Page 66 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
A very elegant blonde woman was sitting behind a long, curved desk. She smiled up at him as he approached. “Mr Crocombe? Please take a seat. Mr Stretton will be with you in just a few moments.”
“Thank you.”
The armchairs had clearly been designed to be looked at rather than sat on. The few moments stretched to five, then ten, until at last one of the office doors opened.
Mr Stretton was a tall man, with neatly trimmed dark hair and a perfect shadow of designer stubble. His charcoal-grey business suit was immaculately tailored, his tie almost certainly identifying the public school he had attended.
Alex was greeted with a genial smile which he instinctively mistrusted.
“Ah, Mr Crocombe. Won’t you come in.”To my parlour, said the spider to the fly.“Olivia, we’ll have coffee, if you please.”
It was a corner office, in more shades of grey, with a huge beechwood desk and an acre of carpet so thick he could feel his feet sinking into it. Invited to take a seat, he was amused to note the subtle power play in the layout — the executive chair with its back to the bright window so that Stretton’s face was not quite clear, the lower visitors’ chairs intended to put supplicants in their place.
“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Stretton enquired, all polite solicitation.
“Reasonable. I wouldn’t say that your train service is the most comfortable I’ve ever experienced, but your London taxis are excellent.”
“Ah, yes. And how do you like England?”
“Very much. I was actually born here and lived here as a child, and I’ve been back several times over the years. And over it several times,” he added with a dry smile. “But rather too high and too fast to get more than a fleeting impression.”
“Of course. Should I be calling you Flight Lieutenant Crocombe?”
Alex shook his head. “It’s Captain. And no, we don’t retain our rank after leaving the Service.”
“I see, I see.” The door opened and the receptionist entered with a tray carrying two cups of coffee. “Ah, Olivia, thank you. Just put them here on the desk. Cream and sugar, Mr Crocombe?”
“Just cream, thank you.”
Stretton pushed the cream jug towards him.
“So, I believe you’re interested in one of the hotels we’ve recently acquired in Devon. The . . . ah . . . Carleton. Is that right?”
Alex was mildly amused by the portrayal of smooth charm. Through his partnership with Frank Beaumont he had met many characters like this — and had learned how to handle them.
He took his time, stirring a swirl of cream into his coffee, taking a sip, and putting the cup down on the desk. “Yes, the Carleton Hotel. I understand that your Mr Forsythe’s report didn’t favour retaining it in your portfolio.”
“That’s correct. And you have some interest in it?”
“That’s correct.” He matched the smooth smile, the relaxed posture.
“Well now.” Stretton turned to the computer on his desk and clicked a few keys. “The hotel itself — no, we’re not interested in it. The site, on the other hand . . . That could be of some interest to us.”
“The site would have the same disadvantage of location as the hotel has suffered from.”
“And which you would continue to suffer from if you purchased the hotel.”
Alex reached over and picked up his coffee cup again, taking another slow sip. “I have plans. I’m prepared to invest for the longer term.”
“I see. Well, Mr Crocombe, let’s see if we can find some common ground here.”
* * *
“Well, Mr Channing, let’s see if we can find some common ground here.”
Paul wasn’t misled by Stretton’s charming manner — he was a shark. That was how he had made Lytcott Capital Management one of the most successful investment funds in the business.
This vast office, with its subtle shades of grey and its luxurious pale-grey carpet, was designed to display discreet wealth. You could get a good game of five-a-side football going in here.
