Lockdown

Thirty-eight

Stafford stood on the deck of the family’s Shinnecock Bay compound, phone in hand. Ten thousand square feet of property porn with nothing between it and Europe, save the Atlantic. New money fronting the old world.

He ended the call and turned to the two men standing behind him. One was his father, the second Richard Hulme. ‘It’s agreed,’ he said.

Richard’s shoulders slumped, gravity seeming to return to normal for him. ‘Tell me he’s OK. Tell me my son’s safe.’

‘He’s fine, Richard.’

‘So when can we-’

‘If everything goes smoothly, this’ll all be over in less than twenty-four hours.’

Richard nodded to himself, desperate to believe this, as Stafford knew he would be.

Nicholas Van Straten walked to the edge of the deck, arms still folded. ‘How much?’

‘Three million.’

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he stared beyond the swimming pool beneath them to the ocean. ‘A small price to pay.’

‘Especially when we have someone else picking up most of the tab,’ added Stafford.

‘Richard, would you allow me a moment with my son?’

‘Of course.’

Nicholas waited until Richard was out of sight.

‘Well done, Stafford.’

It was the first unqualified piece of praise Stafford could recall his father ever giving him. Even as a child, any compliment had always been tempered by an immediate addendum that while he’d done well it was the least that could be expected given the advantages of his birth.

He wanted to savour it. But all he felt was resentment.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Perhaps I should have involved you earlier.’

‘Perhaps you should have.’

And then it came, the ubiquitous qualification: ‘Let’s just hope the handover goes smoothly, shall we?’