Fry began to feel suffocated. The air was so humid and thick it felt as if she was walking through warm soup. She knew she’d have a headache before the day was over. The tension in the air was concentrating behind her eyes, squeezing her head until it buzzed. Was it possible to feel so claustrophobic in a wide open space like the Eden Valley? With weather like this, it was. Natural forces were pressing down with all their might, trying to squash a nest of ants. It would be a relief when it rained again. And rain it surely would, before long. An ocean of moisture was gathering overhead in that sagging grey blanket. It couldn’t hold much longer.
Lights had come on in the shops along Clappergate. Cars drove on sidelights as they crossed the junction. People were hurrying along the street, their heads down as if they needed to get home before a curfew. An air of tension was palpable. The whole world was waiting for the moment.
Suddenly the atmosphere changed. A moment of hesitation, a pregnant pause. People stopped and looked up, perhaps sensing the first, solitary plop of rain on the back of a neck, then responded to the warning, quickening their pace in the vain hope of reaching shelter before the deluge. Most wouldn’t make it. In the next few seconds they vanished in sheets of water, vertical curtains of rain soaking them in an instant, plastering their hair to their skulls, penetrating their summer clothes, bouncing mud off the pavement on to their shoes.
As she ran for her car, Fry was deafened by the roar of the torrent. Cars swept by on the road, swishing through pools of water, hissing over wet tarmac, throwing up spray like a tidal wave. A Transit van went past and its nearside wheels hit the deepest part of the water, creating a tidal wave that surged across the pavement and swept over Fry’s shoes. The force of the water as it withdrew to the road almost pulled her off her feet.
There was still time for her to get to Prospectus Assurance before the end of the afternoon. As Fry arrived in Nathan Baird’s office she was conscious of a murmur of speculation from the bank of call handlers she passed. Word had gone round the company. Perhaps some of them were hoping that their manager would be arrested for crimes against humanity.
‘Yes, well, the incident itself was just a bit of fun,’ said Baird when she challenged him on Glen Turner’s paintballing injuries. ‘It’s part of what team building is all about, letting your hair down and having a laugh with your colleagues. People get to know each other better that way, in an informal setting.’
‘It seems Mr Turner didn’t think it was a bit of fun,’ said Fry. ‘He wasn’t laughing at the time.’
Baird waved his slender hand in a gesture that Fry remembered, as if an irritating fly had returned. ‘Oh, I know Glen took it a bit too seriously. But he got over it.’
‘He had photographs taken of his injuries, and he went to see a solicitor on Monday to discuss legal action. Possibly against you, Mr Baird.’
‘No, no, no. That was all a lot of nonsense. Glen was sulking for a while. He didn’t come in to work on the Monday, just to make a point. And when he appeared on Tuesday morning, he had this exaggerated limp, as if his leg had been shot off. I suppose he thought people would feel sorry for him. But it didn’t wash. We just got on with the job as usual. Water under the bridge and all that.’
‘Did you actually talk to Mr Turner about it?’
‘Yes, he came in here and we had a chat. As I said to you yesterday, my door is always open. Glen knew perfectly well he could talk to me about things. So that’s what we did. He never seriously considered suing me or any of his colleagues. It was just hot air, believe me. He got it all off his chest, we shook hands on it, and he went back to work. Job done.’
‘You did tell me yesterday that nothing unusual had happened on Tuesday, sir.’
‘Well, it wasn’t all that unusual. I’m team leader. Sorting out little issues like that – well, it’s all part of my job. Besides…’
‘What?’
‘Well, poor old Glen. It didn’t seem fair to spread the story far and wide. You don’t want to make your employees’ discomfiture public, do you? What happens at Prospectus stays at Prospectus. Do you know what I mean?’
Fry discovered that Ralph Edge wasn’t at work, so she phoned him at home. He laughed at her question.
‘Yes, poor old Glen,’ he said. ‘I told you he was sore afterwards, didn’t I? I mean, I was the one who told you about the paintballing excitement, Sergeant.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were one of the individuals responsible for it,’ said Fry. ‘You let me believe it was the opposing team from Sales.’