Ethics, Page 2

Overnight, all expertise was flushed down the pan, a gaggle of menopausal maniacs was recruited for the new HR dept, together with a posse of gym slipped assassins, who held all the life experience of a mayfly. The department used to be called personnel and actually fulfilled its function. Then, within a week, ten chiefs, 2000 indians and absolutely nothing in between. More importantly, there would be nothing much in between the ears of said ten new chiefs on unbelievable salaries. It irked, my god, it irked.

  Marjorie’s grandfather had started this business and in order to raise capital at the time he had no option but to go public. There were the grand total of fifty shares left in the family now with a total worth of a few thousand, if they were lucky, such was the dilution of issued share capital.

  He had returned to the sanctuary of his office. He made three telephone calls and spent a relatively short time at his computer. He told Mrs Jenny Jankowski that he was going out on an urgent business matter, saw the disappointment in her face, and then told her it was unavoidable and that he would not be returning that day.

  Unbeknownst to David he had been strumming his fingers on the table whilst cogitating and the thrumming noise had upset one of his table companions. He was jerked out of his revelry.

  “Give us break with the tap-tap mate.”

  “Sorry old boy, I was thinking,” responded David.

  “Gasping for a ciggie was you?”

  “No, just thinking, but one could always do with a puff on a cigar.”

  “Filthy habit,” observed the companion.

  David fixed him with an imperious stare.

  “No, young man, picking your nose is a filthy habit,” said David rising.

  “Smoking cigars is a superior addiction.” He liked to rise when delivering his ripostes to whelps that could become aggressive. Six foot four was six foot four after all in the real world.

  Faced with a choice of rejoining the female morons or their recently insulted male counterparts, David decided to see out the remaining journey time waiting in the corridor where the carriages adjoined. He looked out of the window and caught a glimpse of his reflection. He instinctively ran his hand over his bald head. Where had all the hair gone? Possibly more importantly when had it all gone, but he knew the answer to that.

  He had never harboured any desire to become a silver fox and had the pate shaved as smooth as a ball bearing ten years ago. Marjorie had been alarmed at the new appearance likening it to an escaped criminal. Miss Briggs had absolutely adored it. Ah! Miss Briggs and Wednesday afternoons.

  His routine for most Wednesday afternoons for the past fifteen years had been filled with delicious tantalising delight. Lunching at the usual restaurant with Miss Briggs, followed by casual sex in a nearby hotel, which rented rooms by the hour. Return late afternoon to the office, then home to an empty house as it was Marjorie’s bridge night.

  In fifteen years Miss Briggs had never once called him by his first name and he in return had always called her Miss Briggs. It seemed to add a naughty flavour of danger to their absurd liaisons. It had all started by accident at the Christmas party, when her excitable breasts had burst forth from a low cut dress in the middle of a dance. Being always a gentleman at heart, he had helped her scoop them back into captivity to avoid embarrassment. She had been extremely inebriated and he had offered to escort her to a taxi. What took place in the lift could only be described as consenting rape. In his rationed defence, he had always told her that it was difficult to ask a lady to desist when a gentleman was fully inserted and a lady busy gyrating. It was simply bad manners.

 

  Becoming Mrs Jankowski six months ago had only meant missing two Wednesdays for the honeymoon.

  They had never texted one another or exchanged gifts and any discussion of respective spouses was strictly taboo.

  Birthday and Christmas cards were exchanged in the office only and signed by their full names with no embellishment.

  Wednesdays for David were a wonderful release from missionary rigidity, tight lipped kisses and recriminations.

  He suddenly remembered his briefcase. He cursed his own stupidity and returned to his original seating area. The train was pulling into the station at last. He reached up and tried to retrieve his Dunhill leather attaché case as the train lurched. The women were giggling after too much champagne, but one offered to give him a hand.

  “Got to be nice to old people,” she said to her giggly friend. “One day we will all be old.”

  He thanked her for her offer, but declined assistance.

  Having retrieved the crocodile skinned leather case, he had a sudden urge to check its contents. The table opposite was now vacated as its previous occupants had moved ready to disembark. He fiddled with the combination lock and it opened with that deep resonating clunk that only serious money can buy.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Compact laptop, Passport, credit cards x 5, loose Euros and most importantly three sealed and unaddressed, fat, A4 manila envelopes.

  He made his way out onto the platform. If memory served him correctly it was a ten minute walk to Gare du L’est, and a mere three and a half hours by TGV to Zurich.

  It was early evening now. Should he stop and have a bite to eat or push onto Zurich?

  A simple method of rationalisation saw him increase his pace towards the barrier.

  It was to be Zurich. Declining moral and educational standards versus self interested neutrality, defended to the death with a penknife… it was no contest.

  “Passport monsieur?”

  “Oui, un moment s’il vous plaît.”

  He fiddled with the case and eventually found the passport that he should have slipped into his inside jacket pocket earlier.

  The passport controller looked carefully at the dog eared document.

  “Un moment, Monsieur.”

  He pressed the button on his short wave radio and spoke into it.

  A scruffily attired man, with a clean shaven head, wearing a crumpled suit arrived and took the passport. Although shorter, his face bore more than a passing resemblance to that of David.

  “Mr David Henry Bastion?” he enquired with an estuary accented English voice.

  “Oui,” replied David.

  “I am arresting you on suspicion of criminal fraud,” said Sergeant Jankowski.

  “How dare you! There must be some mistake.”

  “Telegraph crossword last Thursday. Latin thief, seven letters.”

  “Ereptor,” he responded with a huge sinking feeling, knowing now that someone had smelled a rat, to the tune of $1m on his Ereptor account.

  A party of agents de police had now arrived at the barrier to assist the British based Interpol officer.

  He suddenly wondered if an open prison would be like boarding school and whether Miss Briggs would be permitted to visit on Wednesday afternoons.

  Sergeant Jankowski had no doubt that David Bastion thought he was ‘smarter than yer average bear,’ but some lesser bears started with the honey and followed the bees.

  It had been so typically smug of Bastion to have an account which said ‘Thief’ in plain daylight that he assumed no one would suspect a thing. Sergeant Jankowski had followed his new wife last Wednesday and the overwhelming requirements for revenge had led him investigate Mr Bastion. He had telephoned his wife late this morning and asked an innocuous question, made a quick credit card transaction check and promptly caught the next flight to Paris.

  Sergeant David Jankowski was now in possession of the briefcase and faced the biggest challenge of his career. Zurich was only three and a half hours away…..

  Thank you for taking the time to read ‘Ethics.’ I hope you enjoyed the story and have fun reaching your own conclusions.

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