Hemingway’s Chair

bewildered. Crispin looked hostile. Devereux smiled
sweetly.
    ‘Well,
Martin, that’s what I'm doing.’ He turned to the builder beside him.
‘And it doesn’t look too good, does it, Mr Crispin?’ Crispin shook his head as
Devereux spoke. ‘There’s dry rot and...’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Come on Joe,
what else?’
    ‘Metal
fatigue on supporting columns, concrete decay and subsidence at the north-west
corner,’ Joe Crispin mumbled.
    Devereux
looked across at Martin. He spread his arms. ‘Very bad. Going to take a lot of
fixing.’
    ‘How
long?’ Martin asked. He’d wanted it to sound like a genuine enquiry, but it
came across harsh and brusque. If Devereux was angry he concealed it well. ‘I’m
glad to see you take an interest, Martin. We’ll make sure you’re the first to
know.’ Then he turned to Crispin, confidingly. ‘Martin’s working for us too,
you know.’
    Crispin
nodded grimly. ‘Well, he still shouldn’t be in here without a hat on. It’s
against the regs. I’ll get done,’ he said.
    ‘You
know the way, Martin,’ Devereux called after him, superfluously as it turned
out. Joe Crispin gripped his arm tight and personally escorted him from the
remains of the post office. Behind him there was another ear-splitting crash.
When he turned round for a last look the Newmark wall clock had gone.

Twenty-four
     
     
     
    Nick
Marshall was disappointed in Sproale. He had hoped that hecould rely on him to run Theston post office whilst he himself got on with the
communications project. Now he was having to deal with his sentimental
attachment to an outdated building and the man’s perverse refusal to appreciate
all that Nick had done for him in securing in record time, and at considerable
expense, a brand new, state-of-the-art post office that would be the envy of
small towns across Britain. Towns at the end of a queue which he and Devereux
had so successfully jumped. Even when they’d taken him into their confidence
and paid him good money, Martin had proved unable to help them with the simplest
tasks — such as supplying information on the Rudge family. Nick had been left
to pick up the pieces.
    Still,
Nick thought to himself, as he ran, loose and smooth across the Suffolk
heathland, into a freshly risen sun, at least there had been pleasures along
the way.
    The
time he had spent winning Elaine’s confidence had paid off handsomely. Over
candlelit dinners, drinks and intimate evenings beneath the paisley duvet, Nick
had slowly and patiently pieced together the story of what had really happened to
Frank Rudge all those years ago. And it was dynamite. His fish processing
business had indeed collapsed when the new cold store was built twenty miles
further up the coast. But the firm who had built the new processing plant had
systematically paid off all the main operators along the Suffolk coast. Like
others, Frank Rudge had been induced by liberal amounts of largely German money
to go out of business. The fishing jobs in Theston went and in their place had
grown Frank Rudge Haulage and Rudge Padgett Properties.
    The
revelation that Shelflife had acquired this information had worked wonders on
Frank Rudge. He had been persuaded, in return for certain assurances of
confidentiality, to release his stranglehold on the land around the harbour. He
had also promised to recommend to the next meeting of the Council Planning
Committee that land-use restrictions on the area should be reviewed. All in all
a highly satisfactory outcome for Shelflife and some interesting sex for Nick
Marshall. Now the pieces were nearly all in place. It was essential no one lose
their nerve.
    He
sprinted hard over the last hundred yards of soft, springy turf and pressed the
stopwatch button on his wrist as he reached his car. He had broken his own
record.
     
    Nick
Marshall made his next move carefully. At the end of the day’s business, he and
Martin were alone in the post office. Martin was checking through the day’s
counterfoils.
    Nick
leaned back from his terminal. He flicked at his hair and locked his hands across
the back of his head. ‘You know, I feel very good today, Martin. Very good.’
    Martin
didn’t look up.
    ‘You
know why that is?’
    Martin
shook his head. He was counting.
    ‘Because
I think at last, even you, even you, Mart, are beginning to get used to this place.’
    Martin
slipped a rubber band around the counterfoils and dropped them into the drawer
beside him. He looked Nick Marshall