The Lost Art of Gratitude

“This way, please,” he said, indicating a short corridor. At the end, behind a half-ajar door, was a small interview room furnished in dark mahogany.

“Please sit down.”

“Thank you.”

He closed the door behind him and returned to take a seat at the table.

Isabel studied him. He was frightened; behind the air of professional competence and suave self-assurance, there was fear.

Jock Dundas spoke first. “Why have you come to see me?”

“Because I believe you telephoned me yesterday.”

He looked down at the table. “I didn’t leave a message. Perhaps I should have.”

She wanted him to look at her, but he would not meet her eyes.

“Are you afraid of something, Mr. Dundas?”

He looked up sharply. “Yes, of course.”

“May I ask what is it that you’re afraid of?”

He dropped his gaze. “You,” he muttered.

Isabel’s surprise prevented her from saying anything for a few moments. Jock Dundas spoke again. “You didn’t expect me to say something like that?”

Isabel recovered her composure. “Of course not.” She paused. “Why on earth would you be frightened of me?” Then she added, “It’s ridiculous.”

Again the lawyer’s reactions made it apparent that he meant what he said. “Is it? Is it ridiculous? Or is that just part of your technique of intimidation?”

Isabel’s voice rose. “Of what?”

He articulated the word carefully. “Intimidation.”

Isabel leaned forward. “I am at a loss, Mr. Dundas. An utter loss.”

If Isabel had been able to read Jock Dundas earlier, now he could do the same to her; and he, too, realised that Isabel was not dissembling. She was indeed at a loss, and this conclusion led to a sudden change in his demeanour. “You aren’t … you aren’t what Margaret Wilson said you are?”

Isabel spread her hands in a gesture of puzzlement. “I have no idea what Margaret Wilson said I was.” Margaret Wilson? The name was vaguely familiar, but possibly only because its two elements were. Isabel knew plenty of Margarets and plenty of Wilsons; she could not place Margaret Wilson, though.

Jock Dundas sat up. His earlier air of defeat had vanished and he was once again the confident lawyer, safe on his own ground.

“And I’m afraid I don’t know who Margaret Wilson is. Or I don’t think I do.”

“Margaret Wilson,” he said, “is one of Minty’s colleagues. They’re also quite close friends.”

“I see. And?”

“She came to see me after you and I met in the Botanics. She said that she had to warn me about something.”

Jock Dundas had taken a pen out of his pocket and was fingering it, slipping the cap on and off. Isabel watched his fingers; they were tanned and the nails were carefully manicured. He was an elegant man; Minty would never have consorted with anybody crude.

Jock continued with his explanation. “Margaret said that she had found out that Minty had approached a woman enforcer. That’s the word she used. Enforcer.”

Isabel wanted to laugh. It was completely absurd. Enforcers were the thugs used by gangsters to twist people’s arms metaphorically, which meant to break them in reality.

“She said I was an enforcer?”

He nodded. “She said you were a subtle one.”

“Well, at least that’s something,” said Isabel. “I should hate to be thought of as some sort of mafiosa.” She wondered whether Italian had a feminine form of mafioso. Presumably not, as the Mafia was traditionally a male organisation.

“She said that you specialised in ruining reputations,” Jock continued. “She said that you could kill a professional reputation stone-dead. Through smears.”

“I see.”

“Yes. And she said that you were going to make sure that I didn’t get my partnership here.” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “This is a fairly conservative firm, as you may know. It wouldn’t be helpful for the partners here to know that I had …”

“Had an affair with another man’s wife?” prompted Isabel. “Particularly a man as well-connected as Gordon?”

“Yes. And she said that you could ruin me in other ways. She didn’t say how.”

“I suppose there are ways,” said Isabel. “But not being an enforcer, I wouldn’t really know.”

He sat back in his chair. “So I tried to contact you. To tell you that I was dropping my claim to Roderick. I didn’t get you and so I telephoned Margaret and asked her to pass on the message to Minty that I was out of it. Altogether. Completely. She wouldn’t hear from me again.”

Isabel was listening, but as she did so she was trying to master what had happened. It was very neat. Minty had used her to give Jock Dundas a fright. She could have made the threats herself, but it might not have had the same effect. To hear that somebody else had been engaged—particularly somebody portrayed as being ruthless—gave a subtle twist to the situation. It was considerably more frightening, bringing in two enemies instead of one.

“May I ask you something?” Isabel said.

“Yes.”