‘And meanwhile John and I’ll talk to Mr Barbour,’ said Peter Ford. ‘He could clear up a few things for us.’
‘One way or another,’ said John Martin.
Pete Barbour spent two hours at Channing House on Wednesday afternoon. He had been, they agreed afterwards, extremely helpful, and had, as they had anticipated, satisfactorily answered most of their queries. He didn’t look at all well; he suffered intermittently, he told them, turning away the Dundee cake they offered with tea, from a duodenal ulcer which flared up at times of stress. ‘And as times go, this one is pretty stressful.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, we’re trying not to prolong the agony at least,’ said John Martin, ‘sorry, bad choice of words. How long have you worked with Mr Channing?’
‘Oh — almost twelve years.’
‘So you think pretty much as one?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Pete Barbour with his rather formal smile. ‘Nobody could possibly know quite how Bard Channing’s mind worked.’
‘But you probably better than most?’
‘Well – yes. Probably.’
Late on Thursday morning, Marcia Grainger had a call from Mary Forbes, who was still working at Channing House. She said she was sorry to bother Marcia, but one of the new team that had come in were asking for more details of the Channing Charitable Foundation, and she couldn’t find them in the computer files.
Marcia told her exactly where the details were, checked that Mary had them, and then asked her who the new team were. Mary said she wasn’t quite sure, they were still from Muir Whitehead, but a different lot.
‘They’re going through everything, though, all the phone bills, faxes, everything. Poor Oliver’s having a terrible time with them. But they’re all very nice, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
After Marcia put the phone down she decided to go and have tea at Fortnum’s and perhaps do a little shopping. She was unused to leisure and finding, greatly to her surprise, that she rather liked it. As she walked down Albemarle Street and neared Brown’s Hotel, she saw a taxi pull up and the tall, slightly saturnine figure of Liam Channing got rather painfully and awkwardly out and limped inside. He was obviously recovering well from his accident. She had just turned to walk back down towards the Ritz, when she saw another taxi pull up outside Brown’s and Francesca Channing get out of it and hurry inside. One of her endless charity meetings, Marcia presumed. How very odd, she thought, what a strange coincidence that they should be arriving there at the same time; she hoped in the light of their well-known hostility to one another that they wouldn’t find themselves at adjacent tables.
At much the same time, David Sloane, who was heading up the new forensic accountancy team, was sitting at Pete Barbour’s desk, sifting through some auditors’ accounts, when John Martin put his head round the door. He was holding the printout of some phone bills. ‘I think we’ve got something here,’ he said, ‘look. And the dates do tally. With the sale of those shares.’
Sloane looked.
‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘but how on earth did you get onto that so quickly?’
‘Oh – ’ Martin tapped the side of his nose. ‘It’s not what you know, is it?’
Bard Channing arrived back at Chicester late on Thursday afternoon after a very satisfactorily exciting sail, tanned and more relaxed than he had looked for weeks. His car was parked at Chichester harbour; he and Barnaby drove to Stylings.
Nanny was bathing Kitty for her nap and Jack was sitting in front of the television in the breakfast room, watching The Jungle Book; he was joining enthusiastically in the chorus of ‘King of the Swingers’ when his father walked in. He flung himself into his arms.
‘Dad, we thought you was in France still. Was it fun, Mum said you nearly capsized, I wish I’d been there and you really had, next time will you take me, promise, promise you will …’
‘I might,’ said Bard cautiously, returning the hug. ‘Where is your mother?’
‘She’s in London. She went this morning. She had one of her stupid meetings, and then she phoned to say she was staying up there. I want to go back though, Dad, I can drive now, can I show you?’
‘Ah, Mr Channing,’ said Nanny, coming in, Kitty in her arms, damply sweet, smiling radiantly at her father, ‘welcome back. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. I do hope you had a good trip. You look very much better, if I may say so. A couple of messages: we did try to contact you, but of course as you were on the boat – ’
‘Yes, yes, Nanny. Are they urgent?’
‘Well, one did seem to be a little urgent, yes. From Mr Barbour, could you phone him at home. And also a Mr Sloane from – ’ she looked at her notepad, ‘Muir Whitehead. He said could you ring him as soon as you get back, at Channing House. Providing it’s before six. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes,’ said Bard, ‘yes, it makes sense. Thank you, Nanny. I think I may have to go on to London tonight after all.’
‘Cool,’ said Barnaby.
‘Can I come?’ said Jack.
It was after ten when Francesca got home. The house was in darkness; she stood at the bottom of the steps, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself, praying it was as it seemed, empty; that he wasn’t there.
She opened the door very quietly: no lights on anywhere, not even the landing. She listened for a long, long moment. Total silence. Not even the answering machine was bleeping. Thank God. It was going to be all right. It was all right. She kicked off her shoes, made her way very quietly up the stairs, pulling off her heavy gold earrings. They were tight; her lobes came slowly back to life, throbbing horribly. She winced.
Something suddenly shot out of the darkness, and she jumped violently; then there was a loud purring and something warm rubbed against her legs.
‘Oh, Cat. For once I’m pleased to see you,’ she said, and picked him up, stroked him briefly, then carried him along towards her bedroom. As she passed Bard’s dressing room, she realised the door was ajar: that was odd. She knew it had been shut when she went out. Well, maybe Sandie had put some things away. But Sandie hadn’t been here; it had been her afternoon off.
She pushed it open gently, cautiously, but there was no-one inside. She must have been mistaken. Still stroking the cat, she walked towards her room; again the door was ajar. Now she knew that had been shut, because she had left a lot of clothes lying on her bed and hadn’t wanted Cat to get on them.
She felt very frightened suddenly, could feel her heart thudding violently.
And then she heard a voice. Bard’s voice. From inside her room. Talking on the telephone.
‘I’ll talk to you more tomorrow. You can come here, if you feel up to it,’ he was saying, ‘otherwise I’ll come down there. What? No, no she’s not here. So – ’
Francesca pushed open the door. He looked up, saw her, and slammed the phone down.
‘Where have you been?’ he said. ‘What have you been doing?’
She didn’t say a word, just looked at him sitting there, on their bed, in the dim light of her reading lamp, he looked terrible, white, exhausted, slumped in a defeat even more patent than the day he had first come home, been sent home, after the crash.
And then, before she could say a word, even think what to say to him, he held out his hand, pulled her towards him. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘I need to talk to you.’
Chapter Twenty-three
‘So you want me to lie for you. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. Yes,’ he said. Very quietly.
There was a long silence. They were in the kitchen, sitting at the table, on opposite sides, facing one another. Appropriately she thought, as if in court.
‘It’s a lot to ask.’
‘Of course it is,’ he said, ‘and I hate asking you. I hate it.’
‘So why – ’
‘There isn’t any other way.’
‘Bard, of course there is.’
‘Well – there isn’t anyone else. I co
uldn’t ask anyone at the company. It wouldn’t work. I can’t ask one of the children. Or my mother. So it has to be you.’
Francesca felt intensely bewildered suddenly; if someone had asked her name, she could not have told them. She looked at Bard, who was telling her black was white that two and two made five, and she almost wanted to laugh, it was so ridiculous.
‘Bard, no-one has to lie. You could tell the truth.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘If I tell the truth, I’m done for. Our lives will collapse. Yours, the children’s, my mother’s.’
‘But I thought that was going to happen anyway. Everything will have to go, surely, the houses, all that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, most of it probably will,’ he said, ‘but I’m not talking about that.’
‘Well, what are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact I’ll be – I’ll be personally done for.’
‘You mean everyone will know you’re a crook?’
She knew it was coarse, cruel, but she couldn’t help it. What he was doing to her was cruel. She expected him to shout at her then, to start on some long tirade, some piece of self-justification, but he met her eyes very levelly.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, that’s right, they will.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, then, I suppose – I’ll be tried.’
‘For fraud?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you be sent to prison?’
‘Possibly. Probably. Yes. If I was found guilty.’
‘Oh.’
‘Think about that for a moment, Francesca. Think about what your life would become. I would be in prison. The children would have to live with that. Kitty wouldn’t care, yet, of course, but she will, it will haunt her all her life. And little Jack, think how he’d suffer. And Barnaby and Tory and Kirsten, they’ve had enough to cope with already. And my mother. Think what it would do to her.’
‘I think,’ she said, ‘your mother would far rather you told the truth.’
He was silent.
‘So – so would I have to give evidence in court?’ she said.
‘Well — ultimately, yes. Though you certainly can’t be forced to. As my wife, you can’t be subpoenaed. And even then you’re what’s officially known, I believe, as an unreliable witness,’ he said, and despite himself he smiled.
‘So when do I have to tell this lie? First?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. Exactly. Some time within the next few weeks. They will be asking, I know that.’
‘Because – ’
‘Because it’s inevitable. They’ve already asked me if I knew about the sale of those particular shares.’
‘And you said – ’
‘Well, obviously that I had no idea. But they’re into the printouts of the phone calls and faxes. There were allusions to those. It’s all rather veiled at this stage, of course. Almost coded. I must say I’m surprised – ’ He stopped.
‘Surprised about what?’
‘Oh – nothing. Doesn’t matter. They’re very efficient. Surprisingly so. I have to be impressed.’ He smiled again, briefly.
‘And who do I lie to? In the first place.’
‘Well – I suppose in the first place to whoever was doing the investigation. The forensic accountants, possibly the SFO.’
‘The who?’
‘The Fraud Squad.’
‘Oh God,’ she said. In that moment, it became reality, in all its horror and ugliness. Until then it had been almost a philosophical discussion, a what-if, a would-you. Now suddenly she could see it; Bard and a crime and the police and prison, and her involved by her unique ability to save him.
‘Who else knows about it?’ she said. ‘In the company? I think I should know that.’
‘Pete Barbour,’ he said quietly.
‘Pete? Bard, he can’t be, it isn’t possible, he’s so – ’
‘Straight?’ he said, and he almost smiled. ‘I know. And he is, in his own strange way. But he’s up to his neck in it. Same as I am.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Nobody else. Nobody at all.’
‘Tell me again,’ she said, ‘exactly what you want me to say, and how it would work.’
She felt him thinking the wrong thing; that she had said she would do it, saw his face change, relax, his eyes lighten.
‘All I want you to do,’ he said, ‘is say I wasn’t in London that day. That I was with you. In the country. Or somewhere, anywhere. That surely isn’t so very much to ask.’
‘So that you couldn’t possibly have made that phone call? The phone call to the people, telling them to sell your shares.’
‘Yes. Yes. That’s right. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And they’d believe me, would they?’
‘Yes. Of course. Well, I suppose they might want – ’
‘Evidence?’
‘Well – you know. Nothing heavy. A diary entry, perhaps.’
‘But Bard, everyone would know you weren’t at Stylings that day. Nanny, Sandie, Horton – ’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ he said, and banged his fist on the table violently; she jumped, stared at him, almost frightened: ‘Don’t look for difficulties, don’t make problems. We can do it, we can find something, somewhere we could have been. If only you’ll say you’ll do it. Do it for me. It would mean all the difference in the world, Francesca; it would mean I could salvage something, quite a lot, go forward, start again. Otherwise, I’m done for. Out for the count.’
There was a very long silence; she sat there, waiting, listening to it, trying to think, to think straight, to find some sort of sense, some sort of answer. And she couldn’t.
‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’ he said, finally, and his voice was cold, heavily hostile. ‘You’re not going to help? You won’t do it for me, just this one thing, you’re saying no.’
‘Bard, I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I don’t know. I can’t think, I can’t decide anything. You’ve got to give me time. You’ve got to. And you’ve got to tell me more. More about it, all of it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, and his expression was genuinely baffled. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘No Bard, you haven’t. You’ve told me about this – this phone call. About selling the shares. But nothing else. I need to know it all. Everything to do with it, everything you’ve done. From the beginning.’
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘no, that really would be very unwise.’
‘Well then, the answer is most definitely no.’
‘Francesca, I don’t think you understand.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said, and she was shouting now. ‘Don’t, Bard, don’t tell me I wouldn’t understand. Because I swear to you, if you do, I shall walk out of that door and you’ll never see me again. Ever. You’ve done this to me all through our marriage, told me I wouldn’t understand, belittled me, surrounded yourself in this ridiculous mystique. I want to know everything. I want you to tell me everything. About Teresa Booth, she’s involved in some way, and Nigel Clarke – there’s something there, isn’t there? – and – ’
She stopped, frightened suddenly that she could allow herself to think, to say all these things, that she no longer had to push them away.
‘Francesca,’ he said, and his voice sounded quite normal suddenly, ‘you really don’t understand, you don’t understand at all. Can’t you see, I haven’t told you because it’s much much better that I don’t. Much better that you don’t know everything, or even anything at all.’
There was another very long silence; she sat there absorbing this, absorbing the fact that what he had told her was only the beginning, not the end at all. It was quite literally shocking: she felt bruised, weakened, as if he had physically hit her. Then she stood up, and moved away from him towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To my room,’ she said. ‘I n
eed to think. I need to think very hard, about all of it. I’m sorry, Bard, but I can’t possibly give you an answer. Not yet. It’s too complicated.’
‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I can only say I would do it for you. Without hesitation. Goodnight, Francesca.’
He stood up and walked past her into the hall, up the stairs to his study; she heard the door close behind him. After a while she went upstairs herself and got into bed, and greatly to her surprise, after a while, she slept.
In the morning, Bard was gone. There was a note for her, outside her door, saying he would be at Pete Barbour’s house all day. ‘There is no great urgency, you must take your time,’ he had written, and signed it simply ‘Bard’.
She phoned Stylings and, knowing even as she did so the distress it would cause Jack, told Nanny not to bring the children up that day. She needed to be alone.
She felt very odd. If anyone had asked her to guess how she would feel in such a situation, she would have said she would feel distraught, or wretched, or frightened. In fact she felt none of those things. Her prime emotion at that particular moment, she discovered, was a kind of shock that Peter Barbour could be involved. Peter, with his stiff manners, his formal clothes, his old-style courtesy. The fact that it was possible, that he too could be guilty of such things, made her realise how seriously her own judgment must be at fault. Otherwise, she felt oddly calm, as if she were suspended from real life altogether. She did find herself wondering, quite seriously once or twice, if she might be dreaming; had to stop indeed, haul herself back to reality, go through the whole thing in her mind again, the whole ghastly scenario. It was strangely like watching a film, or a television programme: she watched herself with her husband, in the house that night; heard what he was saying, that he had illegally sold his own shares, to save his own skin; observed herself as she discovered she was married to a crook — she had to keep using that word, rather than the more acceptable fraudster, it helped keep her on course, not getting swept up in some romantic fantasy – learnt what she was required to do, to become an accomplice, to lie for him possibly under oath – and there it stopped. She longed for the film to go on, to watch this person making their decision, acting upon it, living with the consequences. But of course she could not.
The Dilemma Page 57
