One of the secretaries had let him in, a sodden figure, sleepless, bad-tempered, pushing into the hall and up the stairs without a backward glance. Finding the office empty, he’d hung his raincoat on the back of one of Friedland’s antique chairs, watching the drips pooling on the pale grey Wilton carpet. It was a small gesture, but when Friedland finally arrived, it would serve to make the point. Our chair, it said. Our carpet. Our money. Our rules. A phone began to ring, one of two on the desk. Ross looked at it for a moment, wondering whether the line was routed through the switchboard in the office downstairs. Deciding that it wasn’t, he picked it up. A woman’s voice came on at the other end. She sounded anxious. She wanted to talk to Mr Friedland. Ross explained that he’d yet to arrive. She could leave a message. All would be well. The woman hesitated, then talked for perhaps a minute. Ross nodded, saying nothing, permitting himself a brief smile. At the end of the conversation he thanked the woman, putting the phone down and checking his watch.
