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had a seat on the main board.
    It was a bit of a problem that Arthur himself, after an initial flare of interest, moved into his indecisive mode. Martagon should have expected that. He was not too worried, knowing Arthur as he did. He knew he had to give Arthur lots of time, and kept an affectionate watch over him. But then it seemed Arthur lost all confidence in the idea. As the weeks passed his hostility hardened.
    â€˜I built this business up from nothing at all. Our people trust me. I’m not about to hand everything over to a bunch of ruffians with no integrity and no respect for anything except short-term profits and the bottom line.’
    â€˜We wouldn’t be handing over anything. It would be a merger, not a takeover. If it ever happened.’
    â€˜Don’t you believe it.’ Arthur assured Martagon that he knew how Harpers operated. ‘They don’t think like us. I’ve known old man Harper for years. He was always a small-time chancer, and that nephew of his is a big-time six-noughts chancer. I wouldn’t even trust him in charge of our Cirencester office.’
    The Cirencester office was a doss: high gloss, high fees, low-tech, low stress, private clients.
    Martagon said, cautiously, that on the whole he was rather impressed by Giles Harper.
    â€˜Then you’re a fool. He’d be using you. He thinks you have a good reputation and some sense of honour and that it would rub off on him and do him credit with clients.’
    Martagon bided his time.
    â€˜I’m trusting you,’ said Arthur. ‘I know I can. I’m trusting you not to lead Cox & Co. down the wrong path. You’re one of us. You don’t belong with those sorts of people any more than I do.’
    Martagon promised that he would advocate nothing which was against the interests of Cox & Co. ‘Why should I? I’d be cutting my own throat.’
    *   *   *
    After leaving the office that day Martagon went for his swim. Three lengths, four, eight, on and on until he reached the place in his mind where he went. I want to be a good person. Small children are neither good nor bad. They learn how to win approval and how to avoid punishment and how to survive. Martagon’s father was a devout Roman Catholic and had talked about saving his soul. That was theological shorthand. For what? Everyone kind of knew what it meant, just as they knew what a lost soul, an unsaved soul, was. Martagon had no religious belief but something in him responded to those phrases.
    Martagon swam. I want to be a good person. It’s perhaps a question of what you are here for, what you are going to do with your life. You can be ‘selfish’ and follow your desires and do exactly what you want to do. That’s perfectly rational. Why should you waste your one and only life doing what you don’t want to do, making choices that go against your hopes and beliefs, against your personal success? That seems completely crazy, or at the very least highly neurotic. Almost, a death-wish. And yet, and yet … What about Arthur? I owe him so much.
    *   *   *
    When he was with Giles, everything seemed possible. But alone in his flat in Earl’s Court, Martagon worried not only about Arthur, but about which way Tom Scree was likely to jump. He found it hard to explain to himself his strong dislike for the man, and it bothered him. Scree was a lot older than him – probably in his mid-fifties, thought Martagon. His politics were, proudly, left-wing and unreconstructed Old Labour. That didn’t bother Martagon: he envied anyone with such certainties, as he envied people’s religious faith. Nor did Martagon resent Scree for being, still, so bloody good-looking – upright and fit, with cropped black-grey hair, tanned skin, blazing dark eyes.
    What did irritate Martagon beyond measure was Scree’s air of self-righteousness. Scree was a moral imperialist. He always