Free Ice Blue by Emma Jameson Page B

Bhar entered, she was
reading a magazine. She glanced up at the detectives with a vague
smile, as if surprised human beings had at last penetrated her
sanctum.
    “DS Bhar and DS Wakefield,” Bhar said,
showing his warrant card as Kate did the same. “Scotland Yard.
We’re here to speak with Mr. Fringate.”
    “He’s very busy,” the administrative
assistant murmured, with practice of one airing out a particularly
threadbare lie. “Let me go and check.”
    A minute later, the old woman returned from
the inner office. “Yes, yes, come along. He will certainly make
time for the police. Bad business about Mr. Comfrey.” Still
muttering, she led them to Charlie Fringate’s door, which featured
his name in overlarge block letters engraved on a brass plate, and
ushered them inside.
    Fringate stood up as Kate and Bhar entered.
He aimed a wide, welcoming salesman’s smile at each of them.
Fringate was in his early fifties, Kate guessed; a big, broad
shouldered man with a square face, superhero chin, and a head full
of hair so dark, it had to be colored. He was handsome in a
wholesome, American-cowboy sort of way. But weighty bags drooped
under each eye, and there was something in his gaze – something
excessively hopeful – that made Kate wonder how many potential
clients he frightened away with his naked need.
    “Come in, come in,” Fringate said in a hearty
voice. Leaning over the desk, he shook each detective’s hand before
returning to his seat. He wore a burgundy-striped shirt with a
matching tie and braces, the latter of which dug into his
shoulders. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to just below each
elbow, as if he intended to get down to business. Or perhaps he
already had, Kate thought. His desk, like his administrative
assistant’s, was clear of work. A large calendar-style blotter
covered most of the space, scribbled over with times, names, and
phone numbers. His desk also offered not one but two candy dishes:
a cut-crystal dish of peppermints, and a porcelain bowl of M &
Ms.
    “Take your pick,” Charlie said, flashing his
hopeful smile. “Please, sit down. Let me know how I can help. But
this is just a formality, I guess,” he added, with what Kate
suspected was a habit of unwarranted optimism.
    “Jules Comfrey mentioned you did business
with her father. She said on one occasion, the deal went sour,”
Bhar began. “Can you tell us about that?”
    “Sure. I did business with Malcolm on and off
for almost twenty years. Used his company to ship calculators and
adding machines, back in the day, before the Asians cut me to
ribbons.” He grinned at Bhar. “No offense. Smart people. Good at
miniaturization. Most of us just couldn’t compete. Now I’ve gone
into a different line, auctioning factory surplus and what they
call ‘seconds’ – merchandise not good enough for Mr. and Mrs. U.K.
Consumer – and shipping it round the world. Always need the best
price on global freight or the profit goes up in smoke. Malcolm and
I agreed on a price for shipping a huge amount of plastics to
Poland, Lithuania, and the Ukraine, but just when the freight was
ready, Malcolm told me his company’s circumstances had changed. He
increased his price by almost twenty percent. I only had an eight
percent profit margin, but I was committed on several levels. So I
shipped the freight, swallowed the loss, and tried not to take it
personally.”
    “Did you consider your legal options?” Bhar
asked. “Since Comfrey changed the contract without notice?”
    Fringate laughed. “Oh, no, it doesn’t work
that way. Handshake deals, that’s how it’s done. Never lawyers,
never paperwork. And even if we did bother with a written contract,
I never would have turned around and sued Malcolm. Never.” Fringate
didn’t look or sound the least bit condescending – he had an easy,
pleasant way of explaining – but the unspoken meaning rang clear to
Kate. People like us conduct business through gentleman’s
agreements.