, the Palace Gold chain offered modern glamour and glitz with swaddling central heating and air conditioning. As far as Hill knew the chain was much bigger than YDI—international, whereas YDI was based in Britain and had barely a toe in Europe, with, at the lower end of its market, some so-called “English pubs” in France, Spain and Portugal, slated for upgrading along the lines of the place in Suffolk Jody Carmichael was working on, a broken-down country house in Sweden, habitable for about two months of the year, and a so-called villa in a very arid corner of southern Italy, ’ot as ’Ell for nine months of the year and at the mercy of the local Mafia for housekeeping and maintenance staff. Of course the Gano Group as a whole was very, very much bigger than Palace Gold, but— Help, in short.

    “I think it must just be an unfortunate coincidence, sir,” he managed to croak.

    “No coincidence-ah!” shouted Watanabe. “My father be berry angery! Think I am puh-lot-uh with Sir Maurice behind-ah back!”

    Oh, Christ.

    “Um, could you email him, sir? Warn him that the man is here?”

    Watanabe was seen to swallow. Then he uttered: “My father berry old-fashion’ man. No read email. But could email PA. Berry good idea. Thank-ah you, Mr Tar-ring-uh-ton.”

    “Not at all,” said Hill weakly. Unfortunately the hunt was still milling, there was no way he could drive safely up to the front door. “Er, would you like to get out, sir?”

    “No get out. Khalil Al-Abbadi see,” he said tightly.

    Maybe. The head-dresses were back in their car, imprisoned by huge equine rumps—well, Arabs were supposed to like horses, it might not be a hardship for them. Or at least, not as much of a hardship as their driver seemed to think.

    “In that case perhaps one of your aides could send the email.”

    Watanabe agreed to this, outed with the gold-nibbed Parker and wrote down exactly what the fellow had to say, and the car door was opened for the older of the aides to get out.

    Nothing.

    Old Mitsubishi growled something that sounded both contemptuous and furious and the young fellow stumbled out, an interesting shade of avocado, shaking visibly, and hanging on to the— Shit. Quickly Hill got out, not bothering to say a word to the boy’s bloody bosses, and took his arm. As the older men addressed him as Snap, snap, or Grunt, grunt, he hadn’t grasped what his name was: that didn’t help.

    “Come on, the horses won’t hurt you.”

    They forced their way past huge warm flanks and great bony legs. The young aide didn’t seem too fond of the hounds, either, judging by the way he shrank into Hill’s side as they passed them.

    “Thank-ah you!” he gasped, bowing frightfully and completely avoiding eye-contact, as they reached the safety of the portico.

    “Please don’t thank me. I’m very sorry about it,” replied Hill on a grim note. What he was very sorry about was that the poor young chap had to work for his pricks of bosses, but even if he did manage to convey that, he didn’t think it’d be appreciated.

    “No! Prease!” More bowing.

    Should he tell him he didn’t have to bow so much in England? No, probably take that the wrong way and feel he had to apologize again. He was about to go into the hotel when the doorman stopped him.

    “What is it, John?” said Hill, trying to smile nicely.

    “Sorry, Mr Tarlington, but, um, this driver’s got a car-load of Arab gents what booked for tonight only they come early—”

    “That’ll be no problem, the rooms will be ready,” said Hill in some surprise: surely the man must know that?

    “No!” snapped the perspiring driver. “Not that! There’s four of them, see, and the boss-man, he speaks quite good English only he won’t use it and the others, they don’t speak much English, and if they’d of got ’ere when they was supposed to, there was supposed to be an interpreter on deck, and now they’re saying where is ’e, they need ’im to get registered!”

    Hill ran his hand through his hair. Shit. “Uh—Arabic interpreter? Well, he must be around somewhere: why don’t you nip in and check, John?”

    “I asked the desk, and they said the interpreter’s not ’ere, ’cos these gents, they’re not supposed to be ’ere until tonight.”

    “Don’t look at me!” shouted the driver. “They flew into Newbury in their bloody chopper for the races and all I hadda do was pick ’em up when they’d had enough!”

    Hill took a deep breath. “You go in: send your email,” he said to the young Japanese.

    Fervent thanks and bowing ensued, but he did hurry inside.

    “Just tell your passengers that the interpreter will be here later,” said Hill to the red-faced driver.

    “They won’t listen! You couldn’t speak to ’em, could you, sir?”

    Ouch! “Uh—look, I can’t. Sorry, can’t explain why. I’ll get someone from the hotel to speak to them. Hang on.” He hurried inside.

    The girl at the reception desk gave him a beaming smile but it faded as he said grimly: “Get the Manager out here.”

    “Would you rather come through to his office, Mr Tarlington?” she croaked.

    If he did that and Watanabe came inside and couldn’t see him, would he panic and assume he was part of the plot with Khalil Al-Whatsisface and Maurice Bishop? –And, just incidentally, did bloody Maurice know the man had booked here and was it, in fact, a plot?

    “I can’t. Just get him, there’s a good girl.”

    Possibly the haunted look over his shoulder registered; in any case the Manager was out at the desk in two seconds flat. “Can I help you, Hill?”

    “For once you can say the forbidden phrase, ‘Is something wrong?’, Terry, because something is very wrong,” he said grimly.

    Terry Hutchinson replied calmly: “Go on.”

    “Right. Number One. Are you aware that you’ve got a party of Arabs booked in this evening who include a Khalil Al-Something who owns the Palace Gold chain?”

    “Khalil Al-Abbadi. No.” He turned, swung the receptionist’s computer round, and looked up the evening’s bookings. “There is an Arab party, yes, but no-one of that name.”

    “Right. Number Two. Are you in fact expecting Khalil Al-Abbadi?”

    Mr Hutchinson went very red and said grimly: “No.”

    “Possibly I should have phrased that differently. Is either you or Maurice Bishop expecting Khalil Al-Abbadi or any representative of Palace Gold?”

    “Speaking for myself, still no,” he said tightly. “I have no idea whom Sir Maurice may or may not be expecting.”

    “Right. Number Three. No, hang on,” said Hill slowly. “Have there to your knowledge been any communications between the party of Japanese that I’m looking after today and any representative of Palace Gold?’

    “There’s no knowing who they may have spoken to on their mobiles, or emailed,” said Terry on a dry note. “No numbers with alerts on them have been contacted through the switchboard, certainly.”

    “Mm. Okay, Terry, Number Four is that the Arabs are here, tangled up in that horsy wedding party on the sweep, and refusing to come in until the interpreter ordered for them for this evening turns up.”

    “I see,” he said slowly.

    Hill looked hard at his smooth features but as usual they expressed very little.

    “Possibly our jobs are on the line whatever I do. Well—one way or the other, given the presence of the Gano Group. I can propitiate the Arabs and get them to register, or make them so annoyed that they’ll shake the dust.” He eyed Hill blandly. “Just as you wish.”

    “Terry, I’m not in the plot, either! And we only have Watanabe’s word for it that the man is the Palace Gold chap—though he looked as sick as a dog and had a near-panic at the thought that his father was gonna conclude he was plotting against him if he got wind they were here.”

    “Mm. I’ll ring Sir Maurice,” he said, outing with the mobile.

    Hill watched drily. Pretty clearly that was shock and horror coming down the line. How genuine it was, was anyone’s guess. He shrugged but took the phone as Terry held it out to him.

    “Is this damned story of Hutchinson’s true?” spluttered Maurice.

    “Yes. Just say whether you want him to get rid of the Arabs, Maurice. My chaps are sitting out in the car on the sweep not daring to poke their noses out in case it gets back to Big Daddy. Or possibly in case the opposition spots them and either assumes they’re in the plot or lets on that they are in the plot—whatever. Does Terry get rid, or not?”

    He spluttered a bit more but conceded Terry had better welcome them: pretend no-one had spotted a thing.

    Sniffing, Hill rang off and conveyed this intelligence to Terry.

    “Could mean anything,” concluded the Manager drily.

    “Yes. Given that my job’s on the line and has been all day, can I just nip out before you start pouring oil?”

    “Be my guest,” he replied smoothly.

    Shoulders shaking only very slightly, Hill returned to the Range Rover.

    “The guests were met, the feast was set”—was it? Something like that. Anyway, Hill had managed to dump his Japanese lot in their suite and managed to have a hot bath and a whisky, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, the Arab complication, was in a much, much better frame of mind. After all, on the one hand it probably wouldn’t affect humble persons at his level if the Arabs did buy YDI or if, contrariwise, old Watanabe settled their hash good and proper, quite possibly buying up Palace Gold to spite them; and on the other hand, although he did enjoy his job he wouldn’t weep many tears if he lost it. The world was full of projects of one kind or another. And if the worst really came to the worst he could go cap-in-hand to Colin Haworth’s frightful fund-raising brother-in-law, and beg to manage projects for the huge charity he worked for!

    And more immediately, he wasn’t due to see Watanabe and Co. again until dinnertime, at which time the interpreter would be here! Three cheers!

    His room phone rang as he was lying back in the swaddling central heating on his hugely comfortable king-size bed wrapped in a towelling robe that belonged to the hotel and wondering if he should have another whisky. What? Oh, God! Amanda Peel from Human Resources reminding him that he would need to officially register, unquote, for the Chipping Abbas Conversion Project Progress Report and Concept Consolidation Meeting. Down in Conference Meeting-Room Number 3.

    “Amanda, couldn’t you possibly do it for me?” he groaned. “I’m exhausted—egg-zor-sted! I’ve been trailing a party from the Gano Group round Chipping Abbas all day, trying to answer involved questions in Japanese English! –Um, I mean, the questions were, I wasn’t trying to answer them in it,” he amended feebly.

    At this Ms Peel, who was possibly aged as much as twenty-seven and a rounded, blonde-haired, pink-faced person who Hill would have said was completely devoid of the cool person-skills that Human Resources looked for in their own staff, pardon, in their own human resources, went into a helpless giggling fit. Unfortunately recovering from it sufficiently to admit regretfully that she was awf’ly sorry, but she didn’t think she could possibly register for him, ’cos everyone needed to sign in and collect their name-tags and folders in person, you see.

    “Very well,” he sighed. “Ours but to do and die. –Oy, talking of the valley of death, any Japanese execs lurking down there, Amanda?”

    “No!” said Ms Peel with a loud giggle. “There’s cocktails and nibbles, though, Hill!”

    Right, them and the six hundred. Complete with name-tags, ye gods! It was a meeting of their own staff— Oh, forget it. Name-tags were de rigeur in any YDI meeting of more than half a dozen persons.

    “I’ll be down,” he sighed. “Conference Room Number 3, did you say?”

    “No. Conference Meeting-Room Number 3,” replied Amanda seriously.

    In that case there would be considerably fewer than six hundred present, because the so-called conference meeting-rooms were designed for smaller groups such as workshops and seminars, or special interest groups of larger conferences. “Right, thanks, Amanda— No, hang on. ’Tisn’t tonight we’re slated for the fake full conference buffet, is it?”

    “See, you should of got your conference folder, ’cos it’s all in it!” replied Ms Peel with a merry gurgle. “Hang on. Um, no, ’tisn’t, that’s tomorrow night. And it isn’t a fake conference buffet, you are awful, Hill!”

    “Ta. Um, well, just so’s I don’t wear the wrong thing,”—Ms Peel here collapsed in further giggles—“would you mind reading out what we’re supposed to do for dinner tonight?”

    Obediently she read out: “‘Dinner. Attendees all welcome in Main Dining-Room. Please show Company Cards for à la carte dinner and two drinks of your choice.’ Ooh, that’s nice!”

    “Yes, ’tis, they’re a pretty good crowd to work for, really,” he allowed, smiling.

    “Yes, absolutely! –That’s you, there,” she said in uninterested tones, not to him. “It’s all there, and you have to wear your label. There’s a clip as well as a pin. –Sorry, Hill. Um, talking of working for them, you haven’t heard a funny rumour, have you?”

    What? Already? Surely not! “Um, no more than usual. What funny rumour?”

    “Um, well, someone was telling me,” she said in a very lowered voice, “that there’s some Arabs in the hotel that are gonna take us over.”

    Jee-sus! “I think that’s just one of those mad rumours that start up any time a hotel employee sees an Arab in the hotel, Amanda,” he said soothingly.

    “Um, ye-es… Um, I did see some, earlier,” she said cautiously.

    “So did I,” said Hill mildly.

    “You don’t think it’s true, do you?”

    He’d give her evens, on mature consideration. And six to four that bloody Maurice was in on it. “No, of course not! I’ll get into me pretty frock and see you in a few minutes, then!” And he rang off to the accompaniment of Ms Peel’s ecstatic giggles.

    Down in Conference Meeting-Room Number 3, the Chipping Abbas Conversion Project Progress Report and Concept Consolidation Meeting attendees were obediently convening. Hill had of course expected to see his immediate boss, John Banks, and persons such as the young landscape designer, Warwick Reston—and Jody Carmichael, his fellow project manager, was presumably here under orders to observe—but in addition to young Gordy Fanshaw who was the architect officially on the project, the whole of Development’s Architecture Division appeared to be here! With, in the case of the more senior members of it, their secretaries as well. Likewise the Interior Décor Division. Well, not the secretaries, no: but all of the designers. Hospitality was also well represented: for Heaven’s sake! They were scarcely at the stage of staffing the new hotel! And for God’s sake! That was Viv Jensen-Hannah from Hospitality Supply! What was she doing here?

    Escaping from the giggling Amanda’s sticky-pawed clutches after some appreciable time, with his personally clipped-on label intact, just, but nothing much else about him virginal and unsullied—the giggle alone felt as if the girl was undressing you in public—he tottered over to Viv’s side.

    “Hullo, Viv! Lovely to see you! But why?”

    Viv, thank God, could be guaranteed not to collapse in giggles whilst virtually (in the modern, telly slash video sense) undressing one. Sure enough, she gave him her usual composed smile and replied: “Hullo, Hill. It’s lovely to see you, too. I’m here because I was ordered to be.”

    “No indication of a reason?” he asked feebly.

    “No, but we think it’s got something to do with Sir Maurice’s idea of making Chipping Abbas a centre of hospitality excellence.”

    “Right. Supply chain included,” he croaked.

    Viv nodded and smiled calmly.

    “Uh-huh. Well, I’m sure you’re on top of it all, Viv, but possibly I ought to warn you that there are some high-ups from the Gano Group here that have been following me round Chipping Abbas for the past five million years, asking—no, their English is rotten, make that attempting to ask—searching questions about everything.”

    “Yes: John Banks rang and warned us to expect that,” agreed Viv.

    “Right. Good on him,” he croaked.

    “Haven’t you got a drink?” she asked kindly.

    “I do need staying with flagons, you’re quite right!”

    “Let me—”

    “No! I mean, non-discriminatory practices in the workplace apart, that bar is already surrounded with gazetted bum-pinchers!”

    “I don’t think you do mean apart, in that case!” said Viv with a laugh. “But you’re wrong, it’s far too early in the evening for actual pinching.”

    “No, uh—” Hill had only used it as a figure of speech; doubtless the rhetoricians had a term for the exact figure of speech it was, too. Not precisely your actual hyperbole: no, more like when the thing at, speaking of chains, the far end of the chain of whatever-it-was, unacceptable sexist behaviour in the workplace in this instance, was used to represent something much nearer the beginning. As it were.

    Viv looked drily at the scrum round the trestle tables that were doing duty as the bar. “Accidental-on-purpose nudging and bumping into, at this stage. Oh—and probably a bit of helpful taking of the elbow.”

    “Christ! In that case, I will definitely get them.”

    “There’s some lady ones there, too,” said the liberated Ms Jensen-Hannah detachedly.

    “Yes, but I’m brave as lion, thought you knew that? What is it, house red and house white?”

    “Mm. Well, there is a choice of a sweet white or a dry one.”

    God! “Name it, then, Viv,” he said, smiling at her.

    She named a dry white and he tottered off to get them in. At the bar one sweating Boddiford Hall Park Royal barman—or possibly apprentice barman or apprentice waiter, he looked about fifteen—was frantically filling and refilling glasses from three dozen opened bottles that held the three choices. Every second one he picked up and frantically poured from was empty. Admittedly the firm did tend to let the apprentices practise on their own staff, but given that at any moment Watanabe could walk in— Hill looked round but couldn’t spot anybody both sufficiently junior and sufficiently reliable. Well, Charlie Frayn, who was a junior in Development and supposedly learning the job from such as him or Jody, except that he was such a bloody nuisance no-one wanted to take him out on the sites, would have qualified except that he wasn’t sufficiently sober as of this minute. Hill did have one or two numbers programmed into his phone but was it fair to the kid to— On the other hand it wasn’t fair to let him flounder. He rang Terry Hutchinson. Thirty seconds after that two much older barmen shot in, told off the kid to stack the empties behind the bar, and competently took over.

    John Banks was chatting to Viv when Hill tottered back with their drinks. “Sorted out the service, did you?” he said kindly.

    Hill gave his boss a filthy look. “If you’d noticed, why the Hell didn’t you—”

    Calmly John replied: “Waiting to see who’d have the nous to do something about it.”

    “Right, and if you’d waited long enough for Watanabe and Co. to walk in, then what?” he snarled.

    John looked dry. “There is an age-old rivalry between Hospitality and Development.”

    “Yes, which some of us were under the impression you wanted to see disappear!”

    “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel,” said John smoothly to Viv. “Hill, in the unlikely event that our Japanese masters had walked in before the hour at which Maurice told them they’re expected, I’d have grabbed them at the door and steered them away to The Hunting Horn for some real drinks.”

    “You think you would. Watanabe on the search for not-light periods and not-light per-lans and not-light etched grass and just general cock-ups is unstoppable!”

    “Ssh!” replied John, his shoulders shaking.

    “Added to which,” said Hill evilly, managing to ignore the fact that Viv’s shoulders were now also shaking, “anything remotely connected with hunting would be a really bad tactical move, ’cos this afternoon we got stuck on the drive in a milling mob of the local hunt on their seventeen-hands bony steeds!”

    “Ugh!” gasped Viv.

    “Um, we were in the Range Rover, Viv,” he said lamely. “But none of them struck me as horse lovers.”

    One of Viv’s pals from Hospitality Supply came up at that moment so John seized the chance to draw Hill away to a quiet spot.

    “Light persiflage aside—”

    “Me?” he gasped indignantly.

    “Yeah, you. Thought that blonde bint on the door was gonna leap down your throat.”

    “I was not encouraging her!”

    “Don’t think you need to. Dunno why, but they take one look and turn it on. Even Viv: don’t think I’ve seen her do more than smile calmly heretofore. Or did more go on when she was your secretary than just over-elaborate database design?”

    “No!”

    John eyed him drily. “Glad that’s clear. As I was saying, this scene with the frightening horseys on the drive was the one that included Khalil Al-Abbadi, was it?”

    Hill swallowed. “Mm.”

    “They’re in the Borzoi Suite,” he noted unemotionally.

    Hill had to swallow again. While the hotel’s bars and so forth went for the hunting motif, the suites, possibly following up on the ’orse and ’ounds theme, possibly stressing the fact that the hotel encouraged guests to bring their pampered pooches (at extortionate rates, of course), had gone all doggy. The Borzoi Suite would have been the Bridal Suite in any other establishment: it was huge, and so horribly over-elaborate as to give the impression that M. Fabergé had had a hand in its decorations. Well—Russian, if the Hermitage or the Winter Palace was your yardstick, yeah. The borzoi motif was certainly carried through: there was a large copy of the famous painting in the Peitit Palais of Sarah Bernhardt with her white Borzoi on its white rug, and another giant offering depicting a lady holding two of the noble canines by their leads, all three of them facing into—no, straining into—a gale off the steppes, Maurice’s claim being that it was based on some English Diana— Hill had definitely stopped listening at that point but unfortunately the thing was already engraved on his retina.

    “Heather and I stayed in it once,” said John reminiscently.

    “Eh?”

    “Mm. They’d had a last-minute cancellation, and the beds would’ve had to be stripped in any case, so Terry said we might as well use it.”

    “Stripping unused linen off the beds? Why doesn’t Maurice just use this dump for his hospitality excellence crap?” he croaked.

    “Hah, hah. Ever seen it?”

    Hill nodded numbly.

    John’s eyes twinkled. “Horribly blue, isn’t it?”

    Hill nodded numbly.

    “Blue, gold and silver,” he amended thoughtfully.

    Hill nodded numbly. “What did Heather think of it?” he managed to croak.

    “Laughed her socks off, but funnily enough, terrifically impressed at the same time. Strange creatures, women,” he murmured.

    “Ssh! This is the 21st century! –Well, yeah,” admitted Hill feebly. He’d have said Heather Banks was a thoroughly sensible person!

    John grinned but said: “How shocked was Watanabe when he spotted them?”

    “Very, very shocked—no-one could fake that, John, I thought he was going to pass out.”

    John pulled his ear slowly. “Mm… Could it have been shock at them showing up hours before they were due—giving the game away, as it were?”

    “I suppose it could,” he admitted fairly. “Given that I didn’t understand a word the initial shock was couched in. But if you tortured me with hot irons for a fortnight—”

    “I may just do that! Get on with it!”

    “I’d have to admit,” said Hill, his eyes cautiously on the door, “that it struck me as completely genuine shock at seeing the man at all. Followed very fast by genuine horror that his father might think he was plotting behind his back. Um, he turned the same sort of nasty colour, actually, as young Whatsisface did when he had to fight his way through the hunt to get into the hotel.”

    “You didn’t make them fight their way on foot—”

    “No! For God’s sake! Watanabe forced the poor kid to nip in and email the old man’s PA, pronto, while the rest of them waited in the car.”

    “Uh-huh. And you rang Maurice.”

    Hill sighed. “No. I went inside and grabbed Terry, and Terry rang Maurice, who then demanded to speak to me. Though if you’re implying I should have followed the chain of command and spoken to you first, perhaps I should point out that there was nothing to indicate that you weren’t the one behind this putative plot, John.”

    “Common sense?” he suggested arctically.

    Damnation! Was he really pissed off because Hill hadn’t gone through him? Hard to tell: John Banks was one of those bland-faced characters who were almost impossible to read. Smooth, meek, unremarkable features, and a smooth, meek manner. And hard as nails with it.

    “Nothing personal, John,” he said easily.

    Mr Banks eyed him thoughtfully. “Mm. Well, I suppose after seeing yourself and a truckload of men in your charge very nearly blown to smithereens by an incompetent superior you don’t tend to trust any boss—no.”

    Hill, alas, was now very red. “Who in blazes told you that story?” he choked.

    “All those whom I contacted, Hill. They were very pleased to, actually. Um… several of them indicated that there was one boss you’d trust with your life,” he said blandly. “Well, I gathered that so would they. A colonel, I think. Still in the Army, is he?”

    “Colin Haworth,” said Hill tightly. “Yes, he’s still in: the regiment’s out in Iraq at the moment.”

    For once bloody John Banks appeared disconcerted. “Oh,” he said lamely. “I see.”

    Hill swallowed a sigh. If you hadn’t been in yourself, or at the very least came from an Army family, you couldn’t understand. “That’s what the job is, John,” he said flatly.

    “Yes, of course. It sounds as if they’re making considerable progress,” he said cautiously.

    “Do you mind if we don’t discuss it, thanks?”

    “I’m sorry, Hill; it must be a worrying time for you,” he said kindly.

    He meant well, and probably there was nothing else he could have said, but nevertheless Hill replied: “Never mind that. Heard about the emails from Tokyo?”

    “What?” replied John with a startled look.

    “Ostensibly about 18th-century glass and old English roses, though of course your corporate paranoia will no doubt tell you it was a code,” said Hill nastily, walking off and leaving his boss to it.

    He joined Warwick, Gordy and Julia. They’d be talking about work, as there was nothing else they had in common, but then, so was everyone else, apart from one or two who shared a sporting interest or happened to be in the throes of buying or selling a house. Er—about work or its personalities: Julia was very full of someone’s engagement. Anything, however, was better than the paranoia of the managerial classes. Hill listened to the details gratefully. Opal engagement ring, eh? Not unlucky, no, since it really was her birthstone…

    Bloody Maurice duly turned up, exuding gracious bonhomie and tactfully in a lounge suit, so it was just as well Hill had worn one, wasn’t it? After the right amount of graciously bonhomous greeting of insignificant subordinates had gone on he managed to gravitate to Hill’s side, label all in place.

    “Well?” he said, looking especially jovial and sipping indifferent house red to the manner born.

    Not bothering to pretend to misunderstand him, Hill replied, as the people to whom he’d been chatting melted away like the dew: “Terry’s put them in the Borzoi Suite.”

    “I know that!” he hissed evilly, nodding jovially to some people on the other side of the room. “Have they attempted to contact the Gano Group lot, or vice versa?”

    “No idea. Isn’t Terry monitoring the switchboard?”

    “What good is that going to do,” replied Maurice evilly, “when they’ve all got mobile phones?”

    “I was wondering that.”

    “Why the fuck aren’t you up there with them?” he hissed.

    “Frankly, because (a) it’s not what I was hired for, and (b) I’m shattered. Added to which, if the man goes into his bedroom to make a private call, explain how I could follow him and listen in, Maurice. Added to added to which,” he said before the indignantly swelling Maurice could actually explode, “explain what common language he and the Arab are gonna communicate in.”

    “Don’t use that word!” he hissed.

    Uh—Arab? Very well, he wouldn’t. “If you insist. Go on, what?”

    “English!” he said angrily.

    “Well, Watanabe probably understands enough and I think the other chap’s driver said he can speak some but refuses to. Possibly they might manage a meaningful conversation. If we must discuss the matter in terms of complete paranoia,” he ended drily.

    “What else are they here for?” hissed his boss furiously.

    Hill shrugged. “Quiet weekend within easy distance of Newbury races?”

    Maurice opened his mouth angrily. Then he shut it again.

    “Palace Gold certainly owns nothing within spitting distance of Newbury—if we must continue this conversation as if the whole thing was news to you, Maurice.”

    “You’re begging for the sack, Tarlington,” he warned tightly.

    Hill shrugged.

    Maurice switched tactics. “Listen, old man, surely you must have your ear to the ground? Any rumour, however insignificant, might give us a clue.”

    “I’ve been working, up until I was landed with those damned visiting firemen. Any rumours I’ve heard have been related to the price of floor tiles, the going rate for qualified stonemasons and the much better wages offered by every construction firm that’s ever erected anything in Ditterminster. –Oh,” he recalled, as Maurice glared, “there is a story that a different lot of visiting Japs—”

    “Don’t call them that in one of our houses!” he hissed.

    “Sorry. Japanese. That a different lot of them are trying to buy some prime site over in Ditterminster. To put up what, I haven’t a clue—sorry.”

    “It could be them the Palace Gold lot are here to meet!” he gasped.

    Staying in one of one of YDI’s houses? Oh, well, why not? “I suppose it’s not impossible,” said Hill without interest.

    “Who told you?” he demanded tensely.

    “Hellen picked it up this morning from a contact when she was trying to get me an interpreter,” replied Hill, somewhat pointedly.

    “Eh? For today? Didn’t think Watanabe’s English was that bad.”

    “It is that bad, when he’s not primed by your single malt! And listen, Maurice, you may as well hear it now as later: I am not up for trailing any more foreigners round any project, however good they claim their English is, without an interpreter. I will resign, should you try it on again.”

    “Rubbish, dear boy!” And blah, blah, blah, exuding gracious bonhomie…

    Hill simply waited until the noise had died away.

    Maurice drained his glass, and pouted. “We can’t magic up an interpreter.”

    “Apparently not, no,” he agreed in a bored voice.

    “Well, I— The thing is, it’s not cost-effective to have a fleet of them on the permanent staff!”

    “One. That speaks Japanese,” said Hill in a grim voice. “Given that we’re owned by a Japanese company. Or would it be better to hire an Arabic-speaking one?”

    “No!” he snapped, turning an alarming shade of puce. “That is not funny!”

    Hill just shrugged.

    “Um, doesn’t your Hellen speak it?”

    “Obviously not, Maurice.”

    “Well, uh, I know she’s worth her weight in gold, old man, but wouldn’t you consider—”

    “No. If she goes, I go.”

    “Come over here,” replied his top boss in a grim voice, grabbing his arm and steering him over to John Banks’s side. John was chatting amiably to a group of people from Interior Décor. They melted away like the dew. “All right, what did he say?” Maurice demanded of him.

    John looked bland. “What, this project managing object here? Denied all knowledge and threatened to self-destruct in five—”

    “He’s been threatening to resign ever since I got here!” he hissed. “What the fuck’s going on?”

    “Nothing, Maurice,” said John placidly. He caught Jody Carmichael’s eye without effort and dispatched him to get Sir Maurice another glass of red. “Why are you threatening to resign, Hill?” he then asked mildly.

    “Because I’ve just wasted a whole day of project time, which somehow or other I’ll have to make up or incur one of the firm’s fucking penalties, carting a party of visiting Japanese around without benefit of an interpreter!”

    “I’ve said, it wouldn’t be cost-effective to have our own interpreters,” said Maurice, pouting.

    “One,” said Hill drily.

    “Mm. I’ll cost it,” murmured John. “And I really think we should waive the penalty clause this time, Maurice.”

    “Very well,” he agreed with a lofty wave.

    “In writing,” said Hill grimly as Jody came up with a refill, looking hopeful.

    “Thank you, Jody,” said Maurice at his most gracious. “Chat later, mm?” Looking dashed, Jody retreated. “Very well, Hill, in writing, since it appears we must discuss the matter in terms of complete paranoia!”

    “I’d say touché, but when one is being persecuted, it’s not paranoia.”

    “You’re not being persecuted, you chump,” said John mildly. “Everyone at your level has penalty clauses.”

    “Everyone doesn’t have visiting firemen who can’t speaka da h’English foisted on them for an entire working day, however!”

    “Hill,” said John, the face as bland as ever but the eyes twinkling, “shut—up.”

    “Yes: do,” said Maurice on a grateful note.

    Hill shrugged but shut up, as it finally dawned that Sir Maurice was looking desperate, tired and old, and that John was trying to give him a warning look.

    According to their printed programme this was supposed to be a social event, but naturally they didn’t escape without Maurice making a speech. “Just a few words,” hah, hah. He was very glad to be here—he always said that, unless the event was actually at Head Office—and all the visitors must take every opportunity to observe one of their houses in action—he always said that, too—and very grateful thanks to Terry and his staff for making them so welcome—ditto that, inserting appropriate name. And of course they were here to talk about the Chipping Abbas Park Royal as the centre of hospitality excellence it would become, and the meeting proper would convene tomorrow, but just for now their very own Hill Tarlington, who of course was managing the project for them, would just say a few words! Come along, Hill, don’t be shy!

    Hill wasn’t shy, though no-one had warned him he’d have to say a few words this evening, and he certainly wasn’t on the printed programme as supplied by Ms Amanda Peel, but he went over to Maurice’s side.

    With horrible bonhomie Maurice put his arm round his shoulders, ugh! “I think you all know Hill, and how lucky we are to have him on our staff”—what was this, the best butter?—“but you may not all know that Chipping Abbas is one of his family’s old homes”—if he dared to call him “Sir Hilliard” he bloody well would resign, never mind if the silly old sod was starting to show his age—“and that we’re very privileged to be able to lease it for our centre of hospitality excellence!” He clapped, so the staff did, too. Hill wasn’t up to a smile, but he tried not to glare. “Now, Hill, old chap, I’ll just ask you to say a few words about progress, and what we can expect the house to contain when finished!” Beam, beam.

    God. Well, for a start they could expect it to contain that Victorian Turkey carpet the old sod had coveted, and not to contain those 18th-century glasses!

    “Thanks, Maurice. Good evening, everyone: good to see you all here. Don’t hesitate to ask me if there’s anything you’d like to know about the project. At the moment it’s barely off the ground, but we’ll aim at stripping the house back to about the proportions and appearance it had in the early years of the 19th century: Regency, George IV: round about then. We’re not aiming at a complete restoration: the style will be based on that period but we’ll retain some of the later touches—show a bit of the history of the house, with some of the Victorian and Edwardian furniture and pictures and so forth. We’re keeping the ballroom, which is a Victorian addition, but we’ll set it up so as it can be used for dances, concerts or conferences, at need. The exterior fabric of the building isn’t bad: needs some repointing and painting. We’re retaining the basic layout of the interiors, of course relining or plastering, and adding ensuite bathrooms. The grounds are a mess at the moment but the groundwork’s being done for the main features, which will be a formal rose garden—Warwick’s doing a great job on that,” he said, smiling at the young man: might as well give him some credit, after he’d put up with bloody Mitsubishi for the best part of the day—“a large heated pool, a croquet lawn and archery butts. We’ll be offering riding, so the grounds will feature the original 18th-century stables, currently under repair. And there’ll be a bathhouse on the lines of the one at the Cottesford Manor Park Royal: mud treatments, saunas, and a variety of herbal baths—it was Julia’s idea to convert the beautiful 18th-century dairy complex for that,”—Julia nodded and beamed—“as it was built almost entirely of imported Italian marble,” he added, avoiding the phrase “cow palace” entirely. “Oh—the chap contracted to replace the old wrought-iron gates is studying the original designs more or less as we speak, so the entrance should look completely authentic. That’s about it—have an enjoyable evening, everyone!” He smiled blandly and everybody clapped again.

    Maurice put the arm back round his shoulders again, ugh! “Thanks, Hill, old man. Everyone will have the opportunity of viewing the project on Sunday. Of course the house will feature as many of the original furnishings as possible, and YDI is extremely grateful to have been offered some of the Tarlington family portraits on loan, including that of Sir Aden Tarlington, who was the first member of the family to live in the house!” Possibly he was conscious of Sir Hilliard Tarlington’s sizzling indrawn breath at this point, for he then cheerily wished everyone a pleasant evening, urged them redundantly to drink up, and assured them redundantly he would see them all tomorrow morning.

    He did remove the arm but then took very firm hold of Hill’s elbow, blast! His idea had been he’d slope off quietly and join up with someone relatively obscure for dinner, like Gordy or Julia, and not have to— Blast.

    “The Japanese are about due,” noted John, looking at his watch.

    Hill took a deep breath. “Why don’t you both go and grab a decent drink in The Hunting Horn or somewhere, and I’ll wait for them—”

    Maurice vetoed this, the Japanese were expecting to meet them here.

    “In this scrum?” said Hill feebly, looking at the assembled staff of YDI throwing back the house red and white—the nibbles mentioned by Amanda had vanished ages back—in the brief interval that remained before the scheduled time for dinner and the point at which the hotel’s staff would stop pouring free drinks and start clearing away.

    After some umming Maurice conceded he had a point and, leaning rather heavily on his arm, headed slowly for the main lobby. John didn’t fail to remind Hill that the interpreter was due, but he almost managed to ignore this hit.

    Well, gee! Just as they emerged from behind a bunch of potted palms which semi-veiled the passage leading to the meeting-rooms, Watanabe and his entourage emeged from behind one of the elaborate Italian marble pillars which were a feature of the main lobby, and simultaneously down the elaborate Italian marble staircase, nicked in toto round about 1750 from some Italian palazzo, came the Arabs, head-dresses and robes flowing, accompanied by a long-haired, well-curved, smiling young woman in a smartly cut black dinner dr— What?

    One of Terry’s minions popped up beside him. “Here’s your interpreter, Hill.”

    “Uh—thanks, uh, Gerry,” he managed to croak.

    “Good evening again, Sir Maurice!” smiled Gerry. “I hope your drinks party went well?”

    Maurice had gone a sort of bluish-puce shade. Possibly the Japs, who had their backs to the staircase, would not connect this with anything in particular? “Uh—yes, usual excellent service, thanks,” he said numbly. “Uh—good evening, Mr Watanabe. I hope Hill’s been looking after you properly?’

    Hill didn’t hear a word of the polite exchange that followed, he was staring numbly at the spectacle of Hattie smiling and shaking hands with the Arabs.

    “Sorry?” he said with a jump, realising he was being addressed. “Oh—yes: we had a busy day, didn’t we, Mr Watanabe?”

    “Yes. Berry busy. See much project-ah work. Thank you berry much,” he said, bowing.

    “It was my pleasure, sir. I think they have got an interpreter for us, so—” Now what was she doing? And why the Hell was she here, in any case? “Uh, so if any of you need to ask anything further, that should help.”

    “Ah—yes. Interpretah. Thank you berry much.”

    Hill was watching numbly as young Gerry Whatsisname went over to Hattie and the Arabs pushed off, thank God, towards the smaller dining room, so perhaps the Japs would never—Uh, was he bringing her over here?—never realize they were still around—

    “Here we are!” beamed Gerry. “Sir Maurice, this is Miss Perkins, the Japanese interpreter.”

    Maurice had of course had as a good a view of Hattie with the Arabs as Hill had. He stared speechlessly.

    Young Gerry cleared his throat. “The interpreter for your party, Mr Watanabe.”

    Hattie bowed politely and murmured something in, presumably, Japanese. Watanabe gave a sketch of a bow and said something in reply. A lot of bowing ensued with Hattie’s even profounder than the young aides’. Watanabe then made a brief statement.

    Smiling, Hattie said smoothly: “Mr Watanabe would like to express his great appreciation for the delightful day spent with Mr Tarlington.”

    Hill took a very deep breath and replied very grimly indeed: “Not at all. Good evening, Hattie.”

    “Hullo, Hill: how are you?” she replied cheerfully.

    This seemed to jerk Maurice out of his suspended animation: “This will not do!”

    “I do speak Japanese,” said Hattie mildly.

    “Speak-ah excerrent Japanese,” said Watanabe quickly. “Berry much thanks.”

    Smoothly John said: “We’re very glad to provide her, Mr Watanabe, and very happy to know you think her Japanese is excellent. –Just translate that would you, Miss—Perkins, is it? Yes; and then Hill and I would like a word, please.”

    Mildly puzzled, Hattie obeyed.

    “Is this your drinks party?” she said with a smile as John led them back into Conference Meeting-Room Number 3: gradually emptying but sufficiently busy, still. “No wonder Joanna said crates of red and white came in here!”

    “Leaving aside the whole question of bloody Joanna and why she never so much as breathed a word all day that our interpreter would be you or even that you weren’t still in Germany,” said Hill grimly, “what were you doing with those Arabs?”

    “Just helping them get settled in,” said Hattie cheerfully. “They don’t speak much English; at least, Mr Al-Abbadi does, but he’s very shy about using it. Well, he wouldn’t like to hear me use the word shy, but of course that’s what it is!” she said with a merry laugh. “It’s a peer-group thing: he’s the boss of those other men that are with him, you see, and he doesn’t want to let himself down in front of them, but if you think that’s confined to the Arab male peer group, you’ve got another think coming!”

    “Yes. –Ignore most of that: one of her hobby-horses,” said Hill to John’s face, which was starting to look rather less bland than usual. “Let me rephrase my question, Hattie; why were you, Hattie Perkins, with those Arabs?”

    “I just said! Oh: you mean why me instead of their own interpreter? He’s not here yet: you see, they went to the races at Newbury but their horse lost and Mr Al-Abbadi got really cheesed off and decided he’d like to come over to the hotel instead of staying on, so they did. They weren’t expected until quite late, you see, ’cos the original plan was they’d stay on until the races ended and have dinner in Newbury. Well, drinks as well, but I probably shouldn’t mention that because they’re nominally Muslims. Well, I suppose most of your lot are nominally Christians,” she said to Hill on a dry note.

    “Do I conclude that’s another hobby-horse?” asked John acidly.

    “I should think so. Hattie, I don’t think you were introduced properly, were you? This is John Banks, who’s my immediate boss at YDI.”

    “Oh, yes! You’re the man that’s head of Development, then!”

    “Er—yes,” said John feebly. “How do you do, Miss Perkins? We’d just like to know how you got the job of interpreter to—uh—Mr Al-Abbadi and his group.”

    “It wasn’t a job, I was just helping out!” she beamed.

    “Hattie, tell us before I strangle you!” shouted Hill.

    “I am. Um, heck, actually it’s a bit complicated!” she said cheerfully. “Um, well, it’s because I— Um, well, I was doing some translating for the Mayor this morning.”

    “The Mayor of Ditterminster? Right,” he said with a sigh. “Was this to do with the trips to Germany and Japan, or have I got that wrong?”

    “No, that’s right. We got back this morning. The Mayor was really cross because the first time the Japanese didn’t fall all over themselves at the sight of this horrible empty stretch of land that the university’s been trying to flog off for megabucks for ages—you see, it’s miles from anywhere, the customers wouldn’t come. So today he said we’d better take them to look at Mr Adamson’s empty site, even though the old bugger was going to charge ten times what the land’s worth.”

    “Uh—this young Harry’s Dad?” asked Hill in spite of himself.

    Hattie pinkened but replied steadily: “Yes, that’s right. He doesn’t look like him at all: Harry takes after his mother.”

    “Mm. So you were translating from Japanese and—uh, German is one of your languages, too, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. From and to,” she said placidly.

    “Uh—right, mm. And someone asked if you could do some Japanese for us?”

    “Hill, do me an immense favour and don’t put words in the woman’s mouth, maddening though I freely admit her narrative style to be,” said John grimly.

    “On your head be it. Go on, Hattie.”

    “Um, yes,” she said giving John a puzzled look. “It was Adrian Coutts, he works in the Mayor’s office. He said a lady rang up and wanted to know if I could do some Japanese translating later today over at the hotel. So of course I said that was real peculiar, why hadn't Joanna got hold of me— Um, sorry, am I going off at a tangent again? That’s my friend Joanna, she works here, she’s an assistant under-manager,” she said to John. “Joanna Broadbent. She’s sharing my cottage.”

    “I see. Go on, please.”

    “Um, that was it, really,” said Hattie, looking vague. “Um, Adrian said they couldn’t have me for the afternoon. Did he mean you?” she said to Hill.

    “Yes: I’ve been dragging those five unfortunate Japanese around Chipping Abbas all day.”

    “I see. Adrian said of course they’d send me over in a limo but I didn’t think I ought to come to the hotel at dinnertime without getting changed, ’cos of course I’d been trailing round all day in my other things—not my jeans, Joanna made me buy a nice trouser-suit. Well, she said it was smart and Adrian said it looked good, so I suppose it’s all right. It’s a sort of fawn, it makes me feel fawn all over, but Joanna likes those colours,” she added glumly. “Um, so Adrian said of course I could have the limo to go home and it’d wait for me—they never seem to think that it is isn’t ‘it’, it’s poor Tim Pringle, and what if his wife was expecting him home for tea? Um, sorry, dinner.”

    “The attitude’s endemic to the corporate life, whether in the public or private sector,” said Hill drily. “I can’t prompt you, so tell us what happened after that.”

    “Um, after Adrian said I could have the limo? Um, well, I just did their translating… Then after lunch I rang Joanna and she said I’d better wear the black dress for the Japanese this evening.”

    “I see. I won’t ask why she didn’t tell you that I was the mug that was slated to be their escort all day!”

    “But she did,” said Hattie in mild surprise.

    His lips tightened. “I see.”

    “Yes,” agreed John firmly. “Perhaps we could cut to the chase, Miss Perkins. At what stage did the hotel ask you to help out with some interpreting for those Arabs?”

    “Just after I got home. Joanna rang up and said there was a flap going on at the hotel, and could I speak Arab? So I said if she meant Arabic, I could, but not if they were Iranians, because that’s—”

    “We know!” said John rather loudly.

    “Lots of people make that mistake,” said Hattie tranquilly. “She said could I come over straight after I’d had a shower and changed. Um, actually I didn’t,” she admitted, going red.

    “Oh?” said John sharply.

    “Um, no. Sorry. But Tim Pringle’s a person, too.” Hattie stuck her rounded chin in the air. “And I don’t work for YDI!”

    “If I can be allowed to put words in her mouth,” drawled Hill, “she’s trying to say she made him a cuppa and gave him a bite to eat, aren’t you, Hattie?”

    “Mm,” said Hattie, nodding hard.

    John took a very deep breath. “I see. Now, be so good as to explain why Al-Abbadi and his party are here—leaving aside all reference to Newbury races, please!”

    There was a short silence.

    “But I can’t,” said Hattie weakly. “I’m sorry, Mr Banks. Um, that’s why.”

    “I understand,” he said, quite clearly with a precarious grasp on his temper—Hill for various reasons had not been in the best of moods but now he began to feel much, much better—“that they arrived early because they’d been to the races and gave it away.”

    “Mm, their horse lost,” she said, nodding.

    “But why, on the larger scale of things, are they here, in this hotel?” he snapped.

    “Um, that is why,” said Hattie in a small voice.

    Hill began to see. His shoulders shook silently.

    “What is the ultimate purpose of their visit, Miss Perkins?” he snapped.

    Hattie swallowed hard. “I can’t see why he’s so cross,” she said to Hill. “But I can’t say it without saying it.”

    “No. Leave her alone, John, you’re a bloody paranoid, one-track-minded, one-eyed corporate git of the worst kind. They’re racing types, are they, Hattie?”

    She nodded hard.

    “Horse owners?”

    “Yes.” She eyed John cautiously.

    “Go on, say it,” said Hill.

    “They own some racehorses that live near Newbury. Um, they live in stables, and there’s a man that trains them.”

    “Trainer—got it,” agreed Hill.

    “Yes. I think he’s quite well off. Not in their terms, of course. I think they meant the trainer man lives there as well. When he trains the horses they go outside on… Um, I don’t know the English word. Like flat land. Not fields, more open. I didn’t think England had that sort of land, I thought it was all fields, like round here.”

    “Yes. Downland—downs, Hattie,” said Hill, smiling. “So that’s why they’re here?”

    “Yes, they want to watch their horses being trained on the, um, downland.”

    John’s jaw by this time had hit the floor.

    “Um, and they want to see them actually racing, the ones that are, um, booked in,” said Hattie, glancing at him uneasily. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t sound very likely, Mr Banks. I’ve never had to talk about racehorses in English.”

    “No, but you have before in Arabic?” said Hill with a smile.

    “Mm, loads of times: Haroun’s father was very keen on horses and they always used to watch the races on TV.”

    “Then all is explained. –Can we go back? Watanabe and Co. must be wondering what the fuck’s going on and, just by the by,” said Hill nastily to his immediate boss, “if they weren’t bloody suspicious before, they will be now!”

    “What?” said Hattie in confusion.

    “Nothing.” Hill took her arm gently, just above the elbow. Oo-er! Squidgy! He gave it a little squeeze on the strength of it. “Come on, Hattie.”

    “Um, yes. Can I just ask you one thing, first?”

    “Of course!”

    She licked her lips uncertainly. “Um, am I allowed to have some dinner?”

    Hill’s jaw sagged. “What? Of course you are! Didn’t those morons say?”

    “Um, no. I was going to ask Joanna but she was awfully busy.”

    “Most certainly you are entitled to dinner! In fact, rescuing us from Watanabe and his cohorts rates free dinners at any of the firm’s houses for the rest of your life!”

    “Hah, hah, Well, thanks: I’m starving, actually.”

    “No wonder!” He turned her in the direction of the main lobby. “What time did you start work this morning?”

    “At breakfast time, really. Before we got the plane from Germany.”

    “Hang on, Hill,” said John in a strangled voice.

    “No,” said Hill firmly. “Whatever piece of corporate paranoia it may be—no.”

    “But none of this means a thing! Look, Khalil Al-Abbadi may own as many horses as—as the Queen, but she could still be spying for—”

    “In that case, I suggest you tell Watanabe not to say anything he wouldn’t want the Arabs to hear, John!” said Hill rather loudly. “He understands that much English: I don’t think you’ll have to risk Hattie’s misinterpreting you! But don’t rely on anything I say, will you, because of course Hattie and I have been plotting since we first met in Yorkshire, seven years back, to undermine Maurice and sell out YDI to the Arabs!”

    The staff in Conference Meeting-Room Number 3 had been going out in little clumps, headed for the dining-room, for some time, but there were still a few left, none of them drunk enough not to turn and stare, at this.

    John had gone very red, Hill was glad to see. “Don’t be an idiot.”

    “I may be an idiot but at least I’m not a paranoid corporate git!” And with that he led Hattie off to dinner, ignoring his boss completely.