9
“NOT A GOOD MOVE, Mama.”
“Why not?” said Emma. “Jim Knowles has never been supportive, and frankly I’ll be glad to be rid of him.”
“Remember what Lyndon Johnson said about J. Edgar Hoover? I’d rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.”
“One sometimes wonders why your father and I spent so much money having you educated. But what harm can Knowles possibly do?”
“He has a piece of information that could bring the company down.”
“He wouldn’t dare to make the Home Fleet incident public. If he did, he’d never get another job in the City.”
“He doesn’t have to make it public. All he has to do is have a quiet lunch at his club with Alex Fisher, and Lady Virginia will know every detail of what really happened that night half an hour later. And you can be sure she’ll save the most sensational bits for the witness box, because it will not only bring you down, but the company with it. No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat a slice of humble pie, Mother, if you don’t want to spend every day wondering when the bomb will finally drop.”
“But Knowles has already made it clear that if Mellor isn’t made a director, he’ll resign from the board.”
“Then Mr. Mellor will have to be offered a place on the board.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Your words, Mother, not mine.”
* * *
Tap, tap, tap. Harry’s eyes blinked open. Tap, tap, tap. Was someone knocking on the door, or was it just noise coming from outside? Tap, tap, tap. It was definitely the door. He wanted to ignore it, but it had a persistence that suggested it wasn’t going away. Tap, tap, tap. He reluctantly placed his feet on the cold linoleum floor, pulled on his dressing gown, and shuffled across to the door.
If Harry was surprised when he opened the door, he tried not to show it.
“Hello, Harry,” said a sultry voice.
Harry stared in disbelief at the girl he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago. A carbon copy of Emma in her early twenties stood in front of him wearing a sable coat and, he suspected, nothing much else. She held a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Clever Russians, Harry thought.
“My name is Alina,” she purred as she touched his arm. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong room,” said Harry.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Alina. She tried to slip past him, but Harry remained lodged in the doorway, blocking her path.
“I’m your reward, Harry, for making such a brilliant speech. I promised the president that I’d give you a night you will never forget.”
“You’ve already achieved that,” said Harry, wondering which president Alina worked for.
“Surely there’s something I can do for you, Harry?”
“Nothing I can think of, but please thank your masters and let them know I’m just not interested.” Alina looked disappointed.
“Boys, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“Money?” she suggested.
“How kind, but I have enough already.”
“Is there nothing I can tempt you with?”
“Well,” said Harry, “now you mention it, there is something I’ve always wanted, and if your masters can deliver it, I’m their man.”
“And what might that be, Harry?” she said, sounding hopeful for the first time.
“The Nobel Prize for literature.”
Alina looked puzzled, and Harry couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing her on both cheeks as if she was a favorite aunt. He quietly closed the door and crept back into bed. “Damn the woman,” he said, quite unable to sleep.
* * *
“There’s a Mr. Vaughan on the line, Mr. Clifton,” said the girl on the switchboard. “Says he needs to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently, but he’s away at a conference in York and isn’t expected back until Friday.”
“Put the call through to his secretary and ask her to deal with it.”
“Sarah’s not answering her phone, Mr. Clifton. I don’t think she’s back from lunch yet.”
“OK, put him through,” said Seb reluctantly. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughan, how can I help you?”
“I’m the senior partner of Savills estate agents,” said Vaughan, “and I need to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently.”
“Can it wait until Friday?”
“No. I now have two other offers on the table for Shifnal Farm in Shropshire, and as bidding closes on Friday I need to know if Mr. Sloane is still interested.”
“Perhaps you could give me the details, Mr. Vaughan,” said Seb, picking up a pen, “and I’ll look into it immediately.”
“Could you let Mr. Sloane know that Mr. Collingwood is happy to accept his offer of one point six million, which means I’ll need a deposit of ￡160,000 by five o’clock on Friday if he still hopes to secure the deal.”
“One point six million,” repeated Seb, not sure he’d heard the figure correctly.
“Yes, that of course includes the thousand acres as well as the house.”
“Of course,” said Seb. “I’ll let Mr. Sloane know the moment he calls in.” Seb put down the phone. The amount was larger than any deal he’d ever been involved in for a London property, let alone a farm in Shropshire, so he decided to double-check with Sloane’s secretary. He walked across the corridor to her office to find Sarah hanging up her coat.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Clifton, how can I help?”
“I need to see the Collingwood file, Sarah, so I can brief Mr. Sloane when he calls in.”
Sarah looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that particular client, but just let me check.”
She pulled open a filing cabinet marked A to H and quickly flicked through the Cs. “He’s not one of Mr. Sloane’s clients,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”
“Try looking under Shifnal Farm,” said Seb.
Sarah turned her attention to the S–Z file, but once again shook her head.
“Must be my mistake,” said Seb. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t mention it to Mr. Sloane,” he added as she closed the filing cabinet. He walked slowly back to his office, closed the door, and thought about his conversation with Mr. Vaughan for some time before he picked up the phone and dialed directory inquiries.
When a voice eventually answered, Seb asked for a Mr. Collingwood at Shifnal Farm in Shropshire. It was a few moments before the operator came back on the line.
“I have a Mr. D. Collingwood, Shifnal Farm, Shifnal?”
“That must be him. Can you give me his number?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. He’s ex-directory.”
“But this is an emergency.”
“It may well be, sir, but I’m not allowed to give out ex-directory numbers under any circumstances.” The phone went dead.
Seb hesitated for a moment before he picked up the phone again and dialed an internal number.
“Chairman’s office,” said a familiar voice.
“Rachel, I need fifteen minutes with the boss.”
“Five forty-five, but no more than fifteen minutes, because he has a meeting with the deputy chairman at six and Mr. Buchanan is never late.”