Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  “Glad to. Any chance of the other insurers contributing?”

  “What, so you can bump up your fees?” She waved away his protest. “I’ll sort something out, don’t fret.”

  ***

  A dozen feet away, alone at a small corner table and using the Times for concealment, Alex observed Nick and the plump Scottish woman. She had followed them from the offices of an insurance company, so she knew the woman was a business acquaintance, but the body language suggested something more. These two had had a sexual relationship at some point, Alex was sure.

  Just as she could see nothing funny or likeable in the celluloid performances of Eddie Randall, his son’s apparent power over women was equally baffling. She couldn’t comprehend why it had taken so long for Sarah to walk out. The woman’s horrendous passivity had sickened her: she would never have let his infidelity go unpunished.

  She remembered how at eighteen, in her first month at university, she had been abused by a fellow student who misread her signals and went too far on a drunken date. Afterwards she had bided her time, apparently unperturbed, even nodding hello when she encountered him at lectures or in the library. And then, six weeks on, she agreed to see him again and fed him a fatal dose of wolfsbane.

  That was how you dealt with men who misbehaved. You didn’t forgive them. You didn’t get ready to go running back.

  She felt that she had done Sarah a favour, first by engineering her liberation from an oppressive marriage; then by releasing her from pain forever.

  And watching Nick, she saw little indication of a man wracked with grief. He was smiling, laughing, making regular eye contact with the loud Scottish woman. Alex could see his father in him; she could well imagine how Eddie Randall had felt so arrogantly untouchable in the aftermath of his own crimes.

  At the beginning of this process, during the planning stage, she had asked herself: was it right to make Nick pay for his father’s crimes? It was never more than a brief hypothetical question, but at least now she had an unequivocal answer.

  Yes, he deserved to pay. He deserved to suffer.

  They all did.

  FIF TEEN

  “Bloody lousy fucking journalists!” Franks was red in the face, the veins in his neck distended. He looked the way he did after three sets of tennis, or on the brink of orgasm.

  “Didn’t you used to be one?” Lindsay drawled.

  Franks shook the newspaper in her face, inadvertently dislodging an advertising supplement. “I mean, who gives a shit if some pretty-boy footballer has slept around?” He sucked in the excess spittle forming on his lips. “The grotty people, that’s who. The lowest common denominators.”

  “Aren’t they usually the people who read biographies of soap stars and soccer players?”

  He threw the newspaper down. She didn’t understand – or worse still, didn’t care – that he needed to vent his emotions. All she had to do was sit and fucking listen, for Christ’s sake.

  “Here,” she said, pouring him a scotch. “Cool down.”

  He scowled, then collapsed into an armchair and pressed the glass against his forehead. His heart slowed, the pressure in his head began to ease.

  Whether he liked it or not, he had to accept the story was dead. The tabloids had become obsessed with the alleged extramarital adventures of a footballing superstar, and consequently there was no interest in Randall or any of his family. It might have been different if Nick had been implicated. Now Franks’s best hope was that the police would find the culprit in time for publication.

  His only consolation was that Lindsay had agreed to approach Nick. If she was successful it might galvanise him into finishing the book, which was slipping further behind schedule.

  She perused his DVD collection and selected Heat. “What about this?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’ll do my best on Friday,” she said, “but I’m not promising anything, okay? If he takes one look at me and tells me to get lost…”

  Howard shook his head. “He won’t. He’s got an eye for the ladies, just like his dad.”

  “Maybe I’m not his type.”

  She knelt down by the DVD player. She was wearing cream linen trousers and a pink camisole top. When she bent forward he noted the weight of her breasts, the silky cascade of hair over her shoulders.

  “You’d be anyone’s type,” he murmured.

  She dropped the disc into its tray and turned. “What are you, my pimp?”

  “My dear, what a delicious idea.”

  “I mean it. Are you expecting me to screw him?”

  He laughed to buy himself time. If that’s what it takes… But he couldn’t say so to Lindsay: far too prickly. “I’m confident that a beautiful, intelligent woman will charm him into submission.”

  She pondered this, approaching cat-like on her hands and knees. Something in her expression made him uneasy. She bared her teeth and slapped both hands on his knees. He chuckled, hoping without much optimism that oral sex was in prospect. He’d much prefer fellatio to Pacino.

  “Supposing he takes a shine to me, and I decide that I like him – ”

  “And he’s answering all your questions,” he reminded her.

  She nodded. “Sure. Then do I sleep with him?”

  “Are you asking for my permission?”

  She bared her teeth again, emitting a low growl, and lowered her head towards his groin. He had a sudden conviction that she was going to bite him and he squirmed, feeling the fledgling erection shrivel and die.

  “I don’t know,” he said quickly. “I don’t know the answer.”

  Her head snapped up, and to his great relief she winked mischievously. “Had you scared,” she said.

  “No you didn’t.” But the catch in his voice gave him away.

  ***

  Long after the call had ended, Roger Knight went on staring at his phone. He was working from home, and had been poring over bank statements when Angela called from the bodyshop. Nick Randall had turned up unannounced, asking about another of the fraudulent claims.

  “Are you sure you can’t get rid of him?” he’d demanded.

  “I don’t think so, no.” Answering carefully, because Randall was obviously within earshot.

  “Has he spoken to George?”

  “Not yet.”

  One small consolation. He didn’t want the bodyshop manager getting dragged into this.

  “Okay. Tell him I’m happy to see him down here, if it’s really urgent. And give him directions or he’ll get lost.” I wish he would get lost, he thought, and almost laughed.

  Steady now, Roger. A little local difficulty, nothing more.

  He was still brooding when Caitlin walked in, holding a mug of coffee and a blueberry muffin.

  “Fantastic. Thanks.” He sounded much too grateful, partly because of the call and partly because this represented another attempt at bridge-building.

  The latest argument had been sparked by Caitlin’s debut at the Komedia. While he’d praised her performance, he’d unwisely confessed to finding the play nonsensical, pretentious and distinctly unfunny. Her fellow artistes, whom he’d been obliged to join in the pub afterwards, had struck him as jumped-up little tossers.

  “And your colleagues are delightful, of course,” she’d responded. “You prefer the company of animals like Doyle.”

  Pushing away the memory, he took a sip of coffee and said, “I’ve got a meeting here a bit later.”

  She groaned. “Not Kevin Doyle?”

  “No. Funnily enough, it’s Nick Randall.” He tried a smile but it came out wrong.

  “The actor’s son? The insurance guy?”

  “I might be putting some debt recovery business his way.”

  “Oh.” She sounded hopeful, but still looked worried. She knows me too well, Roger thought, even though she knows only a fraction of it. He wondered what she would do if she ever found out.

  More to the point, he wondered what he would do.

  ***

 
Despite the directions Nick missed the Clayton road and had to turn round in the lane that led to the famous windmills, Jack and Jill. Knight’s house was a couple of miles along a narrow road, set in several acres of grass and woodland at the foot of the Downs. Turning into a wide carriage drive, Nick parked between a new Range Rover and a two-year-old Saab convertible. Business must be good, he thought.

  Roger Knight opened the door. He was wearing blue jeans and a purple Lacoste polo shirt. His face was slightly flushed, and when they shook hands his palm felt damp.

  “Good to see you again,” Roger said. “You found it okay?”

  “Just about.”

  Nick stepped into an entrance hall the size of his own living room, with a black and white limestone floor and a wide galleried staircase.

  “I have a study through here,” Roger said. “Slightly more comfortable than at the bodyshop.”

  They were crossing the hall when a young woman emerged from the back of the house. Nick immediately recognised her from the picture in Knight’s office: medium height, very slim, shoulder-length blonde hair and quite extraordinary green eyes. She smiled at Nick, and as she came closer he noted a smattering of freckles across her nose.

  “Before you rush off, can I get you a drink?” she said.

  “I’m fine,” said Roger brusquely. To Nick, he added, “This is Caitlin.”

  “Nick Randall.” Another handshake, this one cool and soft. Nick had to force himself to turn away from the green eyes. “I’ll have a coffee, please,” he said. “Milk and one sugar.”

  Knight seemed irritated by her presence. He nodded briskly and said, “This way.”

  With an apologetic smile for Caitlin, Nick followed Roger into a large oak-panelled study. He sat down in a functional cantilever armchair that might have been selected deliberately because it was lower than Roger’s chair: a clumsy effort to put him at a disadvantage.

  “I read about your wife’s death. Terrible.” Roger sounded sincere, but there was a caustic note when he added, “The newspapers had a field day.”

  “That’s the papers for you.”

  “I spoke to my uncle’s former partner,” Knight went on, undeterred. “A man called Ted Wheeler. He remembered your dad pretty well.”

  Nick only nodded politely, careful not appear too interested. But he recalled Howard Franks taunting him with that name, and felt a cold shiver pass through him.

  “I said I’d pay the old scoundrel a visit,” Roger said. “Poor sod’s got emphysema.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Of course, he smoked like a trooper all his life. Well, they all did back then, didn’t they?”

  Again Nick made no comment. He opened his briefcase as noisily as possible, signalling a change of emphasis. “The claim for the Renault Espace,” he said. “The insurers have raised a number of concerns.”

  Knight had been affecting a relaxed pose. Now he leaned forward and said, “Such as?”

  “I can’t say at this stage. But it’s likely that the insurers won’t be paying your account until my enquiries are complete.”

  “In that case they’ll be in breach of contract, and our lawyers will take the necessary action.” This was Roger showing he wasn’t afraid of a bit of verbal jousting.

  “There’s another case I’m investigating.” Nick produced a copy of an invoice from his briefcase. “A Mondeo with heavy frontal damage, repaired back in January.”

  As he passed the paperwork across the desk, Caitlin entered the room with a single mug of coffee.

  “I hear you might be doing some work for Roger,” she said.

  Nick saw Roger flinch. “The debt recovery,” he said quickly. “You remember we discussed it last time?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Nick’s uncertain response left no doubt that he was here for entirely different reasons. If Roger was lying to his girlfriend, that was his problem.

  “Thanks, love, but we are rather busy.” Roger made a shooing gesture with his hands. Caitlin gave him a venomous glare and swept out of the room. He’d pay for that later, Nick guessed, and Roger’s red face seemed to confirm it.

  After examining the invoice for a few seconds, Roger began typing on his keyboard. “Do you have proof this claim is fraudulent?”

  It was a question Nick had anticipated. “The insurers are running some data mining tools to identify patterns in claims behaviour.” He smiled. “I’m confident that we’ll identify many more. With enough claims, the pattern becomes the proof.”

  Roger nodded, slowly digesting the information. “Well, I suggest that when your pattern becomes proof, you’ll find my company has absolutely no involvement.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Roger took his time reading something on the computer and then gave a curt shake of his head. “This looks like a perfectly normal repair. All the documentation’s in order.” He sat back and steepled his fingers, looking for a moment like a bad imitation of a Bond villain. “So if there’s no other help I can offer you…?”

  Nick paused before replying, enjoying Roger’s struggle to appear calm. “I think that’s all for now.” He stood up, having barely touched his coffee. He realised he’d probably asked for it in order to see Caitlin again.

  Roger saw him to the front door and said, “Drive carefully!”, the sarcasm only too evident.

  Nick unlocked his car and slung his briefcase on to the back seat. He should have been thrilled by Roger’s obvious discomfort, but all he could think about were those magical green eyes.

  “Caitlin,” he said, testing the sound of the word. Then he muttered, “Not good.”

  ***

  Roger’s day ended with a disastrous attempt at making love to Caitlin. Afterwards he lay awake, trying to work out why his life was so rapidly falling apart. Following Nick Randall’s visit, the rest of the day had been a stand-off. Caitlin hadn’t directly accused him of lying to her, but the implication was there in every look and gesture.

  He had an urgent discussion with Barry Harper, and they both agreed to put a hold on the new claims. “I’m positive it’s a bluff,” Barry said. “But we’d do right to be cautious.”

  Kevin Doyle was less receptive to the idea, but it was only the reaction that Roger had been expecting. “I need that cash,” he said. “The finance on the motor’s bleeding me dry. And the fucking mortgage.”

  Not to mention the booze and the coke habit, Roger thought.

  “It shouldn’t be for long,” he said. “The point is, we got greedy. In future we have to be more careful.”

  Afterwards he emerged from his office to find Caitlin loitering suspiciously close, her bag for the theatre over her shoulder. She marched to the front door.

  “The play’s not for hours yet,” he said.

  “I’ll find something to do,” she said, hurrying out.

  The only bright moment was a call from his children in Antigua. After he’d spoken to them, Lynn took the phone and thanked him for funding the holiday. As she said goodbye the kids started chanting, “Wish you were here!”

  He laughed, expecting Lynn to scold them, but all she said was, “See you soon.”

  Caitlin arrived home at midnight, by which time he’d dozed fitfully for an hour or so. He turned towards her as she climbed into bed.

  “How did it go?”

  “Boozy crowd. They really liked it.”

  “Good.”

  She was on her side, facing away from him. He stroked her thigh, and when she didn’t object he shuffled closer.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She said something, but he didn’t catch it. He began kissing her shoulders and neck, his hands moving round to cup one of her breasts. He moved against her, willing her to reach back and touch him.

  She said, “I can’t do this.” Her voice was reproachful, as though it should have been obvious. “You’ve lied to me. You’re up to your neck in trouble and you won’t admit it.”

  He rolled away from her, and his shame found
an outlet in anger. “It’s business, Caitlin. You don’t understand.”

  “Don’t patronise me. I know what fraud is. How will your kids feel when you’re sent to prison?”

  He tried to scoff. “This is really about us. Our relationship.”

  She turned to face him, and he saw the trail of tears on her cheeks. “We have no relationship. Not while you won’t tell me the truth.”

  The words lay between them, a challenge for him to accept or deny. He did neither. He said nothing, and waited, and then Caitlin turned away from him.

  He thought about the practicalities of how it would end. How ironic that for more that a year she’d held on to her tiny flat in Hove, paying the rent from her meagre income until finally, three months ago, he’d persuaded her to give it up.

  He thought about Nick Randall, relentlessly building a case against him. Thought about Ted Wheeler, and whether the old man could help him at all.

  Thought about his children, lying on the white sands of Jolly Beach. Thought about how Lynn had sounded on the phone.

  Thought about incarceration, disgrace, financial ruin. How would he cope?

  Fell asleep, the answer still reverberating in his head. He wouldn’t.

  ***

  And when Roger shuddered and began snoring, Caitlin remained awake, her eyes misty with tears. She too had been thinking about the end, about the lie they were both living, but she had also been thinking about Nick Randall.

  She’d overheard enough of the conversations with Doyle and the slimy solicitor to gather that Roger was in deep trouble. It was also clear that Nick Randall could be instrumental in Roger’s downfall, but the more she considered it, she began to wonder whether he might also be Roger’s saviour.

  SIXTEEN

  Good Friday. It didn’t feel like it to Nick. He got up at eight, opened the curtains and scowled at sunshine glinting on a placid picturebook sea. Any other year, in any other situation, he’d have been delighted. Instead he had four empty days to fill. He would visit his wife’s grave and sort out the paperwork relating to her death, and perhaps try to catch up with his own work.