The Lover's Children

Chapter 74 – Solstice – Part 7

KLEMPNER

Not a great success…

Stanton’s files then. Look them over…

… while I work on my interview technique.

But where?

Somewhere private.

A bar?

Too public. And I need somewhere to spread out. A desk. Somewhere to file. Maybe a display board.

Rent an office?

Then it strikes me…

Nothing like missing the blindingly fucking obvious…

*****

At the Haswell offices, I stroll through acres of brassy, glassy bling and into the public foyer, to be met

by a face I know well. “Good morning, Kirstie.”

A microsecond of blank expression washes away like rain under a windscreen wiper. “Larry?” Then she

breaks into a smile. “What can I do for you? Charlotte’s not here that I’m aware of.”

“Thank you, Kirstie, but I’m not here to see my daughter. I was hoping to have a word with Haswell.”

That blank expression again for a moment. “Richard Haswell? I’ll… see if he’s available.” She taps into

her desk-con unit. “Francis? I have Mr Waterman here asking to see Mr Haswell… Yes, Larry

Waterman… No, he doesn’t say…” Then she nods brightly. “Go on up. Mr Haswell’s in his office.”

*****

RICHARD

My intercom buzzes. “Yes, Francis?”

“I have Kirstie on, sir. She says there’s a Mr Waterman downstairs, asking to see you.”

“Waterman? Larry Waterman?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“What on earth’s he doing here?”

“She doesn’t say, sir.

“Tell him to come up.”

Lydia’s head pops up from somewhere behind a tray of filing. “He’s coming here? What does he want?”

Francis’ tone is prim. “I don’t know, Lydia and it’s none of your business.”

*****

Klempner steps out of the elevator with that air he has of owning everything around him.

“Larry, what can I do for you?”

His reply is cut short as Lydia charges at him, cup and saucer in hand, wearing an expression of vapid

adoration. “I made you a coffee.”

“Lydia!” Francis snaps the words. “You do not interrupt Mr Haswell when he’s speaking.”

Her head hangs. “Sorry. I just thought I should make you welcome.” Klempner accepts the cup,

grunting some response, but pointedly ignoring the girl.

Francis shepherds her back behind her filing. I return my attention to Klempner. “So, repeating my

question, what can I do for you?” He hovers, eyeing the two women. “Come into my office. We can talk

there.”

Inside, Klempner strolls to the window, gazing out over the Cityscape, one hand holding the cup, the

other shoved in a pocket. “Spectacular scenery.”

“Isn’t it. All the City laid before me.”

His mouth quirks. “I imagine it helps that you own half of it.”

“Not quite that much, but enough for a satisfying view, yes.” I wave him to a seat, pour myself a coffee

from the pot Francis keeps topped up by the window area. “So…?”

“You know I’ve agreed to help Stanton with this investigation into the Surgeon.”

“Will did tell me, yes.”

“He’s given me a copy of the files. It’s unpleasant stuff. I don’t want to take it back to the house. I

particularly don’t want to leave it anywhere Mitch or Jenny might find it. I was wondering if you have a

spare meeting or conference room I could use from time to time.”

“Of course I do…” I ponder for a moment. “I should have thought of it myself. You need a work base,

don’t you.”

“I do. Just on an occasional basis. I’ll try not to get underfoot. And perhaps a storage locker for the

files.”

“I think we can do better than that. You may be working on this for some time. You’ll need a private

space where you can safely leave your files and know they’re away from prying eyes. Something at

least semi-permanent.” I raise my voice, calling out. “Francis, a moment, please.”

As my PA makes her way through, tablet in hand, Lydia, cranes to see. Francis closes the door

carefully behind herself.

“Francis, I’d like you to find an office for Mr Waterman here. Something private and with access to a

meeting room if needed.”

She taps at her keyboard, scrolling down a screen of data. “Would you prefer something on the upper

levels, or lower down, Mr Waterman?”

He glances out over the view. “If I have a choice, upper level, I think.”

“Actually…” I raise a forefinger. “It occurs to me, rather than an office, why don’t you take one of the

guest suites.”

Klempner blanks over. “Guest suites?”

“They’re up on the penthouse level. We keep them for visiting VIPs. The suites have full facilities

including a kitchenette. Given the nature of what you’re doing, you’re likely to be working some odd

hours. You might appreciate being able to get your head down without having to drive all the way

home.”

He sucks at his cheeks. “That’s very good of you, Haswell. I’ll take up your offer. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Francis, give Mr Waterman the key for Suite Two. Show him around. Check he has

everything he needs… Desk. Filing cabinet. Bookshelves or whatever. And make sure everything he ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

has is lockable.”

“Yes, Mr Haswell.”

“Larry, let me know if you need anything. Anything at all. And for the avoidance of doubt, if I’m not

around, you can tell Francis here anything that you would say to me.”

He flicks a glance at her, nods slightly. “Understood.”

“If you’re comfortable with it, I’ll fill her in on what it is you’re doing?” I pause, deliberately phrasing it as

a question.

“I’ll let you tell her,” he replies drily. “Stanton’s your chum. You’ll have a better idea of what he’s happy

to have repeated.”

Francis makes for the door. “If you’ll follow me, Mr Waterman…” Out in Reception, a voice pipes up

again. “Can I help?”

Francis is crisp. “You get on with your filing, Lydia.”

*****

JAMES

Squawks of protest rattle along the hall, louder by the second.

Michael throws me a glance. “What the hell’s that?”

“Sounds like someone’s flaying a cat.” We follow the sound…

…to the lounge…

In fact, Charlotte is not skinning our infant daughter, but from the shrieks, squeals and screams, you’d

not know it.

Cara’s hair, almost as dark as mine now, and thickening up by the day, bristles out into spikes and

spines that would do honour to Sonic the Hedgehog. Projecting like random antennae, with only a

slight power boost, she could detect the micro-signals of spacecraft or orbiting satellites.

Klempner sits beside Mitch, hidden behind what looks like Richard’s scrounged newspaper while she

works on one of her eternal knitting projects. They wince in tandem as Cara’s shrieks climb an octave.

Trying to ignore the background noise, I give a nod to Klempner. “You’re back then?”

The newspaper doesn’t move. A voice emerges from behind it. “As you see.”

“Where have you been the last few days?”

The paper still doesn’t move. “Here and there.”

Hmmm…

It’s going to be one of those conversations…

Michael flops into an armchair. “We were beginning to think we'd lost you.” His tone is innocent, but a

glint in his eye says he’s enjoying the opportunity to bait the man.

A touch of irritation enters Klempner’s voice. “I told Mitch where I was. No one needed to be

concerned.” Mitch Hmmms agreement, counting under her breath as, with a long fingernail, she flicks

stitches along the knitting needle.

“Where was that, then?”

The newspaper drops. “I needed some air and time to think. I got caught up in something else. Doing a

favour for a friend.”

“What friend would that be?”

“Vince Caproni.”

“Caproni? The casino mogul?”

“That's the one.”

“Was it a big favour?” I ask. “Something important?”

Klempner shakes the paper back up into place. “It was to him.”

That, it seems, ends the conversation.

Charlotte, cross-legged on the hearthrug, brush in hand, looks up from her assault on Cara’s black-red

thatch. “You can help when you want to. When it's something important. But I can't?” With something

like despair in her voice, “Why does Cara’s hair always do this? I try to keep her looking tidy, but five

minutes after I’ve brushed it, it’s done this Punk-fashion thing again.”

Once more, Klempner speaks from behind the newspaper. “She probably gets it from you. Your hair

was always like that when you were small.”

Charlotte stares, brush poised, frozen in mid-air. “Was it?”

“Yes, until it grew long enough to hang under its own weight. Until then, you looked like the spawn of a

carrot and a porcupine.”

Michael chuckles, but Mitch looks stricken. “I never saw any of that.”

The paper drops. Klempner looks between mother and daughter. Eyes rolling up, his lips move silently.

Fuck!

“Mitch… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“It's alright.” But she brushes down her skirt. “Excuse me for a moment.” Mitch’s eyes are glossy as she

exits the room. Charlotte watches her leave then, scowling, resumes her attempts to subdue Cara’s

hair. Cara resumes her screaming.

Klempner presses at a temple, muttering to himself. “How the fuck do I make things right?”

“That a rhetorical question?” I ask.

“No, not entirely. In fact, not at all.” He spreads frustrated palms. “How do I stop the Past rearing its

head every time I open my mouth? For that matter, when I try to do anything at all.”

Michael’s tone is mild. “By reclaiming the present and making the future as good as possible.” He

hunkers down by Charlotte, easing the brush from her hand. “Here, let me try.”

Taking a single tuft of hair, carefully, he brushes it out from the end, untangling it bit by bit, working

inward. As the spike unravels, fluffing up, Cara calms. Michael moves on to the next strand.

Klempner watches him silently, then turns his gaze to the door, as though trying to see through it.

Cursing silently, he slaps down the paper and strides out.

Charlotte, chewing at a lip, watches Michael. He glances back. “What is it, Babe?”

“She lets you do it, but not me.”

His answering smile is warm, intended to reassure. “I’m a masseur. I’ve had a bit more practice than

you at handling other people.”

She winds a lock of her hair around a finger. Around and around.

“Charlotte?”

Her glance flicks to mine, and now it’s her eyes running liquid.

“Charlotte, what’s wrong? What’s bothering you?”

“Am I a bad Mom?”