‘Leave me to work it out.’

‘So, I’ll get the laboratory I want, where I want it?’ persisted Parnell.

‘That’s confrontational!’ accused the spindly man.

‘That’s honest,’ contradicted Parnell.

‘I said leave it with me,’ insisted the American.

If he pushed any further – any harder – they’d both fall off the edge, Parnell accepted. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation.’

‘So am I.’

Liar, Parnell thought. It was a trait he’d have to remember.

‘I’m grateful for your staying late,’ thanked Newton, who’d spent the afternoon with Dubette’s in-house lawyers and didn’t like what he’d been told.

‘There’s obviously a reason for your asking,’ said Russell Benn. He was the large, black, rumbling-voiced scientific director of the predominant antibacterial research sections of the laboratory.

‘We’re going to have to move things around a little. Make some space,’ announced the vice president.

Benn frowned. ‘Space for what?’

‘The English guy, Parnell, who’s opening up the genetics section.’

‘For what?’ repeated the other man.

‘He has to be part of the inner core, able to liaise with you.’

‘I need all the space I’ve got,’ protested Benn.

‘This is how it’s got to be, Russ: how I want it to be.’ Newton enjoyed the power, knowing that people were actually frightened of him, as he, in turn, was frightened of Edward C. Grant. Newton promised himself he’d manipulate Parnell as he would a piece of modelling clay, until Parnell was as pliably obedient as he’d made everyone else in the research and development division.

Benn, who was trying to put three of his five sons through private school and had a mortgage lapping up to his chin, shrugged and said: ‘It’s going to upset things. My guys like their routines: knowing where they are.’