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Jayna knew this was the core of their transaction. She approached them along the spinal corridor of Mayhew McCline. It seemed incongruous—Craig handling coinage—because day in, day out he dealt with columns of numbers relating to sums of money exchanged in the digital ether. Here was the head of Accounts buying honey from the junior archivist, a sideline officially condoned by Olivia. But Jayna recalled an outburst by Hester: “I never eat any of it. I pour it down the sink as soon as I get home. I mean,
where have those bees been
?”
    Craig peeled off and Jayna raised her eyebrows at Dave. “How’s business?”
    “Pretty lively.” They waited together for the elevator. After a few moments, he turned to her. “Do you ever get bored, Jayna?”
    “No, Dave. I don’t suppose I do.” And trying to sound bright, “You always seem busy.”
    “Well, I’m inventive. I’m bored out of my fucking head, really.”
    Her back felt clammy.
    frustrate,
verb:
1. prevent (a plan or action) from progressing, succeeding, or being fulfilled; prevent (someone) from doing orachieving something; 2. cause (someone) to feel dissatisfied or unfulfilled.
Adj.
archaic frustrated.
    An image flashed across her mind: scraps of paper on a pavement with a fragment of the Talking Horse Toy Shop logo. She wanted to ease the tension. “Let’s talk sometime, Dave. I’d like to know what you do outside of work. You know, your hobbies.”
    “Yeah. Well, maybe. Come up and see my bees sometime.” Dave rubbed the back of his head with his right hand. “You’re not like the other analysts, are you? So up their own arses.” He looked over his shoulder to check that no one had overheard. As if embarrassed by his own remark, he changed the subject. “Your stick insects all right?”
    “A bit sluggish.”
    He laughed. “Jayna, you cracked a joke.” The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Dave punched the button.
    “Well, it wouldn’t work with Latin names,” she said.
    “That’s true.” He leaned against the side wall of the elevator. “S’pose you’ve heard the rumor about Tom Blenkinsop?”
    “What rumor?”
    “There was a note.”
    “A note? What do you mean?”
    “A suicide note.”
Ping
! The elevator doors opened. “You haven’t heard?” They stepped out and lingered awkwardly.
    “How do you know?” she said.
    “Someone overheard. It’s doing the rounds now.” They both detected Olivia’s voice, approaching.
    “Got to go,” said Jayna. She set off down the glass-walled corridor, spurning the squared floor pattern, which would normally have dictated her stride length. Benjamin walked across his office to greet her. He guided her to his meeting area by placing his hand in the small of her back and applying a slight pressure.
    “Take a seat, Jayna. I want this preliminary because you’ve not had an appraisal before. Just want to make sure you know the format.”
    She sat on the sofa and covered her face with her hands.
    “What’s the matter? What did I miss?”
    “I have to tell you, Benjamin. I should have told you before.”
    “Told me what?”
    She looked up. “Tom sent me a report to finish…I told him I was too busy to help. He was very upset, really angry with me. And then, he went on holiday upset, and committed suicide. I think it’s my fault.”
    “Suicide?” shouted Benjamin.
    “Everyone knows about the note.”
    “A note? There’s no suicide note. His brother would have told me. Though…Ha! Funny, ha! He did leave a note…for
me
, tendering his bloody resignation. Poached by Stanthorpe’s for a fifty per cent hike in salary. That’s why he booked a last-minute holiday—he was using up all his entitlement.”
    “Oh.”
    “Jesus, Jayna! How did you jump to that conclusion, that
you
pushed him into…
suicide
?”
    “Well, it seemed too much of a coincidence.”
    “But it would be completely disproportionate. Can’t you see that?” said Benjamin.
    “I suppose…Sorry,