This Was A Man

11

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ said Jessica, glaring at him.

Sebastian placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I promise I’ll be back in time to take you and your mother for a celebration dinner.’

‘I remember the last time you promised that, then flew off to another country. At least then it was to support an innocent man, not a crook.’

‘Desmond Mellor is only allowed visitors on a Saturday afternoon between two and three o’clock, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice.’

‘You could have told him to get lost.’

‘I promise I’ll be back by five. Six at the latest. And as it’s your birthday, you can choose the restaurant.’

‘And in the meantime I’m expected to babysit Jake, and when Mom gets back, explain to her why you’re not around. I can think of more exciting ways of spending my birthday.’

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ said Seb. ‘I promise.’

‘Just don’t forget, Pops, he’s a crook.’

As Sebastian battled through the late morning traffic on his way out of London, he couldn’t help thinking his daughter was right. Not only was it likely to be a wasted journey, but he probably shouldn’t be having anything to do with the man in the first place.

He should have been taking Jessica to lunch at Ponte Vecchio to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, rather than heading for a prison in Kent to visit a man he despised. But he knew that if he didn’t find out why Desmond Mellor wanted to see him so urgently, he would be forever curious. Only one thing was certain: Jessica would demand a blow-by-blow account of why the damned man had wanted to see him.

There were about ten miles to go before Seb spotted the first signposts to Ford Open. No mention of the word ‘prison’, which would have offended the locals. At the barrier an officer stepped out of the small kiosk and asked his name. After ‘Clifton’ had been ticked off on the inevitable clipboard, the barrier was raised and he was directed to a patch of barren land that on Saturdays acted as a car park.

Once he’d parked his car, Seb made his way to the reception area, where another officer asked for his name. But this time he was also requested to provide identification. He produced his driving licence — another tick on another clipboard — and was then instructed to place all his valuables, including his wallet, watch, wedding ring and some loose change, in a locker. He was told firmly by the duty officer that under no circumstances was he to take any cash to the meeting area. The officer pointed to a notice screwed to the wall warning visitors that anyone found in possession of cash inside the prison could end up with a six-month sentence.

‘Forgive me for asking, sir,’ said the officer, ‘but is this the first time you’ve visited a prison?’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Seb.

‘Then you’ll know about vouchers, should your friend want a cup of tea or a sandwich.’ He’s not my friend, Seb wanted to say, as he handed over a pound note in exchange for ten vouchers.

‘We’ll refund the difference when you return.’

Seb thanked him, closed the locker door and pocketed the key along with his vouchers. When he entered the waiting room, another officer handed him a small disc with the number 18 etched on it.

‘Wait until your number is called,’ said the officer.

Seb sat on a plastic seat in a room full of people who looked as if this was just part of their daily routine. He glanced around to see wives, girlfriends, parents, even young children, who had their own play area, all with nothing in common except a relation, a friend or a lover who was locked up. He suspected he was the only person visiting someone he didn’t even like.

‘Numbers one to five,’ said a voice over the tannoy. Several of the regulars leapt up and hurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to waste a minute of their allocated hour. One of them left behind a copy of the Daily Mail, and Seb flicked through it to pass the time. Endless photographs of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer chatting at a garden party in Norfolk; Diana looked extremely happy, while the Prince looked as if he was opening a power station.

‘Numbers six to ten,’ crackled the tannoy, and another group made their way quickly out of the waiting room. Seb turned the page. Margaret Thatcher was promising to bring in legislation to deal with wildcat strikes. Michael Foot described the measures as draconian, and pronounced her policy as jobs for the boys, but not for the lads.

‘Numbers eleven to fifteen.’

Seb looked up at the clock on the wall: 2.12 p.m. At this rate, he’d be lucky to get more than forty minutes with Mellor, although he suspected the man would have his pitch well prepared and wouldn’t waste any time. He turned to the back page of the Mail to see an old photograph of Muhammad Ali jabbing his finger at reporters and saying, His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see. Seb wondered who came up with such brilliant lines — or was the ex-champ just brilliant?

‘Numbers sixteen to twenty.’

Seb rose slowly from his place and joined a group of a dozen visitors who were already chasing after an officer as he headed into the bowels of the prison. They were stopped and searched before being allowed to enter the visitors’ area.

Sebastian found himself in a large square room laid out with dozens of small tables, each surrounded by four chairs, one red, and three blue. He stared around the room but didn’t spot Mellor until he raised a hand. He’d put on so much weight Seb hardly recognized him. Even before Seb had sat down, Mellor gestured towards the canteen at the other end of the room and said, ‘Could you get me a cup of tea and a Kit Kat?’

Seb joined a small queue at the counter, where he handed over most of his vouchers in exchange for two cups of tea and two Kit Kats. When he returned to the table, he placed one of the cups and both chocolate bars in front of his old adversary.

‘So, why did you want to see me?’ Seb asked, not bothering with any small talk.

‘It’s a long story, but I don’t expect any of it will surprise you.’ Mellor took a sip of tea and removed the wrapper from a Kit Kat while he was speaking. ‘After the police found out Sloane and I were responsible for having your friend Hakim Bishara arrested, Sloane turned Queen’s evidence and stitched me up. I was sentenced to two years for perverting the course of justice, while he got away scot free. If that wasn’t enough, once I was inside, he managed to take control of Mellor Travel. Claimed he was the only man who could rescue the company while the chairman was in jail, and the shareholders bought it.’

‘But as the majority shareholder, you must still have overall control?’

‘Not of a public company, as you will have discovered when Bishara was banged up. They don’t even send me the minutes of the board meetings. But Sloane doesn’t realize I’ve got someone on the inside who keeps me well informed.’

‘Jim Knowles?’

‘No. That bastard dropped me the moment I was arrested, and even proposed Sloane for chairman. In exchange, Knowles became his deputy on an inflated salary.’

‘Cosy little arrangement,’ said Seb. ‘But you must have taken legal advice.’

‘The best. But they’d been careful not to break the law, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. But you can.’

Seb sipped his tea while Mellor tore the wrapper off the second Kit Kat.

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Seb.

‘As you pointed out, Mr Clifton, I am still the majority shareholder of Mellor Travel, but I suspect that by the time I get out, those shares won’t be worth the paper they’re written on. But if I were to sell them to you for one pound—’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch, although we’ve had our differences in the past. My sole interest is revenge — I want Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles removed from the board and the company to be run properly, and I can’t think of anyone better to do the job.’

‘And what would you expect in return?’ Seb paused and, looking him straight in the eye, added, ‘When you get out of jail.’

A buzzer sounded, warning them they had ten minutes left.

‘That might not be for some time,’ said Mellor, snapping one of the chocolate fingers in half. ‘I’m now facing a further charge you don’t even know about.’

Seb didn’t press him. Time was running out and he had several more questions that needed answering before he could consider Mellor’s proposition. ‘But you will get out eventually.’

‘And when I do, I will expect my fifty-one per cent share-holding in Mellor Travel to be returned in full, also for one pound.’

‘Then what’s in it for Farthings?’

‘This time you can appoint the chairman, the board, and run the company. Farthings can also charge a handsome retainer for their services, while collecting twenty per cent of Mellor Travel’s annual profits, which I think you’ll agree is more than fair. You’ll also have the added pleasure of removing Adrian Sloane from the chair for a second time. All I’d ask in return is to receive a copy of the minutes following every board meeting, and to have a face to face meeting with you once a quarter.’

The buzzer sounded a second time. Five minutes.

‘I’ll give it some thought and when I’ve made up my mind, I’ll call you.’

‘You can’t call me, Mr Clifton. Prisoners can’t receive incoming calls. I’ll ring you at the bank next Friday morning at ten, which should give you more than enough time to make up your mind.’

The buzzer sounded a third time.

Jessica looked at the clock as her father walked into the hall and hung up his coat.

‘You only just made it in time,’ she said, giving him a reluctant kiss on the cheek.

Sebastian grinned. ‘So where do you want to have dinner, young lady?’

‘Harry’s Bar.’

‘In London or Venice?’ he asked as they strolled into the drawing room.

‘London this time.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get a table at such short notice.’

‘I’ve already booked.’

‘Of course you have. Anything else I should know about?’ he asked, as he poured himself a stiff whisky.

‘It’s not what you should know,’ scolded Jessica, ‘it’s what you’ve forgotten.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Like a magician, Seb produced a gift from an inside pocket.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ Jessica asked, smiling for the first time.

‘Well, it’s certainly what you’ve been hinting about for the past few weeks.’

Jessica threw her arms around her father. ‘Thanks, Pops,’ she said, ripping off the wrapping paper and opening a small, slim box.

‘Am I back in favour?’ asked Seb, as Jessica strapped the Warhol Swatch on to her wrist.

‘Only if you’ve remembered Mom’s present.’

‘But it’s not her birthday,’ said Seb. ‘At least, not for a couple of months.’

‘I know that, Pops, but it is your wedding anniversary tomorrow, just in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Help! Yes, I had.’

‘But luckily I hadn’t,’ said Jessica, pointing to a beautifully wrapped box on the table, with a card attached.

‘What’s inside?’

‘A pair of Rayne shoes Mom spotted in the King’s Road last week, but thought were a little too expensive. All you have to do is sign the card.’

They heard the front door open, and Seb quickly scribbled An unforgettable year. Love Seb xxx on the card. ‘How did you manage to pay for them?’ he whispered, as he placed the pen back in his pocket.

‘On your credit card, of course.’

‘God help your husband,’ said Seb, as Samantha joined them.

‘Look what Pops has given me for my birthday!’ said Jessica, thrusting out her arm.

‘What a lovely present,’ said Samantha, admiring the Campbell’s Soup watch.

‘And I’ve got something for you too, my darling,’ said Seb, as he picked up the box from the table, just hoping the ink had dried. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he added, before taking her in his arms.

Samantha looked over her husband’s shoulder and winked at her daughter.

Arnold Hardcastle joined Hakim and Sebastian in the chairman’s office for the third time that week.

‘Have you had enough time to consider Mellor’s proposition?’ asked Hakim, as the bank’s legal advisor sat down opposite them.

‘I most certainly have,’ said Arnold, ‘and there’s no doubt it’s a fair offer, but I have to ask, why is Mellor handing over the company to you of all people?’

‘Because he hates Adrian Sloane even more than we do?’ suggested Seb. ‘Don’t forget, Sloane was responsible for him failing to get his hands on the bank.’

‘There are other banks in the City,’ said Arnold.

‘But none that know how Sloane operates as well as we do,’ replied Hakim. ‘Have you made contact with Mellor’s lawyers to find out if they think this deal is for real?’

‘It’s real enough,’ said Arnold. ‘Although their senior partner confessed he was as puzzled by it as we are. I think he summed it up best when he suggested it might be a case of better the devil you know.’

‘When’s Mellor likely to be released?’ asked Seb.

‘It may not be for some time,’ said Arnold, ‘as he’s facing further charges.’

‘Further charges?’ said Hakim.

‘Dealing in counterfeit money. And there’s another charge of entrapment.’

‘I can’t believe Mellor would do anything quite that stupid, especially when he was already in custody.’

‘If you’re locked in a prison cell all day,’ said Arnold, ‘I suspect your judgement might become clouded, especially if the only thought on your mind is how to get even with the man who’s responsible for you being there.’

‘I have to admit,’ said Hakim, ‘if I hadn’t had you two watching over me when I was in prison, God knows what I might have got up to.’

‘I’m still not convinced,’ said Seb. ‘It’s all too easy. Don’t forget that if Mellor swallowed a nail, it would come out as a corkscrew.’

‘Then perhaps we should walk away from the deal,’ said Arnold.

‘And allow Sloane to go on taking advantage of his position, while growing richer by the minute?’ Seb reminded them.

‘Fair point,’ said Hakim. ‘And although I’ve never considered myself a vindictive man, I wouldn’t be sorry to see Sloane finally destroyed. But perhaps Seb and I are taking this too personally and should simply look at the deal on its merits. What’s your opinion, Arnold?’

‘There’s no doubt that under normal circumstances it would be a worthwhile deal for the bank, but after your past experiences with Mellor, perhaps it would be wise if I were to inform the Bank of England’s Ethics Committee that we’re considering entering into a business transaction with someone who’s in jail. If they have no objection, who are we to disagree?’

‘That’s certainly the belt-and-braces solution,’ said Hakim. ‘Why don’t you do that, Arnold, and report back to me once you’ve canvassed their opinion?’

‘And I don’t have to remind you,’ said Seb, ‘that Mellor will be phoning me at ten on Friday morning.’

‘Just make sure he doesn’t reverse the charges,’ said Hakim.

The two of them sat alone at the end of the bar to be sure they couldn’t be overheard.

‘When you think about it,’ said Knowles, ‘it’s surprising that you ended up as the chairman of a travel company. After all, I’ve never known you to take a holiday.’

‘I don’t care for foreigners,’ said Sloane. ‘You can’t trust them.’ The barman refilled his glass with gin. ‘And in any case, I can’t swim, and lying on a beach getting burnt isn’t my idea of fun. I prefer to stay in England and enjoy a few days’ shooting, or walking in the hills on my own. Mind you, I don’t think I’ll be in the travel business for much longer.’

‘Something I ought to know about?’

‘I’ve had one or two offers for Mellor Travel that would make it possible for both of us to retire.’

‘But Mellor still owns fifty-one per cent of the company, so he’d end up the main beneficiary.’

‘I wasn’t planning on selling the company,’ said Sloane, ‘just its assets. Asset-stripping is the new game in the City, and by the time Mellor’s worked out what we’re up to, there won’t be a company left for him to chair, just a shell.’

‘But when he comes out of jail—’

‘I’ll be long gone, and living somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with Britain.’

‘What about me? I’ll be left carrying the can.’

‘No, no — by then, you will have resigned from the board in protest. But not before a large sum has been deposited in your Swiss bank account.’

‘How much time will you need to close the deal?’

‘I’m in no hurry. Our absentee chairman won’t be going anywhere for the foreseeable future, by which time our pension plan should be in place.’

‘There’s a rumour Thomas Cook and Co. are interested in taking over the company.’

‘Not while I’m chairman,’ said Sloane.

‘There’s a Mr Mellor on line one,’ said Rachel, conscious that she was interrupting Sebastian’s morning meeting with the bank’s currency exchange director.

Seb glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. ‘Do you mind if I take this call?’ he said, placing a hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Go ahead,’ said Victor Kaufman, well aware who was on the other end of the line.

‘Put him through, Rachel. Good morning, Mr Mellor, it’s Sebastian Clifton.’

‘Have you come to a decision, Mr Clifton?’

‘Yes, I have, and I can assure you that Farthings took your offer very seriously. However, after considerable deliberation, the board decided this was not the kind of business the bank wished to be involved in, and for that reason—’

The line went dead.

12

Desmond Mellor lay on the thin, horsehair mattress for hour upon hour, his head resting on a rock-hard pillow as he looked up at the ceiling and tried to work out what he should do now that Clifton had turned down his offer. The thought of Adrian Sloane ripping him off while at the same time destroying his company was making him ever more paranoid.

The cell door swung open and an officer yelled, ‘Yard!’ even though he was only a few feet away. It was that time every afternoon when prisoners were released from their cells for an hour and allowed to walk around the yard, get some exercise and be reunited with their mates so they could work on their next crime before they were released.

Mellor usually sought the company of first offenders who had no intention of returning to a life of crime. It amused him that he’d literally bumped into his first Etonian (marijuana) and his first Cambridge graduate (fraud) while circling the yard. But not today. He’d already decided who he needed to have a private word with.

Mellor had completed two circuits of the yard before he spotted Nash walking alone a few paces ahead of him. But then, not many prisoners wanted to spend their hour’s exercise break with a contract killer who looked likely to be spending the rest of his life in jail, and didn’t seem to care that much if he spent a few days in solitary for roughing up any inmate who’d annoyed him. The last poor sod had been a hotplate server who’d failed to give Nash a large enough portion of fried potatoes and had ended up with a fried hand.

Mellor spent another circuit rehearsing his well-prepared script before he finally caught up with Nash, though the simple greeting ‘Bugger off’ almost caused him to think again. If he hadn’t been desperate, Mellor would have quickly moved on.

‘I need some advice.’

‘Then get yourself a lawyer.’

‘A lawyer would be useless for what I have in mind,’ said Mellor.

Nash looked at him more closely. ‘This had better be good, because if you’re some fuckin’ grass, you’ll be spending the rest of your sentence in the prison hospital. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Abundantly,’ said Mellor, suddenly understanding the meaning of ‘hard man’, but it was too late now for him to turn back. ‘Hypothetically speaking...’ he added.

‘What the fuck?’

‘How much does a contract killer get paid?’

‘If you’re a copper’s nark,’ said Nash, ‘I’ll kill you myself for nothing.’

‘I’m a businessman,’ said Mellor. Although his heart was still beating overtime, he no longer felt afraid. ‘And I need the services of a pro.’

Nash turned to face him. ‘Depends what particular service you’re lookin’ for. Like any well-run business, our prices are competitive,’ he added, with a thin smile that revealed three teeth. ‘If you just want to put the frighteners on someone, broken arm, broken leg, it’ll cost you a grand. A couple of grand if they’re well connected, and a whole lot more if they’ve got protection.’

‘He doesn’t have any worthwhile connections, or protection.’

‘That makes things easier. So what are you lookin’ for?’

‘I want you to break someone’s neck,’ said Mellor quietly. Nash looked interested for the first time. ‘But it must never be traced back to me.’

‘What do you take me for, a fucking amateur?’

‘If you’re that good,’ said Mellor, taking his life in his hands, ‘how did you end up in here?’ Always bully a bully, his old man had taught him, and now he was about to find out if it was good advice.

‘All right, all right,’ said Nash. ‘But it won’t come cheap. The screws never take their fuckin’ eyes off me. They read my letters before I see them and listen in on my calls,’ he growled, ‘though I’ve found a way round that. So my only chance is to set something up during a prison visit. Even then the surveillance cameras are on me the whole time, and now they’ve got a fuckin’ lip-reading expert following my every word.’

‘Are you saying it’s impossible?’

‘No. Expensive. And it’s not going to happen tomorrow morning.’

‘And the price?’

‘Ten grand up front, another ten on the day of the funeral.’

Mellor was surprised how little a man’s life was worth, although he didn’t care to think about the consequences if he failed to make the second payment.

‘Get movin’,’ said Nash firmly, ‘or the screws will get suspicious. If you do up your laces before you leave the yard, I’ll know you’re serious. Otherwise, don’t bother me again.’

Mellor quickened his pace and joined a pickpocket who could remove your watch without you ever realizing it. A party trick inside, a profession outside. Sharp Johnny could make a hundred grand a year tax-free, and rarely ended up with a sentence of more than six months.

The siren sounded to warn the prisoners that it was time to return to their cells. Mellor dropped on one knee and retied a shoelace.

Lady Virginia never enjoyed visiting Belmarsh high security prison. So different from the more relaxed atmosphere of Ford Open, where they had tea and biscuits on a Saturday afternoon. But since Mellor had been charged with a second, more serious offence, he’d been moved from the garden of England back to Hellmarsh, as it was known by the recidivists.

She particularly disliked being searched for drugs by a butch female officer, in places that would never have crossed her mind, and waiting while barred gates were locked and unlocked before being allowed to progress a few more yards. And the noise was incessant, as if half a dozen rock bands had been penned in together. When she was finally escorted into a large, white, windowless room, she looked up to see a number of officers peering down at the visitors from a circular balcony above them, while the surveillance cameras never stopped moving. But worst of all, she had to rub shoulders not only with the working classes, but with the criminal fraternity.

However, the possibility of earning some extra cash certainly helped to ease the humiliation, although even Mellor wouldn’t be able to help with her latest problem.

That morning, Virginia had received a letter, a carefully worded letter, from the senior partner of Goodman Derrick. He had courteously but firmly requested the return, within thirty days, of some two million pounds obtained by false pretences, otherwise he would be left with no choice but to issue a writ on behalf of his client.

Virginia didn’t have two thousand pounds, let alone two million. She immediately called her solicitor and asked him to make an appointment for her to see Sir Edward Makepeace QC in the hope that he might come up with a solution. She wasn’t optimistic. The time may have come to finally accept an invitation from a distant cousin to visit his ranch in Argentina. He regularly reminded her of his offer during his annual visit to Cowdray Park, accompanied by a string of polo ponies and a bevy of handsome young men. Both changed with every visit. She could only think of one thing worse than having to spend a few years on a ranch in Argentina: having to spend a few years in a place like this.

Virginia parked her Morris Minor between a Rolls-Royce and an Austin A40 before making her way to reception.

Mellor sat alone in the visitors’ room, the precious minutes slipping away as he waited for Virginia to appear. She was never on time, but as he didn’t have any other visitors, he was in no position to complain.

He looked around the room, his eyes settling on Nash, who was sitting opposite a peroxide blonde wearing thick red lipstick, a white T-shirt with no bra and a black leather miniskirt. It was a sign of just how desperate Mellor was that he fancied her.

He watched them carefully, as did several officers from the balcony above. They didn’t appear to be speaking to each other, but then he realized that just because their lips weren’t moving, it didn’t mean they weren’t having a conversation. Most people would have assumed they were man and wife, but as Nash was gay, this had to be strictly business. And Mellor knew whose business they were discussing.

He looked up as Virginia appeared at his table holding a cup of tea and a bar of chocolate. He remembered that Sebastian Clifton had bought him two bars.

‘Any further news on your trial date?’ Virginia asked, taking the seat opposite him.

‘I’ve done a deal,’ said Mellor. ‘I’ve agreed to plead guilty to a lesser charge in exchange for a shorter sentence — another four years, making six in all. With good behaviour I could be out in three.’

‘Not too long,’ said Virginia, trying to sound optimistic.

‘Long enough for Sloane to bleed my company dry. By the time I get out, I’ll be left with nothing except the sign above the front door.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Yes, there is, which is why I wanted to see you. I have to get my hands on ten thousand pounds, sharpish. My mother’s will has finally been settled, and although she left me everything, she only had one thing of any value, her semi-detached in Salford. The local estate agent has managed to sell it for twelve grand, and I’ve instructed them to make the cheque out to you. I need someone to pick it up as soon as possible.’

‘I’ll go up to Salford on Tuesday,’ said Virginia, as she had an even more important meeting on Monday morning. ‘But what do you want me to do with the money?’

Mellor waited for the camera to pass over him, before he spoke again.

‘I need you to hand ten thousand in cash to a business associate. Anything left over will be yours.’

‘How will I recognize him?’

‘Her,’ said Mellor. ‘Look to my left, and you’ll see a blonde talking to a guy who looks like a heavyweight boxer.’ Virginia glanced to her right, and couldn’t miss the two characters who looked as if they might be extras on The Sweeney. ‘Can you see her?’

Virginia nodded.

‘You’re to meet her at the Science Museum. She’ll be waiting by Stephenson’s Rocket on the ground floor. I’ll phone and let you know the details as soon as I have them.’

It would be Virginia’s first visit to the Science Museum.

13

‘Allow me to begin, Lady Virginia, by reminding you that the relationship between a lawyer and his client is sacrosanct, so whatever you tell me concerning this case cannot, and will not, go beyond this room. However, it is equally important,’ continued Sir Edward Makepeace, ‘to stress that if you are not completely frank with me, I cannot advise you to the best of my ability.’

Nicely put, thought Virginia, sitting back and preparing herself for a series of questions she wouldn’t want to answer.

‘My first question is quite simple. Are you the mother of the Hon. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Are the parents of that child, as stated in Goodman Derrick’s letter, a Mr and Mrs Morton, your former butler and his wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘And therefore the settlement and maintenance payments you received from Mr Cyrus T. Grant III—’ the QC hesitated — ‘were made erroneously?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘So would it also be correct to suggest that Mr Grant’s demand,’ Sir Edward checked the figure in Lord Goodman’s letter, ‘for two million pounds, is both fair and reasonable.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘With that in mind, Lady Virginia, I am bound to ask, do you have two million pounds available to pay Mr Grant, which would avoid him having to issue a writ and all the attendant publicity that would undoubtedly attract?’

‘No, I do not, Sir Edward. That is the precise reason I am seeking your advice. I wanted to find out if there are any options left open to me.’

‘Are you able to pay a large enough sum for me to attempt to make a settlement?’

‘Out of the question, Sir Edward. I don’t have two thousand pounds, let alone two million.’

‘I’m grateful for your candid response to all my questions, Lady Virginia. But given the circumstances, it would be pointless for me to attempt to play for time and try to delay proceedings, because Lord Goodman is a wily old bird, and will realize exactly what I’m up to. In any case, you would then have the extra expense of both sides’ legal costs to add to your misfortunes. And the judge would issue an order that all legal bills are paid first.’

‘So what do you advise?’

‘Sadly, madam, we have been left with only two choices. I can throw myself on their mercy, which I cannot believe will be met with any sympathy.’

‘And the second option?’

‘You can declare yourself bankrupt. That would make the other side realize that issuing a writ for two million pounds would be a complete waste of time and money, unless Mr Grant’s sole purpose is to publicly humiliate you.’ The lawyer remained silent as he waited for his client’s response.

‘Thank you for your advice, Sir Edward,’ Virginia said eventually, ‘and I am sure you will appreciate that I’ll need a little time to consider my position.’

‘Of course, my lady. However, it would be remiss of me not to remind you that the date on Goodman Derrick’s letter is March thirteenth, and should we fail to respond before April thirteenth, you can be sure the other side will not hesitate to carry out their threat.’

‘May I ask you one more question, Sir Edward?’

‘Of course.’

‘Am I right in thinking that a writ has to be served on the person named in the action?’

‘That is correct, Lady Virginia, unless you instruct me to accept it on your behalf.’

During her journey north the following morning, Virginia gave some considerable thought to her QC’s advice. By the time the train pulled into Salford station, she had decided to invest some of the twelve thousand pounds she was about to collect in a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires.

When a taxi dropped her outside the estate agent’s office, she switched her attention to the job in hand, and how much more money she could accumulate before departing for Argentina. Virginia was not surprised to be ushered into the senior partner’s office within moments of telling the receptionist her name.

A man who had clearly put on his Sunday best suit for the occasion leapt up from behind his desk and introduced himself as Ron Wilks. He waited for her to be seated before resuming his place. Without another word, he opened a file in front of him, extracted a cheque for £11,400 and handed it across to her. Virginia folded it, placed it in her handbag and was about to leave when it became clear that Mr Wilks had something else to say.

‘During the short conversation I was able to have with Mr Mellor over the phone,’ he said, trying not to sound embarrassed, ‘he didn’t instruct me as to what I should do about his mother’s goods and chattels, which we have removed from the house and placed in storage.’

‘Are they worth anything?’

‘A local second-hand scrap merchant has offered four hundred pounds for the lot.’

‘I’ll take it.’

The estate agent opened his cheque book and asked, ‘Should this cheque also be made out to Lady Virginia Fenwick?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course, this doesn’t include the pictures,’ said Wilks as he handed over the cheque.

‘The pictures?’

‘It seems Mr Mellor’s mother had been collecting the works of a local artist for some years, and a London dealer has recently contacted me to say he would be interested in purchasing them. A Mr Kalman of the Crane Kalman gallery.’

‘How interesting,’ said Virginia, making a note of the name, only wondering if she still had enough time to contact him.

On the journey back to King’s Cross, she went over her plans for the next few days. She would first have to dispose of any other valuables she still had and be on her way to Heathrow before any of her creditors were aware that she had, to quote her friend Bofie Bridgwater, done a bunk. As for Desmond Mellor, by the time he got out of prison, she would be the least of his problems, and Virginia was confident he wouldn’t consider pursuing her halfway round the world for a few thousand pounds.

Virginia was grateful for Sir Edward’s advice. After all, it would be difficult for anyone to serve her with a writ if they didn’t know where she was. She’d already told Bofie she would be spending a few weeks in the South of France, to throw everyone off the scent. She didn’t give a passing thought to what would become of Freddie. After all, he wasn’t her child.

Soon after arriving back at her flat, Virginia was pleased to receive a telephone call from her distant cousin, confirming that a chauffeur would meet her at the airport and then drive her to his estate in the country. She liked the words chauffeur and estate.

Once Virginia had cashed Mellor’s cheques, cleared her bank account and purchased a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires, she set about the long process of packing. She quickly discovered just how many of her possessions, not least her shoes, she couldn’t live without, and reluctantly accepted that she would have to buy another large suitcase. A short walk to Harrods usually solved most of her problems, and today was no exception. She managed to find a trunk with a dent in the side, and agreed to take it off their hands for half price. The young salesman hadn’t noticed the dent before.

‘Be sure to deliver it to my home in Chelsea,’ she instructed the hapless assistant, ‘later this morning.’

A green-coated doorman opened the door and touched the peak of his cap as Virginia stepped out on to the Brompton Road.

‘Taxi, madam?’

She was about to say yes when her gaze settled on an art gallery on the other side of the road. Crane Kalman. Why did she know that name? And then she remembered.

‘No, thank you.’ She raised a gloved hand to stop the traffic as she made her way across the Brompton Road, wondering if she could pick up another two or three hundred pounds for Mrs Mellor’s old pictures. As she entered the gallery a bell rang and a short man with thick, wiry hair bustled up to her.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ he asked, unable to hide his mid-European accent.

‘I was recently in Salford, and—’

‘Ah, yes, you must be Lady Virginia Fenwick. Mr Wilks rang to say you might come in if you were interested in selling the late Mrs Mellor’s art collection.’

‘How much are you willing to offer?’ asked Virginia, who didn’t have a moment to waste.

‘Over the years,’ said Mr Kalman, who didn’t appear to be in any hurry, ‘Mrs Mellor acquired eleven oils, and twenty-three drawings from the local rent collector. Perhaps you were unaware that she was a close friend of the artist? And I have reason to believe—’

‘How much?’ Virginia repeated, aware of how little time she had before she needed to leave for Heathrow.

‘I consider one eighty would be a fair price.’

‘Two hundred, and you have a deal.’

Kalman hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘I would agree to that, my lady, and even go to two thirty, if you were able to tell me where the missing painting was.’

‘The missing painting?’

‘I’m in possession of an inventory of all the works the artist sold or gave to Mrs Mellor, but I haven’t been able to locate the Mill Lane Industrial Estate, which she gave to her son, and wondered if you had any idea where it is.’

Virginia knew exactly where it was but she didn’t have the time to travel down to Bristol and pick it up from Mellor’s office. However, one phone call to his secretary and it could be dispatched to the gallery immediately.

‘I accept your offer of two hundred and thirty, and will make sure that the painting is delivered to you in the next few days.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Kalman, who returned to his desk, wrote out a cheque and handed it over.

Virginia folded it, dropped it in her handbag and gave the gallery owner an ingratiating smile, before turning and walking back out on to the Brompton Road and hailing a taxi.

‘Coutts in the Strand,’ she instructed the driver.

She was considering how she would spend her last night in London — Bofie had suggested Annabel’s — when the taxi drew up outside the bank.

‘Wait here,’ she said, ‘this shouldn’t take long.’

She entered the banking hall, hurried across to one of the tellers, took out the cheque and passed it across the counter.

‘I’d like to cash this.’

‘Certainly, madam,’ said the cashier before catching his breath. ‘I presume you mean you’d like to deposit the full amount in your account?’

‘No, I’ll take it in cash,’ said Virginia, ‘preferably fives.’

‘I’m not sure that will be possible,’ stammered the cashier.

‘Why not?’ demanded Virginia.

‘I don’t have £230,000 in cash, my lady.’

‘She’s willing to make an offer?’ said Ellie May. ‘But I thought she was penniless?’

‘So did I,’ admitted Lord Goodman. ‘I have it on good authority that she was cut out of her father’s will and her only income is a modest monthly allowance supplied by her brother.’

‘How much is she offering?’

‘One million pounds, to be paid in ten equal instalments of one hundred thousand pounds over the next ten years.’

‘But she stole two million from my husband!’ said Ellie May. ‘She can go to hell.’

‘I sympathize with your feelings, Mrs Grant, but when I received the letter I decided to have an off-the-record conversation with Sir Edward Makepeace QC, who has represented the Fenwick family for many years. He made it clear that this offer represents a full and final settlement, and there is, to quote him, no wiggle room. He added that were you to turn it down, he has been instructed to receive the writ on Lady Virginia’s behalf.’

‘He’s bluffing.’

‘I can assure you, Mrs Grant, Sir Edward does not bluff.’

‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘I can appreciate why you would want to be repaid in full. However, if we were to go down that path, it might take several years to reach a settlement, and as we now know, Lady Virginia has enough money to cover her legal costs, so you might end up with nothing to show for it other than a large legal bill of your own. I’m not convinced it’s her own money she’s putting up — I suspect she’s got her brother, the tenth earl, to bail her out. However, even Lord Fenwick will have his limits.’ Goodman hesitated. ‘And then we must consider all the other aspects of this case.’

‘Like what?’ asked Ellie May.

‘Were the action to come to court, Lady Virginia would be ruined financially, and might possibly end up in prison.’

‘Nothing would please me more.’

‘At the same time, your husband’s reputation would also suffer.’

‘How could that be possible, when he’s the innocent party?’

‘Clearly, Mrs Grant, you have not experienced the British press on the rampage.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Then let me assure you, this story would run and run in the tabloids and I fear your husband would not come out of it smelling of roses. The papers will paint him as a naïve fool, and a cuckold.’

‘Which is no more than the truth,’ said Ellie May scornfully.

‘Possibly, Mrs Grant, but is that something you want to share with the whole world?’

‘What’s the alternative?’ she demanded.

‘It’s my considered opinion that you should settle, unpalatable as that may seem. I suggest you accept the offer of a million pounds, return to America and put this whole unpleasant experience behind you. I would, however, suggest one proviso: should Lady Virginia fail to honour any of the ten payments, she would still be liable for the full amount.’ Lord Goodman waited for Ellie May’s response but she remained silent. ‘But you are the client, and naturally I will abide by your instructions, whatever they may be.’

‘My late Scottish grandfather, Duncan Campbell, used to say, “Better a dollar in the bank, lass, than the promise of a dowry.”’

‘Was he a lawyer, by any chance?’ asked Goodman.

‘It’s a damn good offer,’ said Knowles.

‘Perhaps a little too good,’ said Sloane.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I am, as you know, Jim, suspicious by nature. Mellor might well be locked up in prison but that doesn’t mean he’s lying on his bunk all day feeling sorry for himself. Don’t forget Belmarsh houses some of the top criminals in the country, and they’ll be only too happy to advise a man they think has money.’

‘But like him, they’re all locked up.’

‘True, but just remember Mellor’s tried to stitch me up once before — and nearly succeeded.’

‘But this guy Sorkin is sending his private jet to pick us up so we can spend the weekend on his yacht at Cap Ferrat. What more could you ask for?’

‘I hate planes, and distrust people who own yachts. And what’s more, no one in the City has ever come across Conrad Sorkin.’

‘I could always go on my own.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Sloane. ‘We’ll both go. But if I sense even for a second that Sorkin isn’t what he claims to be, we’ll be on the next flight back, and not in his private jet.’

When Virginia received a letter from her solicitor to confirm that Mrs Ellie May Grant had accepted her offer, she wasn’t sure how to react. After all, with £230,000 at her disposal, she could live a comfortable enough life swanning around Europe, staying with friends. But she admitted to Bofie that she would miss London, Ascot, Wimbledon, Glyndebourne, the royal garden party, the Proms, Annabel’s and Harry’s Bar, especially when all her continental buddies had migrated back to London for the season.

Although she had banked the cheque for £230,000 with Coutts, Virginia accepted that if she were to honour her agreement, the money would run out in a couple of years, and she wondered if she was simply postponing the inevitable trip to Argentina. But on the other hand, perhaps something else might turn up in the meantime, and she still had until April 13th before she had to make a final decision.

After changing her mind several times, Virginia reluctantly handed over the first £100,000 to her solicitor on April 13th, and at the same time cleared all her small debts, loans, and legal costs, leaving her with £114,000 in her current account. Her brother continued to supply her with an allowance of £2,000 a month, a sum that had dropped from £4,000 when she deserted Freddie. Virginia hadn’t read the small print in her father’s will. And if Archie ever found out about her windfall, she suspected he would cut her off without another penny.

The following morning, she returned to Coutts and cashed a cheque for £10,000. She placed the money in a Swan and Edgar bag, as Mellor had instructed, walked back out on to the Strand and hailed a cab. She had no idea where the Science Museum was but was confident the cabbie would know. Twenty minutes later she was standing outside a magnificent Victorian building on Exhibition Road.

She entered the museum and walked across to the enquiry desk, where a young woman pointed her in the direction of Stephenson’s Rocket. Virginia marched through the Energy Hall, the Space Gallery and into Making the Modern World without turning to look at any of the unique objects that surrounded her.

She spotted the peroxide blonde standing next to an old steam engine, surrounded by children. The two women didn’t acknowledge each other. Virginia simply placed the bag on the floor by her side, turned around and left the museum as quickly as she had entered it.

Twenty minutes later she was sitting in Harry’s Bar enjoying a dry Martini. A handsome young man sitting at the bar on his own smiled at her. She returned his smile.

When Virginia visited Belmarsh the following Sunday, she was relieved to discover that Desmond Mellor didn’t even know his mother had an art collection, and clearly had never heard of L.S. Lowry. He had supplied the old lady with a small monthly allowance, but confessed he hadn’t visited Salford for some years.

‘I sold her bits and pieces for four hundred pounds,’ Virginia told him. ‘What would you like me to do with the money?’

‘Consider it a bonus. I heard this morning that the pick-up went smoothly, for which I’m grateful.’ He glanced across the room at Nash, who was having his monthly meeting with the peroxide blonde. They never once looked in his direction.

14

Adrian Sloane reluctantly admitted that being flown to the South of France in a Learjet was something he could get used to. Jim Knowles agreed. A young hostess, who didn’t look as if she knew a great deal about air safety, poured them another glass of champagne.

‘Don’t relax, even for a moment,’ said Sloane, rejecting the drink. ‘We still don’t know what Sorkin expects for his money.’

‘Why should we give a damn,’ said Knowles, ‘as long as the price is right?’

As the plane taxied to its stand at Nice Côte d’Azur airport, Sloane looked out of the window to see a Bentley Continental waiting for them on the tarmac. They climbed into the back seat — no passport checks, no queues, no customs. It was clear that Conrad Sorkin knew which palms to grease.

The harbour was packed cheek by jowl with gleaming yachts. Only one had its own dock, and that was where the Bentley came to a halt. A smartly dressed matelot opened the back door while two others collected the luggage from the boot. As Sloane walked up the wide gangway, he noticed a Panamanian flag fluttering gently in the breeze on the stern of the yacht. As they stepped on board, an officer in full whites saluted them and introduced himself as the purser.

‘Welcome aboard,’ he said in a clipped English accent. ‘I’ll show you to your cabins. Dinner will be served at eight on the upper deck, but do not hesitate to call me if there’s anything you require before then.’

The first thing Sloane noticed when he entered his state room was a black attaché case in the middle of the double bed. He tentatively flicked it open to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked fifty-pound notes. He sat on the end of the bed and counted them slowly. Twenty thousand pounds — one per cent of the offer price in advance? He closed the lid and slid the case under the bed.

Sloane slipped out of his room and entered the next-door cabin without knocking. Knowles was counting his money.

‘How much?’ said Sloane.

‘Ten thousand.’

Only half a per cent. Sloane smiled. Sorkin had done his research, and had already worked out which one of them would be closing the deal.

Sloane returned to his cabin, undressed and took a shower, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He ignored the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket by the bedside. He needed to concentrate. After all, this could be the deal that would not only decide when he retired, but how much his pension would be.

At five to eight, there was a light knock on the door. Sloane looked in the mirror and straightened his bow tie before opening the door to find a steward waiting for him.

‘Mr Sorkin hopes you and Mr Knowles will join him for a drink,’ he said, before leading them up a wide staircase.

Their host was standing on the upper deck waiting to greet his guests. Once he had introduced himself, he offered them a glass of champagne. Conrad Sorkin was not at all what Sloane had expected; tall, elegant, with a relaxed confidence that comes with success or breeding. He spoke with a slight South African accent and quickly put his guests at ease. Hard to guess his age, thought Sloane, possibly fifty, fifty-five. After some carefully worded questions, he discovered that Sorkin had been born in Cape Town and educated at Stanford. However, the small bronze bust of Napoleon that stood on the sideboard behind him revealed a possible weakness.

‘So where do you live now?’ asked Sloane, toying with his champagne.

‘This ship is my home. It has everything I require, with the added advantage that I don’t have to pay taxes.’

‘Isn’t that a little restricting?’ asked Knowles.

‘No, in fact the opposite. I quite literally enjoy the best of every world. I can visit any port I choose, and as long as I don’t stay for more than thirty days the authorities take no interest in me. And I think it would be fair to say that this ship has everything a major city could offer, including a chef I stole from the Savoy. So, gentlemen, shall we go through to dinner?’

Sloane took a seat on the right of his host. He heard the engine turning over.

‘I’ve asked the captain to sail slowly around the bay. I think you’ll find the lights of Nice harbour make a stunning backdrop,’ said Sorkin. A waiter filled their glasses with white wine, while another placed a plate of gravlax in front of them.

Sorkin boasted that the plaice and the Angus steak had been picked up from Grimsby and Aberdeen just hours before they boarded his jet that afternoon. Sloane had to admit that he might have been dining in one of the finest restaurants in London, and the quality of the wine made him want his glass to be constantly refilled. However, he restricted himself to a couple of glasses, as he waited for Sorkin to touch on the reason they were there.

After the last course had been cleared away, and brandy, port and cigars had been offered, the staff made a discreet withdrawal.

‘Shall we get down to business?’ said Sorkin, after he’d lit his cigar and taken a couple of puffs.

Sloane took a sip of port and Knowles poured himself a brandy.

‘As I see it,’ said Sorkin, ‘you presently control a company that has some major assets, and although Mr Mellor still owns fifty-one per cent of the stock, while he remains in prison he cannot involve himself in any board decisions.’

‘I can see you’ve done your homework,’ said Sloane, before taking a puff on his cigar. ‘But what particular assets are you interested in, Mr Sorkin?’

‘Conrad, please. Let me make it clear that I have no interest in acquiring Mellor Travel. However, the company has forty-two travel agencies well placed in high streets throughout the UK. Those properties have a book value of less than two million pounds. But if we were to put them on the market individually, I estimate they have a real value of nearer six, possibly even seven million.’

‘But,’ interrupted Sloane, ‘if we were to dispose of our greatest asset, Mellor Travel would be little more than a shell company, unable to carry out its core business. I’m sure you’re aware that Thomas Cook has already made us an offer of two million for the company, and made it clear that they wouldn’t be sacking any staff or disposing of any of the properties.’

‘And that two million would be paid to a company that will be run by Cook’s until Desmond Mellor comes out of jail, so the best either of you could hope for is a decent redundancy package. That is why I am willing to equal Cook’s offer, but with a subtle difference. My two million will be deposited in the bank of your choice, in the city of your choice.’

‘But the Bank of England—’ began Sloane.

‘Adrian, the Bank of England is indeed a powerful body, but I can name twenty-three countries in which it has no jurisdiction, or even bilateral agreements. All you will have to do is convince your board to accept my offer, rather than Cook’s. As the company only has five directors, and one of them can’t attend board meetings, that shouldn’t prove too difficult to achieve long before Mr Mellor is released — which I understand is not imminent.’

‘You are well informed,’ said Sloane.

‘Let’s just say we have contacts in all the right places, and inside information that keeps me ahead of my rivals.’

‘If I was to accept your terms,’ said Sloane, ‘is the cash I found in my room a one per cent down payment against the two million you’re offering?’

Knowles frowned.

‘Certainly not,’ said Sorkin. ‘Consider that no more than a calling card to prove my credentials.’

Sloane drained his glass of port and waited for it to be refilled, before he said, ‘We have a board meeting in a couple of weeks’ time, Conrad, and you can be assured that I and my fellow directors will take your offer very seriously.’

The chairman of Mellor Travel leant back and relaxed for the first time, allowing himself to enjoy the port, confident he’d got the measure of Sorkin and that the two million could be treated as an opening bid. He’d already decided the figure he’d settle for, but would wait until breakfast before he made his next move.

Knowles looked disappointed, only too aware that Sloane was holding out for a larger sum. The same mistake he’d made when Hakim Bishara had bid for Farthings, and they’d ended up losing the deal. Knowles wasn’t going to allow him to make the same error a second time. After all, he considered Sorkin’s offer was more than enough, and there was no need to be greedy. Sloane’s biggest weakness.

‘I think I’ll turn in,’ Sloane said, rising slowly from his place, as he felt nothing more could be achieved that night. ‘Goodnight, Conrad. I’ll sleep on your offer. Perhaps we can talk again in the morning.’

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Sorkin, as Sloane made his way unsteadily towards the door. Knowles made no attempt to join him, which annoyed Sloane, but he didn’t comment.

Sloane had to hold on to the railing as he slowly descended the companionway. He was glad to see the purser waiting for him on the lower deck because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way back to his cabin. Perhaps he shouldn’t have drunk so much port on top of such excellent wines. But when would he ever again be offered a third, or was it a fourth, glass of Taylor’s 24?

He stumbled as his foot touched the bottom step, and the purser quickly came to his rescue, placing an arm gently around his shoulder. Sloane swayed towards the ship’s railing and leant over the side, hoping he wouldn’t be sick, aware it would be reported back to Sorkin. After breathing in the fresh sea air he felt a little better. If he could just get back to his cabin and lie down, he was thinking, as two powerful arms circled his waist, and with one seamless movement he found himself being lifted into the air. He turned and tried to protest, only to see the purser smiling at him before unceremoniously dumping him overboard.

A moment later Sorkin appeared by the purser’s side. Neither of them spoke as the chairman of Mellor Travel disappeared below the waves for a third time.

‘How did you know he couldn’t swim?’

‘Inside information from the person who used to have your job,’ Sorkin replied. As he turned away he added, ‘You’ll find your twenty thousand in Sloane’s cabin, under the bed.’

Nash bent down and tied up one of his shoelaces, the sign that Mellor should join him.

Mellor completed two more laps of the yard before he was by his side. He didn’t need the watching screws to become suspicious.

‘Job’s done. No need to send any flowers to his funeral.’

‘Why not?’

‘He was buried at sea.’ They walked a few more yards before Nash added, ‘We’ve kept our side of the bargain, now I expect you to keep yours.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Mellor, hoping Nash hadn’t noticed that he’d broken out in a cold sweat. He’d called his estate agent in Bristol a couple of weeks before, and discovered that his old flat on Broad Street still hadn’t been sold — not the easiest of markets, Mr Carter had explained, but if he were to lower the price, he felt confident a deal could be done. Mellor lowered the price, and an offer had been forthcoming, but the buyer wasn’t willing to exchange until he’d seen the surveyor’s report — which wouldn’t be completed for another fortnight.

At least the Sloane problem had been dealt with. He would write to Knowles and ask him to make a prison visit as soon as possible. Surely he would fall in line now that Sloane was no longer around to call the tune.

A few more yards before he asked, ‘When and where?’ He hoped he sounded confident.

‘Next Thursday. I’ll let you know the details after Tracie’s visit on Sunday. Just be sure that nice Lady Virginia doesn’t forget to bring her Swan and Edgar bag with her.’

Mellor fell back and joined Sharp Johnny, who was as cheerful as ever, but then he only had nineteen days left to serve.

15

‘I don’t suppose you have ten thousand pounds you could spare?’ said Mellor. Virginia wondered if he was joking until she saw the look of desperation in his eyes. ‘I have a short-term cash-flow problem,’ he explained, ‘which can be resolved if only I’m given a little more time. But I need ten thousand quickly.’ He glanced across the crowded room to where Nash was deep in conversation with his only ever guest. ‘Very quickly.’

Virginia thought about the £111,000 she still had in her current account, and smiled sweetly. ‘But no one knows better than you, Desmond, I’m as poor as a church mouse. My brother gives me an allowance of two thousand a month, which is barely enough to live on, and the only other income I’ve had recently was the small amount of money I received following the sale of your mother’s house. I suppose I could let you have a thousand, and possibly another thousand in a month’s time.’

‘That’s good of you, Virginia, but it will be too late by then.’

‘Do you have any assets you could put up as collateral?’ Virginia asked. Familiar words she’d heard her bank manager use whenever she was overdrawn.

‘My ex-wife ended up with our house in the country as part of the divorce settlement. I’ve put my flat in Bristol on the market. It’s worth about twenty thousand, and although someone has made an offer, contracts haven’t been exchanged.’

‘What about Adrian Sloane? After all, it wouldn’t be a large amount to him.’

‘That’s no longer possible,’ said Mellor, without explanation.

‘And Jim Knowles?’

Mellor thought for a moment. ‘I suppose Jim just might be willing to help if I put the flat up as collateral and there was something in it for him.’

‘Like what?’

‘To chair the company, cash, whatever he wants.’

‘I’ll get in touch with him the moment I get home, and find out if he’s willing to help.’

‘Thank you, Virginia. And of course there’ll be something in it for you.’

Once again, Mellor looked across the room at Nash, who he knew would be taking instructions as to where the second instalment should be delivered. Never the same place twice, and never the same person, Nash had already explained.

‘But I’ll still need the ten thousand before Thursday,’ Mellor said, turning back to Virginia. ‘And I can’t begin to tell you what the consequences could be if you fail.’

‘How often are you allowed to make telephone calls?’

‘Once a week, but I only get three minutes, and don’t forget the screws are listening to every word.’

‘Call me on Tuesday afternoon, around five o’clock. I should have seen Knowles by then, and I’ll do everything in my power to persuade him.’

‘It’s all set up for Thursday,’ said Nash, when Mellor joined him in the yard.

‘Where and when?’ asked Mellor, unwilling to admit he didn’t have the money.

‘Trafalgar Square, between the fountains, twelve o’clock.’

‘Understood.’

‘Will it be the same bag lady?’

‘Yes,’ said Mellor, hoping that Virginia had not only got the money, but would be willing to act as the intermediary once again.

Nash looked at him more closely. ‘I hope you’ve given some thought to the consequences of not coming up with the second half of the payment.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Mellor, who had thought of little else for the past week. He fell back and walked alone, wondering, praying, hoping, that Virginia had convinced Knowles to lend him the ten thousand. He checked his watch. In another five hours he’d know.

‘Jim Knowles,’ said a voice on the other end of the line.

‘Jim, it’s Virginia Fenwick.’

‘Virginia, how are you? It’s been a long time.’

‘Too long. But I’m about to make up for it.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘I have a little proposition that you just might find interesting. I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch?’

Virginia was sitting by the phone at five p.m. on Tuesday, well aware that she only had three minutes in which to deliver her well-prepared script. She had written out several bullet points to make sure she didn’t miss anything of importance. When the phone rang, she picked it up immediately.

‘7784.’

‘Hello, my darling, it’s Priscilla. I thought I’d give you a call and see if you’re free for a spot of lunch on Thursday?’

‘Not now,’ said Virginia, slamming the receiver down. The phone rang again seconds later.

‘7784,’ she repeated.

‘It’s Desmond. Have you been able to—’ He clearly didn’t want to waste a second. She checked her first bullet point.

‘Yes. Knowles has agreed to loan you ten thousand against the flat in Bristol.’

‘Thank God,’ said Mellor, breathing a deep sigh of relief that she could hear clearly.

‘But if you fail to pay him back the full amount within thirty days, he’s demanding extra collateral.’

‘Like what?’

‘Your shares in Mellor Travel.’

‘But they’re worth about a million and a half.’

‘Take it or leave it, if I remember his exact words.’

Mellor paused for a moment, aware that his three minutes were fast running out.

‘I don’t have a lot of choice. Tell the bastard I accept his terms, and I’ll pay him back the moment the flat is sold.’

‘I’ll pass on the message immediately, but he won’t release the money until he’s seen your signature on the document that will transfer ownership of the shares to him should you fail to pay him back within thirty days.’

‘But how can I possibly sign it in time?’ said Mellor, sounding desperate again.

‘Don’t worry. His lawyers have done all the paperwork, and it will be delivered to the prison later this evening. Just be sure you have someone looking out for it.’

‘Address the envelope to Mr Graves. He’s my floor officer, and he’s already done me a couple of favours, so you can trust him. As long as he’s on duty tonight, I should be able to turn it round immediately.’

Virginia made a note of the name, before checking her list again. ‘Where and when do I deliver the money?’

‘Thursday, twelve o’clock, Trafalgar Square. Your contact will be standing between the fountains. Just be sure you’re not late.’

‘Will it be the same woman?’

‘No. Look for a bald middle-aged man wearing a navy blazer and jeans.’ Virginia made another note. ‘You’re a diamond,’ said Mellor. ‘I owe you.’

‘Anything else I can do?’

‘No, but I’ll be sending you a letter that I need you to—’

The line went dead.

Mr Graves put down the phone in his office and waited for his instructions.

‘You’ll need to make sure you’re on duty when the document arrives at the prison gate later this evening.’

‘No problem. Not many officers volunteer for the night shift.’

‘And make sure Mellor signs the agreement, and that you witness his signature.’

‘What do I do then?’

‘Take it out with you when you come off duty and deliver it to the address Mellor writes on the envelope. And don’t forget, you’ve still got one more job to do before you can get paid.’

Graves frowned. ‘You’d better get back to your cell before someone notices you’re missing,’ the prison officer said, trying to re-establish his authority.

‘Whatever you say, guv,’ said Nash, before slipping out of the office and making his way back to his cell.

When Virginia woke the next morning, she found a large envelope lying on the doormat. She didn’t want to know who’d delivered it, or when. She checked her watch: 9.14 a.m. Knowles wasn’t due to pick it up until ten, giving her more than enough time.

She ripped open the envelope and extracted the document, quickly turning to the last page to check that Mellor had signed it. She smiled when she saw his friend, Mr Graves, had witnessed the signature. Virginia placed the agreement back in the envelope, left her little flat in Chelsea and headed for a shop in Pimlico that she’d checked out the previous day.

The young man behind the counter made two copies of the document and charged her £2.00 and another 20p for a large brown envelope. She was back in her flat twenty minutes later, reading the morning paper, when there was a knock at the door.

Knowles kissed her on both cheeks as if they were old friends, but once he’d exchanged one brown envelope for another, he left immediately. Virginia returned to the drawing room, ripped open the new envelope and counted the money. Fifteen thousand, as agreed. Not a bad morning’s work. Now all she had to do was decide whether or not to deliver the ten thousand to the bald man in the navy blazer and jeans who would be waiting for her in Trafalgar Square.

When Virginia arrived at the bank, she made her way straight to the manager’s office. Mr Leigh stood up the moment she entered the room. Without a word, she extracted five cellophane packets and the copy of a three-page document from a Swan and Edgar bag, and placed them on his desk.

‘Please credit my account with the five thousand pounds, and place this document among my personal papers.’

Mr Leigh gave her a slight bow and was about to ask... but she had already left the room.

Virginia walked out of the bank and on to the Strand, before making her way slowly towards Trafalgar Square. She had decided to carry out Mellor’s instructions, not least because she recalled him saying how severe the consequences would be if he failed to repay the money, and she didn’t want any harm to come to her only other source of income.

She paused opposite St Martin in the Fields and, clutching her Swan and Edgar bag tightly, waited for the traffic lights to turn red before she crossed the road. A flock of startled pigeons flew into the air as she stepped into the square and headed towards the fountains.

A child was jumping up and down in the water and his mother was begging him to come out. Just beyond them was a bald-headed man wearing an open-neck shirt, dark blue blazer and jeans, whose eyes never left her. She walked across to him and handed over the shopping bag. He didn’t even look inside, just turned his back and disappeared among a crowd of tourists.

Virginia breathed a sigh of relief. The operation had gone without a hitch, and she was already looking forward to having lunch with Priscilla. She made her way towards the National Gallery and hailed a taxi, while the bald man continued striding in the opposite direction. He couldn’t miss the silver-grey Bentley that was parked outside South Africa House. As he approached the car a tinted window purred down and a hand appeared. He passed over the Swan and Edgar bag and waited.

Conrad Sorkin checked the ten cellophane packets before handing one of them back to the courier.

‘Thank you, Mr Graves. Please let Mr Nash know that Lady Virginia failed to turn up.’

16

Six men sat opposite each other preparing for battle, although in truth they were all on the same side. Three of them represented Farthings Kaufman, and the other three Thomas Cook Ltd, one of the bank’s oldest clients.

Hakim Bishara, chairman of Farthings Kaufman, sat on one side of the table, with Sebastian Clifton, his CEO, on his right, and the bank’s in-house lawyer, Arnold Hardcastle, on his left. Opposite Hakim sat Ray Brook, the chairman of Cook’s, on his right the company’s MD, Brian Dawson, and on his left Naynesh Desai, his legal advisor.

‘Allow me to open this meeting by welcoming all of you,’ said Hakim. ‘May I add how delighted we are to be representing Cook’s in their attempt to take over Mellor Travel Ltd. Sadly, this is unlikely to be a mutually agreed takeover. In fact, it is more likely to be an all-out war, and a bloody one at that. But let me assure you, gentlemen, we will succeed. I will now ask Sebastian Clifton, who has been working on the project for some weeks, to bring us all up to speed.’

‘Thank you, chairman,’ said Seb as he opened a thick file in front of him. ‘Allow me to begin by summing up our present position. Cook’s have, for some time, expressed an interest in acquiring Mellor Travel, which has certain assets that would bring added value to their business. In particular, their forty-two high street shops, some in towns where Cook’s do not have a presence, or where their present location is not as well placed as their rival’s. Mellors also have a first-class, well-trained staff, although some of them have felt it necessary to leave the company during the past year.’

‘One or two of them to join us,’ interrupted Brook.

‘Perhaps this is the time to mention the elephant in the room,’ continued Seb. ‘Namely Mr Desmond Mellor, who, although no longer chairman of the company, does retain fifty-one per cent of its shares. Therefore a takeover would be nigh on impossible without his blessing.’

‘I understand that you’ve had dealings with Mr Mellor in the past,’ said Dawson, removing his glasses. ‘How is your present relationship?’

‘I don’t think it could be much worse,’ admitted Seb. ‘We both sat on the board of Barrington Shipping at a time when my mother was chairman. Not only did Mellor attempt to have her removed from the board, but after failing to do so, he tried to take over the company using tactics that were found to be unacceptable by the takeover panel. My mother prevailed, and continued to run Barrington’s for several more years until the company was bought by Cunard.’

‘I invited your mother to join our board,’ said Brook, ‘but unfortunately Margaret Thatcher trumped us.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Seb.

‘But you will recall that when Barrington’s launched the Buckingham, and later the Balmoral, Mrs Clifton appointed Cook’s as their preferred booking agent. We’ve never had a better partner, even if I did have to get used to her calling at six o’clock in the morning or ten at night.’

‘You too?’ said Seb with a grin. ‘However, I have a confession to make. Before you approached us concerning this takeover, at his request I visited Desmond Mellor in prison.’

Jessica would have enjoyed drawing the expressions that appeared on the faces of the three men sitting opposite her father.

‘Even worse, on that occasion Mellor offered to sell me fifty-one per cent of the company for one pound.’

‘What did he want in exchange?’ asked Brook.

‘That once he was released from prison, we would return his fifty-one per cent, also for one pound.’

‘Not a very seductive proposition,’ suggested Dawson. ‘Although it must have been tempting at the time.’

‘But not tempting enough,’ said Hakim, ‘if as a result you have to rub shoulders with scumbags like Sloane and Knowles, who in my opinion should be locked up in the same cell as Mellor.’

‘That was off the record,’ interjected Arnold firmly, ‘and does not represent the views of the bank.’

‘I agree with you, Hakim,’ said Brook. ‘I only met Adrian Sloane once, and that was quite enough. However, let me ask you, Mr Clifton, do you think there’s any chance that Mellor might consider reviving his offer?’

‘It seems unlikely, although I’d be willing to give it a try, assuming he’d agree to see me.’

‘Then let’s find out as quickly as possible if that’s a runner,’ said Dawson.

‘But even if Mellor did agree to see you,’ said Arnold, ‘I must warn you that the wheels of power grind even more slowly in the Prison Service than they do in Whitehall.’

‘But I remember you and Seb visiting me at Belmarsh at a moment’s notice,’ said Hakim.

‘Those were legal visits,’ said Arnold, ‘and not subject to the usual prison restrictions — don’t forget, you were my client.’

‘So if Mellor were to agree to let you represent him,’ said Hakim, ‘we could cut through the red tape.’

‘But why would he even consider doing that?’ asked Dawson.

‘Because Barry Hammond,’ said Sebastian, ‘a private detective employed by Farthings, discovered it was Sloane who stitched up Mellor. Which is why Mellor ended up in jail, and once he was safely out of the way, with the help of his friend Knowles, Sloane appointed himself chairman of Mellor Travel, which hasn’t declared a profit or issued a dividend since. So it’s just possible Mellor might be desperate enough to consider us the lesser of two evils.’

‘If that’s the home team,’ said Brook, ‘what have you managed to find out about our rivals?’

‘That they’re even worse,’ replied Seb. ‘Sorkin International is not an easy company to get to grips with. Their head office is registered in Panama, and although they have an office number, no one ever answers it.’

‘Is Conrad Sorkin himself based in Panama?’ asked Dawson.

‘No. He spends most of his time on a yacht, constantly on the move. In fact, there are seven countries where he’s currently persona non grata, but unfortunately the UK isn’t one of them. And in any case, he seems to have access to bent lawyers, shelf companies, even aliases to make sure he always stays one step ahead of the law.’

‘An ideal bedfellow for Sloane and Knowles,’ suggested Brook.

‘Agreed,’ said Seb, ‘and as you know, Sorkin has recently matched our bid of two million for Mellor Travel. However, I think it’s unlikely we’ll be treated as an equal.’

‘But surely Sorkin can’t instigate a full-blooded takeover without Mellor’s backing,’ said Cook’s lawyer.

‘He doesn’t need to,’ said Hakim, ‘because we’re not convinced that’s his purpose, as Seb will explain.’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s not the company that Sorkin is interested in,’ said Seb. ‘Just the forty-two shops and offices, which have a book value of under two million pounds, whereas my property analyst has valued them at over five million.’

‘So that’s his game,’ said Dawson.

‘I think he’ll be happy to sell off the properties without consulting Mellor,’ said Arnold, ‘or even worrying about breaking the law, because I suspect Mr Sorkin will have long since disappeared before the police catch up with him.’

‘Can we do anything to stop him?’ asked Brook.

‘Yes,’ said Seb. ‘Get hold of Mellor’s fifty-one per cent, and sack Sloane.’

When a letter landed on Virginia’s doormat the following morning, she recognized the handwriting, and opened it to find another envelope inside addressed to Miss Kelly Mellor, but with no address attached, just a scribbled note:

Virginia immediately ripped open the second envelope and started to read a letter Desmond had written to his daughter.

Sebastian was just about to get in the lift, when Arnold Hardcastle came running down the corridor towards him.

‘Haven’t you got a wife and family to go home to?’

‘Good news,’ said Arnold, ignoring the comment. ‘Mellor has not only agreed to see us, he wants a meeting as soon as possible.’

‘Excellent. Hakim will be delighted.’

‘I’ve already spoken to the prison governor, and he’s agreed that a legal meeting can be held in the prison at twelve tomorrow.’

‘Hakim will want to be there.’

‘God forbid,’ said Arnold. ‘He’d probably end up strangling the man, and who could blame him? No, you should represent Farthings. After all, it was you he asked to see when he came up with his original proposal. I’d also suggest that Ray Brook be present, so Mellor realizes the bid’s serious. One chairman to another. He’ll be impressed by that.’

‘That makes sense,’ agreed Seb.

‘Do you have anything scheduled for tomorrow morning?’

‘If I do,’ said Seb, opening his pocket diary, ‘it’s about to be cancelled.’

Virginia had been in touch with Kelly Mellor’s mother, but she wasn’t at all cooperative. She probably thought Virginia was Mellor’s latest girlfriend. However, she did reveal that the last time she’d heard from her daughter she was somewhere in Chicago, but admitted she’d lost touch with her.

At eleven o’clock the following morning, Sebastian, Arnold and Ray Brook climbed into the back of a taxi, and Seb instructed the driver to take them to HMP Belmarsh. The cabbie didn’t look pleased.

‘Not much chance of a return fare,’ Arnold explained.

‘Why so early?’ asked Brook.

‘You’ll find out why when you get there,’ replied Arnold.

The three of them discussed tactics on their way to the prison, and agreed that their first priority was to put Mellor at ease and make him feel they were on his side.

‘Keep mentioning Sloane and Knowles,’ said Seb, ‘because I’m confident he’d rather deal with us than them.’

‘I don’t think he would have agreed to see us,’ said Brook as the cab left the city and headed east, ‘unless we were in with a chance.’

By the time the cab drew up outside the vast forbidding green gates of HMP Belmarsh, they each knew the role they were expected to play. Arnold would open the proceedings and attempt to persuade Mellor that they were the good guys, and when Seb felt the moment was right, he would make him an offer of £1.5 million for his shares. Brook would confirm that the money would be deposited in his account the moment he signed the share transfer and that, as a bonus, Sloane and Knowles would be sacked before close of business that day. Seb was beginning to feel more confident.

When the three of them entered the prison they were escorted to the gatehouse and thoroughly searched. Brook’s keyring pocket knife was immediately seized. The chairman of Cook Travel may have visited almost every country on earth, but it was clear he’d never entered a prison before. They left all their valuables, even their belts, with the desk sergeant, and, accompanied by two other officers, made their way across the square to A Block.

They passed through several barred gates, unlocked then locked behind them, before arriving at an interview room on the first floor. The clock on the wall showed five to twelve. Brook no longer needed to ask why they had set out so early.

One of the duty officers opened the door to allow the three men to enter a rectangular room with glass walls. Although they were left alone, two officers stationed themselves outside, looking in. They were there to make sure no one passed any drugs, weapons or money to the prisoner. Nothing gave the screws greater pleasure than arresting a lawyer.

The three visitors took their seats around a small square table in the centre of the room, leaving a vacant chair for Mellor. Arnold opened his briefcase and extracted a file. He took out a share-transfer certificate and a three-page agreement, the wording of which he checked once again before placing it on the table. If all went to plan, by the time they left the prison in an hour’s time, there would be two signatures on the bottom line.

Seb couldn’t stop staring at the clock on the wall, aware that they would only be allowed an hour to close the deal and sign all the necessary legal documents. The moment the minute hand reached twelve, a man in a green bow tie, striped shirt and tweed jacket walked into the room. Arnold immediately stood and said, ‘Good morning, governor.’

‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle. I’m sorry to have to inform you that this meeting is no longer able to take place.’

‘Why?’ demanded Seb, leaping to his feet.

‘When the wing officer unlocked Mellor’s cell at six o’clock this morning, he found his bed up-ended, and he’d hanged himself using a sheet as a noose.’

Seb collapsed back into his chair.

The governor paused to allow them all to take in the news, before adding matter-of-factly, ‘Sadly, suicides are all too common at Belmarsh.’

When Virginia read the paragraph reporting Mellor’s suicide on page 11 of the Evening Standard, her first thought was that another source of income had dried up. But then she had a second thought.

17

‘It’s so rare nowadays to have the family all together for the weekend,’ said Emma, as they strolled into the drawing room after dinner.

‘And we all know who’s to blame for that,’ said Sebastian. ‘I only hope you’re still enjoying the job.’

‘Enjoying would be the wrong word. But not a day goes by when I don’t think how lucky I am, and how a chance meeting with Margaret Thatcher changed my whole life.’

‘What’s it like working for the PM?’ asked Samantha, pouring herself a coffee.

‘To be honest, I don’t get to see her that often, but whenever I do, she seems to know exactly what I’ve been up to.’

‘And what have you been up to?’ asked Seb as he joined his wife on the sofa.

‘The new National Health Bill is about to leave the Commons and come to the Lords. It will be my job to steer it through the House clause by clause, before sending it back to the Commons, with I hope not too many opposition amendments attached.’

‘That won’t be easy with Giles trying to trip you up at every turn,’ said Grace, ‘though I expect you’ll catch him out on the detail.’

‘Maybe, but he’s still one of the finest debaters in either House, even though he’s been relegated to the back benches.’

‘Has he given up any hope of rejoining the shadow cabinet?’ asked Samantha.

‘I think the answer to that has to be yes, because Michael Foot can’t have been pleased with his outspoken remarks following the donkey jacket incident.’

‘Turning up at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday wearing a donkey jacket revealed a certain lack of political nous,’ suggested Seb.

‘Just a pity Giles couldn’t keep his mouth shut on the subject,’ said Grace, as Emma handed her a coffee.

‘The front bench’s loss is our gain,’ said Seb. ‘Since Giles has rejoined the board of Farthings, he’s opened doors we didn’t have a key to.’

‘Joining the board of a City bank is something else that won’t have endeared him to Michael Foot,’ said Emma. ‘So I don’t suppose we’ll see him on the front bench again until the Labour Party has a new leader.’

‘And possibly not even then,’ suggested Seb. ‘I’m afraid the next generation may well consider Giles a bit of a dinosaur, and, to quote Trotsky, consign him to the dustbin of history.’

‘You couldn’t get a dinosaur into a dustbin,’ said Harry from a corner chair no one else would have dreamed of sitting in. The rest of the family burst out laughing.

‘Enough of politics,’ said Emma, turning to Samantha. ‘I want to know what Jessica’s been up to, and why she hasn’t joined us for the weekend.’

‘I think she’s got a boyfriend,’ said Sam.

‘Isn’t she a bit young?’ said Harry.

‘She’s sixteen going on twenty,’ Seb reminded his father.

‘Have you met him?’ asked Emma.

‘No. In fact, we’re not even meant to know about him,’ said Sam. ‘But when I was tidying her room the other day, I couldn’t avoid seeing a drawing of a handsome young man on the wall beside her bed, where a poster of Duran Duran used to be.’

‘I still miss my daughter,’ said Harry wistfully.

‘There are times when I’d be only too happy to give you mine,’ said Seb. ‘Last week I caught her trying to slip out of the house wearing a mini skirt, pink lipstick and high heels. I sent her back upstairs to remove the lipstick and change. She locked herself in her room and hasn’t spoken to me since.’

‘What do you know about the boy?’ asked Harry.

‘We think his name is Steve, and we know he’s the captain of the school football team,’ said Sam. ‘So I suspect Jessica is waiting in a long queue.’

‘I don’t think Jessie does queues,’ said Grace.

‘And my other grandchild?’ asked Emma.

‘Jake’s now walking without actually falling over,’ said Sam, ‘and spends most of his time heading for the nearest exit, so frankly he’s a handful. I’ve put on hold any idea of going back to work for the time being, as I can’t bear the thought of handing over the little fellow to a nanny.’

‘I admire you for that,’ said Emma. ‘I sometimes wonder if I should have made the same decision.’

‘I agree,’ said Seb, leaning on the marble fireplace. ‘I’m a classic example of someone who had a deprived upbringing, and ended up depraved.’

‘Gee, Officer Krupke,’ said Harry.

‘I had no idea you were that with it, Dad,’ said Seb.

‘I took your mother to see West Side Story at the Bristol Old Vic on our wedding anniversary. And if you haven’t seen it, you should.’

‘Seen it,’ said Seb. ‘Farthings Kaufman is the show’s biggest backer.’

‘I’d never thought of you as an angel,’ said Harry. ‘And I certainly didn’t see any mention of it in your latest portfolio report.’

‘I put half a million of our clients’ money into the show, but considered it too high a risk for the family, even though I had a dabble myself.’

‘So we missed out,’ said Grace.

‘Mea culpa,’ admitted Seb. ‘You ended up with a 7.9 per cent annual return on your capital, while my other clients managed 8.4 per cent. West Side Story turned out to be a slam-dunker, to quote the American producer, who keeps sending me a cheque every quarter.’

‘Perhaps you’ll put us into your next show,’ said Emma.

‘There isn’t going to be a next show, Mama. It didn’t take much research to discover I’d been blessed with beginner’s luck. Seven West End shows out of ten lose every penny for their investors. One in ten just about breaks even, one makes a worthwhile return, and only one in a hundred doubles its money, and they’re usually the ones you can’t get into. So I’ve decided to quit show business while I’m ahead.’

‘Aaron Guinzburg tells me the next big hit will be something called Little Shop of Horrors,’ said Harry.

‘Farthings won’t be investing in a horror show,’ said Seb.

‘Why not?’ said Emma. ‘After all, you tried to invest in Mellor Travel.’

‘Still am,’ admitted Sebastian.

‘So what did you invest in?’ asked Emma.

‘ICI, Royal Dutch Shell, British Airways and Cunard. The only risk I took on your behalf was to buy a few shares in a fledgling bus company called Stagecoach, and you’ll be pleased to know one of the founders is a woman.’

‘And they’ve already shown a good return,’ said Harry.

‘I’m also considering picking up a sizeable holding in Thomas Cook, but only if we succeed in taking over Mellor Travel.’

‘I never cared much for Desmond Mellor,’ admitted Emma. ‘But even I felt sorry for the man when I heard he’d committed suicide.’

‘Barry Hammond isn’t convinced it was suicide.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Harry. ‘If William Warwick were on the case, he’d point out that there were far too many coincidences.’

‘Like what?’ asked Seb, always fascinated by how his father’s mind worked.

‘For a start, Mellor is found hanged in his cell during a takeover battle for his company. And at the same time, Adrian Sloane, the chairman of the company, disappears without trace.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Emma.

‘You’ve had more important things on your mind,’ said Harry, ‘than reading the Bristol Evening Post, and to be fair, I wouldn’t have known about Mellor either if the local rags hadn’t been obsessed with it. “Bristol businessman commits suicide in high-security prison” was a typical headline. And whenever the chairman of Mellor Travel is asked to make a statement on behalf of the company, all we get is that he’s “unavailable for comment”. Even more curious, Jim Knowles, who’s described as the interim chairman, keeps trying to assure any anxious shareholders that it’s business as usual, and that he’ll be announcing some exciting news in the near future. Three unlikely coincidences, and certainly William Warwick would want to track down Adrian Sloane in case he could throw any light on the mystery of Mellor’s death.’

‘But the governor of Belmarsh was convinced it was suicide,’ said Seb.

‘Prison governors always say that whenever there’s a death on their patch,’ said Harry. ‘So much more convenient than murder, which would mean setting up a Home Office enquiry that could take up to a year to report its findings. No, there’s something missing in this case, although I haven’t fathomed out yet what it is.’

‘Not something,’ said Seb, ‘someone. Namely Mr Conrad Sorkin.’

‘Who’s he?’ asked Grace.

‘A shady international businessman, who until now I’d assumed was working with Sloane.’

‘Does Sorkin run a travel company?’ asked Emma. ‘If he does, I’ve never come across him.’

‘No, Sorkin isn’t interested in Mellor Travel. He just wants to get his hands on the shops and offices the company owns so he can make a quick profit.’

‘That’s one piece of the jigsaw I wasn’t aware of,’ said Harry. ‘But it might explain another coincidence that’s been nagging away at me, namely the role played in this affair by a Mr Alan Carter.’ Everyone in the room stared at Harry in rapt silence, not wanting to interrupt the storyteller. ‘Alan Carter is a local estate agent, who up until now has only played a minor role in this whole saga. But in my view, his evidence might well prove crucial.’ Harry poured himself another cup of coffee and took a sip before he continued. ‘So far Carter has only merited the occasional paragraph in the Bristol Evening News, for example when he told the paper’s crime reporter that Mellor’s Bristol flat was on the market. I assumed he’d done so simply to get some free publicity for his firm and a better price for his client’s property. Nothing wrong with that. But it was his second statement, made a few days after Mellor’s death, which I found far more intriguing.’

‘Turn the page, turn the page,’ demanded Seb.

‘Carter told the press, without explanation, that Mellor’s flat had been sold, but that he had been instructed by his client to hold back part of the sale money in escrow. What I’d like to know is how much he was asked to hold back, and why he didn’t send the full amount to Mellor’s executors and leave them to decide who was entitled to the money.’

‘Do you think Carter will be working on a Saturday morning?’ asked Seb.

‘It’s always the busiest morning of the week for an estate agent,’ said Harry. ‘But that wasn’t the question you should have asked me, Seb.’

‘You are maddening at times,’ said Emma.

‘Agreed,’ said Seb.

‘So what’s the question Seb should have asked?’ said Grace.

‘Who is Desmond Mellor’s next of kin?’

Sebastian was standing outside Hudson and Jones on the Commercial Road at five to nine the following morning. Three agents were already seated behind their desks waiting for the first customers.

When the doors opened, a neatly printed sign on one of the desks announced which agent was Mr Alan Carter. Seb sat down opposite a young man wearing a pinstriped suit, white shirt and green silk tie. He gave Seb a welcoming smile.

‘Are you a buyer, a seller or possibly both, Mr—’

‘Clifton.’

‘You’re not by any chance related to Lady Clifton?’

‘She’s my mother.’

‘Then I hope you’ll pass on my best wishes to her.’

‘You know her?’

‘Only as chairman of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. My wife had breast cancer, and they met when she was on one of her weekly ward rounds.’

‘Every Wednesday morning, from ten to twelve,’ said Seb. ‘She said it gave her a chance to find out what the patients and staff were really thinking.’

‘And I can tell you something else,’ said Carter. ‘When my son was knocked off his bike and twisted an ankle, there she was again, this time in A and E observing everything that was going on.’

‘That would have been a Friday afternoon, between four and six.’

‘That didn’t surprise me, but what did was that she came over and had a word with my wife, and even remembered her name. So just tell me what you want, Mr Clifton, because I’m your man.’

‘I’m afraid I’m neither a buyer nor a seller, Mr Carter, but a seeker of information.’

‘If I can help, I will.’

‘The bank I represent is currently involved in a takeover bid for Mellor Travel, and I was interested by a statement you made to the local press concerning the sale of Mr Desmond Mellor’s flat in Broad Street.’

‘Which one of the many statements I made?’ asked Carter, clearly enjoying the attention.

‘You told a reporter from the Evening News that you had held back part of the proceeds from the sale of the flat rather than pass over the full amount to the executors of Mr Mellor’s will, which puzzled my father.’

‘Clever man, your father. Which is more than can be said for the reporter, who failed to follow it up.’

‘Well, I’d like to follow it up.’

‘And if I were to assist you, Mr Clifton, would it be of any benefit to your mother?’

‘Indirectly, yes. If my bank is successful in taking over Mellor Travel, my parents will benefit from the transaction, because I manage their share portfolio.’

‘So one of them can get on with the writing, while the other runs the NHS?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Between you and me,’ whispered Carter, leaning conspiratorially across his desk, ‘I thought it was a strange business from the start. A client who can only phone you once a week and is restricted to three minutes because he’s calling from prison was a challenge in itself.’

‘Yes, I can believe that.’

‘Mind you, his first instruction was straightforward enough. He wanted to put his flat on the market, with the proviso that the whole transaction had to be completed within thirty days.’

Seb took out a cheque book from an inside pocket, and wrote on the back ‘30 days’.

‘He called a week later and made another request that puzzled me, because I’d assumed he was a rich man.’ Seb kept his pen poised. ‘He asked if I could advance him a short-term loan of ten thousand pounds against the property, as he needed the cash urgently. I began to explain to him that it was against company policy, when the line went dead.’

Seb wrote down ‘£10,000’, and underlined it.

‘A fortnight later, I was able to tell him I’d found a buyer for the flat, who’d deposited ten per cent of the asking price with his solicitor, but wouldn’t complete until he’d seen the surveyor’s report. Mr Mellor then made an even stranger request.’

Seb continued to look enthralled by every word Carter had to say.

‘Once the sale had gone through, I was to hand over the first ten thousand to a friend of his from London, but not until they had produced a legal document that had been signed by him, witnessed by a Mr Graves, and dated May twelfth 1981.’

Seb wrote down ‘friend, £10,000, legal doc signed by Mellor/Graves’ and the date.

‘Whatever sum was left over,’ continued Carter, ‘after we’d deducted our fees, was to be deposited in his personal account at Nat West on Queen Street.’

Seb added, ‘Nat West Queen Street’ to his ever-growing list.

‘I finally managed to get rid of the flat, but not before we’d lowered the price considerably. Once I had, I carried out Mr Mellor’s instructions to the letter.’

‘Are you still in possession of the document?’ asked Seb, who could feel his heart pounding.

‘No. But a lady rang this office, and when I confirmed I was holding ten thousand in escrow, she sounded very interested, until I added that I couldn’t release the money unless she could produce the document signed by Mr Mellor. She asked if a copy would suffice, but I told her I’d need sight of the original document before I would be willing to release the ten thousand.’

‘What did she say to that?’

‘Frankly, she lost her cool, and started to threaten me. Said I’d be hearing from her solicitor if I didn’t hand over the money. But I stood firm, Mr Clifton, and I haven’t heard from her since.’

‘Quite right.’

‘I’m glad you agree, Mr Clifton, because a few days later the strangest thing happened.’ Seb raised an eyebrow. ‘A local businessman turned up late one afternoon, just as we were about to close, and produced the original document, so I had no choice but to hand over the ten thousand to him.’

Seb wrote down ‘local businessman’. He now had to agree with his father — Carter was in possession of several pieces of the jigsaw. However, he still needed one more question answered.

‘And the woman’s name?’

‘No, Mr Clifton,’ said Carter after a slight hesitation. ‘I think I’ve gone quite far enough. But I can tell you that she was a lady like your mother, but not like your mother, because I doubt if she would remember my name.’

Seb wrote down the word ‘lady’ on the back of his cheque book before rising from his place. ‘Thank you,’ he said as he shook hands with Mr Carter. ‘You’ve been most helpful, and I’ll pass on your kind comments to my mother.’

‘My pleasure. I’m only sorry I can’t give you the lady’s name.’

‘Not to worry,’ said Seb. ‘But if Lady Virginia should call you again, do give her my best wishes.’

18

Sebastian placed his cheque book on the table in front of him. Hakim Bishara, Arnold Hardcastle and Giles Barrington were clearly intrigued, but said nothing.

‘I’ve just spent the weekend in Somerset with my parents,’ said Seb, ‘and I discovered that my father has been taking an inordinate amount of interest in the death of Desmond Mellor. Like Barry Hammond, he’s not convinced it was suicide, and once you accept that as a possibility, several options arise.’

The three men seated around the table were listening intently.

‘My father advised me to visit a local estate agent on Saturday morning and have a chat with the man who was responsible for selling Mellor’s Bristol flat.’ Seb looked at the long list of bullet points he’d written on the back of his cheque book during his meeting with Carter. Twenty minutes later he had explained to his attentive audience why he thought the lady in question was Lady Virginia Fenwick, and the local businessman none other than Jim Knowles.

‘But how could those two have met?’ asked Giles. ‘They hardly mix in the same circles.’

‘Mellor has to be the common factor,’ suggested Arnold.

‘And money the glue,’ added Hakim, ‘because that woman wouldn’t waste her time on either of them unless she could see a profit in it for herself.’

‘But that still doesn’t explain why Mellor needed ten thousand in cash so quickly,’ said Giles. ‘After all, he was a very rich man.’

‘In assets,’ said Hakim, ‘but not necessarily cash.’

‘I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to fathom that one out,’ said Seb, ‘but of course it was my father who came up with the most likely scenario. He thought that if Mellor needed that amount of cash urgently, you should look no further than the prison. He also wondered if the mysterious disappearance of Adrian Sloane had something to do with it.’

‘Maybe Mellor was being threatened,’ said Arnold. ‘That’s not uncommon when it’s thought a prisoner has money.’

‘Possibly,’ said Hakim, ‘but if he urgently needed a loan of ten thousand pounds, he would have had to come up with something as security.’

‘Like his flat in Bristol,’ suggested Arnold.

‘But it wasn’t sold in time to solve his cash-flow problem, so he must have found something else.’

‘His shares in Mellor Travel, perhaps?’ suggested Giles.

‘Seems unlikely,’ said Hakim. ‘They’re worth at least a million and a half, and he only needed ten thousand.’

‘It depends how desperate he was,’ said Giles.

‘Which is why I’m convinced he was being threatened by another inmate,’ said Arnold.

‘But why would he turn to Virginia for help,’ said Giles, ‘when it was her who relied on him for an income, not the other way round?’

‘She must have been the intermediary,’ said Seb, ‘and my father suggests that’s how Knowles became involved.’

‘And once he realized he could end up with fifty-one per cent of Mellor Travel if Mellor wasn’t around to pay the ten thousand back within thirty days...’

‘Which is why my father is convinced it wasn’t suicide, but murder,’ said Seb.

‘Jim Knowles may be a nasty piece of work,’ said Arnold, ‘but I can’t believe he’d involve himself in murder.’

‘I suspect that’s where Sorkin comes in,’ said Seb.

‘And there’s something else I can tell you from past experience,’ said Arnold. ‘Contract killers usually charge around ten thousand, and there are sure to be one or two of them in Belmarsh.’

A long silence followed, until Hakim said, ‘So once Sorkin got his hands on the shares, if Mellor was no longer around, the company would fall into his lap. And there’s certainly no chance of us getting anything out of Knowles or Sloane.’

‘That’s another mystery,’ said Seb. ‘There’s been no sign of Sloane for over a month. I can’t believe he’d have done a runner only days before he had the chance of hitting the jackpot.’

‘I agree,’ said Hakim. ‘However, I suspect there is one other person who could probably answer all our questions.’

‘The Lady Virginia Fenwick,’ said Sebastian. ‘All we have to decide is who will approach her?’

‘We could always draw straws to see who should bell the cat?’

‘No need,’ said Hakim. ‘There’s only one person who can pull this off.’ He turned and smiled at Giles.

‘But I haven’t spoken to Virginia for almost thirty years,’ protested Giles, ‘and there’s no reason to believe she’d even be willing to see me.’

‘Unless you were able to offer her something she couldn’t resist,’ said Seb. ‘After all, we know Mellor was willing to pay ten thousand pounds to get that document back, so all you have to do is find out how much Virginia wants to supply you with a copy.’

‘How do we even know she’s got a copy?’ asked Arnold.

‘Another piece of information kindly supplied by Mr Carter,’ said Seb.

‘Which raises the question,’ said Hakim, ‘who’s got the original?’

‘Knowles,’ said Seb without hesitation. ‘Don’t forget, it was he who collected the ten thousand from Carter.’

‘But on whose behalf?’ asked Arnold.

‘We’re going round in circles,’ said Hakim, ‘which I’m sure Lady Virginia can square.’ Once again he turned and smiled at Giles.

Giles spent some considerable time trying to work out how he should approach Virginia. A letter suggesting a meeting would be a waste of time, as he knew from past experience that it was often days before she opened her mail, and even when she did, it was most unlikely she would bother to reply to anything that came from him. The last time he’d rung her, she had slammed the phone down before he’d had a chance to deliver the second sentence. And if he turned up on her doorstop unannounced, he could end up with a slapped face or a slammed door, and possibly both. It was Karin who came up with the solution. ‘That woman is only interested in one thing,’ she said, ‘so you’ll have to bribe her.’

A DHL messenger delivered an envelope marked ‘Urgent & Personal’ to Virginia’s home in Chelsea the following morning, and didn’t leave until she’d signed for it. She phoned Giles within an hour.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she demanded.

‘Not at all. I just wanted to be sure I caught your attention.’

‘Well, you’ve succeeded. So what do I have to do to get you to sign the cheque?’

‘Supply me with a copy of the document Mr Carter wanted to see before he was willing to hand over ten thousand pounds.’

There was a long pause before Virginia spoke again. ‘Ten thousand won’t be enough for that, because I know exactly why you’re so desperate to get your hands on it.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘I’ve been authorized to go up to fifteen,’ said Giles, hoping he sounded convincing.

Another long pause. ‘Once I’m in possession of a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds, I’ll send you a copy of the document.’

‘I don’t think so, Virginia. I’ll hand over the cheque when you give me a copy of the document.’

Virginia fell silent once again, before she said, ‘When and where?’

Giles pushed his way through the revolving doors into the Ritz Hotel just after 2.45 the following afternoon. He made his way straight to the Palm Court and selected a table from which he would be able to see Virginia the moment she appeared.

He flicked through the pages of the Evening Standard to pass the time, but still found himself looking up every few moments and repeatedly checking his watch. He knew Virginia wouldn’t be on time, especially after he’d provoked her, but he was equally confident that she wouldn’t be too late, because Coutts closed their doors at five o’clock, and she would want to bank the cheque before going home.

When Virginia entered the tea room at eleven minutes past three, Giles gasped. No one would have thought it possible that this elegant woman was over sixty. In fact, several men stole a second glance as ‘the most classy broad in the joint’, to quote Bogart, walked slowly across to join her ex-husband.

Giles stood up to greet her. As he bent down to kiss her on both cheeks, the slight fragrance of gardenia brought back many memories.

‘It’s been too long, my darling,’ purred Virginia as she sat down opposite him. After the slightest of pauses, she added, ‘And you’ve put on so much weight.’

The spell was broken, and Giles was quickly reminded why he didn’t miss her.

‘Shall we get the business out of the way,’ she continued, opening her handbag and extracting an envelope. ‘I’ll give you what you came for, but not before you hand over my cheque.’

‘I need to see the document before I’m willing to part with any money.’

‘You’re just going to have to trust me, my darling.’ Giles stifled a smile. ‘Because if I let you read it, you may feel you no longer need to pay me.’

Giles couldn’t fault her logic. ‘Perhaps we can agree on a compromise,’ he suggested. ‘You turn to the last page of the document and show me Mellor’s signature and the date, and I’ll show you the cheque.’

Virginia thought for a moment before she said, ‘First I want to see the money.’

Giles produced a cheque for £15,000 from an inside pocket and held it up for her to see.

‘You haven’t signed it.’

‘I will, as soon as I see Mellor’s signature.’

Virginia slowly unsealed the envelope, extracted a thin legal document and turned to the third page. Giles leant forward and studied Mellor’s signature, which had been witnessed by a Mr Colin Graves, senior prison officer, and dated May 12th, 1981.

He placed the cheque on the table, signed it and passed it across to Virginia. She hesitated for a moment, then smiled mischievously before slipping the document back into the envelope and handing it to Giles. He placed it in his briefcase, before saying casually, ‘If you only got the copy, who has the original?’

‘That will cost you another five thousand.’

Giles wrote out a second cheque and handed it across.

‘But it’s only for one thousand,’ Virginia protested.

‘That’s because I think I already know who it is. The only mystery is how he got his hands on it.’

‘Tell me the name, and if you’re wrong, I’ll tear up this cheque and you can write out another one for five thousand.’

‘Jim Knowles collected it from Carter on behalf of Conrad Sorkin.’

The second cheque joined the first in Virginia’s handbag, and although Giles pressed her, it was clear she wasn’t going to let him know how Sorkin had got his hands on the original, not least because, like him, she suspected that Desmond hadn’t committed suicide, and she didn’t want to become involved.

‘Tea?’ suggested Giles, hoping she would decline so he could get back to the bank where the other three were waiting for him.

‘What a nice idea,’ said Virginia. ‘Quite like old times.’

Giles hailed a waiter and ordered tea for two, but no cakes. He was wondering what they could possibly talk about, until Virginia solved that problem. ‘I think I’ve got something else you might want,’ she said, displaying the same mischievous smile.

Giles hadn’t been prepared for this. He sat back, trying to appear relaxed, as he waited to find out if Virginia was just enjoying herself at his expense, or if she really did have something worthwhile to offer.

The waiter reappeared and placed a pot of tea and a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches in the centre of the table.

Virginia picked up the teapot. ‘Shall I be Mother? Milk and no sugar, if I remember correctly.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giles.

She poured them both a cup of tea. Giles waited impatiently while she added a splash of milk and two sugar lumps before she spoke again.

‘Such a pity the coroner concluded that poor Desmond died intestate.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘Earl Grey,’ she remarked, before adding, ‘It’s going to be difficult for anyone to prove otherwise before June twelfth, when the company will fall so conveniently into that nice Mr Sorkin’s hands, and for a mere ten thousand pounds he’ll be entitled to fifty-one per cent of Mellor Travel, which I estimate to be worth at least a million and a half, possibly more.’

‘The board of Farthings has already considered that problem,’ said Giles, ‘and the question of who might be judged by the court to be Mellor’s next of kin. Arnold Hardcastle concluded that with two ex-wives, one daughter he’s lost touch with and two stepchildren, the legal battle alone could take years to be resolved.’

‘I agree,’ said Virginia, taking another sip of tea. ‘Unless, of course, someone came across a will.’

Giles stared at her in disbelief as she returned to her handbag and extracted a slim manila envelope, which she held up for Giles to see. He studied the neat copperplate handwriting that proclaimed, The last will and testament of Desmond Mellor, dated May 12th, 1981.

‘How much?’ asked Giles.

19

Sebastian stepped off the plane and joined the other passengers making their way into the busiest terminal on earth. As he only had an overnight bag, he headed straight for customs. An officer stamped his passport, smiled and said, ‘Welcome to America, Mr Clifton.’

He made his way out of the airport and joined a long taxi queue. He had already decided to go straight to Kelly Mellor’s last known address on the South Side of Chicago, which had been supplied by Virginia, but not before she’d extracted another £5,000 from Giles. If Kelly was there, the chairman considered it would have been worth every penny, because he wanted Desmond Mellor’s heir back in England as quickly as possible. They needed to have everything in place for the crucial board meeting in ten days’ time, when it would be decided whether it was Thomas Cook or Sorkin International that would take over Mellor Travel, and Kelly Mellor could be the deciding factor.

He climbed into the back of a yellow cab and handed the driver the address. The cabbie gave Seb a second look. He only visited that district about once a month, and that was once too often.

Seb sat back and thought about what had taken place during the past twenty-four hours. Giles had arrived back at the bank just after five, armed not only with a copy of the legal agreement showing that Mellor had risked losing 51 per cent of his company to Sorkin for a mere £10,000, but with the bonus of the only letter Mellor had ever written to his daughter, supplied by Virginia. No doubt acquired after the threat that if Giles didn’t pay up, she would burn the letter in front of him. The singed bottom right-hand edge suggested that Giles hadn’t given up bargaining until the match was struck.

‘We’re going to have to move quickly,’ Hakim had said. ‘We only have eleven days left before Mellor Travel’s next board meeting, when it will be decided who takes over the company.’

This time it was Sebastian the chairman selected for the unenviable task of flying to Chicago and bringing back to London the only person who could stop Sorkin taking over Mellor Travel, although there was a Plan B.

Seb had boarded the first available flight from Heathrow to Chicago, and by the time the plane touched down at O’Hare, he felt he’d covered every possible scenario — except one. He couldn’t actually be certain that Mellor’s daughter was living at 1532 Taft Road, because he’d had no way of contacting her to warn her he was coming, although he was confident that if she was, what he had to offer would make her feel like a lottery winner.

He glanced out of the taxi window as they drove into Taft, and was immediately aware why this wasn’t an area taxis would choose to hang around at night looking for fares. Row upon row of dilapidated wooden houses, none of which had seen a lick of paint for years, and no one would have bothered with a double lock because there wouldn’t have been anything worth stealing.

When the cab dropped him outside 1532, his confidence grew. One and a half million pounds was certainly going to change Kelly Mellor’s life for ever. He checked his watch; just after six p.m. Now he could only hope she was at home. The taxi had sped away even before he’d been given a chance to offer the driver a tip.

Seb walked up the short path between two scrubby patches of grass that couldn’t have been described as a garden by even the most creative estate agent. He knocked on the door, took a step back and waited. A moment later the door was opened by someone who couldn’t have been Kelly Mellor, because she only looked about five or six years old.

‘Hello, I’m Sebastian. Who are you?’

‘Who wants to know?’ said a deep, gruff voice.

Seb turned his attention to a squat, muscle-bound man who stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a grubby T-shirt with ‘Marciano’s’ printed on it, and a pair of Levi’s that looked as if they hadn’t been taken off for a month. A snake tattoo slithered down each well-exercised arm.

‘My name’s Sebastian Clifton. I wondered if Kelly Mellor lives here.’

‘You from the IRS?’

‘No,’ said Seb, suppressing a desire to laugh.

‘Or that fuckin’ Child Protective Services?’

‘No.’ Seb no longer wanted to laugh, as he had noticed a fading bruise on the little girl’s arm. ‘I’ve flown over from England to let Kelly know her father has died and left her some money in his will.’

‘How much?’

‘I’m only authorized to disclose the details to Mr Mellor’s next of kin.’

‘If this is some kind of scam,’ the man said, clenching his fist, ‘this will end up in the middle of your pretty face.’ Seb didn’t budge. Without another word the man turned and said, ‘Follow me.’

It was the smell that first hit Seb as he entered the house: half-empty fast-food trays, cigarette ends and empty beer cans littered a small room furnished with two unrelated chairs, a sofa and the latest VCR player. He didn’t sit down, but smiled at the young girl who was now standing in a corner staring up at him.

‘Kelly!’ the man bellowed at the top of his voice without looking round. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Seb.

A few moments later a woman appeared in a dressing gown embroidered with the words The Majestic Hotel. She looked worn out, although Seb knew she was only in her early twenties. But she was unquestionably the young girl’s mother, and she had something else in common with the child — several bruises and, in her case, a black eye that heavy make-up couldn’t disguise.

‘This guy says your old man’s died and left you some money, but he won’t tell me how much.’

Seb noticed the man’s right fist was still clenched. He could see that Kelly was too frightened to speak. She kept glancing towards the door, as if trying to let him know that he ought to leave as quickly as possible.

‘How much?’ the man repeated.

‘Fifty thousand dollars,’ said Seb, having decided that the suggestion of £1.5 million would have been greeted with incredulity and would mean he’d never be rid of the man.

‘Fifty grand? Hand it over.’

‘It’s not quite that easy.’

‘If this is a con,’ said the man, ‘you’ll wish you’d never got off the plane.’

Seb was surprised that he felt no fear. As long as this thug thought there was a chance of picking up some easy money, Seb was confident he had the upper hand.

‘It’s not a con,’ said Seb quietly. ‘But because it’s such a large sum of money, Kelly will have to accompany me to England and sign some legal documents before we can hand over her inheritance.’

In truth, Seb had all the necessary paperwork in his overnight bag should Kelly be unwilling to return to England, Plan B. He only needed a signature and a witness, and then he could have handed over a banker’s draft for the full amount in exchange for 51 per cent of Mellor Travel. But now he’d met her partner, that was never going to happen. He had moved way beyond Plan A, B or C, and his mind was now working overtime.

‘She ain’t goin’ nowhere without me,’ the man said.

‘Fine by me,’ said Seb. ‘But you’ll have to pay your own plane fare to London.’

‘I don’t believe a fuckin’ word you’re saying,’ the man said, picking up a steak knife and advancing towards Seb. For the first time Seb felt frightened, but he stood his ground, and even decided to take a risk.

‘Makes no difference to me,’ he said, looking directly at Kelly. ‘If she doesn’t want the money, it will automatically go to her younger sister.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Maureen.’ Seb’s eyes never left hers.

‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ said the man, swinging round to glare at Kelly.

Seb gave her a slight, almost undetectable nod.

‘I, I haven’t seen her for years, Richie. I didn’t even know she was still alive.’

She had told him everything he needed to know.

‘Maureen is very much alive,’ said Seb. ‘And she rather hopes Kelly won’t be returning to England.’

‘Then she can think again,’ said Richie. ‘Just make sure that bitch comes back with my money,’ he said, squeezing the little girl’s arm until she burst into tears, ‘otherwise she won’t be seein’ Cindy again. So what happens now?’

‘My flight leaves for London at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, so I could pick Kelly up around eight.’

‘Five hundred dollars would help convince me you’ll be back,’ said Richie, brandishing the knife in front of him.

‘I don’t have that much on me,’ said Seb, taking out his wallet. ‘But I can give you everything I do have.’ He handed over $345, which quickly disappeared into the back pocket of Richie’s jeans.

‘I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning,’ said Seb. Kelly nodded, but didn’t speak. Seb smiled at the little girl, and left without saying goodbye.

Once he was back on the street, he began the long walk to his hotel in the centre of town, aware that it would be some time before he came across a cab. He cursed. If only he’d known Kelly had a daughter.

Sebastian woke at two o’clock the next morning, eight o’clock in London. Despite closing his eyes, he knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep, because his body clock was ticking and he was wide awake on another continent. In any case, his mind was buzzing with thoughts about how Kelly Mellor could possibly have ended up living in such circumstances and with a man like that. It had to be the child.

When three o’clock struck on a nearby church tower, Seb phoned Hakim at the bank, and told him in great detail about his encounter with Richie, Kelly and Cindy.

‘It’s sad that she’ll have to go back to Chicago if she wants to be with her daughter,’ were Hakim’s first words.

‘No mother would be willing to leave her child with a monster like that,’ said Seb. ‘In fact, I’m not even certain she won’t have changed her mind about leaving her by the time I get back.’

‘I wonder if you gave him a thousand dollars in cash, he might let the girl go too?’

‘I don’t think so. But twenty-five thousand might do it.’

‘I’ll leave you to decide what Plan C is,’ said Hakim. ‘But make sure you’ve got a thousand dollars on you, just in case,’ he added before putting the phone down.

Seb took a long hot shower, shaved, dressed, then went downstairs to join the other early risers for breakfast. Looking at the menu, he realized he’d forgotten just how much an American could eat first thing in the morning. He politely declined an offer of waffles and maple syrup, fried eggs, sausage, bacon and hash browns, in favour of a bowl of muesli and a boiled egg.

He checked out of the hotel just after seven thirty. The doorman hailed a cab, and once again the driver looked surprised when Seb gave him the address.

‘I’m picking someone up,’ he explained, ‘and then we’ll need to go on to O’Hare.’

The cab pulled up outside 1532 Taft a few minutes early and, after taking one look at the house, the driver kept the engine running. Seb decided to stay put until just before eight o’clock, not wanting to antagonize Richie any more than was necessary. But he hadn’t noticed two pairs of eyes staring expectantly out of the window, and a moment later the front door eased open and a little girl came scampering down the path towards him. Her mother closed the door quietly behind her and then also began to run.

Seb leant across and quickly opened the back door of the taxi to allow them to jump in beside him. Kelly pulled it closed and screamed, ‘Go, go, for God’s sake, go,’ her eyes never leaving the front door of the house even for a moment. The driver happily obeyed her command.

Once they’d turned the corner and were heading towards the airport, Kelly breathed a deep sigh of relief, but didn’t stop clinging on to her daughter. It was some time before she had recovered enough to say, ‘Richie didn’t get back until after two this morning, and he was so drunk he could barely stand. He collapsed on the bed and fell asleep straight away. He probably won’t stir before midday.’

‘By which time you and Cindy will be halfway across the Atlantic.’

‘And one thing’s for sure, Mr Clifton, we won’t be coming back,’ she said, still clinging on to her daughter. ‘I can’t wait to see Bristol again. Fifty thousand dollars will be more than enough to buy a little place of my own, find a job and get Cindy settled into a decent school.’

‘It isn’t fifty thousand,’ said Seb quietly.

Kelly looked alarmed, her expression revealing her fear at the thought that she might have to return to 1532 empty-handed. Seb took an envelope out of his briefcase addressed to Miss Kelly Mellor and handed it to her.

She ripped it open and pulled out the letter. As she read it, her eyes widened in disbelief.

The letter fell to the floor of the taxi, but only because Kelly had fainted.

20

‘Today the board must decide,’ said the chairman, ‘who will lead Mellor Travel into the twenty-first century. Two highly respected companies, Sorkin International and Thomas Cook, have each made a bid of two million pounds for the company, but it is for us to decide which we feel is best suited to our present needs. I should point out at this juncture,’ continued Knowles, ‘that I wrote to both Mr Sorkin and Mr Brook of Thomas Cook inviting them to address the board so we could assess the merits of both their offers. Mr Brook failed to reply to my invitation. Make of that what you will.’ Knowles didn’t add that although he’d signed the letter to Brook a week ago, he’d only posted it the previous day. ‘Mr Sorkin, however, not only replied immediately, but interrupted his busy schedule to be with us today, and this morning deposited two million pounds with our bank to prove his intent.’

Knowles smiled, but then he’d already been promised that a further million would be transferred to his numbered account at Pieter & Cie in Geneva, to be cleared the moment Conrad Sorkin took control of the company. What Knowles didn’t know was that Sorkin never had any intention of paying two million for the company. In a few hours’ time he would own 51 per cent of Mellor Travel, and everyone sitting around that boardroom table would be out of a job, Knowles included, and he could whistle for his million, because he would no longer be the chairman.

‘And so,’ continued Knowles, ‘I would now like to invite Mr Sorkin to address the board, so he can tell you how he sees the future of Mellor Travel were we to accept his takeover bid.’

Sorkin, dressed in an elegantly tailored dark grey suit, white shirt and a crimson-and-yellow-striped MCC tie that he didn’t have the right to wear, rose from his place at the other end of the table.

‘Mr Chairman, may I begin by telling you a little about the philosophy of my company. First and foremost, Sorkin International believes in people, and therefore its first priority is to its employees, from the tea lady to the managing director. I believe in loyalty and continuity above all things, and can assure the board that no one currently employed by Mellor Travel need fear being made redundant. I consider myself to be no more than a guardian of the company, who will work tirelessly on behalf of its shareholders. So let me assure you from the outset that if Sorkin International is fortunate enough to take over Mellor Travel you can look forward to a rapid expansion of the workforce, because I intend to employ more staff, not fewer, and in the fullness of time, I would hope it will be Mellor Travel that is making a bid for Thomas Cook, and not the other way round. This of course will require a large capital investment, which I can promise the board I’m happy to commit to. But my company will also require a firm and reliable hand at the tiller, following the distressing circumstances of the past few months. To misquote Oscar Wilde, To lose one chairman is unfortunate, but to lose two...’

Knowles was pleased to see one or two members of the board smiling.

‘With that in mind,’ continued Sorkin, ‘I think it’s important to show my confidence not only in your chairman, but in the entire board. So let me say unequivocally, if my company is chosen today to take over Mellor Travel, I would invite Jim Knowles to stay on as chairman, and would ask each and every one of you to remain on the board.’

This time only one director wasn’t smiling.

‘Let’s work together and quickly rebuild this company to where it used to be, and then look forward to expanding, so that Mellor International will be the envy of the travel business throughout the world. Let me finish by saying I hope you will consider me the right person to take the company into the next century.’

Sorkin sat down to cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and one director even patted him on the back.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Knowles, ‘as the chairman of Thomas Cook has failed to make an appearance, perhaps we should move on and decide which company should take over Mellor Travel, Sorkin International or Thomas Cook? I will now ask the company secretary to conduct the vote.’

Mr Arkwright rose slowly from his place and said, ‘Would those members of the board who wish to cast their vote in favour of Sorkin International raise their—’

The boardroom door burst open, and three men and a woman entered the room.

‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ demanded Knowles, leaping to his feet. ‘This is a private board meeting and you have no right to be here.’

‘I think you’ll find we do,’ said Arnold Hardcastle, speaking first. ‘As you know, Mr Knowles, I am the legal representative of Farthings Kaufman, and I am accompanied today by Mr Sebastian Clifton, the bank’s managing director, and Mr Ray Brook, the chairman of Thomas Cook, who only received an invitation to attend this meeting earlier this morning.’

‘And the young lady?’ said Knowles, not attempting to hide his sarcasm. ‘Who invited her?’

‘She didn’t receive an invitation,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But I will leave it to Miss Mellor to explain to the board why she is here.’

Knowles collapsed back into his chair, as if floored by a heavyweight boxer.

Sebastian gave Kelly a reassuring smile. For countless hours during the past week, he had prepared his protégée for this moment. She had turned out to be a quick study. No longer shabbily dressed and with a fading black eye, the young woman standing before them displayed the confidence of someone well aware of the power she now possessed as the majority shareholder of Mellor Travel. Few would have recognized her as the same woman Sebastian had first met in Chicago only a few days earlier.

Seb had quickly discovered just how intelligent Kelly was, and once she had been released from the shackles of 1532 Taft Road, she had immediately grasped the significance of owning 51 per cent of her father’s company. By the day of the board meeting, she was more than ready to play her part in reclaiming her birthright.

Conrad Sorkin rose slowly from his place, and certainly didn’t appear intimidated. But then Seb suspected he’d been in far tighter spots than this in the past. He was staring directly at Kelly, as if daring her to open her mouth.

‘Mr Sorkin,’ she said, giving him a warm smile, ‘my name is Kelly Mellor, and I am the daughter of the late Desmond Kevin Mellor, who in his last will and testament left me all his worldly goods.’

‘Miss Mellor,’ said Sorkin, ‘I have to point out that I am still in possession of fifty-one per cent of the company’s shares, which I purchased quite legally from your father.’

‘Even if that were true, Mr Sorkin,’ said Kelly, not needing to be prompted by Seb, ‘if I repay you your ten thousand pounds before close of business today, those shares automatically revert to me.’

Hardcastle stepped forward, opened his briefcase and took out his client’s passport, Mellor’s will and a banker’s order for £10,000. He placed them on the table in front of Sorkin, who ignored them.

‘Before close of business today, if I may be allowed to repeat your words, Miss Mellor,’ said Sorkin. ‘And as the banks close their doors in twelve minutes’ time,’ he said, checking his watch, ‘I think you’ll find that your cheque cannot be cleared until Monday morning, by which time the contract will be null and void, and it is I who will own Mellor Travel, not you.’

‘If you take the trouble to look more closely,’ said Arnold, coming in on cue, ‘you will see that it’s not a cheque we’re presenting you with, Mr Sorkin, but a banker’s order, and therefore legal tender, which allows Miss Mellor, as her father’s heir, to claim back her rightful inheritance.’

One or two members of the board were looking distinctly uneasy.

Sorkin counter-punched immediately. ‘Clearly you are not aware, Mr Hardcastle, that I have already received the board’s approval to take over the company, as Mr Knowles will confirm.’

‘Is that correct?’ asked Seb, turning to face the chairman.

Knowles glanced nervously at Sorkin. ‘Yes, the vote has already been taken, and Sorkin International now controls Mellor Travel.’

‘Perhaps it’s time for you to leave, Mr Clifton,’ said Sorkin, ‘before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.’

Seb was about to protest, but he knew that if the board had voted in favour of Sorkin International taking over the company, he would have to abide by their decision, and although Kelly still held 51 per cent of the shares, once Sorkin had sold off the company’s assets, they would be worthless.

Arnold was placing his files back in his briefcase when a lone voice declared, ‘No vote was taken.’

Everyone turned to look at one of the directors who had not spoken until then. Sebastian recalled Mellor telling him when he’d visited him in prison that he still had one friend on the inside. ‘We were just about to take the vote when you arrived,’ said Andy Dobbs. ‘And I can assure you, Mr Clifton, I may have been the only one, but I would have thrown my support behind Thomas Cook.’

‘As would I,’ said another director.

Knowles looked desperately around the table for support, but it was clear that even his carefully selected placemen were deserting him.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Sebastian. ‘Perhaps the time has come for you to take your leave, Mr Sorkin. Or would you like me to put that to a vote?’

‘Piss off, you patronizing git,’ said Sorkin. ‘I’m not that easily threatened.’

‘I wasn’t threatening anyone,’ said Seb. ‘On the contrary. I was trying to be helpful. As you are no doubt aware, it’s June the twelfth, which means you’ve been resident in this country for the past twenty-nine days. So if you have not left these shores by midnight tonight, you will be subject to British taxation, which I’m pretty sure is something you would want to avoid.’

‘You don’t frighten me, Clifton. My lawyers will be more than able to deal with a pipsqueak like you.’

‘Perhaps. But it might be wise to warn them that I felt it was my duty to inform the tax authorities of your presence in Bristol, so don’t be surprised if the police board your yacht at one minute past midnight and seize it.’

‘They wouldn’t dare.’

‘I don’t think that’s a risk you’ll be willing to take, as I also understand Scotland Yard has opened an enquiry into the suspicious death of Desmond Mellor, while the French authorities, who recently recovered a body washed up off the coast of Nice, which they have reason to believe is that of Adrian Sloane, have issued a warrant for your arrest.’

‘They won’t be able to pin anything on me.’

‘Possibly not. But I have a feeling Mr Knowles may want to assist Interpol with their enquiries. That is, if he doesn’t wish to spend the rest of his life in the same cell as you.’

Knowles, visibly turning pale, slumped back in his chair.

‘I’d worry about your own life, if I were you, Clifton,’ said Sorkin.

‘That was a foolish threat to make in front of so many witnesses,’ said Seb, ‘especially as one of them is a QC, who you will observe is writing down your every word.’

Sorkin stared at Arnold Hardcastle, and fell silent.

‘Frankly, I think it’s time for you, like your hero Napoleon, to beat a hasty retreat.’

The two men continued to stare at each other, until Sorkin threw the contract on to the table, picked up the banker’s order and was about to leave the room when Kelly stepped forward once again and said, ‘Before you go, Mr Sorkin, can I ask how much you would be willing to offer for my fifty-one per cent of Mellor Travel?’

Everyone turned to face the new head of the company, and Sebastian couldn’t hide his surprise. This wasn’t part of their well-rehearsed script. She was staring directly at Sorkin, waiting for his reply.

‘I would be willing to pay three million pounds for your shares,’ said Sorkin calmly, aware that he could still make a handsome profit now that Knowles wouldn’t be getting his million.

Kelly appeared to consider his proposition before finally saying, ‘I’m grateful for the offer, Mr Sorkin, but on balance, I think I’d prefer to deal with Farthings Kaufman.’

Sebastian smiled at Kelly and breathed a sigh of relief.

‘And as you’ll have to be outside territorial waters before midnight, Mr Sorkin, I won’t detain you any longer.’

‘Bitch,’ said Sorkin as he passed her on the way out of the boardroom.

Kelly’s smile revealed that she was flattered by the insult.

Knowles waited until Sorkin had slammed the door behind him before saying, ‘We were just about to take a vote, Miss Mellor. So can I ask the company secretary to—’

‘That will no longer be necessary,’ said Kelly, picking up the agreement Sorkin had left on the table. ‘As I am now the majority shareholder, it is I who will decide the company’s future.’

Word perfect, thought Sebastian. Couldn’t have put it better myself.

‘My first decision as the new owner is to fire you, Mr Knowles, along with the rest of the board. I suggest you all leave immediately.’

Seb couldn’t resist a smile as Knowles and the rest of the board gathered up their papers and quietly left the room.

‘Well done,’ he said, when the last board member had departed.

‘Thank you, Mr Clifton,’ said Kelly. ‘And allow me to say how much I appreciate all you and your team at Farthings Kaufman have done to make this possible.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘I’m bound to ask,’ she continued, ‘as Mr Sorkin was willing to offer me three million for my shares, can I assume that Thomas Cook will match that price?’

She’d turned another page of the script Seb hadn’t read. Before he could respond, Ray Brook chuckled, and said, ‘You’ve got yourself a deal, young lady.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kelly, who turned to the bank’s lawyer and added, ‘I’ll leave you to draw up the paperwork, Mr Hardcastle, and do let me know the moment you receive the three million.’

‘I think that’s our cue to leave,’ said the chairman of Cook’s, unable to resist a grin. The three men left the boardroom, closing the door behind them.

Kelly sat down at the head of the table for a few moments before she picked up the phone in front of her and dialled a number she had called every evening for the past two weeks.

As soon as she heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line, she said, ‘It all went to plan, Virginia.’