‘Please take a seat, Mr Lawson.’ The flick of her spidery eyelashes betrayed her uneasiness as she gestured towards a leather armchair.
He had already spoken on the phone to Barbara, who had been apologetic about stepping so effortlessly into his shoes.
‘Truth is, Karl, we’re trying to manage Hitz on a very tight budget,’ she’d said when he asked about the possibility of working for her. ‘Things have changed in the past few months. Lar is focused only on LR1. That’s where he spends all his time now and, more worryingly, it’s where all the investment is going. We’re not taking on new staff at the moment and he’s told us—’
‘I can do freelance work.’ He had interrupted her excuses.
‘That also applies to freelancing,’ she admitted. ‘Lar has closed down two of his magazines and I’m keeping my head down in case he looks in my direction. I’ll ring back if the situation changes. I hope things work out for you. I really mean it, Karl. We must have lunch together soon.’
‘That sounds like a plan,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
How easy it was to break ties with the past, he’d thought as he hung up. To move effortlessly from being friends to being acquaintances, who promised lunch in the knowledge that it would never happen.
‘Mr Richardson will see you now.’ The receptionist beckoned him to her desk. ‘His office is on the third floor—’
‘Thank you.’ Karl was already striding towards the elevator.
Lar’s office, like the foyer, seemed enormous. A prison cell gave space a new perspective.
‘Well, Karl, I hear you’re making a statement, as usual.’ Lar stood and leaned across his desk to shake hands. He had always dressed with flair, flashy ties and bold pinstripe suits, the flourish of a handkerchief in the breast pocket. Now, as a mark of respect to his wife, who had died while Karl was in prison, that flamboyance had been toned down to a grey suit and a black tie.
‘I was sorry to hear about Rosalind.’ Karl gripped the older man’s hand. ‘She was a wonderful woman. I was very fond of her.’
‘Everyone loved my wife.’ Lar sat down heavily and tilted his chair back. ‘Now that you’ve offered your condolences, would you like to explain why you’re threatening my staff?’
‘I want a job. I know Barbara has replaced me on Hitz but I’ll settle for an equivalent position on one of your other magazines.’
‘You were never a man for small talk,’ Lar replied. ‘So, I’ll reply in kind. I fully accept that you’d nothing to do with that young girl’s death. But the publicity was appalling and our advertisers reacted in an extremely negative way. You know this business, Karl. Advertising is the lifeblood of any magazine, and Hitz is no exception. Despite the popularity of Amanda Bowe’s freedom campaign, your name has been tainted by that tragedy.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ Karl asked. ‘Assume a new identity?’
Lar made a steeple with his index fingers and pressed them against his chin. ‘Assuming a new identity would be the perfect solution. However, in the real world, perfect solutions seldom present themselves. But you can change direction. Retrain and find a job where your name won’t be in the public domain. Come back and see me then. I’ll give you names of good contacts who’ll be willing to help you start over.’
‘There is another alternative,’ said Karl. ‘I can sue you for unfair dismissal.’
‘I assume that’s meant as a threat?’
‘Not a threat, Lar. A fact.’
‘How long do you think that will take?’ The businessman surveyed Karl over his glasses. ‘You’ve already lost eight months of your life. You should be playing catch-up instead of pursuing a case you’ll eventually lose. Our defence team will be robust, make no mistake about it.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a spreadsheet. ‘It’s all here.’ He slapped his hand against the columns of figures. ‘Lost revenue, Karl. All of it incurred by Richardson Publications from the bad publicity before and after your arrest. We’ve already had to downsize and sell off two of our titles as a result. What happened to you was a disgrace but, unfortunately, dominoes only need a finger flick before they collapse. That’s what almost happened to my company because of its association with your name.’
‘My name has been cleared—’
‘Of course it has. Justice was delayed but done in the end. All those signatures demanding your release. I signed the petition myself and asked everyone else in the company to do the same.’ He stared at a photograph on his desk of his late wife and moved it fractionally closer to him. ‘How we deal with the knocks in our lives is what sets us up for the future.’
Rosalind had been the softer side of the Richardson partnership, ambitious for the company but without Lar’s ruthlessness. She would have fought for Karl, browbeaten her husband into doing what was right.
‘Take my advice and make a fresh start,’ said Lar. ‘That’s what I did when I was your age and my first company collapsed.’ He stood up to signal the end of the meeting. ‘There’s so much goodwill towards you out there. Amanda Bowe certainly tapped into it when she petitioned on your behalf.’
‘I’ll see you in court.’ Karl ignored the proffered handshake and left the office.
The elevator glided to a stop. The shrill timbre of violins grated against his ears as he crossed to the exit. The glass doors opened automatically. A woman, approaching, stopped and waited for him to emerge. She was dressed for the cold in a brown faux fur coat, her trousers tucked into a pair of Uggs.
‘Karl,’ she said and pulled off a glove, held out her hand. ‘How are you?’
He stared, perplexed, unable to remember her name.
‘I’m afraid I don’t—’ he began.
‘I’m Sylvia Thornton.’ She shook his hand, a warm, firm grasp. ‘We’ve met before but only briefly.’
Her name chimed faintly in his memory. ‘Forgive me… how do we know each other?’ he asked.
‘Lar Richardson introduced us at one of his Christmas parties.’
The annual Richardson Publications party was a mix of small talk that inevitably turned to drunken babble as the night wore on. Karl had always left as soon as Lar delivered his motivational speech and thanked his staff for their dedication; words that would ring hollow the following year when some hapless employee was fired for not reaching his projected target.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you,’ he said.
‘No need for apologies. I’m always behind the scenes at a Richardson event.’
He nodded, placing her now. ‘You’re his publicist.’
‘My official title is “dogsbody” but yes, publicity and event organising is part of my brief.’ She smiled fleetingly and moved a step closer, her gaze quizzing. ‘How are you, Karl?’
‘I’ve known better days,’ he admitted.
‘What happened to you was horrendous. I’m so sorry—’
‘You weren’t to blame.’
‘Personally, no, but I believe in collective responsibility. The coverage you received…’ She shook her head.