Cometh the Hour

29

“There’s a Dr. Wolfe on line one for you,” said Rachel.

Although Sebastian hadn’t spoken to the lady for some time, it wasn’t a name he was likely to forget.

“Mr. Clifton, I’m calling because I thought you’d like to know that Jessica has several paintings in the school’s end-of-term exhibition that prove she’s been well worthy of your scholarship. There is one piece that I consider quite exceptional, called My Father.”

“When does the exhibition take place?”

“This weekend. It opens on Friday evening and runs through Sunday. I appreciate that it would be a long way to travel just to see half a dozen pictures so I’ve put a catalogue in the post.”

“Thank you. Are any of Jessica’s pictures for sale?”

“All the works are for sale, and this year the children have chosen to give the proceeds to the American Red Cross.”

“Then I’ll buy all of them,” said Sebastian.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Clifton. Other parents would rightly complain if any of the pictures were sold before the show opens, and that is a rule I’m not willing to break.”

“What time does the show open?”

“Five o’clock on Friday.”

Seb flicked open his diary and looked down at what he had planned for the weekend. Victor had invited him to White Hart Lane to see Spurs play Liverpool, and Uncle Giles was holding a drinks party at the Lords. Not a difficult decision. “I’ll fly over on Friday morning. But I don’t want Jessica or her mother to know I’m in town while her husband is still alive.”

There was a long pause before Dr. Wolfe said, “But Mr. Brewer died over a year ago, Mr. Clifton. I’m so sorry, I assumed you knew.”

Sebastian collapsed back into his chair as if he’d been floored by a heavyweight boxer. He tried to catch his breath while he took in her words.

“I apologize, but—”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Dr. Wolfe. But I’d still prefer them not to know I’m coming over.”

“As you wish, Mr. Clifton.”

Sebastian looked up to see his secretary standing in the doorway waving frantically at him.

“I have to leave you, Dr. Wolfe, something’s come up. Thank you for calling, and I look forward to seeing you at the weekend,” he said before putting the phone down. “Rachel, I’m flying to Washington on Friday morning, probably returning Sunday. I’ll need a first-class return, fifteen hundred dollars in cash, and please book me into the Mayflower.” Seb paused. “You have that exasperated look on your face, Rachel.”

“Mr. Hardcastle arrived fifteen minutes ago and they’re all waiting for you in the chairman’s office so the documents can be signed.”

“Of course, the signing ceremony. How could I have forgotten?” Seb ran out of the room and down the corridor. He burst into the chairman’s office to find Hakim Bishara, Victor Kaufman and Arnold Hardcastle poring over the merger documents.

“I apologize, chairman. An unexpected call from the States.”

“No problem, Seb,” said Hakim. “By the way, have you ever been to jail?”

“Is that a trick question?” asked Seb, grinning.

“No, it certainly is not,” said Arnold Hardcastle. “Although it’s only a formality in your case, it’s one of the questions the Bank of England asks whenever an application for a new banking license is submitted.”

“No, I have never been to jail,” said Seb, hoping he sounded suitably chastised.

“Good,” said Arnold. “Now all that’s required is for Mr. Bishara and Mr. Kaufman to sign all three documents, with Mr. Clifton acting as a witness.”

It amused Seb that Arnold Hardcastle would never have considered addressing him by his Christian name while they were in the chairman’s office, although they were old family friends and Arnold had been the firm’s legal advisor for as long as Seb could remember. How like his late father he was, thought Seb, whom he had never once called Cedric.

“Before I part with my mess of pottage,” said Victor, “perhaps Mr. Hardcastle would be kind enough to explain once again the implications of my signing this document. Something my father always insisted on.”

“And quite rightly so,” said Arnold. “When your father died, he owned fifty-one percent of the shares in Kaufman’s Bank, which he bequeathed to you, thus giving you a majority shareholding. That was the position when Mr. Clifton, on behalf of Farthings Bank, approached you to suggest that the two banks should merge. Following a long period of negotiation, it was agreed that you would become a twenty-five percent shareholder of the new bank, Farthings Kaufman, and a full board director, while retaining your position as head of the foreign exchange department — a post you’ve held at Kaufman’s for the past eight years. It was also agreed that Mr. Bishara would remain as chairman, with Mr. Clifton continuing as chief executive.”

“Is there anything I should be worrying about?” asked Victor.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Hardcastle. “Once all three of you have signed the merger document, all that’s left is for you to await the Bank of England’s approval, which I’m assured by the bank’s compliance officer is a mere formality. He expects the paperwork to be completed within a month.”

“My father would have been delighted to see our two banks merge,” said Victor. “Where do I sign?”

Hakim Bishara, on behalf of Farthings, and Victor Kaufman on behalf of Kaufman’s, signed all three documents, with Sebastian adding his name as a witness. Once Arnold had gathered up all the documents, Hakim walked across to the drinks cabinet, opened a small fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork and poured three glasses.

“To Farthings Kaufman,” he said. “Possibly not the biggest bank on the block, but unquestionably the latest.” The three laughed and raised their glasses. “To Farthings Kaufman.”

“Right, let’s get back to work,” said the chairman. “What’s next on my schedule?”

“Clive Bingham has an appointment to see you in half an hour, chairman,” said Hardcastle, “to discuss a press statement he’s working on. I know everyone in the Square Mile considers it’s a done deal, but I’d still like to see the merger well covered by the financial press. Clive tells me that both the FT and Economist have requested to do profiles on you.”

“And to think it’s less than a decade ago that the Bank of England refused to grant me a secondary banking license.”

“We’ve all come a long way since then,” said Seb.

“We have indeed,” said Hakim. “And the merging of our two banks is just the next stage of what I have planned.”

“Amen to that,” said Victor, raising his glass a second time.

“Seb,” said the chairman when he failed to raise his glass, “you seem a little preoccupied.”

“It’s nothing, chairman. But I should let you know that I’ll be flying to Washington on Friday morning. I expect to be back in the office by Monday.”

“A deal I ought to know about?” asked Hakim, raising an eyebrow.

“No. I’m thinking of buying some pictures.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Hakim, but Seb didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m off to Lagos tomorrow,” Hakim added, “for a meeting with the oil minister. The government wants to build a larger port to handle the demand for so many foreign oil tankers following the discovery of several new oil fields off the Nigerian coast. They’ve invited Farthings — sorry, Farthings Kaufman — to act as their financial advisors. Like you, Seb, I hope to be back at my desk by Monday at the latest, as I have another heavy week ahead of me. So, Victor, we’ll leave the shop in your hands while we’re away. Just be sure there are no surprises when we return.”

“Quite a coup,” said Desmond Mellor once he’d read the press statement. “I’m not sure there’s much we can do about it.”

“How large is our holding in Farthings Kaufman?” asked Jim Knowles.

“We own six percent of Farthings,” said Adrian Sloane. “But that will be reduced to three percent of the new bank when the merger goes through, which wouldn’t entitle us to a place on the board.”

“And although Mellor Travel has had another good year,” said Desmond, “I just don’t have the financial clout to take on Bishara.”

“One of my contacts at the Bank of England,” said Knowles, “tells me he expects the merger to be ratified within the next couple of weeks.”

“Unless the Bank of England felt unable to ratify it,” said Sloane.

“What reason would they have not to?” asked Mellor.

“If a director didn’t fulfil one of the Bank’s statutory regulations.”

“Which regulation do you have in mind, Adrian?”

“That he’d been to jail.”

30

Sebastian walked out of Dulles airport and joined the short queue for a yellow cab.

“The Mayflower Hotel, please,” he said to the driver. Seb always enjoyed the drive from Dulles into the capital. A long, winding road that stretched between wooded forests before crossing the Potomac and passing the magnificent marble monuments of past presidents that dominated the landscape like Roman temples. Lincoln, Jefferson and finally Washington, before the cab drew up outside the hotel.

Sebastian was impressed when the clerk on the front desk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Clifton,” as he’d only stayed at the Mayflower once before. “Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

“How long will it take me to get to Jefferson School?”

“Fifteen minutes, twenty at most. Shall I book you a cab?”

Seb checked his watch. Just after 2 p.m. “Yes, let’s make it for four twenty?”

“Four twenty it is, sir. I’ll call your room the moment the car arrives.”

Seb made his way to the ninth floor and, as he looked across at the White House, he realized they’d even given him the same room as before. He unpacked his small suitcase and placed a thousand dollars in the wall safe, which he assumed would be more than enough to buy all of Jessica’s pictures. He undressed, took a shower, lay down on the bed and put his head on the pillow.

The phone was ringing. Seb opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. He picked up the receiver.

“Your cab is waiting at the front entrance, sir.”

Seb checked his watch: 4:15 p.m. He must have fallen asleep. Damn jet lag. “Thank you, I’ll be right down.” He quickly put on some clean clothes before making his way downstairs. “Can you get me there before five?” he asked the driver.

“Kinda depends where ‘there’ is.”

“Sorry, Jefferson School.”

“No sweat.” The cab moved off to join the early evening traffic.

Seb had already worked on two plans. If, when he arrived at the school, he spotted either Samantha or Jessica, he would wait until they’d left before going into the exhibition. But if they weren’t there, he would take a quick look at his daughter’s work, select the pictures he wanted and be on his way back to the Mayflower before they even realized he’d been there.

The cab pulled up outside the school entrance a few minutes before five. Seb remained in the backseat and watched as a couple of parents, accompanied by a child, made their way up the path and into the building. He then paid the fare and tentatively followed them, searching all the time for two people he didn’t want to see. When he entered the building, he was greeted by a large red arrow with the words ART EXHIBITION pointing down the corridor.

He kept looking in every direction but there was no sign of them. In the exhibition hall there must have been over a hundred pictures filling the walls with bold splashes of color, but so far there were only about half a dozen parents, who were clearly interested only in their own offspring’s efforts. Seb stuck to plan A and walked quickly around the room. It wasn’t difficult to pick out Jessica’s work; to quote one of his father’s favorite expressions when describing his old school friend Mr. Deakins, she was “in a different class.”

Every few moments he glanced toward the door, but as there was no sign of them, he began to study his daughter’s work more carefully. Although only ten, she already had a style of her own; the brushwork was bold and confident with no suggestion of second attempts. And then he stopped in front of the painting entitled My Father and understood why Dr. Wolfe had singled it out as quite exceptional. The image of a man and woman holding hands seemed to Seb to have been influenced by René Magritte. The woman could only have been Samantha, the warm smile and the kind eyes and even the tiny birthmark that he would never forget. The man was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and blue tie, but the face hadn’t been filled in, just left blank. Seb felt so many emotions: sadness, stupidity, guilt, regret but, most of all, regret.

He quickly checked the door again before walking over to a desk where a young woman was sitting behind a sign that read SALES. Sebastian turned the pages of his catalogue, then asked for the price of items 9, 12, 18, 21, 37 and 52. She checked her list.

“With the exception of number thirty-seven, they are all a hundred dollars each. And, of course, all the money goes to charity.”

“Please don’t tell me number thirty-seven has already been sold?”

“No, sir. It is for sale, but I’m afraid it’s five hundred dollars.”

“I’ll take all six,” said Seb, as he removed his wallet.

“That will be one thousand dollars,” said the woman, making no attempt to hide her surprise.

Seb opened his wallet and realized immediately that, in his rush to get the cab, he’d left most of his cash in the hotel safe. “Can you reserve them for me?” he asked. “I’ll make sure you have the money long before the show closes.” He didn’t want to explain to her why he couldn’t just sign a check. That wasn’t part of plan A.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that,” she said. Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Seb froze and turned in panic to see Dr. Wolfe smiling at him.

“Miss Tomkins,” she said firmly. “That will be quite all right.”

“Of course, headmistress.” Looking back at Seb, she asked, “What name shall I put on the sales sheet?”

“Put them all in my name,” said Dr. Wolfe before Seb could reply.

“Thank you,” said Seb. “When can I collect them?”

“Any time on Sunday afternoon,” said Miss Tomkins. “The show closes at five.”

“Thank you again,” said Seb, before turning back to Dr. Wolfe.

“I came to warn you that I’ve just spotted Samantha and Jessica driving into the car park.” Seb looked across to the door, which seemed to be only one way out. “If you follow me,” said Dr. Wolfe, “I’ll take you to my study.”

“Thank you,” said Seb as she led him to the far end of the hall and through a door marked PRIVATE.

Once she’d closed her study door, Dr. Wolfe asked, “Why won’t you let me tell Samantha that you’ve flown over specially to see Jessica’s work? I’m sure they’d both be delighted to see you and Jessica would be so flattered.”

“I’m afraid that’s a risk I’m not willing to take at the moment. But can I ask how Jessica’s getting on?”

“As you can see from the paintings you’ve just bought, your bursary proved a wise investment, and I’m still confident that she’ll be the first girl from Jefferson to win a scholarship to the American College of Art.” Seb couldn’t hide a parent’s pride. “Now, I’d better get back before they begin to wonder where I am. If you go to the far end of the corridor, Mr. Clifton, you’ll find a back door leading into the yard, so no one will see you leaving. And if you change your mind before Sunday, you have my number. Just give me a call and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Hakim Bishara climbed the aircraft steps, feeling his journey to Nigeria had been a complete waste of time. He was a patient man but on this occasion even his patience had been stretched to the limit. The oil minister had kept him waiting for five hours and, when he was finally ushered into his presence, he didn’t seem to be fully briefed on the new port project and suggested they meet again in a couple of weeks’ time, as if Bishara’s office was just around the corner. Bishara left fifteen minutes later with a promise that the minister would look into the matter and get back to him. He wasn’t holding his breath.

He returned to his hotel, checked out and took a taxi to the airport.

Whenever Hakim stepped onto a plane, he always hoped for one of two things: to be seated next to either a beautiful woman who would be spending a few days in a city where she was a stranger, or a businessman he normally would not have come across and who he might be able to interest in opening an account with Farthings. He corrected himself, Farthings Kaufman, and wondered how long it would take him to think it without thinking. Over the years, he’d closed three major deals because of someone he’d sat next to on a plane, and met countless women, one of whom had broken his heart after five idyllic days in Rome when she told him she was married and then flew home. He made his way to seat 3A. In the next seat was a woman of such extraordinary beauty it was hard not to just stare at her. Once he’d fastened his seatbelt, he glanced across to see she was engrossed in a novel Harry Clifton had recommended he should read. He couldn’t imagine how a book about rabbits could have any appeal.

Hakim always enjoyed trying to work out a person’s nationality, background and profession simply by observing them, a skill his father had taught him, whenever he was trying to sell a customer an expensive carpet. First, check the basics, her jewelry, his watch, their clothes and shoes, and anything else unusual.

The book suggested intelligence, the wedding ring, and even more obviously the engagement ring, spelled understated wealth. The watch was a classic Cartier Tank, no longer in production. The suit was Yves Saint Laurent and the shoes Halston. An untutored observer might have described her as a woman of a certain age; a discerning one, like Sky Masterson, as a classy broad. Her slim, elegant figure and long fair hair suggested she was Scandinavian.

He would have liked to begin a conversation with her, but as she seemed so engrossed in her novel and didn’t give him so much as a glance, he decided to settle for a few hours’ sleep, although he did wonder if he’d later regret it.

Samantha walked slowly around the exhibition with a nervous Jessica just a pace behind.

“What do you think, Mom? Will anybody buy one?”

“Well, I will for a start.”

“That’s a relief. I don’t want to be the only girl who couldn’t sell a picture.”

Samantha laughed. “I don’t think that will be your problem.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Yes, number thirty-seven. I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.” Samantha was still admiring My Father when Miss Tomkins came up and placed a red dot next to it. “But I was hoping to buy that one,” said Samantha, unable to hide her disappointment.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brewer, but all of Jessica’s pictures were sold within a few minutes of the show opening.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jessica. “I put a price of five hundred dollars on that picture to make certain nobody would buy it because I wanted to give it to my mom.”

“It was also the gentleman’s favorite,” said Miss Tomkins. “And the price didn’t seem to bother him.”

“What was this gentleman’s name?” asked Samantha, quietly.

“I’ve no idea. He came just before the show opened and bought every one of Jessica’s pictures.” She looked around the room. “But he seems to have left.”

“I wish I’d seen him,” said Jessica.

“Why?” asked Samantha.

“Because then I could have filled in the face.”

“How much?” said Ellie May in disbelief.

“About a million and a half dollars,” admitted Cyrus.

“That must be the most expensive one-night stand in history, and I’m damned if I’m going to let the little hussy get away with it.”

“But she’s a lady,” said Cyrus.

“She won’t be the first lady who recognizes a sucker when she sees one.”

“But there’s still a possibility that little Freddie is mine.”

“I have a feeling,” said Ellie May, “that little Freddie isn’t even hers.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Make damn sure Lady Virginia realizes she hasn’t got away with it.”

Hakim drifted out of a shallow sleep. He blinked, pressed a button in his armrest and his seat straightened up. Moments later a stewardess offered him a warm flannel. He gently rubbed his eyes, forehead and finally the back of his neck, until he felt half awake.

“Would you like some breakfast, Mr. Bishara?” the stewardess asked as she removed the flannel with a pair of tongs.

“Just orange juice and a black coffee, please.”

He glanced at the woman on his right but he could see that she only had a few more pages of her book to read, so he reluctantly decided not to interrupt her.

When the pilot announced they would be landing in thirty minutes, the woman immediately disappeared into the lavatory and didn’t reemerge for some time. Hakim concluded that there had to be a lucky man waiting for her at Heathrow.

Hakim always liked to be among the first passengers to disembark, especially when he was only carrying hand luggage and wouldn’t be held up in the baggage hall. His chauffeur would be waiting for him outside the terminal building and, although it was a Sunday, he still intended to go into the office and tackle the mountain of unanswered mail that would have piled up on his desk. Once again, he cursed the Nigerian oil minister.

Since he’d become a British citizen he was no longer held up at passport control and didn’t have to endure the lengthy nonresidents queues. He walked past the baggage carousels and headed straight for the green channel as he hadn’t purchased anything while he was in Lagos. The moment he put his foot in the corridor, a customs officer stepped forward and blocked his path.

“Can I check your bag, sir?”

“Of course,” said Bishara, putting his small overnight bag on the low slatted table.

Another officer appeared and stood a pace behind his colleague, who was systematically going through Hakim’s single piece of luggage. All he found was a wash bag, two shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and two silk ties; all he’d needed for a two-day visit. The customs officer then unzipped a small side pocket that Hakim rarely used. Hakim watched in disbelief as the man extracted a cellophane bag packed with a white substance. Although he’d never taken a drug in his life, he knew exactly what it must be.

“Does this belong to you, sir?” asked the officer.

“I’ve never seen it before in my life,” Hakim answered truthfully.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to come with us, sir.”

31

Desmond Mellor smiled when he read the headline in the Daily Mail.

He was only halfway through the article when he looked up at Adrian Sloane and said, “This couldn’t be much better, Adrian, if you’d written it yourself.”

Sloane tossed over his copy of the Sun. “I think you’ll find this one tops it.”

Mellor laughed.

“He can’t hope to survive headlines like this,” said Jim Knowles. “Even the FT is saying, and I quote, ‘The Bank of England confirms that it has not received an application to merge Farthings and Kaufman’s banks, and will not be issuing any further statements on the subject.’”

“Shorthand for ‘don’t bother us again, we’ve kicked the ball into the long grass.’” said Sloane.

“What a coup,” said Mellor. “Dare I ask how you managed to pull it off, Adrian?”

“It’s probably better that you don’t know the details, Desmond, but what I can tell you is that the main participants are already safely back in Nigeria.”

“While Bishara is locked up in Wandsworth prison.”

“What’s more, I can’t see him enjoying any better accommodation for the next few months.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Jim Knowles. “That smooth-talking QC of his will probably get him out on bail.”

“Not if Bishara’s charged with unlawful possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply,” said Sloane.

“And if he’s found guilty,” asked Knowles, “how long could he be sent down for?”

“The minimum sentence is five years, according to the Times. I’m not too fussed about the maximum, because I’ll be chairman of Farthings long before then,” said Mellor.

“What do you think will happen to the two banks’ shares?”

“They’ll collapse, but we should hold fire for a few days until they bottom out,” said Mellor. “That’s when I intend to pick up another couple of percent, before I join the Farthings board. While the trial’s taking place I’ll position myself as a white knight who’s reluctantly willing to come to the rescue of the beleaguered shareholders. And after Bishara’s been found guilty, I’ll allow myself to be persuaded to return as chairman of Farthings in order to save the bank’s reputation.”

“Sebastian Clifton’s unlikely to just sit around twiddling his thumbs while all this is going on,” said Knowles.

“He’ll hang in there until Bishara’s convicted,” said Mellor. “And once I’m chairman, I’ll be the first to commiserate with him and say how sorry I am that he feels he also has to resign.”

Sebastian was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and, like the sixteenth president, was deep in thought. He would have returned to England that morning if the school had been willing to release Jessica’s paintings, but Miss Tomkins wouldn’t allow him to collect them until Sunday afternoon.

He had decided to go back to the school and have another look at Jessica’s work, but not before he had convinced himself it was unlikely that she or Samantha would return on a Saturday afternoon. Or did he actually hope they would?

He finally left Lincoln and went in search of Jefferson. He took a cab back to the school with the excuse he ought to pay off his debt as soon as possible. As he entered the exhibition hall, he was relieved to see how few parents were there; it was clear from the plethora of red dots that most of them must have attended the opening night. One fixture remained dutifully in place behind her desk. Seb walked across to Miss Tomkins and handed over a thousand dollars in cash.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure you’d like to know that several people were disappointed not to be able to get hold of any of Jessica’s paintings. Including her mother, who had wanted to buy My Father. She asked me who’d bought it, but of course I couldn’t tell her, because I didn’t know your name.”

Seb smiled. “Thank you. And if I may, I’ll collect them all tomorrow afternoon.”

He left Miss Tomkins to have another look at Jessica’s paintings. He took his time studying the half dozen works he now owned and, with the satisfaction of a seasoned collector, he ended up in front of My Father, which he had already decided would hang over the mantelpiece in his flat. He was just about to leave when a voice behind him said, “Are you looking in a mirror?”

Sebastian swung around to see his daughter, who immediately threw her arms around him and said, “What took you so long?”

It was rare for Sebastian to be struck speechless, but he just didn’t know what to say, so he clung onto her before she took a step back and grinned up at him. “Well, say something!”

“I’m so sorry,” he eventually managed. “You’re right. I did see you once, years ago, but I didn’t have the courage to say hello. I’ve been such a fool.”

“Well, we can at least agree on that,” said Jessica. “But then, to be fair, Mom hasn’t exactly covered herself in glory either.” Jessica took his hand and led him out of the room, continuing to chat as if they were old friends. “Actually, she’s just as much to blame as you are. I told her to get in touch with you after my stepfather died.”

“You never thought he was your father?”

“I may not be that good at math, but even I can work out that if I was six and they’d met only five years before...”

Seb laughed.

“Just after Michael died, Mom confirmed what I already knew, but I still couldn’t persuade her to get in touch with you.”

They walked around the park, arm in arm, dropped into a Farrell’s ice-cream parlor and shared a hot fudge sundae, while she chatted about her friends, her painting, her plans for the future. As he listened he wondered hopelessly how he could make up for all the lost years in a couple of hours.

“It’s getting late,” he said eventually, looking at his watch. “Won’t your mother be wondering where you are?”

“Sebastian,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, “I’m ten years old.”

“Well, if you’re so grown-up, what do you think I should do next?”

“I’ve taken care of that. You’re taking Mom and me to dinner at the Belvedere tonight. I’ve already made a reservation for three at seven thirty. Then all we’ll need to decide is if we’re going to live in London or Washington.”

“But what if I hadn’t come back to the school this afternoon?”

“I knew you’d come back.”

“But I didn’t know myself.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You seem to have everything worked out,” said Seb.

“Of course I have. I’ve had a long time to think about it, haven’t I?”

“And is your mother happy to fall in with your plans?”

“I haven’t actually told her yet. But we can sort all that out tonight, can’t we?”

“Dr. Wolfe told me yesterday that you could win a scholarship to the American College of Art.”

“Dr. Wolfe will be just as proud when I’m the first girl from Jefferson to go to the Royal College of Art, though I thought I’d go to the Slade first, just like the other Jessica.”

“Will your mother or I have any say in all of this?”

“Let’s hope not. After all, you two have made such a mess of everything so far.”

Sebastian laughed.

“Can I ask, do I live up to your expectations?” she said, sounding unsure of herself for the first time.

“You’re even more talented and beautiful than I’d imagined. How about me?” asked Seb, grinning.

“Actually I’m a little disappointed,” said Jessica. “I thought you’d be taller and better-looking. More like Sean Connery.”

Seb burst out laughing. “You are the most precocious child I’ve ever met.”

“And you’ll be pleased to hear that Mom agrees with you, except she substitutes the word brat for child, which I’m sure you’ll do once you get to know me better. Now I must be off. I’ve got lots to tell Mom about, and I’m looking forward to wearing a new dress tonight I bought especially for the occasion. Where are we having dinner?”

“The Belvedere, seven thirty.”

Jessica threw her arms around him and burst into tears.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just be sure you’re on time for a change.”

“Don’t worry, I will be.”

“You’d better be,” said Jessica, and quickly left him.

Mr Arnold Hardcastle QC sat opposite Hakim Bishara in a small private room at HMP Wandsworth.

“I’m going to say something, Hakim, that I’ve never said to a client before. Even though it’s a lawyer’s duty to present the best defense possible for his client whether he believes them to be guilty or innocent, I want you to know that I am in no doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that you have been set up. However, I must warn you that because of the government’s new guidelines on Class A drugs, the judge will have no choice but to refuse an application for bail.”

“And how long will it be before my case comes to trial?”

“Four months, six at most. Be assured, I’ll do everything I can to speed it up.”

“During which time I’ll be holed up in here, while the bank could go bust.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Have you read the morning papers?” said Bishara. “They couldn’t be much worse. When the market opens tomorrow, the vultures will swoop down on the carcass and pick the bones clean. Is there any good news?”

“Ross Buchanan rang me at home last night to say he’d be happy to stand in as temporary chairman until you return. He’s already issued a press statement saying he has no doubt that you will be cleared of all the charges.”

“Typical of the man,” said Hakim. “Accept his offer. We’ll also need Sebastian to be at his desk when the market opens.”

“He’s in Washington at the moment. I’ve called his hotel several times, but he wasn’t in his room. I left a message asking him to call me urgently. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes, there is, Arnold. I need the best private detective you’ve ever come across, someone who’s fearless and won’t let anything stop him when it comes to tracking down who was responsible for planting that heroin in my bag.”

“Chief Inspector Barry Hammond is the name that immediately comes to mind, but I’ve lost touch with him since he left the Met Police.”

“Did he retire?”

“No, he resigned after he was accused of planting evidence on a gangland boss who kept getting away with, quite literally, murder.”

“How did you come across him?”

“I was his defending counsel when the trial came to court. I got him off, but he resigned from the force the next day.”

“Then track him down, because I need to see him as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get onto it straight away. Anything else?”

“Get hold of Sebastian.”

Seb walked slowly back to the hotel and thought about all the wasted years, and how he intended to make up for them, whatever sacrifices he had to make. If only Samantha would give him a second chance. Was Jessica right? Would they really be willing to live in London? Tonight would be like a first date, and he suspected that Samantha would be just as nervous as he was. After all, her husband had recently died, and Seb had no way of knowing how she felt about seeing him again. Perhaps their young chaperone knew more than she was willing to admit. Another woman he dreaded the thought of being parted from.

When Seb entered the hotel, he went to the desk and asked the receptionist, “How long does it take to get to the Belvedere restaurant?”

“It’s just around the corner, sir, shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Do you have a reservation? They’re sure to be fully booked on a Saturday night.”

“Yes, I do,” said Seb confidently.

“And I have an urgent message for you, Mr. Clifton. Would you please call a Mr. Arnold Hardcastle? He’s left a number. Shall I get him on the line and put the call through to your room?”

“Yes, please,” said Seb, before heading for the nearest lift. He’d never known Arnold to use the word “urgent.” What could possibly be that important? Had he failed to sign one of the pages in the merger document? Had Victor changed his mind at the last moment? Once he was in his room he only had to wait a few moments before the phone rang.

“Sebastian Clifton.”

“Seb. Thank God I’ve finally got hold of you.”

“What’s the problem, Arnold?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Seb listened in disbelief as Arnold went over everything that had happened to Hakim since he’d stepped off the plane at Heathrow.

“It has to be a setup, pure and simple,” said Seb angrily.

“My exact words,” said Arnold. “But I’m afraid it’s not pure, and it certainly isn’t simple, while the evidence is so stacked against him.”

“Where is he now?”

“In a cell in Wandsworth. He feels it’s essential that you’re back at your desk when the market opens on Monday morning.”

“Of course I will be. I’ll take the next flight back to Heathrow.” He put the phone down and immediately dialed the front desk. “I’ll be checking out in the next half hour. Please have my bill ready, and would you book me onto the first available flight to London? And can you look up the number of a Mrs. Michael Brewer, get her on the line and put her straight through?”

Seb packed quickly, and then checked that he’d left nothing behind. He was zipping up his bag when the phone rang again.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Michael Brewer is unlisted.”

“Then get me Dr. Wolfe at Jefferson Elementary School. She’s the headmistress.”

Seb paced around the room. If he could speak to Dr. Wolfe, she would surely have Sam’s number...

The phone rang again.

“Dr. Wolfe is not answering her phone, Mr. Clifton, and the only flight I can get you on takes off in just under two hours, so you’d have to hurry. All the other London flights are fully booked.”

“Take it. And I’ll need a taxi to get me to Dulles.”

On the way to the airport, Seb didn’t even notice the towering monuments, the fast-flowing Potomac or the densely wooded forests. His mind was preoccupied with the thought of Hakim locked up in a prison cell. Seb accepted that there was no longer any purpose in Arnold delivering the merger papers to the Bank of England after he recalled Hakim’s light-hearted question, “Have you ever been to jail?” He wondered who could be behind something so treacherous. Adrian Sloane immediately came to mind, but he couldn’t have done it on his own.

It was when Seb checked his watch and saw that it was almost 7:30 p.m. that he remembered where he was meant to be at that time. Jessica would assume he’d let them down again. She would never believe anything could be more important than... He paid the taxi driver, dashed into the terminal, checked in, then headed straight for the business-class lounge, where he stepped into the only available phone booth, pressed a coin into the slot and dialed directory enquiries.

“This is the first call for passengers traveling to London Heathrow on the seven fifty-five British Airways flight, will you please make your way...”

“A restaurant in Washington called the Belvedere.” A few moments later she gave him the number. Seb dialed it immediately, only to find it was engaged. He decided to pick up his ticket and try again in a few minutes. Perhaps the plane would be delayed.

He ran back to the phone booth and dialed again. Still engaged.

“This is the final call for passengers traveling to London Heathrow on the seven fifty-five British Airways flight. Please...”

He pressed the coins back in and dialed the number, praying it wouldn’t still be busy. This time he was greeted by a ringing tone.

“Come on, pick it up, pick it up!” he shouted.

“Good evening, this is the Belvedere, how may I help you?”

“This is Sebastian Clifton, and I’m meant to be dining at your restaurant this evening with Samantha and Jessica Brewer.”

“Yes, sir, your party has arrived and are in the lounge waiting for you.”

“I need to speak to Jessica Brewer. Please tell her it’s urgent.”

“Certainly, sir, I’ll ask her to come to the phone.”

Seb waited, but the next voice he heard said, “Please put another fifty cents into the slot.”

He searched his pockets for change, but all he could find was ten cents. He shoved it into the slot and prayed. “Hi Pops, it’s Jessie.”

“Jessie, hi—” Beep, beep, beep, click... purr.

“Would Mr. Sebastian Clifton, traveling to London Heathrow on the seven fifty-five British Airways flight, please report to Gate number fourteen as the gate is about to close.”

32

The four of them held an unscheduled board meeting at eleven on Monday morning. They sat around a square, vinyl-topped table in a cramped room normally reserved for legal consultations.

Ross Buchanan sat at one end of the table with a sheaf of files on the floor beside him. Hakim Bishara sat opposite him with Arnold Hardcastle on his right and Sebastian on his left.

“Perhaps I should begin,” said Ross, “by letting you know that — so far at least — Farthings shares haven’t lost as much ground as we feared they might.”

“Helped by your robust statement, no doubt,” said Hakim, “which was reported in all the Sunday papers. Indeed, if anything will keep the bank afloat it’s your reputation in the City, Ross.”

“It also looks as if there’s a third party involved,” said Seb, “who’s picking up any available stock.”

“A friend or a predator, I wonder,” said Hakim.

“I can’t be sure, but I’ll let you know the moment I find out.”

“How have Kaufman’s shares been faring?”

“Surprisingly,” said Seb, “they’ve risen slightly, despite Victor making it clear to anyone who asks that, as far as he’s concerned, the merger is still on, and that his late father was a great admirer of yours.”

“That’s generous of him,” said Hakim, placing his elbows on the table. “But how many of our major clients have withdrawn their accounts?”

“Several called to express their concern about the charges you’re facing and to point out that their companies can’t afford to be associated with a drug dealer.”

“And what did you tell them?” asked Arnold, before Hakim could jump in.

“I told them,” continued Ross, “that Mr. Bishara doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink and who do they imagine he could possibly be selling drugs to?”

“What about our smaller customers?” said Hakim. “Are they voting with their feet?”

“A handful have already moved their accounts,” said Seb. “But ironically I’ve been trying to get rid of one or two of them for years, and no doubt they’ll all come crawling back once you’ve proved your innocence.”

“And they’ll find the door slammed in their faces,” said Hakim, banging the table with a clenched fist. “What about your private detective?” he asked Arnold. “Have you managed to track him down?”

“I have, chairman. I found him playing snooker in Romford. He’d read about the case in the News of the World and said the word on the street was that it was a stitch-up, but no one seems to know who’s got the needle and thread, which convinces him it can’t be any of the usual suspects.”

“When is he coming to see me?”

“Six o’clock this evening. Be warned, Barry Hammond isn’t the easiest of men. But if he does decide to take on the assignment, I wouldn’t want to be the person who set you up.”

“What do you mean, ‘if’? Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He despises drug dealers, Hakim,” said Arnold calmly. “Thinks they should all be strung up in Trafalgar Square.”

“If he were even to suggest that I—”

Sebastian placed a hand on Hakim’s arm. “We all understand what you’re going through, chairman, but you have to remain calm, and let Ross, Arnold and me handle the pressure.”

“I’m sorry. Of course you’re right, Seb. Don’t think I’m not grateful to all of you. I look forward to meeting Mr. Hammond.”

“He’s bound to ask you some fairly direct questions,” said Arnold. “Just promise me you won’t lose your temper.”

“I’ll be sweetness and light.”

“How are you passing your time?” asked Ross, trying to lighten the mood. “It can’t be a pleasant experience, being in here.”

“I spent an hour in the gym this morning, which reminded me just how unfit I am. Then I read the FT from cover to cover. I had an hour’s walk around the yard yesterday afternoon, in the company of two other bankers who are in for manipulating share prices, and in the evening I played a few games of backgammon.”

“For money?” asked Seb.

“A pound a game. There’s a guy in for armed robbery who took a couple of quid off me, but I plan to get it back this evening.”

The three visitors burst out laughing.

“I’ve picked up another two percent of Farthings stock,” said Sloane, “so you’re now entitled to a place on the board.”

“Those additional shares turned out to be more expensive than you predicted,” said Mellor.

“That’s true, but my broker tells me there’s a big player out there picking up stock whenever it comes on the market.”

“Any idea who it might be?” asked Knowles.

“Not a clue, but it explains why the shares haven’t fallen as much as I’d anticipated. If you let me represent you on the board, Desmond, I’ll find out exactly what’s going on, and then I’ll be able to feed the press with regular unhelpful titbits. In the end, it will be the drip, drip, drip effect that finally scuppers them, believe me.”

“Are you still confident that nothing can be traced back to anyone around this table?”

“I’m positive. We’re the only three people who know what’s going on, and I’m the one person who knows where the bodies are buried.”

After Sebastian left the meeting at Wandsworth prison, he hurried back to the bank to find Rachel standing by his office door.

“Thirty-two customers want to speak to you personally, all of them urgently.”

“Who’s the top priority?”

“Jimmy Goldsmith.”

“But the bank’s never done any business with Mr. Goldsmith.”

“He’s a close friend of Mr. Bishara. They hang out at the Clermont Club.”

“Right, I’ll speak to him first.”

Rachel returned to her office and a few moments later Seb’s phone buzzed.

“Mr. Goldsmith, this is Sebastian Clifton, returning your call.”

“I hear you visited Hakim in prison today. How is he?”

“He’s bearing up.”

“Like your shares.”

“So you’re the big player?”

“Let’s just say that I’m picking up any stock whenever it falls ten percent below its midpoint.”

“But why would you do that, Mr. Goldsmith? It could end up costing you a fortune.”

“For two reasons, Mr. Clifton. One, I’ve known Hakim since his university days and, like me, he despises people who deal in drugs.”

“And the second reason?”

“Let’s just say I owe him.”

“But you’re still taking one hell of a risk.”

“It’s a gamble, I admit. But when Hakim is proved innocent, and I have no doubt he will be, the bank’s shares will rebound, and when I sell them I’ll make a killing.”

“Mr. Goldsmith, I wonder if you could help me make another killing.”

Goldsmith listened carefully to Sebastian’s request. “When are you holding this emergency board meeting?” he asked.

“Tuesday morning, ten o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

Sebastian spent the rest of the day trying to return all his calls. He felt like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke. Would it suddenly burst and drown them all?

He listened to the same questions again and again, and attempted to reassure each customer that Hakim was not only innocent, but the bank was in safe hands. He was pleasantly surprised by how many people were standing firm and were happy to back the chairman. Seb had made two lists, one of them labeled “Foul-weather friends” and the other “Fair-weather friends.” By seven o’clock that night, the “foul” list far outstripped the “fair.”

Seb was just about to call it a day when the phone rang again. He thought about ignoring it and going home but reluctantly picked it up.

“It’s Lord Barrington on the line,” said Rachel. “Shall I put him through?”

“Of course.”

“Hello, Seb. I’m sorry to disturb you. You must have had a very trying day. But I wondered if you could spare a moment.”

“Of course,” Seb repeated.

“Some time ago you asked me if I’d like to join the board of Farthings. I’m calling to find out if the offer is still open.”

Sebastian was speechless.

“Are you still there, Seb?”

“Yes,” he managed eventually.

“I would consider it a great honor to serve under Hakim Bishara,” said Giles, “if he still felt I could be of any assistance.”

When the phones were no longer ringing off the hook, Sebastian finally decided to go home, although there was one person he still had to call. But he decided it would be easier to speak to her from the privacy of his flat.

On the way home to Pimlico, he suddenly felt hungry, as he hadn’t had any lunch. He couldn’t face eating out, and certainly didn’t feel like cooking, so he stopped off at a takeaway to pick up a large pepperoni pizza. By the time he’d parked outside his block of flats, his mind had turned to the problems he would have to face at tomorrow’s emergency meeting, now that Adrian Sloane was back on the board. He let himself in to Pimlico Mansions, and took the lift to his apartment on the ninth floor. As he opened his door, he could hear the phone ringing.

Hakim Bishara looked closely at the man seated across the table from him. Once again, he was playing the game his father had taught him. Mr. Hammond’s dark blue suit was well tailored but off the peg; his white shirt had been put on less than an hour ago. His tie was crested, probably a rugby club, and his shoes could only have been polished by someone who’d served in the armed forces. His head was shaven, his body slim and agile, and although he must have been in his mid-forties, not many thirty-year-olds would have wanted to step into the ring with him. Hakim waited for him to speak. The voice offers so many more clues.

“I only agreed to see you, Mr. Bishara, because you’re a friend of Mr. Hardcastle.”

Essex, tough, streetwise. Hammond turned to his left and gave Arnold a slight nod.

“And I owe him. He got me off when I was guilty. Are you guilty, Mr. Bishara?” he asked, his deep brown eyes focused on Hakim as if he were a python eyeing up his lunch.

Hakim could hear Seb’s voice in his ear telling him to stay calm. “No, I am not guilty, Mr. Hammond,” he replied, returning his stare.

“Have you ever taken drugs, Mr. Bishara?”

“Never,” said Hakim calmly.

“Then you won’t mind rolling up your sleeves, will you?” Hakim carried out the order without question. Hammond’s eyes scanned his arms. “And now your trousers.” He rolled up each leg of his trousers. “Open your mouth, I want to look at your teeth.” Hakim opened his mouth. “Wider.” He peered inside. “Well, one thing’s for certain, Mr. Hardcastle. Your friend has never taken drugs in his life, so he’s passed the first test.” Hakim wondered what the second test would be. “Now let’s find out if he’s a dealer.”

Sebastian pushed the door closed, dropped his pizza on the hall table and grabbed the phone. He was greeted with a voice he hadn’t heard for years.

“I was just about to phone you,” said Seb. “But thought it unwise to call from the office, given the circumstances.”

“The circumstances?” repeated Samantha in a gentle voice Seb could never forget.

“I’m afraid it’s rather a long story.”

Seb then attempted to explain what had happened to Bishara since his abortive phone call from Dulles airport, and when he finally stopped talking he still had no idea how Samantha would react.

“Poor man. I can’t begin to imagine what he’s going through.”

“It’s a nightmare,” said Seb. “I hope you feel I did the right thing.”

“I would have done exactly the same,” she said. “Although I must confess I was looking forward to seeing you.”

“I could fly back to Washington on Saturday, pick up my pictures and take you to dinner.”

“I would suggest both of us,” said Sam. “Jessica has made a plasticine model of you and has been sticking pins into it for the past twenty-four hours.”

“No more than I deserve. Should I speak to her, or will she hang up on me?”

“Don’t worry. I have a feeling she’ll run out of pins.”

“Describe the person who was sitting next to you on the plane,” said Hammond.

“Forty, possibly forty-five, elegant, married—”

“How do you know she was married?”

“She was wearing a wedding ring and an engagement ring.”

“What does that prove?”

“That’s she’s not available. You, for example, are recently divorced.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There’s a thin white line on the third finger of your left hand, which you occasionally try to twist around, as if a ring were still there.”

“What was she wearing?”

“A tailored suit, no other jewelry except an expensive pair of diamond earrings and a Cartier Tank watch.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No, her body language made it clear she didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Did you speak to any of the other passengers on the flight?”

“No, I’d had a pointless and exhausting journey to Lagos and I just wanted to sleep.”

“I’ll need the flight number and the date and time of the booking because it’s just possible she’s a regular on that route.”

Arnold made a note.

“It couldn’t have been her,” said Hakim with conviction.

“Do you remember anything else about her?”

“She was reading Watership Down and she wore glasses.”

“Her nationality?”

“Scandinavian. Swedish would be my guess.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No other race on earth has such naturally fair hair.”

“Now I want you to think carefully before you answer my next question, Mr. Bishara.” Hakim nodded. “Can you think of anyone who would benefit from your being in jail?”

“Not that I’m aware of. A lot of people are envious of my success, but I don’t regard them as enemies.”

“Is there anybody who would be happy to see the proposed Farthings Kaufman merger fail?”

“Several people. But after what I’ve been through in the last few days, I’m not willing to accuse someone who, like me, might be totally innocent.”

Arnold made another note.

“Mr. Clifton or Mr. Kaufman, for example? Don’t forget they were at school together. One of them may see himself as the next chairman, and sooner than expected if you were safely out of the way.”

“There’s no doubt that one of them will eventually take my place as chairman. But I can assure you, Mr. Hammond, they are both one hundred percent trustworthy and have more than proved their loyalty over the past few days. No, Mr. Hammond, you’ll have to look further afield than that.”

“What about any other board members?”

“They’re either too old, too busy, or well aware that they’re not up to the job.”

Arnold Hardcastle allowed himself a smile.

“Well, there’s someone out there who wants to see you locked up for a very long time, otherwise why take so much trouble to have you arrested for a crime you didn’t commit?”

“But if someone like that had been on the plane, surely I would have recognized them.”

“They wouldn’t have been on the plane,” said Hammond. “He or she would have used someone who was above suspicion, who could get on board that flight with thirteen ounces of heroin without anyone suspecting them. A stewardess perhaps, or even the pilot.”

“But why?” said Hakim.

“Greed or fear is usually the answer to that question, Mr. Bishara. Money is almost always the catalyst. Some debt they needed to pay, some piece of information they didn’t want revealed. Don’t worry, Mr. Bishara, I’ll find out who it was. But it won’t come cheap.”

Hakim nodded. The mention of money and he felt on firmer ground. “What’s it going to cost me?”

“I’ll need a small team. Two, possibly three. They’ll have to be experts in their fields, and they’ll expect to be paid in cash, up front.”

“How much?”

“Five grand.”

“You’ll have it later today,” said Hakim, who nodded to Arnold. “And your payment, Mr. Hammond?”

“I’ve given that some thought, and I’d prefer to be paid on results.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Hakim, remembering another of his father’s golden rules: in any deal, always wait for the other side to make the opening bid.

“Five thousand pounds if I find the person responsible for planting the heroin. Ten thousand if they’re arrested and charged. Twenty thousand if I discover the person or persons behind the operation. And another thousand for every year of their sentence.”

Hakim could have bargained for an hour and probably lowered Hammond’s demands by 30, 40 even 50 percent, but as his father had once told him, sometimes the opening bid is the one you should settle for, especially if the stakes are high. In this case, the stakes couldn’t have been higher.

He rose slowly from his chair, offered an outstretched hand and said, “You have a deal, Mr. Hammond.”

“This emergency board meeting has been called in most unfortunate circumstances,” said Ross Buchanan. “But first I must tell you that Mr. Bishara has asked me to stand in as chairman until he returns.”

“Shouldn’t that be put to a vote?” said Adrian Sloane. “Can a man who’s locked up in prison on a serious drugs charge continue to dictate how a public company is run?”

“I agree with Mr. Sloane,” said Giles. “Such an important decision should be put to a vote. I therefore propose that Mr. Ross Buchanan, a distinguished former chairman of this bank, takes on the responsibilities of chairing the board once again, until Mr. Bishara returns to his rightful position.”

“But I am also a past chairman of the bank,” protested Sloane.

“I did say distinguished,” said Giles, without even bothering to look at Sloane.

A stony silence followed.

“Will anyone second Mr. Clifton’s proposal that Mr. Ross Buchanan stand in as chairman until Mr. Bishara returns?” asked the company secretary.

“I will be delighted to do so,” said Jimmy Goldsmith.

“Those in favor?” asked the company secretary.

Everyone around the table except Sloane raised their hand.

“Those against?”

Sloane raised his hand and said, “I want it minuted that if Bishara is convicted of drug smuggling, I shall expect every one of you to resign.”

“And if he isn’t?” asked Victor Kaufman.

“Then naturally I will have to consider my own position.”

“That’s something else I’d like minuted,” said Victor. The company secretary duly wrote down his words.

“Perhaps,” said Ross, “we should now move on. I’d like to begin by welcoming Lord Barrington and Mr. James Goldsmith as members of the board, before asking our chief executive, Sebastian Clifton, to report on the effect recent events have had on the company’s finances, and the latest position concerning the merger.”

“Our shares are down by twelve percent, Mr. Chairman,” said Sebastian, “but I’m pleased to report that the market appears to have steadied, not least because of the intervention of Mr. Goldsmith, who clearly not only believes in Mr. Bishara’s innocence but also in the long-term future of the bank. And can I say how delighted I am that he has taken his place on the board and been able to join us today.”

“But like Mr. Buchanan,” said Goldsmith, “I intend to withdraw as a director as soon as Mr. Bishara returns.”

“And if he doesn’t return?” said Sloane. “What will you do then, Mr. Goldsmith?”

“I will remain on the board and do everything in my power to make sure that a little shit like you doesn’t become chairman.”

“Mr. Chairman,” protested Sloane. “This is the board meeting of a leading City bank, not a casino, where clearly Mr. Goldsmith would be more at home.”

“My reason for not wanting Mr. Sloane to return as chairman of this bank,” said Goldsmith, “is not just because he’s a shit but, far more important, because the last time he held that position he almost succeeded in bringing Farthings to its knees, and I suspect that is his present purpose.”

“That is a disgraceful slur on my reputation,” said Sloane. “You have left me with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of my solicitors.”

“I can’t wait,” said Goldsmith. “Because when you were chairman of Farthings and Mr. Bishara withdrew his bid for the bank, you stated at a full board meeting, which was minuted, that there was another leading financial institution willing to pay considerably more for Farthings shares than Mr. Bishara was offering. It’s always been a bit of a mystery to me who that leading financial institution was. Perhaps you would care to enlighten us now, Mr. Sloane.”

“I don’t have to take any more insults from the likes of you, Goldsmith.” Sloane rose from his place and, as he knew his words would be recorded in the minutes, added, “You will all have to resign when Bishara is convicted. The next meeting of this board I attend will be as chairman. Good day, gentlemen,” he said, and walked out.

Goldsmith didn’t wait for the door to close before saying, “Never be afraid to attack a bully because they always turn out to be cowards, and the moment they come under any pressure they run away.”

A small round of applause followed. When it had died down, Giles Barrington leaned across the table. “I wonder, Jimmy, if you’d consider joining the Labour Party? There are one or two members of the Shadow Cabinet I’d love to see the back of.”

Ross Buchanan waited for the laughter to subside before he said, “Sloane was right about one thing. If Hakim is convicted, we’ll all have to resign.”