White Rabbit by Stuart Oldfield - HTML preview

Epilogue

'I need a bit more time, that's all, just to get a few things sorted. But only three weeks, four at the most. And I'll be home every weekend.'

'I miss you, Simon, and so do the children. We just want you back.'

'And I miss you, darling,' said Cadwallader, 'But I really don't want to rush things. Everything's happened so suddenly—first the GSK contract and then all the government work, both coming out the blue like that.' He paused, softening his tone. 'And us.'

For a long moment the line was silent. When Stephanie spoke again, the pleading was gone from her voice.

'I understand, Simon, I really do,' she said, 'Will you be back at the usual time on Friday? I'll do something nice for dinner and we can open a bottle of the New Zealand Chardonnay.'

After replacing the receiver, Cadwallader stood for a long while by the window, watching the steady stream of evening traffic on the road below the flat. It was a two-way river of light, white flowing into Uxbridge, red away. The memory of another river of light, a veritable Mississippi compared with this little tributary, flooded his awareness. How could it possibly have been just a few weeks ago, just a few short weeks ago?

An insistent electric purr jabbed into his reverie.

'Simon Cadwallader,' he snapped into the receiver.

'Good evening, Mr Cadwallader,' said a crisp and yet somehow unctuous voice, 'I do hope you don't mind me calling you at home, but I am confident that what I have to say will be of considerable interest to you. My name is Jeremy Atkins and I'm a partner in the Hudson Group executive recruitment agency. We are currently acting for a client who is looking to fill a senior level, high-challenge position within a major organisation. Prospects for advancement are virtually unlimited and the remuneration package on offer is—and I don't say this lightly—quite extraordinary. A man of your calibre and experience is exactly the sort of person—.'

'Sorry to interrupt, Mr Atkins, but the name of this client of yours wouldn't happen to be "Stobart", would it?'

The line was briefly silent before Atkins replied. 'Why yes, as a matter of fact it would.'

'Then would you mind telling Mr Stobart—for the umpteenth time—that I'm not interested in working for him in any capacity, either now or at any time in the future. I'm my own man and I intend to keep it that way, and so I'm afraid your client is going to have to accept the fact that there's another game in town now, whether he likes it or not. Goodbye Mr Atkins, it's been a pleasure speaking with you—and do have a nice evening.'