“Have you heard from Alex at all?”
Not missing a beat, she said, “Since you fired him, you mean?”
I nodded.
“No idea.”
Then she added, “But I’ve got a friend, whose brother works somewhere in IT, and he’d asked me about Alex the other night.”
“When?”
“We’d gone out for a drink, and he wanted to know what sort of a guy he was. He said Alex had been round looking for a job. But, listen to this, he said he didn’t think he’d get it because he was too old. Too old! He’s 30!”
“You didn’t like him much, did you?” I asked her.
Maisie gave me a hard stare. Her kohl-rimmed eyes gleamed like dark coals.
“I don’t like anyone.”
“Me too?”
She considered. “You I like a bit more. Just a tiny bit,” she warned.
“But…” I didn’t know how to ask this. “You trusted Alex?”
“Let’s do this in the kitchen,” Maisie said, and we walked to the area at the end of the common room. I’d let Maisie furnish this space when we’d rented the office space for the first time five years ago. It was bigger than my office, but that was not the point. I knew we’d need a space, more comfortable than a meeting room and less formal than an office, where people could bitch about their partners and talk about TV shows they’d seen, as well as stuff that was really important, like work, and taxes and if they should buy the jeans that were on sale.
Maisie sat down on one of the bean bags and pushed a palm leaf out of her face.
“The day you hired Alex, I told you it was a mistake, do you remember that?”
“No.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she rolled her eyes.
“I told you he was too cocky, too sure of himself and fond of money. Never a good combination.”
“But all developers fall into that category!” I protested.
“Maybe.” She considered. “But he wasn’t loyal. The way he talked about his previous boss? Didn’t that bother you?”
It had, actually. For a while, Alex had worked at an agency where he was one of the lead developers. He’d left when his workload grew but the pay stayed the same. That was his story at least. Nights and weekends of working overtime with no compensation. He made it sound like he was the only competent guy in the building. I never checked his references but took his word for it.
I remembered the company’s name and Googled it, finding a number and after lunch, I went for a walk outside and called the office, found the name of the guy in charge and asked to speak to him. I told him my name and asked him about Alex.
“He worked for you years ago, then he came to work at our company, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
“I remember Alex,” the guy said. “Arsehole.”
I was surprised by his candor.
“I was glad when he left. He was locked into a contract so I couldn’t get rid of him. Left on his own.”
“Why did he leave?”
“Couldn’t deliver, was always off on stress leave, claimed to suffer from depression, anxiety, insomnia, alopecia, any condition you could think of. A co-worker complained about him watching pornography in the office and next minute, I heard he was getting treatment for sex addiction.”
I was dismayed. Alex had worked for me for three years and I’d given him free rein, right until the end. I thanked his old boss and walked back slowly to the office. I was deep in thought, wondering what to do next, when I heard a car slamming on the brakes right next to me. An old bag lady was crossing the road with her homemade trolley, which was loaded with paper and cardboard, perhaps her home or else rubbish she was taking off to sell or recycle. Maybe she wasn’t that old, but the grime on her face and clothes and the way her hair was standing up from her face gave the impression of too many hard years on the street.