Payback by Graham Lancaster Read Free Book Online

would have had to jump through. And Barton, of course, a recent bankrupt.
    Instead, Tom had quickly identified the small but exclusive American house, already SFA/SIB and Bank licensed, and tee-ed up what was effectively a reverse takeover by Barton. Then came the open cheque to find and poach a crack team to put in exclusively to handle the new portfolio...
    Brilliant, exciting work for Tom. Wheeling and dealing, right at the centre of things—but always with the comfort factor that in the end, Barton would make the final decision. It had been the same two years earlier in the biotech business, when Barton had spotted the niche early. Tom had not only done all the routine consultancy business-modelling, but gone out and found the boffins and property to make it all happen. He had even amazed Barton by winning some EU funding, as new start-ups.
    As he flagged down a cab by Eastcheap, Tom reflected on his luck all those years ago in cultivating Barton after INSEAD. And by hanging on in there when Barton was in the wilderness—a calculated risk, that—he had certainly reaped rich rewards. Financially, but just as importantly professionally, in terms of sheer, pulsating work satisfaction. Also, by keeping his three days with WMC, he enjoyed the best of all worlds: career stability and continuity through the consultancy, and the thrilling big dipper ride and extraordinary hands-on experience of working with the piratical James Barton.
    The ninety-hour weeks were beginning to grind him down, and he knew that soon he really should slow down and get a life. But not yet. Definitely not yet...
    *
    Lydia examined the old man’s feet and shook her head. ‘When was the last time you had these looked at?’
    The man’s rheumy eyes stared back with the incomprehension of dementia. ‘Bluebottles. Bluebottles everywhere!’ he said for the fourth time, deeply agitated.
    ‘ Come on. Can’t have you hobbling around like this. You’ll get blood poisoning. Let’s have the doctor look at them, shall we?’
    She helped him down the corridor to sit in the waiting area with three other much younger homeless men. They were in the Day Centre charity near Waterloo where she helped out a couple of nights a week. The down-and-outs mostly slept rough in the area, and came to the centre mornings and early evenings for hot drinks and food donated each day by supermarkets and sandwich bars. While in the place, they could get cleaned up and have basic medical attention. Feet, dental and bronchial troubles were the most common. Tuberculosis had even made a worrying return to the streets of London. But no less serious, and much harder to treat, were the mental and related illnesses—alcoholism, depression, schizophrenia and dementia.
    ‘ What’s he need?’ The tired-looking old doctor had come out for the next case to treat.
    ‘ Feet. I’ve bathed them, but there’s infection in some of his toes, I think.’
    The doctor looked at the man. ‘Hello again, Charlie.’
    ‘ You know him?’
    ‘ Sure. He comes and goes. Like his mind.’
    ‘ What’s his story?’
    The doctor smiled weakly. ‘Believe it or not, he was a doctor. A very well-off Harley Street practitioner. Treated royals. The type of doctor who wouldn’t have passed the time of day with the likes of me in the NHS. As close as that to a knighthood.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘But then—disaster. He was suspected of poisoning his wife, but it was never proved. Big case in its day.’
    ‘ And did he? Did he poison her?’ Lydia looked over at the old man with fresh eyes.
    ‘ Oh yes,’ the doctor replied, cheerfully. ‘None of us doubted that. But he was very good with poisons. It was impossible to make it stick.’
    ‘ And what’s wrong with him now? Dementia?’
    ‘ That, and a good few other mental problems. Shouldn’t be on the streets, of course. He’s got a serious persecution complex. Keeps thinking they’re going to arrest him again.’
    ‘ Strange. All he says