Rafferty & Llewellyn Boxed Set Books 5-8

Chapter One

Chapter One

CLIVE BARSTAPLE LACED his fingers under his chin and stared out at his open-plan kingdom through the glass of his office window. The Big Brother overview had been installed on his instructions so the staff would know they were under his constant scrutiny. Most of them were now so cowed, so scared of losing their jobs, that one frowning glance through that shiny screen was enough to pale even the ruddy features of Hal Gallagher.

His Kingdom. It might only be a temporary kingdom, but he still thought of it that way. His services as interim manager hired from his own consultancy firm which specialised in rationalisation gave him that sense of potency, of power, that he craved. He liked to watch all the little wage slaves, heads bowed, beavering away, knowing that his recommendation could secure their future—or ruin it. He'd put the fear of God into them all since his arrival three months ago. They were now all gratifyingly terrified that he'd think them slacking. Barstaple almost laughed out loud. The desire to laugh vanished abruptly, as, through his triumph, he heard the voice of his great-uncle in his head. It sounded sad, and asked the question it always asked: ‘Why do you want to hurt them?’

It was a question he had never answered. He didn't answer it this time. Always, he had veered away from delving too deeply into his own soul for fear of what he might find.

Instead, he forced his thoughts into more fruitful lines; such as the wisdom of his decision to turn his management skills to the growing rationalisation market and specialise. His was a relatively easy job—lucrative, too; his brief, to do the dirty jobs, like getting rid of staff, for which the in-house managers often had little stomach.

It was a simple enough exercise, the methods crude but effective. He was good at it, too, skilful at the chipping away of confidence, the repeated criticisms, the finding of weaknesses, and using them for his own purposes. But then, he'd had good teacher. The best.

In short, his brief was to intimidate, harangue, humiliate, till staff either provided him with a reason to sack them or left of their own accord. Of course, if the timescale had been briefer, he'd have had to use even cruder methods. But Plumley had given him six months, so he had time. And this way was so much more satisfying.

He caught the eye of Linda Luscombe, the nineteen-year-old blonde Head Office had sent over on work study from the local college, and he gave her a proprietary smile as if he'd already possessed her. She flushed and dropped her gaze. Power was also an aphrodisiac, he'd discovered. It brought rewards in ways he had never fully appreciated. He was appreciating them now. Funny it had taken him so long. When he remembered what he'd had recourse to in the past... Again, he abruptly cut off the line of his thoughts.

She'd tried to pretend she didn't understand what he was after—and her with one illegitimate child already! Of course, when he'd made clear that the permanent post with the company when she'd finished college in the summer rested on his recommendation, she'd become much more anxious to please. After all, as he'd been at pains to make clear to all of them, jobs were hard to come by, for young women like Linda with unreliable child-minders as much as for the over-the-hill over-fifties. Most of them would find it out for themselves soon enough.

Of course they hated him. That didn't worry him. Let them hate, so long as they feared—wasn't it some Roman emperor who had coined the phrase? Whoever had coined it, Barstaple knew he'd been right.

He frowned, and sent a minor tremor through the office, before glancing at his watch. Nearly midday. Old Harris would be going to lunch any minute. Barstaple knew Harris had arranged to meet his wife in an attempt to patch up their marriage. Slowly, he unlaced his fingers; he intended to put a stop to that. It would never do to have the old dinosaur getting back to his wife just when he was on the point of cracking up and giving him an excuse to sack him.

Barstaple shouted Harris's name just as Harris headed for the door. ‘Come in here a minute.’

Harris hesitated, then, his face a mask of apprehension, he turned and walked to the office door, with a gait that had become increasingly shuffling over the months. ‘Yes, Mr Barstaple?’

‘Come in here. I want a word.’

A quickly concealed dismay shadowed Harris's eyes, a touch of unexpected rebellion made him blurt out, ‘I was just going to lunch, sir, and... ‘

‘What's more important?’ Barstaple asked silkily. ‘Lunch, or increasing the efficiency of the department? You seem to lack the team spirit, Harris. I've noticed that in you before. It's one of a number of things I've been meaning to discuss more fully with you, and this seems an opportune moment.’ He paused. ‘Still, if your lunch-break is more important to you...’

Harris blinked. For a moment Barstaple thought the old fool was going to burst into tears, as his Adam's apple bounced like a yo-yo against the corrugated skin of his throat. But then Harris got a grip on himself. His stiffened features revealed how tight a grip his emotions needed. The tightened lips muttered, ‘No, sir. Of course not.’

Barstaple smiled. ‘So glad you can spare the Company a few minutes of your precious time. Come in and shut the door. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?’

Harris complied and then sank heavily into the hard chair, his air of defeat robbing Barstaple of much of his satisfaction. Until he noticed that Harris's lowered eyes held a simmering resentment rather than defeat. That was much better. The almost dumb insolence from the usually meek Harris send Barstaple's mind flying back years. Harris's face dissolved, and instead, Barstaple found himself staring into the angry face of his father. He was again that small fearful boy, the boy his father had delighted in goading, in hurting. The face shimmered in front of suddenly tear-washed eyes. He blinked rapidly, and when the tears had cleared, his father had gone, and Harris's face was again before him, grey and anxious. Barstaple felt a surge of relief, swiftly followed by rage and a desire to punish that made it difficult to get his breath.

He sat back, and when his breathing had returned to normal, he decided to push Harris that little bit further. Who knew of what foolishness the man might be capable if he thought his last chance to patch up his marriage was being stolen from him?

***

IT WAS THIRTY MINUTES later, just after half-past-twelve, when Barstaple finally let Harris go. Long enough, he thought, for the estranged Mrs Harris to get good and mad at being stood up.

Harris, who had obviously come to the same conclusion, stood uncertainly in the middle of the open-plan office for fully ten seconds, before shuffling first to his desk, and from there to the kitchen. He clutched a bag that probably contained the bland food, the milk and yoghurt that his ulcers demanded.

Barstaple remembered the large plate of peeled prawns he had waiting for him in the kitchen, and his mouth watered in anticipation. They should have defrosted nicely by now. Shame he couldn't go to his usual restaurant for lunch, but he'd promised himself he'd lose a stone, and there was no way he could do that if he carried on going to Luigi's every day. Besides, he thought as he glanced down at his lap-top, he wanted to get his report finished. It should do him a bit of good; maybe even earn him a fat bonus. If he continued as well as he'd started, he'd save Watts and Cutley a packet, especially as Plumley had had to tie his own hands to get Aimhurst's son to agree to the sale of the firm. And I'm the man with the golden key, he thought, the key to unlock those chains.

It was a few minutes later when he walked past the hunched figure of Harris. He was sitting at his desk sipping a glass of milk. Almost, Barstaple felt sorry for him, but he stopped that line of thought immediately. That way lay weakness. That way lay a return to the days of being a victim. He was resolved they would never come again.

He felt Harris's gaze follow him as he walked towards the kitchen; no doubt he was wondering what excuse he could give his wife, and Barstaple smiled to himself. It was true what they said, he reflected, there was more than one way to skin a cat. More than one way, too, to get rid of unwanted employees... Now—lunch. As he glanced again at Harris's defeated figure, he knew he'd earned it.