Final Account by Peter Robinson Page A

so?”
    â€œHe was usually quiet.”
    â€œSecretive?”
    Pratt swivelled his chair and gazed out of the window at the upper storey of the Victorian community centre. Susan followed his gaze. She was surprised to see a number of gargoyles there she had never noticed before.
    When he spoke again, Pratt still didn’t look at Susan. She could see him only in profile. “I’ve always felt that about him, yes,” he said. “That’s why I hesitated to call him a close friend. There was always something in reserve.” He turned to face Susan again and placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “Oh, years ago we’d let loose once in a while, go get blind drunk and not give a damn. Sometimes we’d go fishing together. But over time, Keith sort of reined himself in, cut himself off. I don’t really know how to explain this. It was just a feeling. Keith was a very private person … well, lots of people are … But the thing was, I had no idea what he lived for.”
    â€œDid he suffer from depression? Did you think—”
    Pratt waved a hand. “No. No, you’re getting me wrong. He wasn’t suicidal. That’s not what I meant.”
    â€œCan you try and explain?”
    â€œI’ll try. It’s hard, though. I mean, I’d be hard pushed to say what I live for, too. There’s the wife and kids, of course, my pride and joy. And we like to go hang-gliding over Semerwater on suitable weekends. I collect antiques, I love cricket and we like to explore new places on our holidays. See what I mean? None of that’s what I actually live for , but it’s all part of it.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then put them back on again. “I know, I’m getting too philosophical. But I told you it was hard to explain.”
    Susan smiled. “I’m still listening.”
    â€œWell, all those are just things, aren’t they? Possessions or activities. Things we do, things we care about. But there’s something behind them all that ties them all together into my life, who I am, what I am. With Keith, you never knew. He was a cipher. For example, I’m sure he loved his family, but he never really showed it or spoke much about it. I don’t know what really mattered to him. He never talked about hobbies or anything like that. I don’t know what he did in his spare time. It’s more than being private or secretive, it’s as if there was a dimension missing, a man with a hole in the middle.” He scratched his temple. “This is ridiculous. Please forgive me. Keith was a perfectly nice bloke. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. But you never really knew what gripped him about life, what his dream was. I mean, mine’s a villa in Portugal, but a dream doesn’t have to be a thing, does it? I don’t know … maybe he valued abstractions too much.”
    He paused, as if he had run out of breath and ideas. Susan didn’t really know what to jot down, but she finally settled for “dimension missing … interests and concerns elusive.” It would do. She had a good memory for conversations and could recount verbatim most of what Pratt had said, if Banks wished to hear it.
    â€œLet’s get back to Mr Rothwell’s work with your firm. Is there anything you can tell me about his … style … shall we say, his business practices?”
    â€œYou want to know if Keith was a crook, don’t you?”
    She did, of course, though that wasn’t why she was asking. Still, she thought, never look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave him a “you caught me at it” smile. “Well, was he?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œOh, come on, Mr Pratt. Surely in your business you must sail a little close to the wind at times?”
    â€œI resent that remark, especially coming from a policeman.”
    Susan let that one