This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  “No, it’s not,” said Seb.

  “Then you’ll know about vouchers, should your friend want a cup of tea or a sandwich.” He’s not my friend, Seb wanted to say, as he handed over a pound note in exchange for ten vouchers.

  “We’ll refund the difference when you return.”

  Seb thanked him, closed the locker door, and pocketed the key along with his vouchers. When he entered the waiting room, another officer handed him a small disc with the number 18 etched on it.

  “Wait until your number is called,” said the officer.

  Seb sat on a plastic seat in a room full of people who looked as if this was just part of their daily routine. He glanced around to see wives, girlfriends, parents, even young children, who had their own play area, all with nothing in common except a relation, a friend, or a lover who was locked up. He suspected he was the only person visiting someone he didn’t even like.

  “Numbers one to five,” said a voice over the tannoy. Several of the regulars leapt up and hurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to waste a minute of their allocated hour. One of them left behind a copy of The Daily Mail, and Seb flicked through it to pass the time. Endless photographs of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer chatting at a garden party in Norfolk; Diana looked extremely happy, while the Prince looked as if he was opening a power station.

  “Numbers six to ten,” crackled the tannoy, and another group made their way quickly out of the waiting room. Seb turned the page. Margaret Thatcher was promising to bring in legislation to deal with wildcat strikes. Michael Foot described the measures as draconian, and pronounced her policy as jobs for the boys, but not for the lads.

  “Numbers eleven to fifteen.”

  Seb looked up at the clock on the wall: 2:12 p.m. At this rate, he’d be lucky to get more than forty minutes with Mellor, although he suspected the man would have his pitch well prepared and wouldn’t waste any time. He turned to the back page of The Mail to see an old photograph of Muhammad Ali jabbing his finger at reporters and saying, His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see. Seb wondered who came up with such brilliant lines—or was the ex-champ just brilliant?

  “Numbers sixteen to twenty.”

  Seb rose slowly from his place and joined a group of a dozen visitors who were already chasing after an officer as he headed into the bowels of the prison. They were stopped and searched before being allowed to enter the visitors’ area.

  Sebastian found himself in a large square room laid out with dozens of small tables, each surrounded by four chairs, one red, and three blue. He stared around the room but didn’t spot Mellor until he raised a hand. He’d put on so much weight Seb hardly recognized him. Even before Seb had sat down, Mellor gestured toward the canteen at the other end of the room and said, “Could you get me a cup of tea and a Kit Kat?”

  Seb joined a small queue at the counter, where he handed over most of his vouchers in exchange for two cups of tea and two Kit Kats. When he returned to the table, he placed one of the cups and both chocolate bars in front of his old adversary.

  “So, why did you want to see me?” Seb asked, not bothering with any small talk.

  “It’s a long story, but I don’t expect any of it will surprise you.” Mellor took a sip of tea and removed the wrapper from a Kit Kat while he was speaking. “After the police found out Sloane and I were responsible for having your friend Hakim Bishara arrested, Sloane turned Queen’s evidence and stitched me up. I was sentenced to two years for perverting the course of justice, while he got away scot-free. If that wasn’t enough, once I was inside, he managed to take control of Mellor Travel. Claimed he was the only man who could rescue the company while the chairman was in jail, and the shareholders bought it.”

  “But as the majority shareholder, you must still have overall control?”

  “Not of a public company, as you will have discovered when Bishara was banged up. They don’t even send me the minutes of the board meetings. But Sloane doesn’t realize I’ve got someone on the inside who keeps me well informed.”

  “Jim Knowles?”

  “No. That bastard dropped me the moment I was arrested, and even proposed Sloane for chairman. In exchange, Knowles became his deputy on an inflated salary.”

  “Cozy little arrangement,” said Seb. “But you must have taken legal advice.”

  “The best. But they’d been careful not to break the law, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. But you can.”

  Seb sipped his tea while Mellor tore the wrapper off the second Kit Kat.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Seb.

  “As you pointed out, Mr. Clifton, I am still the majority shareholder of Mellor Travel, but I suspect that by the time I get out, those shares won’t be worth the paper they’re written on. But if I were to sell them to you for one pound—”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch, although we’ve had our differences in the past. My sole interest is revenge—I want Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles removed from the board and the company to be run properly, and I can’t think of anyone better to do the job.”

  “And what would you expect in return?” Seb paused and, looking him straight in the eye, added, “When you get out of jail.”

  A buzzer sounded, warning them they had ten minutes left.

  “That might not be for some time,” said Mellor, snapping one of the chocolate fingers in half. “I’m now facing a further charge you don’t even know about.”

  Seb didn’t press him. Time was running out and he had several more questions that needed answering before he could consider Mellor’s proposition. “But you will get out eventually.”

  “And when I do, I will expect my fifty-one percent shareholding in Mellor Travel to be returned in full, also for one pound.”

  “Then what’s in it for Farthings?”

  “This time you can appoint the chairman, the board, and run the company. Farthings can also charge a handsome retainer for their services, while collecting twenty percent of Mellor Travel’s annual profits, which I think you’ll agree is more than fair. You’ll also have the added pleasure of removing Adrian Sloane from the chair for a second time. All I’d ask in return is to receive a copy of the minutes following every board meeting, and to have a face to face meeting with you once a quarter.”

  The buzzer sounded a second time. Five minutes.

  “I’ll give it some thought and when I’ve made up my mind, I’ll call you.”

  “You can’t call me, Mr. Clifton. Prisoners can’t receive incoming calls. I’ll ring you at the bank next Friday morning at ten, which should give you more than enough time to make up your mind.”

  The buzzer sounded a third time.

  * * *

  Jessica looked at the clock as her father walked into the hall and hung up his coat.

  “You only just made it in time,” she said, giving him a reluctant kiss on the cheek.

  Sebastian grinned. “So where do you want to have dinner, young lady?”

  “Harry’s Bar.”

  “In London or Venice?” he asked as they strolled into the drawing room.

  “London this time.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to get a table at such short notice.”

  “I’ve already booked.”

  “Of course you have. Anything else I should know about?” he asked, as he poured himself a stiff whisky.

  “It’s not what you should know,” scolded Jessica, “it’s what you’ve forgotten.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Like a magician, Seb produced a gift from an inside pocket.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Jessica asked, smiling for the first time.

  “Well, it’s certainly what you’ve been hinting about for the past few weeks.”

  Jessica threw her arms around her father. “Thanks, Pops,” she said, ripping off the wrapping paper and opening a small, slim box.

  “Am I back in favor?” asked Seb, as Jessica strapped the Warhol Swatch onto
her wrist.

  “Only if you’ve remembered Mom’s present.”

  “But it’s not her birthday,” said Seb. “At least, not for a couple of months.”

  “I know that, Pops, but it is your wedding anniversary tomorrow, just in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Help! Yes, I had.”

  “But luckily I hadn’t,” said Jessica, pointing to a beautifully wrapped box on the table, with a card attached.

  “What’s inside?”

  “A pair of Rayne shoes Mom spotted in the King’s Road last week, but thought were a little too expensive. All you have to do is sign the card.”

  They heard the front door open, and Seb quickly scribbled An unforgettable year. Love Seb xxx on the card. “How did you manage to pay for them?” he whispered, as he placed the pen back in his pocket.

  “On your credit card, of course.”

  “God help your husband,” said Seb, as Samantha joined them.

  “Look what Pops has given me for my birthday!” said Jessica, thrusting out her arm.

  “What a lovely present,” said Samantha, admiring the Campbell’s Soup watch.

  “And I’ve got something for you too, my darling,” said Seb, as he picked up the box from the table, just hoping the ink had dried. “Happy anniversary,” he added, before taking her in his arms.

  Samantha looked over her husband’s shoulder and winked at her daughter.

  * * *

  Arnold Hardcastle joined Hakim and Sebastian in the chairman’s office for the third time that week.

  “Have you had enough time to consider Mellor’s proposition?” asked Hakim, as the bank’s legal advisor sat down opposite them.

  “I most certainly have,” said Arnold, “and there’s no doubt it’s a fair offer, but I have to ask, why is Mellor handing over the company to you of all people?”

  “Because he hates Adrian Sloane even more than we do?” suggested Seb. “Don’t forget, Sloane was responsible for him failing to get his hands on the bank.”

  “There are other banks in the City,” said Arnold.

  “But none that know how Sloane operates as well as we do,” replied Hakim. “Have you made contact with Mellor’s lawyers to find out if they think this deal is for real?”

  “It’s real enough,” said Arnold. “Although their senior partner confessed he was as puzzled by it as we are. I think he summed it up best when he suggested it might be a case of better the devil you know.”

  “When’s Mellor likely to be released?” asked Seb.

  “It may not be for some time,” said Arnold, “as he’s facing further charges.”

  “Further charges?” said Hakim.

  “Dealing in counterfeit money. And there’s another charge of entrapment.”

  “I can’t believe Mellor would do anything quite that stupid, especially when he was already in custody.”

  “If you’re locked in a prison cell all day,” said Arnold, “I suspect your judgment might become clouded, especially if the only thought on your mind is how to get even with the man who’s responsible for you being there.”

  “I have to admit,” said Hakim, “if I hadn’t had you two watching over me when I was in prison, God knows what I might have got up to.”

  “I’m still not convinced,” said Seb. “It’s all too easy. Don’t forget that if Mellor swallowed a nail, it would come out as a corkscrew.”

  “Then perhaps we should walk away from the deal,” said Arnold.

  “And allow Sloane to go on taking advantage of his position, while growing richer by the minute?” Seb reminded them.

  “Fair point,” said Hakim. “And although I’ve never considered myself a vindictive man, I wouldn’t be sorry to see Sloane finally destroyed. But perhaps Seb and I are taking this too personally and should simply look at the deal on its merits. What’s your opinion, Arnold?”

  “There’s no doubt that under normal circumstances it would be a worthwhile deal for the bank, but after your past experiences with Mellor, perhaps it would be wise if I were to inform the Bank of England’s Ethics Committee that we’re considering entering into a business transaction with someone who’s in jail. If they have no objection, who are we to disagree?”

  “That’s certainly the belt-and-braces solution,” said Hakim. “Why don’t you do that, Arnold, and report back to me once you’ve canvassed their opinion?”

  “And I don’t have to remind you,” said Seb, “that Mellor will be phoning me at ten on Friday morning.”

  “Just make sure he doesn’t reverse the charges,” said Hakim.

  * * *

  The two of them sat alone at the end of the bar to be sure they couldn’t be overheard.

  “When you think about it,” said Knowles, “it’s surprising that you ended up as the chairman of a travel company. After all, I’ve never known you to take a holiday.”

  “I don’t care for foreigners,” said Sloane. “You can’t trust them.” The barman refilled his glass with gin. “And in any case, I can’t swim, and lying on a beach getting burnt isn’t my idea of fun. I prefer to stay in England and enjoy a few days’ shooting, or walking in the hills on my own. Mind you, I don’t think I’ll be in the travel business for much longer.”

  “Something I ought to know about?”

  “I’ve had one or two offers for Mellor Travel that would make it possible for both of us to retire.”

  “But Mellor still owns fifty-one percent of the company, so he’d end up the main beneficiary.”

  “I wasn’t planning on selling the company,” said Sloane, “just its assets. Asset-stripping is the new game in the City, and by the time Mellor’s worked out what we’re up to, there won’t be a company left for him to chair, just a shell.”

  “But when he comes out of jail—”

  “I’ll be long gone, and living somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with Britain.”

  “What about me? I’ll be left carrying the can.”

  “No, no—by then, you will have resigned from the board in protest. But not before a large sum has been deposited in your Swiss bank account.”

  “How much time will you need to close the deal?”

  “I’m in no hurry. Our absentee chairman won’t be going anywhere for the foreseeable future, by which time our pension plan should be in place.”

  “There’s a rumor Thomas Cook and Co. are interested in taking over the company.”

  “Not while I’m chairman,” said Sloane.

  * * *

  “There’s a Mr. Mellor on line one,” said Rachel, conscious that she was interrupting Sebastian’s morning meeting with the bank’s currency exchange director.

  Seb glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. “Do you mind if I take this call?” he said, placing a hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Go ahead,” said Victor Kaufman, well aware who was on the other end of the line.

  “Put him through, Rachel. Good morning, Mr. Mellor, it’s Sebastian Clifton.”

  “Have you come to a decision, Mr. Clifton?”

  “Yes, I have, and I can assure you that Farthings took your offer very seriously. However, after considerable deliberation, the board decided this was not the kind of business the bank wished to be involved in, and for that reason—”

  The line went dead.

  12

  DESMOND MELLOR lay on the thin, horsehair mattress for hour upon hour, his head resting on a rock-hard pillow as he looked up at the ceiling and tried to work out what he should do now that Clifton had turned down his offer. The thought of Adrian Sloane ripping him off while at the same time destroying his company was making him ever more paranoid.

  The cell door swung open and an officer yelled, “Yard!” even though he was only a few feet away. It was that time every afternoon when prisoners were released from their cells for an hour and allowed to walk around the yard, get some exercise, and be reunited with their mates so they could work on their next crime before they were released.

 
; Mellor usually sought the company of first offenders who had no intention of returning to a life of crime. It amused him that he’d literally bumped into his first Etonian (marijuana) and his first Cambridge graduate (fraud) while circling the yard. But not today. He’d already decided who he needed to have a private word with.

  Mellor had completed two circuits of the yard before he spotted Nash walking alone a few paces ahead of him. But then, not many prisoners wanted to spend their hour’s exercise break with a contract killer who looked likely to be spending the rest of his life in jail, and didn’t seem to care that much if he spent a few days in solitary for roughing up any inmate who’d annoyed him. The last poor sod had been a hotplate server who’d failed to give Nash a large enough portion of fried potatoes and had ended up with a fried hand.

  Mellor spent another circuit rehearsing his well-prepared script before he finally caught up with Nash, though the simple greeting “Bugger off” almost caused him to think again. If he hadn’t been desperate, Mellor would have quickly moved on.

  “I need some advice.”

  “Then get yourself a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer would be useless for what I have in mind,” said Mellor.

  Nash looked at him more closely. “This had better be good, because if you’re some fuckin’ grass, you’ll be spending the rest of your sentence in the prison hospital. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly,” said Mellor, suddenly understanding the meaning of “hard man,” but it was too late now for him to turn back. “Hypothetically speaking…” he added.

  “What the fuck?”

  “How much does a contract killer get paid?”

  “If you’re a copper’s nark,” said Nash, “I’ll kill you myself for nothing.”

  “I’m a businessman,” said Mellor. Although his heart was still beating overtime, he no longer felt afraid. “And I need the services of a pro.”

  Nash turned to face him. “Depends what particular service you’re lookin’ for. Like any well-run business, our prices are competitive,” he added, with a thin smile that revealed three teeth. “If you just want to put the frighteners on someone, broken arm, broken leg, it’ll cost you a grand. A couple of grand if they’re well connected, and a whole lot more if they’ve got protection.”