The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [73]
The receptionist who had greeted Isabel smiled and spoke quietly into her telephone. Then she invited Isabel to wait. “Mr. Dundas will only be a moment.”
He was not much more than that. “Ms. Dalhousie?”
Isabel looked up from the magazine she was perusing. She had started on an article about a man and his friend who had transformed a run-down Glasgow flat into an elegant venue for entertaining. George (left) and Alice (right) had met at art college where they had both studied design. “We both liked red,” said George. “It was a bond between us,” explained Alice. “Reds brought us together.” And now the Glasgow flat which had been “the most ghastly beige colour when we saw it first—we were almost sick on the spot”—was largely red. “George knew a guy who made really good bespoke furniture. He had trained with Lord Linley and his work was all over London …”
She put the magazine down with some reluctance. She would never be able to find out more about George and Alice, but she was not worried about them—reds would hold them together, she had no doubt about that.
She stood up and looked at Jock Dundas, who was standing in the doorway. He looked grave, and she knew immediately that her instinct had been right.
“This way, please,” he said, indicating a short corridor. At the end, behind a half-ajar door, was a small interview room furnished in dark mahogany.
“Please sit down.”
“Thank you.”
He closed the door behind him and returned to take a seat at the table.
Isabel studied him. He was frightened; behind the air of professional competence and suave self-assurance, there was fear.
Jock Dundas spoke first. “Why have you come to see me?”
“Because I believe you telephoned me yesterday.”
He looked down at the table. “I didn’t leave a message. Perhaps I should have.”
She wanted him to look at her, but he would not meet her eyes.
“Are you afraid of something, Mr. Dundas?”
He looked up sharply. “Yes, of course.”
“May I ask what is it that you’re afraid of?”
He dropped his gaze. “You,” he muttered.
Isabel’s surprise prevented her from saying anything for a few moments. Jock Dundas spoke again. “You didn’t expect me to say something like that?”
Isabel recovered her composure. “Of course not.” She paused. “Why on earth would you be frightened of me?” Then she added, “It’s ridiculous.”
Again the lawyer’s reactions made it apparent that he meant what he said. “Is it? Is it ridiculous? Or is that just part of your technique of intimidation?”
Isabel’s voice rose. “Of what?”
He articulated the word carefully. “Intimidation.”
Isabel leaned forward. “I am at a loss, Mr. Dundas. An utter loss.”
If Isabel had been able to read Jock Dundas earlier, now he could do the same to her; and he, too, realised that Isabel was not dissembling. She was indeed at a loss, and this conclusion led to a sudden change in his demeanour. “You aren’t … you aren’t what Margaret Wilson said you are?”
Isabel spread her hands in a gesture of puzzlement. “I have no idea what Margaret Wilson said I was.” Margaret Wilson? The name was vaguely familiar, but possibly only because its two elements were. Isabel knew plenty of Margarets and plenty of Wilsons; she could not place Margaret Wilson, though.
Jock Dundas sat up. His earlier air of defeat had vanished and he was once again the confident lawyer, safe on his own ground.
“And I’m afraid I don’t know who Margaret Wilson is. Or I don’t think I do.”
“Margaret Wilson,” he said,