I WISH I COULD say that the first time I met Rory Brand I knew he was a dead man walking.
But I can’t.
At that moment he was just another client eager to get me on his side.
‘Dyke, thanks for coming,’ he said, pumping my arm vigorously. I didn’t want to be outdone, so I matched the strength of his grip and watched him react with a swift competitive grin.
‘Nice grip,’ he said.
‘Call me Sam,’ I said.
He was a stocky man a head shorter than me with cropped dark hair peppered with grey. His actions were purposeful and confident, his body language practised at being in charge. He had vitality and life, like most entrepreneurs I’d met. He closed the door behind me with a casual swipe of his arm, then directed me into the room, a small airless office with two large windows and chairs either side of a wooden table. I had the sense that he was used to people doing what he wanted. Well that wasn’t going to work with me—not without a good retainer anyway. ‘I hope we can get one thing straight right now,’ he said. ‘Rumour’s a bastard in this business so nobody else is to find out we talked, is that clear?’
‘I agreed to that yesterday,’ I said.
‘So call me paranoid. I don’t care. You obviously have more faith in people than I do.’
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish