SEBASTIAN STEPPED OFF the plane and joined the other passengers making their way into the busiest terminal on earth. As he only had an overnight bag, he headed straight for customs. An officer stamped his passport, smiled and said, ‘Welcome to America, Mr Clifton.’
He made his way out of the airport and joined a long taxi queue. He had already decided to go straight to Kelly Mellor’s last known address on the South Side of Chicago, which had been supplied by Virginia, but not before she’d extracted another ￡5,000 from Giles. If Kelly was there, the chairman considered it would have been worth every penny, because he wanted Desmond Mellor’s heir back in England as quickly as possible. They needed to have everything in place for the crucial board meeting in ten days’ time, when it would be decided whether it was Thomas Cook or Sorkin International that would take over Mellor Travel, and Kelly Mellor could be the deciding factor.
He climbed into the back of a yellow cab and handed the driver the address. The cabbie gave Seb a second look. He only visited that district about once a month, and that was once too often.
Seb sat back and thought about what had taken place during the past twenty-four hours. Giles had arrived back at the bank just after five, armed not only with a copy of the legal agreement showing that Mellor had risked losing 51 per cent of his company to Sorkin for a mere ￡10,000, but with the bonus of the only letter Mellor had ever written to his daughter, supplied by Virginia. No doubt acquired after the threat that if Giles didn’t pay up, she would burn the letter in front of him. The singed bottom right-hand edge suggested that Giles hadn’t given up bargaining until the match was struck.
‘We’re going to have to move quickly,’ Hakim had said. ‘We only have eleven days left before Mellor Travel’s next board meeting, when it will be decided who takes over the company.’
This time it was Sebastian the chairman selected for the unenviable task of flying to Chicago and bringing back to London the only person who could stop Sorkin taking over Mellor Travel, although there was a Plan B.
Seb had boarded the first available flight from Heathrow to Chicago, and by the time the plane touched down at O’Hare, he felt he’d covered every possible scenario – except one. He couldn’t actually be certain that Mellor’s daughter was living at 1532 Taft Road, because he’d had no way of contacting her to warn her he was coming, although he was confident that if she was, what he had to offer would make her feel like a lottery winner.
He glanced out of the taxi window as they drove into Taft, and was immediately aware why this wasn’t an area taxis would choose to hang around at night looking for fares. Row upon row of dilapidated wooden houses, none of which had seen a lick of paint for years, and no one would have bothered with a double lock because there wouldn’t have been anything worth stealing.
When the cab dropped him outside 1532, his confidence grew. One and a half million pounds was certainly going to change Kelly Mellor’s life for ever. He checked his watch; just after six p.m. Now he could only hope she was at home. The taxi had sped away even before he’d been given a chance to offer the driver a tip.
Seb walked up the short path between two scrubby patches of grass that couldn’t have been described as a garden by even the most creative estate agent. He knocked on the door, took a step back and waited. A moment later the door was opened by someone who couldn’t have been Kelly Mellor, because she only looked about five or six years old.
‘Hello, I’m Sebastian. Who are you?’
‘Who wants to know?’ said a deep, gruff voice.
Seb turned his attention to a squat, muscle-bound man who stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a grubby T-shirt with ‘Marciano’s’ printed on it, and a pair of Levi’s that looked as if they hadn’t been taken off for a month. A snake tattoo slithered down each well-exercised arm.
‘My name’s Sebastian Clifton. I wondered if Kelly Mellor lives here.’
‘You from the IRS?’
‘No,’ said Seb, suppressing a desire to laugh.
‘Or that fuckin’ Child Protective Services?’
‘No.’ Seb no longer wanted to laugh, as he had noticed a fading bruise on the little girl’s arm. ‘I’ve flown over from England to let Kelly know her father has died and left her some money in his will.’
‘How much?’
‘I’m only authorized to disclose the details to Mr Mellor’s next of kin.’
‘If this is some kind of scam,’ the man said, clenching his fist, ‘this will end up in the middle of your pretty face.’ Seb didn’t budge. Without another word the man turned and said, ‘Follow me.’
It was the smell that first hit Seb as he entered the house: half-empty fast-food trays, cigarette ends and empty beer cans littered a small room furnished with two unrelated chairs, a sofa and the latest VCR player. He didn’t sit down, but smiled at the young girl who was now standing in a corner staring up at him.