Chapter 74 – Solstice – Part 7
KLEMPNER
Not a great sess…
Stanton’s files then. Look them over…
… while I work on my interview technique.
But where?
Somewhere private.
A bar?
Too public. And I need somewhere to spread out. A desk. Somewhere to file. Maybe a disy board.
Rent an office?
Then it strikes me…
Nothing like missing the blindingly fucking obvious…
*****
At the Haswell offices, I stroll through acres of brassy, ssy bling and into the public foyer, to be met
by a face I know well. “Good morning, Kirstie.”
A microsecond of nk expression washes away like rain under a windscreen wiper. “Larry?” Then she
breaks into a smile. “What can I do for you? Charlotte’s not here that I’m aware of.”
“Thank you, Kirstie, but I’m not here to see my daughter. I was hoping to have a word with Haswell.”
That nk expression again for a moment. “Richard Haswell? I’ll… see if he’s avable.” She taps into
her desk-con unit. “Francis? I have Mr Waterman here asking to see Mr Haswell… Yes, Larry
Waterman… No, he doesn’t say…” Then she nods brightly. “Go on up. Mr Haswell’s in his office.”
*****
RICHARD
My inte buzzes. “Yes, Francis?”
“I have Kirstie on, sir. She says there’s a Mr Waterman downstairs, asking to see you.”
“Waterman? Larry Waterman?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“What on earth’s he doing here?”
“She doesn’t say, sir.
“Tell him toe up.”
Lydia’s head pops up from somewhere behind a tray of filing. “He’sing here? What does he want?”
Francis’ tone is prim. “I don’t know, Lydia and it’s none of your business.”
*****
Klempner steps out of the elevator with that air he has of owning everything around him.
“Larry, what can I do for you?”
His reply is cut short as Lydia charges at him, cup and saucer in hand, wearing an expression of vapid
adoration. “I made you a coffee.”
“Lydia!” Francis snaps the words. “You do not interrupt Mr Haswell when he’s speaking.”
Her head hangs. “Sorry. I just thought I should make you wee.” Klempner epts the cup,
grunting some response, but pointedly ignoring the girl.
Francis shepherds her back behind her filing. I return my attention to Klempner. “So, repeating my
question, what can I do for you?” He hovers, eyeing the two women. “Come into my office. We can talk
there.”
Inside, Klempner strolls to the window, gazing out over the Cityscape, one hand holding the cup, the
other shoved in a pocket. “Spectacr scenery.”
“Isn’t it. All the Cityid before me.”
His mouth quirks. “I imagine it helps that you own half of it.”
“Not quite that much, but enough for a satisfying view, yes.” I wave him to a seat, pour myself a coffee
from the pot Francis keeps topped up by the window area. “So…?”
“You know I’ve agreed to help Stanton with this investigation into the Surgeon.”
“Will did tell me, yes.”
“He’s given me a copy of the files. It’s unpleasant stuff. I don’t want to take it back to the house. I
particrly don’t want to leave it anywhere Mitch or Jenny might find it. I was wondering if you have a
spare meeting or conference room I could use from time to time.”
“Of course I do…” I ponder for a moment. “I should have thought of it myself. You need a work base,
don’t you.”
“I do. Just on an asional basis. I’ll try not to get underfoot. And perhaps a storage locker for the
files.”
“I think we can do better than that. You may be working on this for some time. You’ll need a private
space where you can safely leave your files and know they’re away from prying eyes. Something at
least semi-permanent.” I raise my voice, calling out. “Francis, a moment, please.”
As my PA makes her way through, tablet in hand, Lydia, cranes to see. Francis closes the door
carefully behind herself.
“Francis, I’d like you to find an office for Mr Waterman here. Something private and with ess to a
meeting room if needed.”
She taps at her keyboard, scrolling down a screen of data. “Would you prefer something on the upper
levels, or lower down, Mr Waterman?”
He nces out over the view. “If I have a choice, upper level, I think.”
“Actually…” I raise a forefinger. “It urs to me, rather than an office, why don’t you take one of the
guest suites.”
Klempner nks over. “Guest suites?”
“They’re up on the penthouse level. We keep them for visiting VIPs. The suites have full facilities
including a kitchte. Given the nature of what you’re doing, you’re likely to be working some odd
hours. You might appreciate being able to get your head down without having to drive all the way
home.”
He sucks at his cheeks. “That’s very good of you, Haswell. I’ll take up your offer. Thank you.”
“You’re wee. Francis, give Mr Waterman the key for Suite Two. Show him around. Check he has
everything he needs… Desk. Filing cab. Bookshelves or whatever. And make sure everything he
has is lockable.”
“Yes, Mr Haswell.”
“Larry, let me know if you need anything. Anything at all. And for the avoidance of doubt, if I’m not
around, you can tell Francis here anything that you would say to me.”
He flicks a nce at her, nods slightly. “Understood.”
“If you’refortable with it, I’ll fill her in on what it is you’re doing?” I pause, deliberately phrasing it as
a question.
“I’ll let you tell her,” he replies drily. “Stanton’s your chum. You’ll have a better idea of what he’s happy
to have repeated.”
Francis makes for the door. “If you’ll follow me, Mr Waterman…” Out in Reception, a voice pipes up
again. “Can I help?”
Francis is crisp. “You get on with your filing, Lydia.”
*****
JAMES
Squawks of protest rattle along the hall, louder by the second.
Michael throws me a nce. “What the hell’s that?”
“Sounds like someone’s ying a cat.” We follow the sound…
…to the lounge…
In fact, Charlotte is not skinning our infant daughter, but from the shrieks, squeals and screams, you’d
not know it.
Cara’s hair, almost as dark as mine now, and thickening up by the day, bristles out into spikes and
spines that would do honour to Sonic the Hedgehog. Projecting like random antennae, with only a
slight power boost, she could detect the micro-signals of spacecraft or orbiting satellites.
Klempner sits beside Mitch, hidden behind what looks like Richard’s scrounged newspaper while she
works on one of her eternal knitting projects. They wince in tandem as Cara’s shrieks climb an octave.
Trying to ignore the background noise, I give a nod to Klempner. “You’re back then?”
The newspaper doesn’t move. A voice emerges from behind it. “As you see.”
“Where have you been thest few days?”
The paper still doesn’t move. “Here and there.”
Hmmm…
It’s going to be one of those conversations…
Michael flops into an armchair. “We were beginning to think we''d lost you.” His tone is innocent, but a
glint in his eye says he’s enjoying the opportunity to bait the man.
A touch of irritation enters Klempner’s voice. “I told Mitch where I was. No one needed to be
concerned.” Mitch Hmmms agreement, counting under her breath as, with a long fingernail, she flicks
stitches along the knitting needle.
“Where was that, then?”
The newspaper drops. “I needed some air and time to think. I got caught up in something else. Doing a
favour for a friend.”
“What friend would that be?”
“Vince Caproni.”
“Caproni? The casino mogul?”
“That''s the one.”
“Was it a big favour?” I ask. “Something important?”
Klempner shakes the paper back up into ce. “It was to him.”
That, it seems, ends the conversation.
Charlotte, cross-legged on the hearthrug, brush in hand, looks up from her assault on Cara’s ck-red
thatch. “You can help when you want to. When it''s something important. But I can''t?” With something
like despair in her voice, “Why does Cara’s hair always do this? I try to keep her looking tidy, but five
minutes after I’ve brushed it, it’s done this Punk-fashion thing again.”
Once more, Klempner speaks from behind the newspaper. “She probably gets it from you. Your hair
was always like that when you were small.”
Charlotte stares, brush poised, frozen in mid-air. “Was it?”
“Yes, until it grew long enough to hang under its own weight. Until then, you looked like the spawn of a
carrot and a porcupine.”
Michael chuckles, but Mitch looks stricken. “I never saw any of that.”
The paper drops. Klempner looks between mother and daughter. Eyes rolling up, his lips move silently.
Fuck!
ConTEent bel0ngs to N?v(e)lD/rama(.)Org .
“Mitch… I''m sorry. I shouldn''t have said that.”
“It''s alright.” But she brushes down her skirt. “Excuse me for a moment.” Mitch’s eyes are glossy as she
exits the room. Charlotte watches her leave then, scowling, resumes her attempts to subdue Cara’s
hair. Cara resumes her screaming.
Klempner presses at a temple, muttering to himself. “How the fuck do I make things right?”
“That a rhetorical question?” I ask.
“No, not entirely. In fact, not at all.” He spreads frustrated palms. “How do I stop the Past rearing its
head every time I open my mouth? For that matter, when I try to do anything at all.”
Michael’s tone is mild. “By reiming the present and making the future as good as possible.” He
hunkers down by Charlotte, easing the brush from her hand. “Here, let me try.”
Taking a single tuft of hair, carefully, he brushes it out from the end, untangling it bit by bit, working
inward. As the spike unravels, fluffing up, Cara calms. Michael moves on to the next strand.
Klempner watches him silently, then turns his gaze to the door, as though trying to see through it.
Cursing silently, he ps down the paper and strides out.
Charlotte, chewing at a lip, watches Michael. He nces back. “What is it, Babe?”
“She lets you do it, but not me.”
His answering smile is warm, intended to reassure. “I’m a masseur. I’ve had a bit more practice than
you at handling other people.”
She winds a lock of her hair around a finger. Around and around.
“Charlotte?”
Her nce flicks to mine, and now it’s her eyes running liquid.
“Charlotte, what’s wrong? What’s bothering you?”
“Am I a bad Mom?”