Chapter Eighty-Eight
“… get in the car. It’s right outside the door. And you do not say a single word to anyone.”
Still, she protests, trying to take his hand in hers. “Jack, I wanted to help you. Your career…”
“That’s right,” interrupts Pensby. “We were trying to do the right thing. It was a valid investigation.”
"A valid investigation?” Vandervoort stands again, leaning across the table to rest on his fists. “Tell me, Pensby. Why, as your very first move in this new department, did you choose to target Richard Haswell? With over thirty years in business, he has no record of tax avoidance. No record of questionable accountancy methods. No history of any illegality. I doubt whether you’ll find he has so much as a fine on a late library book…”
Vandervoort flings out an arm, as though pointing across the town. “… In City Hall, there’s ten year’s worth of back-records on companies and individuals I wanted evaluating for enforcement on outstanding taxes. So, why did you start with Richard and his wife here?”
Pensby leans away from the looming Mayor. “I was in receipt of credible information he should be investigated.”
“S’that so?” Vandervoort cocks a brow. “And the source of that information?”
Pensby’s throat bobs. “I’m not at liberty to say.” His eyes flick toward Irene but she looks away.
And Vandervoort follows the movement. He speaks quietly. “Yes, that’s what I thought. When my wife here suddenly became more interested in City finances than courting the press, I should have smelled a rat at the time.”
Eyes narrowing on his wife, “You had me going, my dear. I genuinely believed you’d come up with an idea that would benefit us all. Instead, I find you simply indulged in petty spite in retaliation for some imagined slight and found a target for your machinations.”
“Imagined!” snaps Irene. “The way that pair treated me…”
Pensby blusters. “I’m not at fault. I did nothing. I was only trying to help. It was a favour for a friend.”
“Be silent!” Vandervoort slams a fist down on the tabletop. Cutlery bounces and heads turn. Eyes flashing, he scans the other diners, then leans down, almost nose-to-nose with Pensby. “A favour for a friend? It was corruption. At best, misconduct and at worst, criminal. I'll review the details tomorrow…”
“… Here I am, trying to clean up the Office, and I find the man I bring in to handle it is up to his neck in it himself. An officer of the government and you abused your power, your rank and your privileges.”
“But I…”
“Effectively immediately, you are no longer connected with City Revenue. Meanwhile, your desk has been cleared and your appointments will be filled by another, more competent officer. Don't come into the office tomorrow. If I have my way, you’ll be out of the service altogether by the end of the day. If not, I believe there are openings in City Hall in the Hygiene and Sanitation Department.”
Pensby’s forehead creases.
“Sewers inspector,” explains Claudia, helpfully.
“But… But… I’ve done nothing wrong! I was doing my job. It was my normal day's work. Irene, tell him…”
Irene examines her nails…
My Master taps Pensby on the shoulder, “A word of advice,” he says, his voice mild. “It won’t help you now, but you could remember it for a future occasion. You let Irene buy you so that, for her own reasons, she could stick the knife into both me and my wife. She had no cause for that beyond her own petty jealousies. Irene’s that kind of woman. You should consider that you have had a lucky escape. If she'll do something like this to her husband of thirty years and his friends, she would have done it to you.”
“Already done it,” I say. “Now you’ve outlived your usefulness, she’s throwing you to the dogs.”
Irene stands, tries to push past me, then finds she’s still blocked in. “Jack, please take me home. Let me explain everything. We need to clear up this misunderstanding.”
Vandervoort, eyelids lowering in apology, gives me a small nod. Swinging my knees, I clear enough space for Irene to squeeze by.
Clear of the table, she reaches to touch her husband, “Jack, I…”
But he jerks away. “Go to the car.”
“But Jack…”
“Get in the fucking car!” he hisses.
Blinking rapidly, Irene bolts for the exit. Nonetheless, halfway there, she halts, twisting to look back as her husband addresses Claudia, “Miss Schmidt, I have to ask what you intend to do on this matter? Will you publish this story?”
Irene trembles, her chest rising and falling. Pensby blanches, his hands trembling.
Claudia plays the dramatic pause before, “It depends on what Mr and Mrs Haswell here want me to do. If they ask me not to publish, I won’t.”
Vandervoort blinks, then nods. Short and sharp. “I understand. Richard. Beth. Please be assured this matter will be dealt with and you’ll have no more difficulties from City Hall or any related department. Miss Schmidt, my thanks. I’ll wish you all goodnight.” And revolving, he marches out after his fleeing wife.
“And good riddance,” snorts Claudia.
In the background, the restaurant manager hovers, then approaches. His eyes dart. “Is there going to be any trouble over this? We don’t want bad publicity here. It’s hard enough to make a living these days. You think I want the press waylaying my customers with embarrassing questions?”
My Master blows out his cheeks. “Of course you don’t. And no, I’ll see that your business receives no negative publicity.” He ponders for a moment, scraping a hand over his mouth, speaking low, “Tell me, what is the capacity of your premises for functions?”
A microscopic pause, his eyes light up, and the manager moves smoothly into Business Gear. “For purely indoor events, two hundred and eighty, with capacity for an extra three hundred if we use the marquee to the rear.”
“And your quietest week of business would typically be…?”
“Second to fourth weeks of June. After Easter is over, and while many potential clients are saving for the summer vacation. Alternatively, much of October, moving into November.”
My Master nods… “June is closer.” … flipping his mobile open to the calendar app. “So, were my company to book your venue for…” He scrolls… “… a week’s training conference starting June thirteenth. Let’s say four hundred head, including catering, what would your charges be?”
The manager’s eyes gleam. “May I send you quotes with menu and accommodation options?”
“Of course. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” The phone snaps closed. The manager beams and retreats.
My Master inhales, long and slow, before letting it out again. “Claudia, mere thanks are not enough. If there is ever anything I can do to help you, just call.”
“Ah.” She chews a lip. “Well, actually…”
“Yes?” He sucks away a smile. “Actually?”
“It’s the Regional Trade and Business Events exhibition next week,” she rattles. “I wondered if you could send me an invitation to your company stand? That would get me through the door with a press pass for everything else.” She winds down, looking hopeful.
My Master Hmmms, then opens up his phone. “Francis? Richard here. Sorry to call you so late, but could you make a note for when you’re in the office tomorrow. Please make arrangements to add Miss Claudia Schmidt to the corporate invitation list for all public events, exhibitions and press conferences… Yes, all categories. And please ensure that she receives the invitations directly. They are to be addressed to her by name. Not necessarily as a representative for City News… Yes, that’s right. In particular, please see Miss Schmidt receives a pass for the Trade Exhibition next week... That’s perfect, yes. Thank you, Francis.”
He snaps his phone closed. Cocks his head. “Good enough?”
Claudia beams. “Absolutely, sir.”
*****
Following savoury aromas of coriander, cinnamon, ginger and… and something… to the kitchen, I find Ross in full ‘Buttling’ regalia, topped off with a heavy apron over his pressed pants and jacket. Tasting some sauce on a wooden spoon, he frowns.
“It smells wonderful. What are we having?”
“Mrs Stanton is particularly fond of Thai curry...” The frown deepens toward a scowl. “... But I’m not happy with the flavour. Something’s missing.” He dips into a pot, then offers the spoon to me. “What do you think?”
I roll the sauce around my mouth. As usual with Ross’ cooking, it’s delicious, but he’s right. There’s just something…
“How about cardamom?” I say. “It’s hard to go wrong adding that to ’most anything.”
Ross snaps his fingers, beaming, then strides across to his spice rack, making a brief diversion around a large ginger cat. Strolling into the kitchen, tail hoisted in the banner of a pennant declaring a royal visit, it jumps up to enthrone itself on a rocking chair by the range, then fixes Ross with a slit-eyed, bottle-glass stare, clearly awaiting homage and the key to the fridge.