In the Company of Ghosts by Stephen A Hunt Page A

solidity in front of the sweeping view of the parkland beyond the crystal panes. I can only trust our interviewee doesn’t have the gift. Thankfully, Werks appeared utterly oblivious to the ghost’s presence. ‘I have a copy of the footage from our London building showing the unfortunate way my brother died. And if it was murder, it must surely have been death by telekinesis.’
    ‘Yeah, you have a tape, I have a tape,’ said Doyle. ‘Mine’s way more interesting than yours. The government hasn’t filled your house with more spooks than the Haunted House at Disneyland just because your brother’s choice of fetish web sites put the Home Secretary’s nose out of joint.’
    ‘What, he thinks I’m working for the Home Secretary?’ laughed Groucho. ‘I used to keep a secretary at my house. I had to give her a raise when I found out there were three other companies after her… the gas company, water company, and electricity company.’
    ‘Will this mean trouble for your firm, Mister Werks?’ asked Agatha, interrupting the exchange and ignoring the spectre twirling his cigar.
    ‘We’ll be going down the tubes when the news gets out. There have been rumours floating around the street that ControlWerks is about to be stalked by a consortium of private equity buy-out funds, the big players with more money than God. Simon’s death is just the kind of thing that they’ve been waiting for. Our stock will collapse. They can move in and buy us up at a discount.’
    ‘Now, I thought you owned a controlling stake in your firm,’ said Doyle.
    ‘ Together we had a controlling stake,’ said Werks. ‘Simon’s will doesn’t leave his stock to me. It leaves the stock to a variety of charities. I lost our controlling stake in ControlWerks the moment he died. We agreed on that when we set up the company. We never wanted the firm to get in the way of our relationship. Half for him, half for me, straight down the middle.’ There was a round wooden table next to Werks with an intercom sitting on it, and he leaned over to activate a call. ‘I’ll have my coffee now.’ He looked at his two visitors. ‘Given we’re in England, two teas?’
    Doyle nodded. ‘White, no sugar, ta.’
    ‘Just a cup and a jug of hot water, please,’ said Agatha. ‘Piping.’
    Werks passed on the order while Groucho Marx peered in at the billionaire’s touchpad, glanced up at Agatha and shrugged indicating mystification over the small computer. Agatha turned to the side to obscure her hand from the two men’s view and shooed her fingers at Groucho. Not now. Go away. Instead of disappearing, he leaned in closer and put a semi-transparent arm around Werks’ shoulder. ‘What would you do if a bull charged you?’ The ghost shifted his head to indicate he was going to answer his own question. ‘Why I’d pay whatever it charged,’ grinned Groucho, imitating Werks’ drawling Pennsylvania accent.
    ‘So what about your will?’ asked Doyle.
    ‘Unlike Simon, I have a wife and four children – and my will provides comfortably for them. Still, the vast bulk of my estate will eventually pass to charity. The Gates Foundation and a few of the other smarter causes who know how to deliver bang for buck. The organisations that actually address the causes of the world’s problems, rather than just paying their people fat salaries to hose money around on fires. Or worse yet, ignoring the problems keeping them in gravy, and insisting on spending all the money on raising more of it.’
    ‘Well, sorry for your loss and all that,’ said Doyle, ‘but from where this underpaid old plod is standing, getting paid a few billion by a gang of investors to retire early sounds like a nice problem to have.’
    Curtis Werks’ face distorted in disgust at the idea. ‘It was never about the money. Simon and myself were both paper billionaires before we turned twenty-five. If we had wanted to waste our lives drinking Truffle Martinis on a liner-sized yacht at the