The ghost of Roland Morley came to visit Edward Pinchwaite on the Wednesday night before Christmas. It was a bad time for Pinchwaite. He was busy at work, cooking the books for the Christmas turkeys (he had to remember to call them investors). Everyone else had left the office earlier than usual, on account of the season. From his window at the top of the building, he´d noticed the last of them departing when it was no more than seven thirty in the evening. Useless lazy people, but what could you expect from employees?
Pinchwaite heard the nervous apologetic cough and that infuriating jangling and knew immediately without looking away from his computer screen that it was Morley. He remembered that Morley was one week dead. He´d sent flowers to the funeral, or rather his secretary had, probably.
– You´re rattling your change, he told Morley. You always do it. Take your hands out of your pocket.
– Sorry, can´t get out of the habit.
– As long as you´re here, he said. You might as well lend a hand. I´ve got the monthly accounts to present in the New Year and you are supposed to be the Finance Director. Read More→