Assistant Director was hanging the jacket of his pinstripe on a mahogany coat stand when Alison followed a gentle knock into the office. Her boss raised his eyebrows by way of query.
“There is an urgent message from Mr. Rattray, Regional at Grampian,” she said. “I thought you should know immediately. It does seem to be serious.”
Assistant Director had met and instantly disliked Rattray. The man was barely educated, a plebeian devoid of sophistication and promoted above his station with no idea of the ‘big picture’. God alone knew how he had become a ‘Regional’. At such a level the incumbent required diplomatic skills for dealings with the MSP’s, local councillors and other luminaries for which correctness of background was absolutely essential. The Duke, however, had professed a degree of admiration for him; an affectation of the illustrious peer, a pretention towards the ‘common touch’, Assistant Director was quite certain.
It was of no matter. Promotion beyond ‘Regional’ remained in Assistant Director’s gift. Rattray, perceived as less patrician than the unexpectedly deceased Munro, would receive no further elevation.
“What’s this all about?” He placed emphasis on ‘this’ in a manufactured drawl that promoted his reputation for unflappability.
“There is a serious wildfire,” Alison responded. “It broke out in Lochaber yesterday and Grampian have responded to the emergency. Inverness and Oban are also on the scene.”
“Damned Monday mornings,” Assistant Director said. “Tell anyone who asks we are giving our fullest support. Oh, and Alison, I need a letter to Viscount…I can never remember the title. Anyway he’s a Guthrie, until recently a Rt. Hon. You can find his details while I draft something.”
Alison saw him reach for the pen on his baroque encrier and backed out, shutting the office door. Assistant Director insisted on a closed door. She was happy to oblige.