“How much is she offering?”
“One million pounds, to be paid in ten equal instalments of one hundred thousand pounds over the next ten years.”
“But she stole two million from my husband!” said Ellie May. “She can go to hell.”
“I sympathize with your feelings, Mrs. Grant, but when I received the letter I decided to have an off-the-record conversation with Sir Edward Makepeace QC, who has represented the Fenwick family for many years. He made it clear that this offer represents a full and final settlement, and there is, to quote him, no wiggle room. He added that were you to turn it down, he has been instructed to receive the writ on Lady Virginia’s behalf.”
“He’s bluffing.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Grant, Sir Edward does not bluff.”
“So what do you think I should do?”
“I can appreciate why you would want to be repaid in full. However, if we were to go down that path, it might take several years to reach a settlement, and as we now know, Lady Virginia has enough money to cover her legal costs, so you might end up with nothing to show for it other than a large legal bill of your own. I’m not convinced it’s her own money she’s putting up—I suspect she’s got her brother, the tenth earl, to bail her out. However, even Lord Fenwick will have his limits.” Goodman hesitated. “And then we must consider all the other aspects of this case.”
“Like what?” asked Ellie May.
“Were the action to come to court, Lady Virginia would be ruined financially, and might possibly end up in prison.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
“At the same time, your husband’s reputation would also suffer.”
“How could that be possible, when he’s the innocent party?”
“Clearly, Mrs. Grant, you have not experienced the British press on the rampage.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me assure you, this story would run and run in the tabloids, and I fear your husband would not come out of it smelling of roses. The papers will paint him as a naïve fool, and a cuckold.”
“Which is no more than the truth,” said Ellie May scornfully.
“Possibly, Mrs. Grant, but is that something you want to share with the whole world?”
“What’s the alternative?” she demanded.
“It’s my considered opinion that you should settle, unpalatable as that may seem. I suggest you accept the offer of a million pounds, return to America, and put this whole unpleasant experience behind you. I would, however, suggest one proviso: should Lady Virginia fail to honor any of the ten payments, she would still be liable for the full amount.” Lord Goodman waited for Ellie May’s response but she remained silent. “But you are the client, and naturally I will abide by your instructions, whatever they may be.”
“My late Scottish grandfather, Duncan Campbell, used to say, ‘Better a dollar in the bank, lass, than the promise of a dowry.’”
“Was he a lawyer, by any chance?” asked Goodman.
* * *
“It’s a damn good offer,” said Knowles.
“Perhaps a little too good,” said Sloane.
“What are you getting at?”
“I am, as you know, Jim, suspicious by nature. Mellor might well be locked up in prison but that doesn’t mean he’s lying on his bunk all day feeling sorry for himself. Don’t forget Belmarsh houses some of the top criminals in the country, and they’ll be only too happy to advise a man they think has money.”
“But like him, they’re all locked up.”
“True, but just remember Mellor’s tried to stitch me up once before—and nearly succeeded.”
“But this guy Sorkin is sending his private jet to pick us up so we can spend the weekend on his yacht at Cap Ferrat. What more could you ask for?”
“I hate planes, and distrust people who own yachts. And what’s more, no one in the City has ever come across Conrad Sorkin.”
“I could always go on my own.”
“Absolutely not,” said Sloane. “We’ll both go. But if I sense even for a second that Sorkin isn’t what he claims to be, we’ll be on the next flight back, and not in his private jet.”
* * *
When Virginia received a letter from her solicitor to confirm that Mrs. Ellie May Grant had accepted her offer, she wasn’t sure how to react. After all, with £230,000 at her disposal, she could live a comfortable enough life swanning around Europe, staying with friends. But she admitted to Bofie that she would miss London, Ascot, Wimbledon, Glyndebourne, the royal garden party, the Proms, Annabel’s, and Harry’s Bar, especially when all her continental buddies had migrated back to London for the season.
Although she had banked the check for £230,000 with Coutts, Virginia accepted that if she were to honor her agreement, the money would run out in a couple of years, and she wondered if she was simply postponing the inevitable trip to Argentina. But on the other hand, perhaps something else might turn up in the meantime, and she still had until April 13th before she had to make a final decision.
After changing her mind several times, Virginia reluctantly handed over the first £100,000 to her solicitor on April 13th, and at the same time cleared all her small debts, loans, and legal costs, leaving her with £114,000 in her current account. Her brother continued to supply her with an allowance of £2,000 a month, a sum that had dropped from £4,000 when she deserted Freddie. Virginia hadn’t read the small print in her father’s will. And if Archie ever found out about her windfall, she suspected he would cut her off without another penny.
The following morning, she returned to Coutts and cashed a check for £10,000. She placed the money in a Swan and Edgar bag, as Mellor had instructed, walked back out onto the Strand, and hailed a cab. She had no idea where the Science Museum was but was confident the cabbie would know. Twenty minutes later she was standing outside a magnificent Victorian building on Exhibition Road.
She entered the museum and walked across to the inquiry desk, where a young woman pointed her in the direction of Stephenson’s Rocket. Virginia marched through the Energy Hall, the Space Gallery, and into Making the Modern World without turning to look at any of the unique objects that surrounded her.
She spotted the peroxide blonde standing next to an old steam engine, surrounded by children. The two women didn’t acknowledge each other. Virginia simply placed the bag on the floor by her side, turned around, and left the museum as quickly as she had entered it.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting in Harry’s Bar enjoying a dry Martini. A handsome young man sitting at the bar on his own smiled at her. She returned his smile.
* * *
When Virginia visited Belmarsh the following Sunday, she was relieved to discover that Desmond Mellor didn’t even know his mother had an art collection, and clearly had never heard of L. S. Lowry. He had supplied the old lady with a small monthly allowance, but confessed he hadn’t visited Salford for some years.
“I sold her bits and pieces for four hundred pounds,” Virginia told him. “What would you like me to do with the money?”
“Consider it a bonus. I heard this morning that the pickup went smoothly, for which I’m grateful.” He glanced across the room at Nash, who was having his monthly meeting with the peroxide blonde. They never once looked in his direction.
14
ADRIAN SLOANE reluctantly admitted that being flown to the South of France in a Learjet was something he could get used to. Jim Knowles agreed. A young hostess, who didn’t look as if she knew a great deal about air safety, poured them another glass of champagne.
“Don’t relax, even for a moment,” said Sloane, rejecting the drink. “We still don’t know what Sorkin expects for his money.”
“Why should we give a damn,” said Knowles, “as long as the price is right?”
As the plane taxied to its stand at Nice Côte d’Azur airport, Sloane looked out of the window to see a Bentley Continental waiting for them on the tarmac. They
climbed into the backseat—no passport checks, no queues, no customs. It was clear that Conrad Sorkin knew which palms to grease.
The harbor was packed cheek by jowl with gleaming yachts. Only one had its own dock, and that was where the Bentley came to a halt. A smartly dressed matelot opened the back door while two others collected the luggage from the boot. As Sloane walked up the wide gangway, he noticed a Panamanian flag fluttering gently in the breeze on the stern of the yacht. As they stepped on board, an officer in full whites saluted them and introduced himself as the purser.
“Welcome aboard,” he said in a clipped English accent. “I’ll show you to your cabins. Dinner will be served at eight on the upper deck, but do not hesitate to call me if there’s anything you require before then.”
The first thing Sloane noticed when he entered his state room was a black attaché case in the middle of the double bed. He tentatively flicked it open to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked fifty-pound notes. He sat on the end of the bed and counted them slowly. Twenty thousand pounds—1 percent of the offer price in advance? He closed the lid and slid the case under the bed.
Sloane slipped out of his room and entered the next-door cabin without knocking. Knowles was counting his money.
“How much?” said Sloane.
“Ten thousand.”
Only half a percent. Sloane smiled. Sorkin had done his research, and had already worked out which one of them would be closing the deal.
Sloane returned to his cabin, undressed, and took a shower, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He ignored the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket by the bedside. He needed to concentrate. After all, this could be the deal that would not only decide when he retired, but how much his pension would be.
* * *
At five to eight, there was a light knock on the door. Sloane looked in the mirror and straightened his bow tie before opening the door to find a steward waiting for him.
“Mr. Sorkin hopes you and Mr. Knowles will join him for a drink,” he said, before leading them up a wide staircase.
Their host was standing on the upper deck waiting to greet his guests. Once he had introduced himself, he offered them a glass of champagne. Conrad Sorkin was not at all what Sloane had expected; tall, elegant, with a relaxed confidence that comes with success or breeding. He spoke with a slight South African accent and quickly put his guests at ease. Hard to guess his age, thought Sloane, possibly fifty, fifty-five. After some carefully worded questions, he discovered that Sorkin had been born in Cape Town and educated at Stanford. However, the small bronze bust of Napoleon that stood on the sideboard behind him revealed a possible weakness.
“So where do you live now?” asked Sloane, toying with his champagne.
“This ship is my home. It has everything I require, with the added advantage that I don’t have to pay taxes.”
“Isn’t that a little restricting?” asked Knowles.
“No, in fact the opposite. I quite literally enjoy the best of every world. I can visit any port I choose, and as long as I don’t stay for more than thirty days the authorities take no interest in me. And I think it would be fair to say that this ship has everything a major city could offer, including a chef I stole from the Savoy. So, gentlemen, shall we go through to dinner?”
Sloane took a seat on the right of his host. He heard the engine turning over.
“I’ve asked the captain to sail slowly around the bay. I think you’ll find the lights of Nice harbor make a stunning backdrop,” said Sorkin. A waiter filled their glasses with white wine, while another placed a plate of gravlax in front of them.
Sorkin boasted that the plaice and the Angus steak had been picked up from Grimsby and Aberdeen just hours before they boarded his jet that afternoon. Sloane had to admit that he might have been dining in one of the finest restaurants in London, and the quality of the wine made him want his glass to be constantly refilled. However, he restricted himself to a couple of glasses, as he waited for Sorkin to touch on the reason they were there.
After the last course had been cleared away, and brandy, port, and cigars had been offered, the staff made a discreet withdrawal.
“Shall we get down to business?” said Sorkin, after he’d lit his cigar and taken a couple of puffs.
Sloane took a sip of port and Knowles poured himself a brandy.
“As I see it,” said Sorkin, “you presently control a company that has some major assets, and although Mr. Mellor still owns fifty-one percent of the stock, while he remains in prison he cannot involve himself in any board decisions.”
“I can see you’ve done your homework,” said Sloane, before taking a puff on his cigar. “But what particular assets are you interested in, Mr. Sorkin?”
“Conrad, please. Let me make it clear that I have no interest in acquiring Mellor Travel. However, the company has forty-two travel agencies well placed in high streets throughout the UK. Those properties have a book value of less than two million pounds. But if we were to put them on the market individually, I estimate they have a real value of nearer six, possibly even seven million.”
“But,” interrupted Sloane, “if we were to dispose of our greatest asset, Mellor Travel would be little more than a shell company, unable to carry out its core business. I’m sure you’re aware that Thomas Cook has already made us an offer of two million for the company, and made it clear that they wouldn’t be sacking any staff or disposing of any of the properties.”
“And that two million would be paid to a company that will be run by Cook’s until Desmond Mellor comes out of jail, so the best either of you could hope for is a decent redundancy package. That is why I am willing to equal Cook’s offer, but with a subtle difference. My two million will be deposited in the bank of your choice, in the city of your choice.”
“But the Bank of England—” began Sloane.
“Adrian, the Bank of England is indeed a powerful body, but I can name twenty-three countries in which it has no jurisdiction, or even bilateral agreements. All you will have to do is convince your board to accept my offer, rather than Cook’s. As the company only has five directors, and one of them can’t attend board meetings, that shouldn’t prove too difficult to achieve long before Mr. Mellor is released—which I understand is not imminent.”
“You are well informed,” said Sloane.
“Let’s just say we have contacts in all the right places, and inside information that keeps me ahead of my rivals.”
“If I was to accept your terms,” said Sloane, “is the cash I found in my room a one percent down payment against the two million you’re offering?”
Knowles frowned.
“Certainly not,” said Sorkin. “Consider that no more than a calling card to prove my credentials.”
Sloane drained his glass of port and waited for it to be refilled, before he said, “We have a board meeting in a couple of weeks’ time, Conrad, and you can be assured that I and my fellow directors will take your offer very seriously.”
The chairman of Mellor Travel leaned back and relaxed for the first time, allowing himself to enjoy the port, confident he’d got the measure of Sorkin and that the two million could be treated as an opening bid. He’d already decided the figure he’d settle for, but would wait until breakfast before he made his next move.
Knowles looked disappointed, only too aware that Sloane was holding out for a larger sum. The same mistake he’d made when Hakim Bishara had bid for Farthings, and they’d ended up losing the deal. Knowles wasn’t going to allow him to make the same error a second time. After all, he considered Sorkin’s offer was more than enough, and there was no need to be greedy. Sloane’s biggest weakness.
“I think I’ll turn in,” Sloane said, rising slowly from his place, as he felt nothing more could be achieved that night. “Goodnight, Conrad. I’ll sleep on your offer. Perhaps we can talk again in the morning.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” said Sorkin, as Sloane made his way unsteadily toward the door.
Knowles made no attempt to join him, which annoyed Sloane, but he didn’t comment.
Sloane had to hold onto the railing as he slowly descended the companionway. He was glad to see the purser waiting for him on the lower deck because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way back to his cabin. Perhaps he shouldn’t have drunk so much port on top of such excellent wines. But when would he ever again be offered a third, or was it a fourth, glass of Taylor’s 24?
He stumbled as his foot touched the bottom step, and the purser quickly came to his rescue, placing an arm gently around his shoulder. Sloane swayed toward the ship’s railing and leaned over the side, hoping he wouldn’t be sick, aware it would be reported back to Sorkin. After breathing in the fresh sea air he felt a little better. If he could just get back to his cabin and lie down, he was thinking, as two powerful arms circled his waist, and with one seamless movement he found himself being lifted into the air. He turned and tried to protest, only to see the purser smiling at him before unceremoniously dumping him overboard.
A moment later Sorkin appeared by the purser’s side. Neither of them spoke as the chairman of Mellor Travel disappeared below the waves for a third time.
“How did you know he couldn’t swim?”
“Inside information from the person who used to have your job,” Sorkin replied. As he turned away he added, “You’ll find your twenty thousand in Sloane’s cabin, under the bed.”
* * *
Nash bent down and tied up one of his shoelaces, the sign that Mellor should join him.
Mellor completed two more laps of the yard before he was by his side. He didn’t need the watching screws to become suspicious.
“Job’s done. No need to send any flowers to his funeral.”
“Why not?”
“He was buried at sea.” They walked a few more yards before Nash added, “We’ve kept our side of the bargain, now I expect you to keep yours.”
“Not a problem,” said Mellor, hoping Nash hadn’t noticed that he’d broken out in a cold sweat. He’d called his estate agent in Bristol a couple of weeks before, and discovered that his old flat on Broad Street still hadn’t been sold—not the easiest of markets, Mr. Carter had explained, but if he were to lower the price, he felt confident a deal could be done. Mellor lowered the price, and an offer had been forthcoming, but the buyer wasn’t willing to exchange until he’d seen the surveyor’s report—which wouldn’t be completed for another fortnight.
This Was a Man Page 11
