Shelley was waiting for him when he got there, drinking champagne: ‘I knew you’d want me to have some,’ she said, smiling sweetly up at him. She was wearing stinging pink silk today, rather than red, and her dark hair was looped back with two big slides; she looked delicious and Gray wondered, not for the first time, how he could possibly have turned down her original invitation to dinner.
‘Hi,’ he said, sitting down opposite her. ‘This is very good of you.’
‘What, drinking champagne?’
‘Well – coming to meet me. At such short notice. I’ll have one of those,’ he said to the waiter, pointing at the glass of champagne, ‘and let’s order, because once I start talking I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ said Shelley, ‘and have the lamb, it’s magic.’
Gray, who had an aversion to the word magic used in that context, suppressed it and ordered the lamb, because he didn’t want to risk displeasing her in any way, preceded by carpaccio.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘tell me what’s happened.’
Gray told her, trying to keep his voice low; hearing it rising in volume and pitch, distracted from the story only briefly by the arrival of the carpaccio, which was so perfectly served with such exquisite olive oil and just the right amount of lemon and pepper and parmesan that he felt it deserved a tribute, however brief, of silent appreciation.
‘Well,’ said Shelley politely, when he had finished, ‘that is very exciting.’
He was slightly disappointed, seeing that she was not actually going to lie awake that night thinking about it; but then reminded himself that anyone who did not actually know Bard Channing and his extraordinary company and history, and Marcia Grainger and her legendary formality and ability to daunt all comers, could have been expected to do so.
‘And now I need your help,’ he said.
‘I’ll try,’ she said, through a rather large mouthful of lamb. ‘I told you this was magic. Isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ said Gray. ‘Absolutely gr — magic. Yes.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Well, first of all, do you know anyone at Robinson and Wetherill?’
‘Well,’ she said warily, ‘a few people. Derek Robinson for a start. But Gray I’ve told you – ’
‘Know any of the secretaries?’
‘No. None of them. Well, except for Nancy, Derek’s PA. Oh, and Maureen, in Personnel. So I’m not much use to you at all, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh but you are,’ said Gray. ‘That’s exactly, exactly what I was hoping to hear.’
Jackie Morton, who worked for one of the junior attorneys at Robinson and Wetherill, was just struggling her way through the first draft of a complicated new contract on the purchase of a very large and expensive house near Bouley Bay when her phone rang. She cursed the phone more fervently every time it rang, which was frequently, because she had been told by the junior attorney that he had to have the contract by four to take to a client meeting, and it was already a quarter past three. Moreover it had been made rather clear to her that her boss was not finding her work very satisfactory, and he had more or less hinted that if she didn’t deliver this afternoon, she might find herself in a slightly less secure position.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Yes, Jackie Morton speaking.’
‘Oh, hallo,’ said a rather hesitant, anxious Irish voice, ‘I wonder if you can possibly help me. I’m in the most awful jam and I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, I’ll try,’ said Jackie, ‘but I am very busy. So – ’
‘Oh, it won’t take you a minute. I just want to confirm an address. Er – excuse me, but are you a secretary?’
‘I am indeed,’ said Jackie, wondering how much longer that might be the case. Certainly for Robinson and Wetherill.
‘Well, that is wonderfully lucky,’ said the voice, ‘because you’ll know how I’m feeling, what a predicament I’m in. My name is Mary, by the way, Mary O’Hagan. I work for Greenhills. I expect you know it.’
‘Well, not too well, and I’m in a fine old predicament myself,’ said Jackie, suddenly feeling a warm rush of sisterly support. ‘I have a long contract to type, first draft and an impatient boss waiting to take it into a meeting at four.’
‘Oh God, you poor soul. Well, I can’t tell you how I sympathise. But how about this one, then? A letter to type, terribly urgent apparently, well, you know how it is, they’re all terribly urgent, aren’t they? Sorry, what was your name again?’
‘Jackie.’
‘Oh yes, of course. These men, Jackie, I feel so sorry for their poor wives, don’t you, God I’m never going to get married. How long is your contract?’
‘Seventeen pages. And I’ve only done twelve.’
‘Oh no! But that is almost impossible. It’s not fair, is it, they just don’t understand. Well, I promise not to keep you. Now this is just a bit of a wild card, but I thought it would be worth a try. Your boss does take care of the Drab business, doesn’t he?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Jackie doubtfully. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Well now, you see, Jackie, Mrs Grainger – Mrs Marcia Grainger, you know – is coming over to Jersey tomorrow. And I have to have this letter delivered to her hotel and waiting when she gets here. You’d think it was the crown jewels, I tell you. Well now, himself has gone off and never told me the name of the hotel, I thought it would be L’Horizon, but they’re not expecting her, and so I suppose it’s the Longueville Manor, or there again, it could be Water’s Edge or even the Grand, but if I get it wrong I may as well throw myself into the Devil’s Hole itself, now do you have any idea where she’ll be staying?’
‘I have no idea at all, I’m afraid,’ said Jackie. ‘My boss might, but – ’
‘Well, can you just confirm that she is coming over tomorrow, that would be something, if I have another day I can get my knickers a bit out of their twist. You do know who I mean, don’t you, Jackie, Mrs Grainger – ’
‘Well, not really,’ said Jackie, ‘and I really do have to get this draft typed – ’
‘Of course you do. And I can’t expect you to waste time on my predicament. But if you could just – oh, now I have an idea, could you give me the address in London, then I could phone her secretary there and ask her myself, and stop bothering you. Would you just do that for me, Jackie?’
‘Well, I’ll have to look in the file. It might take a minute. I don’t even recall – just a minute, now – ’
A long silence; Jackie picked up her pencil and a pad, and went and flicked through the files for Drab Financial Services Ltd. She had an uneasy feeling, indeed she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t really be doing this, that all this sort of information was totally confidential, but she was so sick of being shouted at, asked to work through her lunch-break, given her work back to be done again, she didn’t care. If they didn’t like it, if they wanted to fire her, they could. She might even welcome it.
She returned to the phone.
‘Hallo? Yes, here we are now, the address is 4 Frognal Rise Court, Swiss Cottage, London, NW3. Telephone 0171-787-9187.’
‘Oh, Jackie, I cannot thank you enough. I’ll return the favour one day. You’ve saved my life. And that is, just to confirm, that is Mrs Marcia Grainger, of Drab Financial Ltd. And the Folkestone Trust.’
‘Yes it is,’ said Jackie. ‘Well, not the Folkestone Trust, no. The – just a minute – yes, the Sandstone Trust. And now if you’ll excuse me …’
‘I knew there was a stone in it. Of course I will, and good luck with the contract, Jackie. I’ll be thinking of you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jackie.
She had put the phone down before she realised that she had never actually heard of Greenhills. Well, she had better things to worry about than that; it was now three twenty-five and there was something she absolutely could not read on page thirteen, and no-one to ask about it either …
In Graydon Townsend’s room at the Deux Jardins Hotel, S
helley Balleine put the phone down and grinned triumphantly at him.
‘Wasn’t I wonderful?’ she said, still in her Irish accent. ‘Aren’t I just the most brilliant actress?’
‘You are indeed,’ said Graydon.
‘So does that mean you’ve got him?’
‘It means I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I’ve got him. It was the crucial piece in the puzzle, made sense of all the rest.’
‘What do you do about the one per cent?’
‘Pray. And use a very careful form of words.’
‘I really can’t make much sense of it,’ she said.
‘Just as well,’ said Gray.
Shelley went back to her unfortunate boss for an hour or so, and Graydon got out his laptop and began pulling his story together. He felt he could have done anything at that moment: walked on water, flown through the air, spoken Chinese. Drifts of conversation, prompts for his happiness, kept coming back to him: ‘Oh, yes, Marcia, she’s very good, been coming here for years … rents a little bedsit over near St Peter … Now that is Mrs Marcia Grainger, isn’t it, of Drab Financial … Aren’t I just the most brilliant actress … Yes, Mr Grainger, we’ll send you a bank statement straight away …’ His thoughts, the facts, the structure of the piece, jumbled helplessly and hopelessly in his head for so long, suddenly formed into powerful, strong sentences, paragraphs, sections; quotes fell into his memory, questions found answers, it was as if someone else was dictating the piece, so easily, so logically did it all appear on the screen. It was, quite simply, he thought immodestly, terrific. Bribery, corruption, insider dealing; it had it all. He felt very confident about its veracity; his information had been pretty impeccable, his homework exceedingly thorough. But the lawyers would certainly be going through it with a toothcomb. ‘The truth isn’t what counts,’ an editor had said to him once, ‘it’s deniability. Knowing something is true isn’t enough. You’ve got to be able to prove it.’
Well, he could prove it. Just about. He had the pictures of the Manse, of Marcia Grainger – in her other persona, at the flying school – the recording of his conversation with Clive Hopkins.
The only thing left to do now – and it was a big thing – was go and see Bard Channing, confront him. It was something that had to be done, giving people the right to reply. If they’d see you. Usually they just threatened you with an injunction. And if they did it was inevitably a painful process, particularly if you liked the person. And he did like Channing. He couldn’t help it; he was imaginative, brilliant, he had guts, vision, he kept going, didn’t whine, wouldn’t give up. OK, so now he knew he was a crook, but not, in Gray’s book, a very serious one. Set against a drunk driver knocking someone down and killing them, or a rapist, or a bully of a parent knocking a child about or abusing it, a man who’d stashed away a few million ill-gotten quid in a numbered bank account didn’t seem to him too terribly bad.
He rang the editor, told him he’d got the story.
‘We should use it this Sunday, if we possibly can. But we can discuss that when I get back. We don’t want it go off the boil. It’ll be really big, Dave, lead story, or certainly second lead, and a spread inside at least …’
‘Well, I’ll need to know by Friday, Gray. Can’t keep all that white space floating about indefinitely.’
‘Dave! For God’s sake. As my first boss used to say, this is a newspaper, not an annual.’
‘Yeah, and I’m the editor, and it’s run my way … Cheers, Gray. Speak to you tomorrow.’
It was only when he realised he had used up all his teabags that he looked at his watch and saw that it was almost an hour after he had promised to phone Shelley.
Rachel had decided she should just arrive on Bard’s doorstep. It was the only way. Ambush him. She knew he was based in London, at the house. If he wasn’t there, she’d just wait. And give that bit of a housekeeper a mouthful of her own medicine, if she possibly could.
She left Francesca and the children in Reverend Mother’s care, telling Francesca she had to go to London to see her dentist, that it was a long-standing appointment to have a crown refitted, that the crown was so loose it had come out twice in the past week, and that since it was a front crown, it being missing gave her a very close resemblance to a witch, and that she couldn’t stand it any longer. She said she’d be back next day at around lunchtime.
She knew Francesca would believe that; Rachel’s vanity was legendary. She teased her mother about it as she drove her to Okehampton to catch the train, adding that tooth trouble must be catching. Her own was fine now, only the occasional stab reminding her of it. As the pain was linked inextricably now in her mind with Liam and sexual pleasure, she quite liked the stabs …
Rachel reached Paddington at four and got a taxi straight to Hamilton Terrace. Bard’s Aston Martin was not outside the house: damn. Well, maybe he wouldn’t be long.
She went up the steps, pressed the bell. Sandie came to the door.
‘Oh, Mrs Duncan-Brown. Good afternoon. I’m afraid Mrs Channing’s not here and – ’
‘I know where Mrs Channing is,’ said Rachel briskly, ‘thank you. It’s Mr Channing I want to see.’
‘He’s not here either, I’m afraid. And I don’t know when he’ll be back – ’
‘Has he asked you to prepare dinner? I presume that is one of the things you do, that must have given you a clue.’
‘Well, he said he’d be back for dinner, yes,’ said Sandie. She looked less friendly. ‘But that could be any time. Mr Channing doesn’t keep to a strict timetable.’
‘Well, I’ll wait,’ said Rachel. ‘That’s quite all right. Is Barnaby here?’
‘No, he’s gone away for a couple of days. Is Mr Channing expecting you?’
‘No. I suppose he’d be here if he was. He’s not an impolite man, is he, would you say?’
‘Er – no.’
‘Fine. Well, perhaps you could get me some tea, Sandie. I like Earl Grey. And do you have any cucumber?’
‘Cucumber? Yes, I think so.’
‘Excellent. I do so like cucumber sandwiches. Could I have a round or two? Oh, and with the crusts cut off, please.’
She sat down in the drawing room. It was untidy, somehow unkempt looking; Sandie was obviously taking advantage of Francesca’s absence. And knowing Bard would be too distressed even to notice, certainly to care.
When Sandie brought in the tray, she smiled up at her graciously. ‘How kind. Oh, dear, I didn’t want milk, though, I wanted lemon. Would you mind? And also, Sandie, I did notice those flowers were dying. And those over there. I’m sure you wouldn’t want Mr Channing to come in to that sort of thing. You could do them now, don’t mind me. Order some fresh ones, I would. Oh, and did you realise those curtains aren’t properly tied back? Shall I help you fix them? The hall carpet could do with a little vacuuming too, I should get it done before Mr Channing gets back.’
It was an hour before Bard came back; there were several phone calls to the house, one plainly for Sandie, since she spoke for a long time. No doubt she used the phone a lot herself, was running up a huge bill. Francesca really should get rid of her. She was lazy as well as trouble.
She heard him come in, throw down something in the hall – his briefcase presumably – go into the kitchen, heard Sandie say something. Then he appeared; he looked at her with a kind of wary bravado. It was an expression she had seen on Jack’s face.
‘Hallo.’
‘Hallo, Bard.’
‘If you’ve come to see Francesca, she isn’t here.’
‘No, I know that. I’ve just left her.’
‘Oh.’ A silence, then he said, ‘I thought she might come running to you. No doubt with some sob story. Well – ’
‘No, Bard. No sob story. Let’s not get onto that tack. You look exhausted, you poor man, I’ll get Sandie to make you something. What about an omelette now, nothing like getting the blood sugar up to help you cope. Sandie, make Mr Channing an omelette would you, cheese, I would think, or woul
d you rather have tomatoes, Bard? and do you want a drink? No. Well, then a bottle of Perrier, I’d like some too. And could I have some more Earl Grey, dear, and another round of these sandwiches. Quite delicious.
‘You should get rid of her,’ she said, sitting down, gesturing at the seat beside her for him to sit down. ‘She’s dreadful. You know it was her who imparted the news about Francesca and that son of yours, don’t you? Charming. And this place is a pigsty.’
‘Rachel, I really haven’t come here to be lectured on my staff. Your own daughter has caused me a lot more grief.’
‘Possibly about as much as you’ve caused her, I’d say,’ said Rachel, ‘but no, that’s not why I’m here. Nor have I come to discuss your marriage. I’ve come with a proposition for you.’
She stood up, walked over to the window, looked out for a bit, then turned round and smiled at him: her most dazzling smile. ‘I’ll provide your alibi, Bard. It’ll be a pleasure.’
‘It’s nice here,’ said Jack to Francesca. ‘I’d like to stay always.’ He had just come in from doing the egg collection with Richard. ‘Can we go to the beach now? I could do some surfing. Barnaby told me about surfing, I know how to do it.’
‘Well, we could go to the beach,’ said Francesca, ‘but I don’t think any surfing. Not today, anyway. You need a grown-up with you to show you how.’
‘We could take Richard. Or Mary. I like Mary. She’s cool.’
‘I don’t think either Richard or Mary is very good at surfing,’ said Francesca, ‘but let’s go down to the beach anyway. Kitty would like that.’
‘Does she have to come?’
‘Yes she does.’
‘Oh all right. And can we take Mary anyway? I could show her how to dive.’
‘Jack, you can’t dive in the sea. There’s nothing to dive off.’
‘There’s the cliffs.’
‘Er – yes,’ said Francesca.
The Dilemma Page 69
