The Unmarried Husband. Cathy Williams

might be involved in a meeting somewhere else, and her knock was answered immediately.

      Jessica pushed open the door, hardly knowing what to expect, still fuelled by a sense of fully justified parental concern, and was immediately confronted by a large expanse of carpet, an imposing oak desk, and behind that a man whose initial appearance momentarily made her stop in her tracks.

      The man was on the phone. His deep voice was barking orders down the line. Not loudly, but with a certain emphatic quietness that made some of her sense of purpose flounder.

      She looked at him as he gestured to her to take a seat, and was unwillingly fascinated by the curious, disorientating feeling of power and authority he seemed to give off.

      Had she been expecting this? She realised that at the back of her mind she had anticipated someone altogether less forbidding.

      It was only when she was seated that she became aware that he was watching her with an equal amount of curiosity. He continued talking, but his cool grey eyes were focused on her, and she abruptly looked away and began inspecting what she could see of his office from where she was sitting.

      Not much. Not much, at any rate, that didn’t include him in the general picture.

      ‘Who,’ he said, replacing the telephone and catching her while her attention was focused on a painting on the wall—an abstract affair whose title she was trying to guess—‘the hell are you? What do you want and how were you allowed into my office?’

      His voice was icy cold, as was everything about him.

      Jessica looked at him and felt a shiver of apprehension which she immediately slapped down.

      His was a face, she thought, designed to stop people in their tracks. Everything about it was arresting. It wasn’t simply a matter of strikingly well-formed features. More what they revealed. An impression of vast self-assurance and intelligence. He was the sort of man, she thought, who was accustomed to wielding power, to having orders obeyed, to snapping his fingers and having people jump to attention. He was also younger than she had anticipated. Late thirties at the most.

      What a shame he obviously couldn’t keep a handle on his own son.

      Jessica smiled politely, keeping her thoughts to herself.

      ‘I take it you’re Anthony Newman?’

      ‘You haven’t answered my questions.’

      ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I thought that the sooner we had a little chat, the better.’

      ‘If you don’t answer me right now,’ he said softly, leaning forward, ‘then I’m afraid I’m going to have to call a security guard and have you removed from the premises. How did you get in here?’

      ‘I took the lift up and walked down the corridor.’

      ‘I don’t have time for games.’

      Neither, thought Jessica icily, do you have time for your son. Which is why I’m here in the first place.

      ‘I tried phoning you last night, but I was told that you were away on business and wouldn’t be back until this morning.’

      ‘Did Harry tell you where I worked?’

      ‘The man who answered the telephone did, yes.’

      He didn’t say anything, but there was a look in his eyes that didn’t augur well for Harry’s fate.

      What would he do? Jessica wondered anxiously. Sack the hapless Harry on the spot? Roast him over an open spit? Anything was possible. The Newman man looked like someone who ate raw meat for breakfast.

      ‘You’re not going to…do anything…are you?’ she asked, worriedly. ‘I mean…it wasn’t his fault… I implied that you and I were acquaintances…well, quite good friends, actually. I told him that you would be pleasantly surprised to see me…after all this time…delighted, in fact…’ Her voice trailed off, along with a fair amount of her momentum.

      ‘Now, why would you imply anything of the sort?’ He looked at her coldly and assessingly, and whereas anyone else might well have been trying to cast their mind back, wondering perhaps whether they knew who she was, she could tell that that wasn’t on his mind at all. This man knew quite well that he had never seen her in his life before.

      Impressions of him, she realised, were mounting by the second, and none of them were going any distance towards putting her at her ease.

      ‘It seemed the quickest route to getting to see you,’ she said flatly, and his eyes narrowed.

      ‘Well, well, well. You don’t beat about the bush, do you?’

      ‘I have no reason to.’ She didn’t care for the look in his eyes, but was damned if she was going to be intimidated. She wasn’t easily frightened. Her past had strengthened her, and if he wanted to play mind games with her then he was in for a surprise.

      ‘If you’re after money, then I’m afraid you’ve taken the wrong route.’ He glanced down at some documents lying on his desk. Having made his deductions as to her reason for being in his office, his curiosity was giving way to indifference. In a minute, she suspected, he would look at his watch, yawn, then stand up and politely usher her to the door.

      ‘My company already contributes a sizeable amount towards charities.’ He linked his fingers together, dragged his eyes away from the document, and looked her over. ‘And a little word of advice here—if you want someone to give you a donation, the very last thing you should do is connive your way into their offices and try to catch them off guard. People generally don’t care for the element of deviousness involved.’

      Jessica found that she was leaning forward in her chair.

      ‘I am not here in connection with a request for money, Mr Newman.’

      His eyebrows flew up at that. ‘Then why are you here?’ Mild curiosity there, she saw. He probably thought that she would get back to the subject of money in a while, after a few byroads to try and divert his attention. A naturally suspicious mind.

      ‘I’m here about your son.’

      That worked. It wiped all expression off his face. It was as though shutters had suddenly been pulled down over his eyes.

      ‘And you are…?’

      ‘Jessica Hirst.’

      He frowned. ‘Well, Mrs Hirst…’

      ‘Miss.’

      ‘Well, Miss Hirst, whatever you want to discuss can be discussed on the school premises. If you’d care to see one of my secretaries, she’ll fix you an appointment. Frankly, I do think that it’s a bit unorthodox to barge your way into my offices.’ His frown deepened. ‘Why did you involve yourself in a ruse to get this address? Surely it’s on the school file?’

      ‘Most probably,’ Jessica said calmly. ‘But, since I’m not a teacher at your son’s school, that wouldn’t have done me much good, would it?’

      ‘Then who the heck are you?’

      Your son is a corrupting influence on my daughter.

      Your son is leading my daughter astray.

      I’m here to ask you to keep your wretched son away from my daughter.

      ‘My daughter is Lucy Hirst. Perhaps your son Mark has mentioned her to you?’

      ‘What the hell has he gone and done?’ His voice was as hard as steel. ‘No, Miss Hirst,’ he said heavily, ‘Mark hasn’t said anything to me about your daughter. At least, not that I can recall.’ He raked his fingers through his hair and looked at her without flinching.

      ‘Nothing at all?’ This time it was her turn to frown, and to wonder whether she hadn’t read the signs all the wrong way. Perhaps his name hadn’t been dropped into conversations as regularly as she had thought. Maybe she had been mistaken,