“Not if Bishara’s charged with unlawful possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply,” said Sloane.
“And if he’s found guilty,” asked Knowles, “how long could he be sent down for?”
“The minimum sentence is five years, according to the Times. I’m not too fussed about the maximum, because I’ll be chairman of Farthings long before then,” said Mellor.
“What do you think will happen to the two banks’ shares?”
“They’ll collapse, but we should hold fire for a few days until they bottom out,” said Mellor. “That’s when I intend to pick up another couple of percent, before I join the Farthings board. While the trial’s taking place I’ll position myself as a white knight who’s reluctantly willing to come to the rescue of the beleaguered shareholders. And after Bishara’s been found guilty, I’ll allow myself to be persuaded to return as chairman of Farthings in order to save the bank’s reputation.”
“Sebastian Clifton’s unlikely to just sit around twiddling his thumbs while all this is going on,” said Knowles.
“He’ll hang in there until Bishara’s convicted,” said Mellor. “And once I’m chairman, I’ll be the first to commiserate with him and say how sorry I am that he feels he also has to resign.”
*
Sebastian was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and, like the sixteenth president, was deep in thought. He would have returned to England that morning if the school had been willing to release Jessica’s paintings, but Miss Tomkins wouldn’t allow him to collect them until Sunday afternoon.
He had decided to go back to the school and have another look at Jessica’s work, but not before he had convinced himself it was unlikely that she or Samantha would return on a Saturday afternoon. Or did he actually hope they would?
He finally left Lincoln and went in search of Jefferson. He took a cab back to the school with the excuse he ought to pay off his debt as soon as possible. As he entered the exhibition hall, he was relieved to see how few parents were there; it was clear from the plethora of red dots that most of them must have attended the opening night. One fixture remained dutifully in place behind her desk. Seb walked across to Miss Tomkins and handed over a thousand dollars in cash.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure you’d like to know that several people were disappointed not to be able to get hold of any of Jessica’s paintings. Including her mother, who had wanted to buy My Father. She asked me who’d bought it, but of course I couldn’t tell her, because I didn’t know your name.”
Seb smiled. “Thank you. And if I may, I’ll collect them all tomorrow afternoon.”
He left Miss Tomkins to have another look at Jessica’s paintings. He took his time studying the half dozen works he now owned and, with the satisfaction of a seasoned collector, he ended up in front of My Father, which he had already decided would hang over the mantelpiece in his flat. He was just about to leave when a voice behind him said, “Are you looking in a mirror?”
Sebastian swung around to see his daughter, who immediately threw her arms around him and said, “What took you so long?”
It was rare for Sebastian to be struck speechless, but he just didn’t know what to say, so he clung onto her before she took a step back and grinned up at him. “Well, say something!”
“I’m so sorry,” he eventually managed. “You’re right. I did see you once, years ago, but I didn’t have the courage to say hello. I’ve been such a fool.”
“Well, we can at least agree on that,” said Jessica. “But then, to be fair, Mom hasn’t exactly covered herself in glory either.” Jessica took his hand and led him out of the room, continuing to chat as if they were old friends. “Actually, she’s just as much to blame as you are. I told her to get in touch with you after my stepfather died.”
“You never thought he was your father?”
“I may not be that good at math, but even I can work out that if I was six and they’d met only five years before…”
Seb laughed.
“Just after Michael died, Mom confirmed what I already knew, but I still couldn’t persuade her to get in touch with you.”
They walked around the park, arm in arm, dropped into a Farrell’s ice-cream parlor and shared a hot fudge sundae, while she chatted about her friends, her painting, her plans for the future. As he listened he wondered hopelessly how he could make up for all the lost years in a couple of hours.
“It’s getting late,” he said eventually, looking at his watch. “Won’t your mother be wondering where you are?”
“Sebastian,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, “I’m ten years old.”
“Well, if you’re so grown-up, what do you think I should do next?”
“I’ve taken care of that. You’re taking Mom and me to dinner at the Belvedere tonight. I’ve already made a reservation for three at seven thirty. Then all we’ll need to decide is if we’re going to live in London or Washington.”