Graham went down by the stairs. He waited in the shadows of the Reception area until the lift arrived. The doors opened and George stumbled out, suddenly shorter and more bent, pulling his golf trolley incongruously behind him.
Only one door was left open at that time of night and George had difficulty negotiating the trolley through it. Going down the steps to the pavement was also awkward. Graham did not emerge from the building until his quarry was moving along smoothly.
He had to find out how much George knew, or how much he had pieced together. In his fuddled state, the old man had not elaborated, simply handed the lighter over, apparently more struck by the unusual circumstances of its return than suspicions as to how it might have got into a hire-car. But he wouldn’t stay drunk for ever, and there had to come a moment when he started to ask questions. Graham knew he must speak before that moment arrived, must pre-empt suspicion by some spurious explanation. He didn’t know what it was yet, but he felt confident he’d think of something.
In the meantime he would follow his former boss and choose his moment to speak.
George Brewer moved automatically. His footsteps had trodden the same route every day for over thirty years and no amount of bitter reflection would allow them to deviate. He forgot about his farcical appendage, the golf trolley, until he came to the steps down to Oxford Circus Underground Station.
The almost expired season ticket was flashed at a collector deep in his newspaper and then George had to balance his trophy, his reward for all those years of service, on the unfolding escalator. That task, and the darkness of his thoughts, made him oblivious of his colleague at the ticket machine.
Graham was annoyed. He shouldn’t have dawdled playing the private detective. He should have confronted George before, explained about the lighter, settled the business. Now he had to go through the rigmarole of going down on to the platform and accosting the old man there.
George lived in Haywards Heath, so caught the Victoria Line Southbound to Victoria. It was about half-past nine. The station was relatively empty; the drink-after-the-office commuters had gone, and the cinemas and restaurants had yet to disgorge their home-going crowds.
The trailing golf trolley was slowing George down, and Graham was close behind when they came off the second escalator. He could have spoken, called out, but he didn’t.
George suddenly put on a spurt, an asthmatic run, as he saw the silver screen of a train across the end of the passage. But it was too late. The windows started to slide past. He had missed it. He stopped, panting, while the few unloaded passengers drifted past him. Then he moved forward on to the platform.
Graham stayed, apparently absorbed in a cinema poster. He told himself he was trying to perfect his explanation of the lighter, but he no longer believed it. A pulse of excitement throbbed inside him.
George stood with his back to the passage. He was holding the trolley handle with his right hand, while he looked from his watch to the indicator board. Graham checked no one was behind him and moved on to the platform.
A look to either side. No one but George had missed the train.
It took one quick, firm shove.
Graham was walking back along the passage before George hit the rails, so he didn’t see the flash as the metal of the golf trolley made contact. Nor the great shudder that whiplashed through his former boss’s body.
He strolled along, following the ‘Way Out’ signs, and dumped his ticket in front of the still-reading collector, who was never going to check why a ticket printed at Oxford Circus should be delivered there.
Up on street level, he felt the excitement breaking out, tingling like sweat all over his body. He looked at his watch. It was only seven minutes since he had left the Crasoco tower.
His mind was working very clearly. He knew exactly what he had to do. He walked briskly, but not hurriedly, back to the office.
He had been prepared to go all the way up to the conference room, but was saved the trouble. Stella and a couple of other tittering secretaries were just emerging from the lift.
He walked straight towards her.
‘I waited for you,’ he said.
The other two secretaries split off, giggling, armed with new gossip-fodder for the canteen. Stella gazed up at him. Her eyes were unfocused with alcohol, but full of relief and trust.
They took a cab to her flat. As soon as they were inside the door he seized her. He closed his eyes as their flesh joined, and the recollection of that one push, the image of George Brewer frozen untidily in mid-air, gave Graham Marshall’s body a violent power.