Everything in Its Place

The Harbour Hotel bar was all green leather and soft lamps, designed by someone who believed that money should sound like murmuring. Marcus Lyle sat at a corner table pretending not to be waiting. He had the expensive ease of a man whose conscience was another department’s problem, and a handshake that said he had practised it on a great many people who couldn’t afford to refuse.

“Mr Crane wanted the signing on Monday,” he said, stirring a drink that did not need stirring. “Flats on the site, a little market square, we call it a community partner scheme. Very forward-looking. It would have kept a great many people in work.” He smiled, delicately. “For a time.”

“And now?”

“Now someone saw to it that Monday never came. Terrible business.” He spread his hands. “Harborline would be delighted to sponsor a Thrift Day trophy in his memory.”

As you rose to leave he mentioned, lightly, as one mentions the weather, that the Fairweather Foundation had a seat on Harborline’s culture fund, and that Sir Edwin would be speaking at the Grand Lantern next month. “A fascinating man,” said Lyle. “He’s going to talk about identity. You must be going. Everyone is.”

Outside the rain had started again. The hotel doorman held an umbrella over you, politely, as one holds a door for someone who has already been counted.