Free An Immoral Code by Caro Fraser Page B

later, he was ready to go, his large briefcase in his hand stuffed with documents, relevant and irrelevant. For once he looked alert and almost cheerful. The committee meeting in London gave his day some point, his life some focus.
    Brian’s wife, Alison, watched from the doorway as they set off down the path. Charles, raising his hand in a faintly embarrassed gesture which was intended to be both greeting and farewell, was glad he had not had to stop and talk to her. She had a beaten, miserable quality about her. He imagined that she blamed Brian daily, and vocally, for their reduced circumstances.
    In the car, Brian talked nervously and excitedly about the meeting at Nichols & Co, about their new leader, the ramifications for their case. Charles, as he drove, observed that the skin around Brian’s fingernails was red and sore, and that Brian picked fretfully at it during silences.
    ‘How are the children?’ asked Charles, trying to steer Brian away from his interminable rant about the case.
    Brian nibbled briefly at his fingers before answering. ‘Notgood. Paul is having a hellish time at his new school. Sophie used to go around in tears about losing her pony, but now she’s coming home late for tea, we don’t know where she is half the time, who she’s with … Anna doesn’t seem too bad … Anyone can say what they like, Charles, but money makes a big difference where children are concerned. I mean, we’ve had to uproot them from everything they’ve known – naturally they resent it, and me. I’m to blame.’ He frowned, picking at an obstinate little tail of skin. ‘Alison bloody nearly tells them that. You would think, after eight months, that she’d stop going on about how she always had doubts about Lloyd’s, she never thought it was a good idea …’
    Charles gave a wry smile. ‘Everyone says that. Everyone’s wise after the event.’
    They drove in silence for a while, then Brian suddenly burst out, ‘What I find impossible to live with, day in, day out, is the sheer arrogance of those bastards who ruined me in the first place. I’m not complaining about the losses on properly managed syndicates. It’s the fact that I have to shell out for the malpractices of that crook Alan Capstall, and he’s still got his debenture at the opera, and his companies, and his two homes and expensive cars. And those stuffed shirts at Lloyd’s – people thinking they can get away with murder …’
    Charles murmured something neutral, and glanced discreetly at the clock, realising with a sinking heart that Brian would probably go on like this for the rest of the journey.
     
    ‘So, tell me about this committee. Describe them all,’ said Leo. He and Anthony were sitting in a cab in slow-moving traffic on Holborn Viaduct, on their way to the offices of Nichols & Co.
    ‘Well,’ said Anthony, ‘there are seven of them. The chairman is a chap called Basher Snodgrass, some retired Air Force chap who became a Lloyd’s broker after the war. He knows what’sgoing on and he’s fairly innocuous – they voted him in four months ago because they couldn’t stand the last one they had, Verney. They booted him out at the last AGM, and a right shambles that was. We held it in the Mansion House, and everybody just kept shouting. Not very edifying, the spectacle of hundreds of Lloyd’s Names bellowing at each other, or at Verney, or anyone else who happened to be handy. Anyway, Snodgrass is the chairman. Then there’s a chap called Beecham – actually, you may know him. Or his face, at any rate. Charles Beecham. He does those historical documentaries on Channel Four. He’s got one on the Crusades at the moment.’
    Leo nodded. ‘I know the one. Good-looking chap, waves his hands about when he talks.’
    ‘That’s him. He’s fairly pleasant, actually – compared to the rest, that is. Well, not that they’re unpleasant. Just a bit … tiresome. Then there’s a Mrs Hunter. Got some strange Christian name that I