Sleeping Cruelty

Chapter ten

William and Justin installed themselves in adjoining suites at the Ritz in Paris. From there, the two made sojourns to boutiques and back-street stores, William following his style instructor like a lamb.

His diet and fitness regime began next day with an early-morning swim, then running up and down the shallow end until his legs felt like jelly. Next they went into the gym. They did weights one day, stretching and abdominal exercises the next. For the first six days William ate a soup concocted by the hotel chef to Justin’s specific instructions. It had been originally conceived for heart patients awaiting surgery, to enable them to lose weight quickly but safely.

William lost weight rapidly. He felt fitter and more energetic than he had in years. Daily massages and sun-bed treatments were interspersed with shopping expeditions, and William enjoyed watching his size drop. His excitement was contagious — even Justin had to admire his protégé’s determination.

Ten days after they had left the island, Justin and William were having their usual early-morning juice and fruit while reading the English newspapers. Justin noticed an article in The Times and muttered something to himself. Then he said nonchalantly, ‘Bellingham’s son died. His funeral is today.’

William reached over and peered at the article.

‘OD’d on the night of the party,’ Justin went on, spooning strawberries into his mouth.

William was shocked. ‘I’m sorry. How do you know that? It doesn’t say so here.’

‘He was found dead in the grounds after the party,’ Justin said. ‘He was a drug-addict, and a raving queen.’

He tried to change the subject to the day’s itinerary, but William said, ‘Curious that not a breath of scandal has touched Bellingham over this. Can you imagine if it had been my son? It would have been all over the—’

‘Come on,’ said Justin, glancing at his watch. ‘No point in dwelling on the past. We’ve got to make a move.’

‘Where are we going?’ William said truculently.

‘To get your hair cut.’

‘My hair?’ Instinctively he stroked it. ‘It’s looking good. I’ve never worn it this long before. What’s the matter with it?’

‘Pass,’ said Justin, as he got up and left the room.

William caught up with him. ‘It’s just, well, I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I’ve got a bald patch at the back.’

‘No, really?’

‘Yes, I have. Don’t you think this sort of covers it a bit?’

Justin grinned. ‘When you’re swimming, the water drags your hair forwards and all you can see is that bald spot. So don’t hide it. It makes you seem vulnerable when you don’t need to be.’

‘You’re not going to make me wear a rug, are you?’ William stuttered.

Justin laughed at the thought. ‘We’ll see what Louis has to say. Trust me.’

Arriving at the salon, William was not convinced that he should trust his precious locks to Louis, who was wearing one of the worst wigs he had ever seen.

Louis began to cut his hair at an alarming pace. When he reached for the clippers William froze. Finally, with mock-bravado, Louis swept off William’s cape, stepped back and said, ‘Voilà!’

William inspected his cropped head. He liked his drastic new look. Stubble short and bleached blond from the sun, the haircut said: ‘I don’t give a shit!’ and to a man who always had, it was just what he needed.

That evening William was going to join Justin in the dining room. It was the seventh day of his diet, and he could eat as much meat as he wanted. He planned to order three fillet steaks with spinach and green salad. He was wearing a pale blue suit, a white silk shirt with a high collar and no tie. He was looking good, but at the door to the restaurant he was stopped by the maître d’.

‘You must wear a tie in here, Monsieur,’ he snapped.

‘Are you telling me I can’t eat here? I’m paying for two bloody suites. You should let me in in my underwear!’

The maître d’ shrugged in his Gallic way. William was just about to demand a table when his elbow was gripped from behind. ‘Stop being such a crass, English yob,’ Justin said. ‘Rules are rules. Forget it, life’s too short.’

They ate in a small bistro, not far from the hotel. William remained in a bad mood but then, to Justin’s surprise, he suddenly said, ‘That bastard Matlock. The more I think about him, the more angry I feel. I’ve thought about it a lot. It was really as if he had some personal grudge against me, as if the man was hell-bent on destroying me. The other papers just followed his lead. But then he invited me to that garden fête, albeit courtesy of his wife.’

‘So what? You were invited, weren’t you?’

‘Via his wife. I asked Michael to check it out for me. I think Matlock’s got it in for me because of his wife, Angela.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘She used to be my secretary.’

‘Your secretary?’ Justin asked, his jaw open.

‘Well, the name is the same. I’ve not seen her for years. I had a bit of a scene with her.’

He signalled for the bill. This was a different William. He was obviously angry, but there was a steely quality to him that Justin had not witnessed before.

‘I intend to find out, and if it is Angela, I want her on the island too. We leave tomorrow.’

They took the Eurostar to London to make preparations and for William to check his business affairs. When Michael saw the new-look William, his jaw dropped. ‘Good heavens, you look—’ he stuttered.

‘Yes?’ William said gleefully.

‘Like a different person, sir.’

‘Thank you, Michael. Did you check out Matlock’s wife for me?’

‘She’s the same Angela Nicholls who used to work for you. They have a son, James. He’s at Eton and—’

William wafted his hand — he didn’t want to hear any more. Could Angela really have been behind the onslaught to which her husband’s papers had subjected him? If so, she would pay for it. Returning to his study, he couldn’t help smiling to himself.

The two men stayed in London just three days while William attended numerous quickly arranged board meetings. His games company had been accused of plagiarism by a German toy manufacturer: William’s company had ripped off their cat-and-mouse mechanical toy, they said.

‘It’s a fox and hens, nothing like a cat and mouse! Refuse to back down. We’ll counter-sue if necessary. Did you check out the manufacturers as I asked? Who are they, anyway?’

His team passed him a detailed dossier. To William’s fury, he saw that the action had been taken against him by the factory he had attempted to acquire from Baron von Garten, which was now owned by William’s biggest competitor. The team had determined that the original cat-and-mouse product had been designed by one of William’s former employees, who had been headhunted by the rival firm, who in their turn had illegally registered the toy’s patent in their name: it had already existed when the designer worked for William, which could be proved because William owned the original designs. He’d sue and he knew he would win. And he would get another stab at the Baron, who was a shareholder in the company and had paid a fortune to market the toy. William was buzzing with energy at the thought of the battle ahead.

Over a breakfast meeting, William showed his lawyers the drawings and proposals the Germans had used for their own gain; they had used the scandal that had erupted around William to escape their agreement to sell on a contractual nicety. Baron von Garten had reneged on the deal, retained William’s goodwill down-payment, then gone on to sell to his closest competitors. Since Geffin’s Toys had opened they had made vast profits and all their toys would be under review: William was sure it wasn’t just one item they had ripped off. His lawyers gained the right to assess all the present Geffin’s Toys on the market and to compare them with any from William’s design departments.

William’s researchers then discovered that Baron von Garten owned rather more than a ‘small’ portion of the business; he had fifty per cent. This discovery pleased William even more because, by retaining a fifty per cent shareholding in Geffin’s, the Baron had opened himself up to being liable for all the legal costs and fines involved in actions brought against them for plagiarism. William was going to come down hard and heavy on ‘Geffin’s Toys’.

William could not keep the smile off his face as he gave orders for his legal team to sue the backside off Geffin’s. They were to keep him informed of every move, even though he would not be staying in London. The new Sir William was like a hurricane, so it was with some relief that his London staff saw him depart.

William and Justin boarded his private jet for Nice. Justin had finished preparing a press-pack for the ‘Billionaire’s Paradise Island Home’ and delivering copies to the most prestigious and influential magazines: Country Life, Tatler, Vogue and Hello! Like conspiratorial teenagers, they sat side by side on the plane, reviewing William’s invitation hit-list.

‘My ex-wife Katherine, and her cousin Cedric. I hate that bastard, he’s always ripped me off. Humphrey Matlock and his dear wife, Angela.’

‘Who are all these people?’ Justin queried.

‘The journalists,’ William said.

‘For God’s sake, you have the organ-grinder, Matlock. You don’t need his monkeys. Cross them off.’

‘You’re sure he and his family will be easy to get over there?’

‘Leave that to me,’ Justin said softly. Then he went to the lavatory. He needed to be alone: he could hardly contain his excitement.

His hand stroked the worn old wallet in the breast pocket of his jacket. It had belonged to his father, the monogram faded now with years of use. It rarely contained folded notes — Justin preferred to stash those in the back pocket of his jeans. It held something more precious than money: a newspaper article, folded over and over, the creases brown with age. He eased it out and opened it. He knew every line, every word by heart, but this was the first time he had read it with a smile on his face.

‘Gotcha!’ he hissed. ‘Humphrey fucking Matlock! Gotcha!’