Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

  “We could switch the portfolios,” said Pryke.

  Haffaford continued looking down at the investment advice. “Practically without exception we’d be doing so at a loss to our clients. We’ve a reputation to consider; what sort of money management would that be?”

  “Sometimes it’s better to cut losses before they worsen,” said White.

  Haffaford shook his head. “Properly run, Buckland House is still a good place to have our money. We decided upon a strategy and we’ll stay with it. We’ll get a shareholders’ vote to remove Buckland. Once he’s gone, the other directors will come into line. And if they don’t, we’ll get rid of them too.”

  “That involves proving Buckland’s unfitness,” reminded Snaith.

  “The evidence is coming,” promised Haffaford.

  Fiona said it wouldn’t be quite as good because the mews house didn’t have the fittings there had been in Bangkok where it had happened to her, but that it would give him some idea of what it was like. She was already naked, waiting, when he arrived, the flowing hair tightly knotted so it wouldn’t get in the way, her body lightly oiled so that her skin shone as if it were polished. Little globules of oil had gathered on her pubic puff and glistened like dew. She put rubber sheeting on the bathroom floor and near the bed and undressed him, slowly and frequently kissing him but slapping his hands away when Buckland reached for her. She made him lie on the sheet and massaged him with the oil that already covered her and then she made him put his hands above his head and lay on top of him, sliding her body up and down the complete length of his, nuzzling her face into his groin as she passed but not lingering there. He was rigid and throbbing for her and she massaged him there at last, washing her hands with him and when he began to groan she pulled away, making him stand and follow her into the bathroom. The tub was already filled and scented. She put him in and then bathed him, like she would have done a baby, ignoring his sex. Then she got in and soaped herself, so that the water was slimed with their oil. Still refusing to let him touch her, she made him get out and then dried him, enclosing the towel around the two of them. He lay on the bathroom rubber and she powdered him and afterwards herself.

  “I can’t wait,” he said.

  “Soon,” she said. “Soon now.”

  Buckland expected her to retain the dominant role when they got back into the bedroom but instead she got on to the bed and held out her hands towards him and said, “With your mouth. I want your mouth first.”

  He buried his head in her, lip-biting, and she moved her hips, grinding herself down against him. When her body began to arc he pulled up, stabbing into her and she screamed as he entered her. They whimpered for a rhythm and found it and began to race, belly slapping against belly. They burst together and she screamed again, a long, drawn-out sound that changed to a groan and then a sigh. Buckland fell over her, panting, too exhausted at first even to roll aside.

  “Christ, that was marvellous.”

  “I love fucking,” she said. “I really love it.”

  “I’d never have guessed,” said Buckland.

  “I had lunch with Margaret today: she said you were going to Cambridge at the weekend.”

  “Business,” said Buckland.

  “Can we go on the boat again? I enjoyed that.”

  “Yes,” said Buckland. “I promise.”

  She moved over, to be on top of him. “We haven’t finished yet,” she said.

  In the mews outside the enquiry agent made a careful notation of Buckland’s car registration and then of the address. He wondered how difficult it would be to get photographs of her.

  17

  It had been overcast when Rudd left London, but by the time he approached Cambridge the clouds were lifting. When he entered the driveway to Buckland’s country home, the soldierly elms were slicing the sunlight into wedges and he put his hand up against the sudden bursts of brightness as he drove towards the house. He thought the setting and the house were magnificent. During his travels throughout America, Rudd had seen several attempts to achieve what was laid out before him now: in Arizona and again in Virginia, the houses had been built from the actual stones of the originals which had been dismantled and shipped across. Always they had blatantly been what they were trying to avoid appearing, a copy of the original. Rudd supposed it had something to do with the feel or the ambience of the country: the tradition.

  The warning had been given from the gate lodge, so Holmes was waiting when the car pulled up in front of the mansion. Rudd followed the butler into the drawing-room where Margaret was waiting. She wore jodhpurs and highly polished boots and a tailored jacket, tight against her hips and waist.

  “There’s been a crisis,” she said lightly. “Ian’s not here.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The electricity people want to put pylons across the home farm. The estate manager should have been able to handle it but there’s an on-sight inspection with some people from the county council and they asked Ian to go along, so he has. He tried to get you in London, but you’d already left. He’ll be back as soon as he can: he says he’s sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You keep getting stuck with me, don’t you?”

  “I won’t complain about that.” Rudd thought there was a momentary uncertainty in her smile.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “I had lunch on the way.”

  “A drink then?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What was the journey like?” she said, moving through the pleasantries.

  “Good,” said Rudd. “This is the furthest I’ve ever been outside of London. I thought it was very pretty.”

  “I do it so often I’ve stopped looking,” she said. “Perhaps I should start again.”

  “Have you been riding or were you going?” said Rudd.

  She looked down at the habit. “I was going, when Ian got called out. I decided to wait to see if you’d like to come.”

  “I don’t ride,” said Rudd. Every conversation with her seemed to involve a list of things he didn’t do.

  “Never?”

  He shook his head.

  “I thought all Americans rode.”

  “Only the ones in the cowboy pictures, and they have standins,” he said.

  “Why don’t you try?” she said, suddenly eager. “I could show you the grounds.”

  He was nervous, Rudd realized. Of refusing, so she would think he was scared. And of accepting and making a fool of himself in front of her. He looked down at his suit. “I haven’t got anything, only jeans,” he said. He didn’t imagine there were going to be any cook-outs this weekend.

  “We’re only going to walk sedately around the grounds,” said Margaret. “I guarantee we won’t even break into a trot!” She looked at him, waiting.

  He was caught either way, Rudd accepted. “All right,” he said reluctantly.

  “I’ll get the stables saddling up while you change,” she said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  The butler was waiting to show him to his room when he emerged into the hall. It was at the front of the house, with a view of the impressive, tree-lined entrance. He wished Buckland had been here, so they could have begun the discussion immediately: bearing in mind what was to happen eventually it was wrong to involve himself with Margaret, just as it would have been wrong to involve himself with the man’s sister. He’d rejected Vanessa. Why hadn’t he refused Margaret? He hadn’t wanted to, he conceded. His suitcases had been unpacked and Rudd was changed within minutes. He descended to the ground floor in the woollen shirt, jeans and loafers he’d worn in Connecticut, feeling self-conscious. Margaret Buckland looked at him but kept any expression from her face.

  “Just around the grounds,” she repeated, in reassurance.

  Rudd’s apprehension increased immediately when he saw the size of the animal; it looked enormous. The woman pulled herself easily into the saddle. A groom retained the bridle of his horse. The
first time Rudd failed to get himself off the ground and then the horse shifted, so he had to hop around, one foot still in the stirrup. He managed to get on finally by laying his chest across the saddle and then swinging his leg over. He looked at her, panting and red-faced.

  “I’m not at all sure this is a good idea,” he said nervously.

  “Grip with your thighs,” she said.

  Rudd tried but the horse seemed too wide: the insides of his legs ached with the effort.

  “Don’t hold the reins too tightly, you’ll hurt his mouth. Just loose. All you need to do is indicate. He’s well-trained and very docile.”

  She pulled her own animal easily around and clattered across the stable cobbles. Rudd made a forward motion with his body, urging his animal on. It didn’t move. The groom slapped it lightly and obediently it began to walk out behind the other horse. Rudd found it difficult to move his body in time to the horse. He kept the reins slack and gripped the pommel of the saddle with both hands.

  She was waiting for him just outside the stable yard. “You look terrified.”

  “I am.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.

  The stables were next to an arbour, flowers trellised in a covered walkway; occasionally there were seats and once a table arrangement, for picnics he supposed. He wished he were down there. He began to get used to the movement of the horse so the saddle stopped jarring into his back. They came out from the rear of the house. At once Margaret pointed. “There’s the dower-house,” she said. “Ian’s mother lives there. You’ll meet her tonight.”

  The woman continued on towards the lake, glancing quickly back to Rudd, as if judging the distance and said, “Why don’t we go down there?”

  “Fine,” said Rudd. His horse had stopped with hers and he wondered how he was going to get it going again without the groom. He saw her thrust her feet against the side of her mount and tried to do the same: the motion threw him too far forward and he had to snatch out for the pommel to prevent himself going over the neck of the horse. As soon as Margaret’s mount started moving, his picked up too. The grounds stretched away before him, without any apparent boundary or fence; far beyond the lake he could see a wooded area and gradually he became aware of deer grazing near the treeline. He wished he were able to enjoy it. The lake seemed far enough away to be a mirage.

  Margaret rode slightly ahead of him, providing the lead for his horse. She sat relaxed but stiff-backed, seeming to anticipate every sway. She hadn’t bothered to button her riding jacket and he was aware of the stir of her breasts. He looked away guiltily.

  “Do you like it?” she said.

  “It’s beautiful. How big is the estate?”

  “Including the farm, something like 750 acres.”

  “Did Ian buy it?”

  She shook her head. “His grandfather.”

  The lake seemed to be getting closer. Thank God, he thought. He could see a jetty. There was a dinghy tied alongside and another beached, with only its stern in the water. It was larger than it appeared from the house and kidney-shaped, so that to the right it seemed to flow away as if it were a river. Near the bend there was an island, thatched with a disordered tangle of trees. Margaret rode her horse into the water and his followed. His stomach lurched as its head went down to drink.

  “Why don’t we dismount?”

  He saw she had brought them in close to the jetty, so the distance was less if he stepped off on to the slatted wooden walkway. He did so carefully, managing to avoid stumbling and then standing away from the horse, the reins still in his hands, his legs trembling.

  He smiled across at her. “I’m glad the West was already won,” he said. “If it had been left to me, Geronimo would still be holding the pass.”

  She laughed back. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Margaret hadn’t dismounted. She pulled her horse’s head up and said, “Don’t let them drink any more; they’ll get bloated.”

  Dismounted, this was difficult for him. The horse turned towards him when he pulled, and fleetingly Rudd thought it was going to bite out at him. Instead it allowed its head to be turned and moved unprotesting to higher ground. Margaret leapt lightly down and said, “We can tether them against the jetty rail.”

  She just looped her reins through: Rudd knotted his. She nodded towards the island and said, “We had a house and a camp there when we were children.”

  “When you were children?”

  “Ian and I were what the romantics call childhood sweethearts: I seem to have known him ever since I can remember.”

  Rudd looked out at the tiny coppice. “What’s it like out there now?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t been there for years; I’ve no idea.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to see?” He forced the question, consciously wanting to appear adventurous.

  She looked at him hesitantly. “You mean go out there?”

  “Why not?”

  She looked around her, then shrugged. “No reason at all, I suppose.”

  Rudd went to the dinghy that was afloat; oars and rowlocks were tied together with string and stored beneath the seats. He got in, untied them, and slotted the rowlocks into their fittings. He looked up to where she stood and said, “I rode with you. Now you ride with me.”

  Now it was Margaret who was unsteady. She got awkwardly into the boat, stretching out her hands for balance when it rocked under her weight, and slumped down gratefully in the back. Rudd thrust the boat away, fitted the oars and began to row in steady, easy movements. Insects were misting at the water’s edge and in pockets further out on the lake. To the right a flotilla of ducks convoyed sedately towards the island, apparently undisturbed by their presence. Margaret put her finger over the side, tearing the water and said, “It’s cold.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  She had been looking at the trail her hand was making in the water. She brought her eyes up to him and said, “Eleven years. How long were you?”

  “Seven months.”

  She frowned, a wincing expression.

  “We were together before that, though,” he said. “Almost three years. At university, in Boston.”

  “Was she ill?”

  “She died having our baby,” Rudd looked over his shoulder and saw the island was close. “Is there a landing-stage?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Not that I can remember anyway.”

  He reversed one oar against the other, bringing them parallel to the island, and began to row around it, looking for a break in the trees and shrubs that came right up to the water’s edge. The ducks shuddered ashore along some familiar track.

  “What was her name?”

  “Angela.”

  “There,” said Margaret, pointing suddenly. “There’s where we used to land.”

  There was a collapsed tree, leaning into the water and creating an opening through the undergrowth with its outstretched branches. Rudd turned the boat, slightly misjudging the entry, so that the dinghy side jarred against the sloping trunk. She reached out and hauled them closer, using it for leverage, and then looped the painter around it. Margaret stood up to use it as a walkway and Rudd said, “Be careful. It looks old.”

  “I suppose it is,” she said. She climbed agilely on to it and then tested it. It dipped slightly towards the water but seemed quite strong. Quickly, using other branches for handholds, she got ashore. Rudd waited until she was on land and then followed. It was wild and thickly overgrown, with no obvious paths. The lake must have been well drained, never flooding over the island, because it was dry underfoot. There were a lot of cobwebs skeined between the shrubs and trees and Margaret picked up a stick and started to hit out at them. Rudd pushed through the undergrowth and a faint dust, pollen he supposed, rose around him. He felt her hand press against his shoulder apprehensively. Away from the shoreline, the going became slightly easier: there was no path as such, just a slight lessening of the shrub
-growth. He stopped suddenly. Dangling from a tree alongside the path was a rope, frayed and tangled with some climbing plant.

  “I don’t remember that,” said Margaret.

  Rudd saw something solid-looking to their right. He had to break through more cobwebs and suddenly they were standing before a rough-built wooden hut, just a slated roof and three sides, the fourth more or less open to provide an entry. On the wooden floor there were two tins, both completely rusty. In one of them was the atrophied stem of some long dead flower. The hut was not big enough for them to go inside.

  “That was our house,” she said, distantly and unnecessarily. “Ian actually built it; we stole the planks from the maintenance man and shipped them across in a boat.”

  “You must have been young.”

  “About ten, I suppose: I’m not really sure. It’s not at all like I remember it.”

  “Memories are often better left,” said Rudd.

  She appeared not to hear him. “It used to be big and there was grass in front, where I used to make the food. We made plans for life here.” She sounded sad.

  Nearby something moved noisily but unseen through the trees: probably the ducks, thought Rudd. She moved nearer to him nervously.

  “Did you ever have a secret place, with Angela?”

  “There wasn’t time,” he said. There was the one roomed apartment where they’d lived together, off campus, but he didn’t think of it as Margaret seemed to regard this place.

  “I wish we hadn’t come,” said Margaret.

  “Do you want to go?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She turned, bringing herself close to him and then stopped, looking directly up into his face. He leaned forward and kissed her, not properly realizing what he was doing until his lips were against hers. For a moment she did nothing and then her lips parted, just slightly. She reached out, holding her hands against his arm.

  He pulled back, so abruptly that she came forward with his movement. He said, “I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry.”