13
SEBASTIAN CHECKED his watch. Just enough time to make one call. He was relieved to find the only phone box within sight was empty, and wasn’t out of order. He dialed a number he knew by heart.
“Victor Kaufman.”
“Vic, it’s Seb.”
“Seb, hi. You sound as if you’re phoning from the other side of the world.”
“Not quite. I’m at Huddersfield station. I’ve just been to Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”
“I read his obituary in today’s FT. That was one hell of a man you were working for.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I’m calling. I need to see your father urgently.”
“Just give his secretary a call, and I’ll make sure she fixes an appointment.”
“What I want to discuss can’t wait. I need to see him this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Am I sensing a big deal?”
“The biggest ever to cross my desk.”
“Then I’ll speak to him immediately. When will you be back in London?”
“My train’s due to arrive at Euston at ten past four.”
“Give me a call from the station and I’ll—”
A shrill whistle blew and Seb turned to see a green flag waving. He dropped the phone, ran out on to the platform, and jumped onto the moving train.
He took a seat at the rear of the carriage and, once he’d got his breath back, he thought about how he’d first met Vic at St. Bede’s, when he’d shared a study with him and Bruno Martinez, and they had become his two closest friends; one the son of an immigrant Jew, and the other the son of an Argentinian arms dealer. Over the years they’d become inseparable. That friendship grew even closer when Seb had ended up with a black eye for defending his Jewish friend, not that he had been altogether sure what a Jew was. Like a blind man, unaware of race or religion, he quickly discovered that prejudice was often taught at the breakfast table.
He turned his attention to the sage advice his mother had given him just before she and Dad had driven back to Bristol after the funeral. He knew she was right.
Seb took his time writing a first draft, then a second. By the time the train pulled into Euston, he’d completed a final draft which he hoped would meet with both his mother’s and Cedric’s approval.
* * *
Sloane immediately recognized the handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, becoming angrier with each word he read.
Dear Mr. Sloane,
I cannot believe that even you could stoop so low as to hold a board meeting on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral, with the sole purpose of appointing yourself chairman. Unlike me, Cedric would probably not have been surprised by your duplicity.
You may think you’ve got away with it, but I can assure you, you haven’t, because I will not rest until you are exposed for the fraud you are, as we both know you are the last person Cedric would have wanted to succeed him.
After reading this letter, you won’t be surprised to learn that I no longer want to work for an amoral charlatan like you.
S. Clifton
Sloane leapt out of his chair, unable to control his temper. He charged into his secretary’s office and shouted, “Is he still in the building?”
“Who?” asked Rachel innocently.
“Clifton, who else?”
“I haven’t seen him since he handed me a letter and asked me to put it on your desk.”
Sloane marched out of his office and down the corridor, still hoping to find Clifton at his desk so he could publicly sack him.
“Where’s Clifton?” he demanded as he strode into Sebastian’s room. Bobby Rushton, Seb’s young assistant, looked up at the new chairman, and was so petrified he couldn’t get any words out. “Are you deaf?” said Sloane. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Where’s Clifton?”
“He packed his things and left a few minutes ago,” said Rushton. “He told us all that he’d resigned and wouldn’t be back.”
“Only minutes before he would have been sacked,” said Sloane. Looking down at the young man, he added, “And you can join him. Make sure you’re off the premises within the hour, and be certain you leave nothing in this room that even hints that Clifton ever existed.”
Sloane stormed back to his office and sat down at his desk. Five more envelopes, all marked Personal, were waiting to be opened.
* * *
“I only met Cedric Hardcastle on half a dozen occasions, mostly social,” said Saul Kaufman. “We never did any business, but I’d have liked to, because he was one of the few men in the City who still believed a handshake closed a deal, not a contract.”
“Even a contract won’t necessarily close a deal with the new chairman,” said Seb.
“I’ve never met Adrian Sloane, I only know him by reputation. Is he the reason you wanted to see me so urgently?”
“Yes, sir,” said Seb. “I was looking into a major deal involving Sloane when the chairman had his heart attack.”
“Then take me through the deal slowly, and don’t leave out any details.”
Seb began by telling Mr. Kaufman how he’d taken a phone call from Ralph Vaughan of Savills that had alerted him to what Sloane was up to. And how the following morning, on Cedric’s instructions, he’d travelled up to Shifnal, and how the day had ended with him meeting Mr. Swann and discovering why Sloane was willing to pay way over the odds for a thousand-acre farm in Shropshire.
When Seb came to the end of his story, an enigmatic smile appeared on Kaufman’s face.
“Could it be possible that Mr. Swann has stumbled across something we all missed? We’ll find out soon enough, because the government is expected to announce its findings in the next few weeks.”
“But we haven’t got weeks, only a couple of days. Don’t forget, closing bids have to be in by five o’clock tomorrow.”
“So you want me to outbid Sloane, on the possibility that Mr. Swann has worked out what the government has planned?”
“Cedric was willing to take that risk.”
“And, unlike Sloane, Cedric Hardcastle had the reputation of being a cautious man.” Kaufman placed his hands together as if in prayer, and when his prayer was answered, he said, “I’ll need to make a few phone calls before I come to a final decision, so come back to my office at 4:40 tomorrow afternoon. If I’m convinced, we’ll take it from there.”
“But by then it will be too late.”
“I don’t think so,” said Kaufman.
* * *
When Seb left the bank he was in a daze, and not at all convinced that Kaufman would go ahead with the deal. But he had nowhere else to turn.
He hurried home. He wanted to share everything that had happened since he’d left the flat that morning with Samantha. She always saw things from a different angle, often coming out of left field, to use one of her favorite American expressions.
While Sam prepared supper, Seb told her who’d attended the funeral that morning and, more important, who hadn’t, and what Sloane and his cronies had been up to while he was in Huddersfield … and why he was now looking for a job.
When he finally stopped pacing around the kitchen and sat down, Sam said, “But you’ve always known Sloane was a crook, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d call a board meeting when everyone who would have opposed him was out of town. I bet your mother would have worked that one out.”
“She did, but by then it was too late. But I still think we can beat Sloane at his own game.”
“Not at his own game,” said Sam. “Try to think what Cedric would have done in the circumstances, not Sloane.”
“But if I’m ever going to beat him, I’ll have to think like him.”
“Possibly, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”
“Shifnal Farm is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“That’s not a good enough reason to crawl around in the same gutter as Sloane.”
“But, Sam, I might never get another chance like this again.”
“Of course you will, Seb. Think long-term, and you’ll understand the difference between Adrian Sloane and Cedric Hardcastle. Because I’m absolutely sure of one thing, very few people will be attending Sloane’s funeral.”
* * *
Friday turned out to be the longest day of Sebastian’s life. He’d hardly slept the previous night as he tried to work out what Kaufman was up to.
When Sam left to attend a lecture at King’s, he pottered around the flat, pretended to read a morning paper, spent an inordinate amount of time washing up the few breakfast dishes, even went for a run in the park, but by the time he got back, it was still only just after eleven.
He took a shower, shaved, and opened a tin of baked beans. He continually glanced at his watch, but the second hand still only circled the dial every sixty seconds.
After what passed for a fork lunch, he went upstairs to the bedroom, took his smartest suit out of the wardrobe, and put on a freshly ironed white shirt and his old school tie. He finally polished a pair of shoes until a sergeant major would have been proud of them.
At four o’clock he was standing at the bus stop waiting for the number 4 to take him into the City. He jumped off at St. Paul’s and, although he walked slowly, he was standing outside Kaufman’s bank on Cheapside by 4:25. There was nothing for it but to stroll around the block. As he walked past so many familiar City institutions, he was reminded just how much he enjoyed working in the Square Mile. He tried not to think about being unemployed for any length of time.
At 4:38, Seb marched into the bank and said to the receptionist, “I have an appointment with Mr. Kaufman.”
“Which Mr. Kaufman?” she asked, giving him a warm smile.
“The chairman.”
“Thank you, sir. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Seb paced around the lobby watching another second hand make a larger circle around a larger clock but with exactly the same result. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder and the words, “The chairman is waiting for us in his office. I’ll take you up.”
Seb was impressed that Vic hadn’t said “Dad.” He could feel the palms of his hands sweating, and as the lift trundled slowly up to the top floor he rubbed them on his trousers. When they entered the chairman’s office, they found Mr. Kaufman on the phone.
“I need to speak to a colleague before I can make that decision, Mr. Sloane. I’ll call you back around five.” Seb looked horrified, but Kaufman put a finger to his lips. “If that’s convenient.”
* * *
Sloane put the receiver down, picked it up again immediately, and without going through to his secretary dialed a number.
“Ralph, it’s Adrian Sloane.”
“I thought it might be,” said Vaughan, checking his watch. “You’ll be pleased to hear that no one has called about Shifnal Farm all day. So with just fifteen minutes to go, I think it’s safe to assume the property is yours. I’ll give you a call just after five, so we can discuss how you want to deal with the paperwork.”
“That’s fine by me,” said Sloane, “but don’t be surprised if my line’s engaged when you call, because I’m currently involved in a deal that’s even bigger than Shifnal Farm.”
“But if someone was to make a bid between now and five—”
“That isn’t going to happen,” said Sloane. “Just make sure you send the contract round to Farthings first thing on Monday morning. There’ll be a check waiting for you.”
* * *
“It’s ten to five,” said Vic.
“Patience, child,” said the old man. “There is only one thing that matters when you’re trying to close a deal. Timing.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, although he was wide awake. He had told his secretary that under no circumstances was he to be disturbed between ten to five and ten past. Neither Vic nor Seb said another word.
Suddenly Saul’s eyes opened and he sat bolt upright. He checked that the two phones on his desk were placed exactly where he wanted them. At six minutes to five, he leaned forward and picked up the black phone. He dialed the number of an estate agent in Mayfair, and asked to speak to the senior partner.
“Mr. Kaufman, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Vaughan. “How can I help you?”
“You can start by telling me the time, Mr. Vaughan.”
“I make it five to five,” said a puzzled voice. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I wanted to be sure that you’re still open for bids on Shifnal Farm in Shropshire.”
“We most certainly are. But I must warn you that we already have an offer of one point six million pounds from another bank.”
“Then I bid one million, six hundred and ten thousand.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Vaughan.
“And what time do you make it now?”
“Three minutes to five.”
“Please hold on, Mr. Vaughan, there’s someone on the other line. I’ll only be a moment.” Kaufman placed the black receiver on his desk, picked up the red one and dialed a number.
After three rings a voice said, “Adrian Sloane.”
“Mr. Sloane, I’m calling back about the Nigerian oil bonds your bank is offering to selected investors. As I said earlier, it sounds a most exciting opportunity. What is the maximum amount that you’ll allow any one institution to invest?”
“Two million pounds, Mr. Kaufman. I’d offer you more, but the majority of the shares have already been taken up.”
“Can you just hold on while I consult one of my colleagues?”
“Of course, Mr. Kaufman.”
Saul placed the red phone back on his desk and picked up the black one. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Vaughan, but I must ask you once again, what time do you make it?”
“One minute to five.”
“Excellent. Would you now be kind enough to open your office door?”
Kaufman put the black receiver back down on his desk and picked up the red one. “My colleague is asking, if we were to invest the full two million, would that entitle us to a place on the board of the new company?”
“Most certainly,” said Sloane. “In fact, I could offer you two places, as you would own ten percent of the stock.”
“Allow me to consult my colleague again.” The red phone was placed back on the desk, and Kaufman picked up the black one.
“What did you find when you opened the door, Mr. Vaughan?”
“A messenger handed me an envelope containing a banker’s draft for one hundred and sixty-one thousand pounds.”
“The ten percent required to close the transaction. What time do you make it now, Mr. Vaughan?”
“Two minutes past five.”
“Then the deal is closed. And as long as I pay the remaining ninety percent within thirty days, Shifnal Farm is mine.”
“It most certainly is,” said Vaughan, unwilling to admit how much he was looking forward to telling Sloane that he’d lost the deal.
“Have a good weekend,” said Kaufman as he placed the black phone back on its cradle and returned to the red one.
“Mr. Sloane, I want to invest two million pounds in this most exciting project.” Kaufman wished he could see the look on Sloane’s face. “But unfortunately I couldn’t get my colleagues to agree with me, so sadly I’ll have to withdraw my offer. As you assured me the majority of the shares have already been taken up, I don’t suppose that will cause you too much of a problem.”