artfulequivocator:

    ❝A degree helps, but s’not necessary.
       Got mine in computer sciences at Cambridge.
       Course, all the formal trainin’ happens on th’job, so—❞

    He makes a vague gesture with his hand as he allows his sentence to trail off. That
    hand then comes to rest on top of the envelope, before his fingers tap out an idle
    rhythm. It’s nothing recognisable, just a simple tune that he’d heard on that radio
    that morning.

    Michael’s looking again, and oh, he hopes the subject comes up soon. It’ll really
    give him a chance to have some fun with this.

    ❝Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for sittin’ an’ answerin’ questions,
       but I’ve got a meetin’ with Connolly in an hour and a half.
       He’s across town, so I’ve gotta make my way there.❞

    He only knows that because he made a call to the man’s secretary that morning, just
    to double-check where he’d actually be in case questions arose. And questions
    would likely arise if he were spotted in the building, which is where he plans to be
    after most of the employees have gone home.

    ❝You’ve got nothin’ important to ask, right?❞ 

    ’ What a shame. ’

He’s tempted to text Connolly right then
and ask him if he’s expecting Mr. Douglas anytime soon.

He shifts to pull his phone from his pocket, and, ah, well, 
too late now. He scrolls through his contacts slowly,
purposely taking his time. If he was really going where
he said he was, there wouldn’t be any harm done, would there?

Why is he so suspicious? He accounts it to a gut feeling. 
He always goes with gut feelings.

   ’ Maybe he’d want me to tag along.
    Connolly usually has me around during
    meetings anyway, since I know more about
    his damn business than he does. ’