The Account

by Roderick Mann

  ‘Who’s that?’ Julia was immediately interested.

  ‘I don’t know his name. Lives in Los Angeles, I think. They say she bankrolls his projects.’

  Julia was puzzled. ‘If she was so awful why would people go to her dinner parties?’

  ‘This is Acapulco, Julia. A small town with an even smaller social world. People have to go somewhere and Brand’s kind of money was a great attraction.’ He smiled. ‘And the food was always good.’

  Sitting high up on the darkening mountain, watching as lights began to come on along the bay, Julia felt some of her earlier nervousness abating. She finished her wine. Should she tell Voytek she was pregnant? She looked at his wide, honest face and buccaneer’s beard. Yes, she decided, she should.

  ‘Did Robert say I was having his baby?’

  Voytek’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘I wondered if you would tell me. Yes, he did. He called me the night before he died. He was elated. It was the first thing he said, “My friend, I’m going to be a father again. Congratulate me.”’

  For a moment Julia was puzzled. ‘Again?’ Then she remembered. ‘Of course. Jane Summerwood was pregnant.’

  The burly sculptor frowned. ‘That’s not what he meant, Julia. He was talking about Daniel.’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘His son. The one he had with Grace.’

  Julia felt an odd constriction around her throat. She sat totally still.

  ‘Robert had a son?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  Seeing the look of bewilderment on Julia’s face Voytek reached out a hand. She took it. For a long moment she stared down the mountain. The whole sky was flooded with colour now; reds and oranges and blues.

  ‘You have no children?’

  ‘We decided against it. We were both wrapped up in our careers … A mistake, perhaps …’

  God in heaven, she thought, was that mad woman right after all? Was Robert Brand the liar she claimed? She turned back to the sculptor who was watching her, a look of concern on his face.

  ‘Where is he now? Daniel?’

  ‘He’s dead, Julia.’

  ‘Dead?’ She put her hand to her throat. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was kidnapped. Twenty years ago.’ Voytek shook his head. ‘I can’t believe Robert never told you …’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘He’d gone to the lagoon swimming, with his bodyguard. They killed the bodyguard and grabbed Daniel.’

  ‘They wanted ransom?’

  ‘Ten million dollars.’

  ‘But they didn’t release him?’

  ‘Robert didn’t pay. He said it was useless. They would never have released the child. The kidnappers weren’t Mexicans, you see. Mexicans would have settled for the money. These people were Germans. Robert contacted a group in North Carolina, a security firm. They’ve had success in the past recovering kidnapped children. They tracked down the men to Cuernavaca. But by that time they had already killed Daniel. Grace never forgave him. She was convinced he should have paid. Shortly afterwards she had a breakdown. She was in a clinic for months.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘They weren’t contacted. Robert knew that would make things worse. It would have been in the newspapers; there would have been hoax calls.’

  ‘But when the child was found? Didn’t that get in the papers?’

  ‘Money can buy anything here. It was hushed up.’

  Julia sat absolutely still, conscious only of the beating of her heart. ‘Their friends … didn’t they wonder where he was?’

  ‘He was just a kid. Eight years old. They dine late at Casa Shalimar. Ten o’clock, usually. The child was always in bed by then. People who did enquire were told he had been sent to school in France.’ He shook his head. ‘Robert told you nothing of this?’

  ‘He said they had decided not to have children.’

  Voytek looked away.

  Julia slumped in her chair. ‘So that’s why she’s crazy. She lost her only child. That poor, demented woman.’

  ‘Stop that.’ Voytek’s voice was firm. ‘Grace Brand does not deserve your sympathy. She made Robert’s life hell. It would have made no difference if he had paid the ransom. The child had been dead all along. Robert guessed right.’

  Shocked and bewildered, Julia got to her feet. The sculptor rose too.

  ‘It’s ironic. I came to see you because Grace Brand made me doubt my feelings about Robert. You’ve done the same thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You asked me to tell you.’ He took her arm. ‘Don’t judge Robert too harshly. He did what he thought was right.’

  ‘He lied about it,’ Julia said flatly.

  ‘Perhaps he thought it would upset you,’ Voytek said.

  ‘It has,’ Julia said. ‘More than I can tell you.’

  They walked through the cluttered studio. Pieces of sculpture were everywhere: on the floor, on tables, on the whitewashed walls – a brass horse’s head, a giant fish, a peasant’s hand, a clock face. He watched as she descended the steps. She turned at the bottom. He waved once and went back inside. She got into the waiting taxi.

  Grace Brand was still in bed in her all-white bedroom when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Grace.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘I was wondering how it went.’

  ‘I saw her. It was not pleasant. An impertinent woman.’

  ‘Was she surprised you knew she was there?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Anyway, she’s gone now.’

  ‘There’s something I know will interest you. Among Robert’s things at the hotel were three books. Would you like me to read you the titles?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Childbirth Made Easy. Your First Child. Coping with Pregnancy.’

  Grace Brand took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘So she’s pregnant?’

  ‘Why else would Robert have bought the books?’

  ‘The bastard,’ Grace said. Her voice rose. ‘The rotten bastard …’

  ‘He’s dead, Grace.’

  ‘And good riddance. Good riddance.’ She slammed down the phone without saying goodbye. For a long time she lay supine, her eyes closed.

  Why had she not guessed the truth? Julia Lang had to be pregnant. Robert would never have agreed to pay so much money to an unimportant mistress.

  She groaned. Here it was: the Jane Summerwood story all over again.

  Chapter 31

  ‘This is downright scary,’ Lisa said. ‘How did Grace Brand find out about you? And how did she know you were there?’

  ‘I still don’t know,’ Julia said. ‘Emma says she told nobody. I know you didn’t.’

  Lisa thought for a moment. ‘Robert could have mentioned your name by accident. But someone else had to tell her you were in Acapulco.’

  ‘I’ve gone over it a hundred times,’ Julia said. ‘I have no answer.’

  It was a raw afternoon with gusts of rain. They were lunching in the Villa Basque, a Soho restaurant that Lisa liked, both glad to be warm and dry. Julia had been home for a week. She had told Lisa everything about her trip to Acapulco, omitting only one detail – the kidnapping of Robert’s son. She would keep that to herself. Lisa would only use it as an excuse to attack Robert. Still shattered by what she had learned from Voytek, she was not in the mood for that.

  Julia sipped her coffee. It had been a dreary morning, she was in no hurry to return to the hotel, and Lisa was a genuine friend, sympathetic and concerned.

  ‘Look,’ Lisa said, ‘let’s go over this. Only two people knew you were going, right? Emma and myself.’

  ‘And the TTRA people.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been them,’ Lisa said. ‘That’s just too far-fetched. You’re sure no one else knew?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Then Grace Brand has someone here who reports on your movements.’

  Julia paled. ‘You think she’s having me watched?’

  ‘It looks like it.’ />
  ‘But why? Robert’s dead. I’m no threat to her.’

  ‘You’re carrying Robert’s child.’

  ‘She can’t know that.’

  ‘She seems to know everything.’ Lisa poured herself more wine. ‘I think you should have one more stab at getting the money. Then lie low for a while.’

  ‘What more can I do? I can’t go back to that bank.’

  ‘Get someone to help you.’

  ‘You mean a lawyer?’

  ‘Forget about lawyers. It would take years to challenge the bank in the Swiss courts. Anyway, what proof have you got? A dead man’s promise …’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘There’s an American I know, Guy Ravenel. The Prince used him once when he was having problems.’

  ‘What sort of person is he?’

  ‘He’s a fixer.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He helps solve other people’s problems.’

  ‘He’s probably terribly expensive.’

  ‘That’s something you’d have to work out with him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Julia said. ‘What can he do that I haven’t?’

  ‘Why don’t you see him and find out?’ Lisa said. ‘He’s due in London soon.’

  ‘You think I should?’

  ‘I know you should,’ Lisa said firmly. ‘You have only two choices. Either you fight for the money or you forget about it.’

  ‘And you’d fight?’

  ‘For $20 million? You bet your life I’d fight.’

  At that moment a man paused in front of their table. They both looked up. It was Jeremy Orde, the newspaper columnist who had written the story about Chantal Ricci that had so enraged Moscato. Julia had met him at several functions at the hotel. She did not like him but she knew Lisa did. He frequently wrote items about her. He shook hands with both of them, managing at the same time to look around the restaurant, nodding and smiling. He seemed to know a lot of the people there.

  ‘What are you two hatching up?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing for your inquisitive ears,’ Lisa chuckled.

  ‘I doubt that,’ Orde said. His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s all this I hear about you and that little Sultan? You were seen at Annabel’s recently.’

  Lisa looked at Julia. ‘You can’t keep secrets from Jeremy,’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ Orde said, ‘are you having it off with him?’ He pronounced it ‘orf’.

  ‘Jeremy,’ Lisa said reprovingly. ‘There’s a sultana.’

  ‘That’s not a very good raisin,’ Orde said. He smirked at Julia to make sure she saw the joke. She smiled dutifully.

  ‘I’ve only just met him,’ Lisa said. ‘Julia knows him far better than I do.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Orde said. ‘He’s her boss.’ He turned to Julia. ‘There are rumours floating around about you too.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Julia met his gaze.

  ‘One of our photographers swears he saw you and Robert Brand together at Nice Airport.’

  At that moment a pretty young woman passed their table and greeted Orde effusively. ‘Darling,’ she gushed. ‘Such a funny piece this morning. You really hit home.’

  Orde acknowledged this with a nod.

  ‘We must lunch soon,’ the young woman said, moving away. She had not even glanced at Lisa or Julia.

  ‘You know Diana, I’m sure,’ Orde said. ‘Bunny Rutherford’s girl. Loves it when I take a crack at the Royals. I expect you saw it.’

  ‘No,’ Julia said. She saw no reason to humour him.

  ‘I did,’ Lisa said. ‘I read you every morning.’

  Orde acknowledged the tribute with another smirk. He returned his gaze to Julia. ‘So it wasn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. She prayed he would go away.

  ‘Who could it have been?’ Orde went on. ‘Some bint Brand picked up, I suppose –’ He broke off. ‘Ah, here comes my guest. I’ll see you two.’ He hurried towards the door to greet a man Julia recognized as a Member of Parliament.

  Julia reached for her coffee. ‘You think he knows?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Of course not,’ Lisa said. ‘He was fishing.’ She put her hand on Julia’s arm. ‘Promise me you’ll think about my friend Guy.’

  ‘He sounds like my last hope.’

  ‘Had he ever asked me for a divorce he could have had it at any time …’

  Julia sat at her office desk trying to concentrate on a business letter she was writing. It wasn’t easy. She was restless and unsettled. Since her return from Mexico she had thought a lot about Grace Brand’s words. The more she thought about them the more distressed she became.

  Robert Brand, the man she had fallen in love with, had struck her from the beginning as honourable and straightforward. Now she was not so sure. He had dismissed his command of German, which she had heard him speaking on the yacht. Now she knew he had lied about having had no children. Why? What possible difference would it have made to their relationship? What other lies had he told her? Was the story of the $20 million also untrue? Perhaps the Banque Eberhardt was right in claiming there was no such account. Surely a man in Brand’s position would not have had to wait an extra day to get the number of a new account. Bankers would have tripped over themselves to accommodate him. But he had seemed so sincere, so delighted, when he learned of her pregnancy. He could easily have just written her a cheque and left it at that. Why the rigmarole about a Swiss account unless it was true?

  She glanced at the slip of paper Lisa had given her at lunch the day before: Guy Ravenel. Berkeley Hotel. Arriving the 23rd.

  Well, she thought, why not?

  It was Cristiani’s last day at the Federal Banking Commission. He felt twinges of nostalgia at the prospect of leaving after so many years, but he was now anxious to get started on his own. He liked the little office he had picked out on the Quai Wilson. And he knew he had enough contacts to keep him busy for a while. His only frustration was the thought that he would have to abandon his surveillance of Paul Eberhardt just when it was becoming really interesting.

  At one o’clock Bonnet took him out for a farewell lunch.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ the portly Commissioner said. ‘Things are going to be quiet around here when you’ve gone.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the Banque Eberhardt?’

  ‘What can I do? The Lang woman hasn’t come to us with a complaint. We’ve got no grounds to interfere.’

  ‘We know he’s breaking the law.’

  ‘We do,’ Bonnet agreed. ‘But would you mind telling me how you came to learn that? Are you going to admit you asked your pal at the Justice Department to set up an unauthorized phone tap? If you do they’ll whip away your investigator’s licence before you can say Mont Blanc. Think about that.’

  ‘I have thought about that,’ Cristiani said. ‘It depresses the hell out of me.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘Ravenel.’

  The man who stood in the doorway of Julia’s flat was short and stocky, his dark hair brushed straight back. He was wearing an unpressed suit, a white shirt and blue tie. He looked to be in his late forties but it was hard to tell; the shadows under his eyes could well have been caused by weariness. His complexion was sallow, his forehead heavily lined. He carried a raincoat over his left arm.

  Julia held out her hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Ravenel. I hope this won’t prove to be a waste of your time.’

  ‘I hope so too, Miss Lang.’

  He followed her into the living room, tossed the raincoat over a chair, took out a packet of 555s and lit one. He glanced around for an ashtray in which to place the dead match. ‘What shall I do with this?’

  The fact that he had not asked permission to smoke irked Julia. ‘I’ll get a saucer,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any ashtrays.’

  ‘A saucer will do fine,’ he said.

  When she returned from the kitchen he was sprawled on the sofa, his head back, looking up at
the ceiling. ‘High ceilings,’ he said. ‘You get them only in these old mansion flats. Been here long?’

  ‘Several years,’ she said brusquely. ‘Would you care for some coffee?’

  ‘I would,’ he said. ‘Black.’

  A rude man, Julia decided, as she poured the already percolated coffee. When she returned he was staring out of the window at the street below. ‘Noisy here, isn’t it?’ he said taking the coffee without comment.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Julia said. She sat down in the armchair; Ravenel returned to the sofa.

  ‘Well, Miss Lang?’

  ‘My friend Lisa Faraday felt you might be able to help me.’

  ‘That depends on the problem.’

  Julia took a deep breath. ‘Mr Ravenel, just before he died a man with whom I was involved arranged for $20 million to be paid into an account at the Banque Eberhardt in Geneva to take care of my future. The bank denies any knowledge of the account.’

  Ravenel blew a stream of cigarette smoke and watched it rise towards the ceiling. ‘Have you anything in writing?’

  ‘No. My friend died before it could be done.’

  Ravenel leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the saucer. To Julia’s dismay he lit another one immediately.

  ‘The man was Robert Brand. Your friend told me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Brand was married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ravenel took a sip of his coffee. ‘There’s no sugar,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t say …’ She got up and fetched the sugar basin from the kitchen.

  ‘Did you often discuss money with Brand?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘What do you live on?’

  ‘I have a job at a hotel. I have my own money.’

  Ravenel took two lumps of sugar and tried his coffee again. ‘That’s better,’ he said. He blew out another stream of smoke.

  ‘As I understand it you want me to help you gain access to a large sum of money you claim has been deposited in your name in a bank in Geneva. You have no evidence that this is so. There is only your word for it.’