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McVicar
feared the worst as he and DS Jameson walked
through the headquarters of Henderson Off-shore.
The
harbourside building wasn’t the problem.
From the outside it was a glistening box
of silver and glass.
Inside there was a lofty atrium round
which five floors of galleried offices were
arranged. It was the staff that started McVicar
wondering. They all wore uniforms - Amber
called it "corporate clothing": crisp
white shirt and navy skirt or navy
trousers. A Henderson Offshore logo
floated above the left breast of every staffer
as they strode through the atrium or bustled
along the galleries. Then there were the
posters - white placards bearing slogans like
"Teamwork is Everything!", "Your
Role Is Vital!", and "Work with PRIDE
- Passion, Respect, Integrity,
Drive, Enthusiasm!"
As
they ascended in a glass-fronted lift to
Henderson’s top-floor office, McVicar feared
they were about to meet some born-again
businessman, someone whose speech would be full
of aspirational bollocks.
Henderson
was 6 foot 2.
He looked good in the company uniform,
tanned face and arms setting off the white of
his short-sleeved shirt.
Henderson still had an athlete’s build,
broad-shouldered with no sign of a paunch.
His face was on the craggy side of
handsome, topped by a shock of white hair.
He greeted his visitors with bruising
handshakes, then settled himself behind his desk
and in front of a picture window.
Through the window McVicar could see
whitecaps on the dark water.
Beyond lay the hills of Arran, their
peaks jutting upwards into a clearing sky.
McVicar
opened his mouth to speak but Henderson held up
a hand to silence him. “Complete the following
verse”, he said. “The episcopal bishop of
Malta, once got his oats on the altar.”
McVicar
didn’t miss a beat.
“With infinite malice, he pissed in the
chalice - then tossed himself off on the
Psalter.”
“Very
good”, said Henderson.
“When you asked for an appointment you said you were a rugby man.
I thought I’d give you a wee test.
See if you were bumming your load.”
McVicar
exchanged glances with DS Jameson.
She looked bewildered.
“Have
I passed?” said McVicar.
“I could give you more verses if you
like.
How about the Episcopal Bishop of Rheims,
Who Had So Many Wet Dreams?
Or The Young Lady Called Rhoda, Who Lived
in A Golden Pagoda?”
“No”,
said Henderson, laughing,
“no more.
You’ve established your credentials,
Inspector. Now,
you're investigating the death of Michael
Brown. How can I help?"
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