"Francis, Clare - A Death Divided" - читать интересную книгу автора (Francis Clare)

what is it you think they can tell you that I myself have not
already told you? Is my word not good enough?'
Joe knew it would be a mistake to take Al Ritch for a fool
- the man had built up a mineral exploration business worth
hundreds of millions of dollars. He also knew that Ritch had
never been involved in litigation before and must be allowed a
degree of uncertainty, yet if Ritch was trying to screw up his
chances of success he was going about it precisely the right
way. He said carefully, 'Your word is good, Al, of course it
is, but one person's word is never going to be enough in
an English court of law, I'm afraid. They like corroborative
evidence, the more the better.'
Ritch tipped his head towards one of his colleagues and
said in a whisper that couldn't fail to be picked up by the
microphones, 'Yer think these guys jus' tryin' ter jack up their
fees, Larry?'
Joe saw Anna's hands splay out in silent fury, while Ed
hissed softly between his teeth. For the moment Joe could think
of nothing useful to say. Until then he'd always taken the view
that the easy clients more than made up for the demanding

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ones, but in that instant, as he stared at the unlovely image of
Mr Al Ritch, he longed to be free of them all. This realisation
had an unnerving clarity to it, like a jog of recognition: subconsciously
or otherwise, he had been here before.
He said, 'Perhaps I could put it this way, Al - if we obtain
this corroborative evidence, we have a reasonable chance of
winning. If we don't, our chances are going to be severely
reduced.'
'But jus' how many o' these statements we talkin' about
here, Joe? How many round-the-world air tickets for you and
your guys, huh? Two? Four? Six?'
'You'll have to trust to our judgement on that, Al.'
But Ritch had not made his fortune by leaving too much
to trust. 'Okay, Joe,' he conceded suspiciously. 'But, listen
here--' He stabbed a warning finger at the camera. 'Let's start
with the minimum, like you go and talk to jus' two o' these
guys, and we take it on from there. You hear?'
'Sure, Al. We can start from there.'
Ritch leant back in his chair with the satisfaction of an old
hand who has trounced an ill-advised attempt to hoodwink
him, until his attention was taken by a fast-food carton which
appeared camera-left and was pushed across the table towards
him. Dipping into it, he pulled out a multi-tiered hamburger
and, swivelling his chair away to face his colleagues, began to
eat. The microphone was still on, the transmission faultless,
and in London they were treated to the glutinous churnings of
the hamburger as it progressed around Pitch's mouth.