‘Not strong enough? Good God, man, what do you mean?’
In his dinner jacket, Carter felt himself perspiring like a guilty schoolboy. ‘The central allegations concern a place three and a half thousand miles away which Judith Laing had never visited.’
‘A place our Delhi stringer could have checked out in two hours flat.’
‘Given Judith’s involvement—’ protested Carter.
‘Ah, right,’ Harvey nodded facetiously, ‘given Judith’s involvement you decide to sit on the biggest story you’ve ever seen, to give all our competitors a sporting chance.’
Much to his mortification, Carter felt the colour rising in his cheeks.
‘In the meantime, you decide to do sweet FA about the other stories that could have been run as standalones – Jacob Strauss’s track record; the discrepancy between Forbes forecasts and the Annual Report—’
‘Well, maybe that was an error of judgement,’ Carter conceded.
‘And not your judgement to make!’ Harvey retorted angrily. ‘This is a front-page story. You knew that damned well. And you didn’t even do me the courtesy of running the piece by me. At the very least it shows incompetence on a spectacular scale.’
He paused, glaring at Carter. ‘Of course, there’s another explanation I don’t even want to think about.’
Carter grew rapidly alarmed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Carter, don’t ask me to spell it out.’ Harvey fixed him with an expression of extreme distaste. ‘Suffice it to say that as of this moment I am relieving you from your position as City Editor of The Herald.’
‘You can’t just fire me on the spot!’ exploded Carter, shaking with rage and shock.
‘Why not?’
‘I have family obligations—’
‘And I have an obligation to my readers.’ Harvey was caustic. ‘Would you prefer me instead to suspend you and order a full-scale enquiry? Firing you is the very least I should be doing. I’m still considering the grounds for criminal enquiry.’
Carter stood a moment, his face frozen with disbelief. Then he turned to the door.
‘I want you straight out of the office and downstairs,’ Harvey called after him, as the final indignity. ‘Carol will clear your desk and send personal items to your home tomorrow.’
It was more than twenty minutes before Jacob Strauss managed to flag down a taxi outside the Grosvenor House. In the normal course of events, Elliott North, or one of his Starwear flunkies, would have phoned ahead for his driver, and the Bentley would be waiting for him as he emerged from the hotel. But he had no hired help tonight. Standing on the pavement, flailing helplessly at every passing cab, only added to his towering resentment. And mounting anxiety.
When a taxi finally did stop for him, he shouted his address through the window, telling the driver to ‘step on the gas’, before he slumped in the back. They were soon speeding past the hotel entrance to the Great Room, where a great crowd on the pavement were climbing into chauffeured cars, or trying to hail taxis, after an evening abruptly curtailed. He supposed his wife was among them. Stupid bitch for deserting him at the table. She could walk home for all he cared.
He was utterly dazed by the events of the evening. Never in his life had he been so humiliated. Blood still pounding in his head, he glanced over his shoulder through the back window of the cab, half expecting to see the red and blue lights of a police car. He knew it was all over for him now. Thanks to that complete fuck-wit Elliott North, the family firm was down the tubes. There would be criminal investigations; lawsuits fired at him from every quarter; jail sentences pronounced. All in abstentia, if he had anything to do with it. He wasn’t hanging around in this shit-hole of a country waiting for the noose to close round his neck. He’d get the hell out to Switzerland, where he’d long since stashed some money. Then he’d decide what to do next.
Glancing at his watch – ten twenty-five – he knew he’d have to move fast if he was going to get out tonight. The Starwear Citation jet was in New York. And he had no PA to shop around for a scheduled flight. So when the cab pulled up in front of his Boltons home, he handed the driver a £50 note and told him to wait. He ran up the steps and, once inside the house, made his way directly to the study, where he threw his passport, bank cards and other financial documents in his briefcase. Then to the bedroom where he’d never changed so fast; he dumped the evening suit and changed into more casual clothes, not wanting to draw attention to himself later at the airport. Looking around the extensive wardrobes of his dressing room, it didn’t even occur to him to pack clothes – he could always buy them at the other end. Then he was hurrying downstairs.
He’d reached the hallway when the front door opened and in stepped Amy. Hair clinging damply around her face and eyes blotched with mascara, she couldn’t have looked more different from the song of elegance who had arrived at the Grosvenor House earlier that evening. Across the hallway, she took in her husband’s change of clothes and briefcase at a single glance.
‘On your way somewhere?’ She was weary.
‘What the fuck d’you expect?’
It was a moment before she shrugged. ‘I expect you to run away. Like you always do. But you can’t this time. There’s nowhere to go.’
As she met his eyes, she recalled the wall-to-wall image that had so distressed her earlier that evening – the photograph of all those kids in his factory. ‘How could you?’ she demanded hoarsely.
He pushed past her. ‘No time to stand around listening to your crap.’
‘Just so you know,’ she turned as he opened the door, ‘tomorrow I’ll be speaking to lawyers about a divorce.’
He threw back his head and let out a short, frantic cackle. ‘I hope you’re not expecting any money out of me.’