To Be the Best

  She sighed with exasperation as she pressed her foot hard on the accelerator, and headed the Aston Martin in the direction of Leeds. Going to see Iris Rumford had been a waste of time.

  ***

  Paula spent most of the day working in her office at the Leeds store.

  Several times she went out onto the floor, but mostly she kept herself busy with paperwork. And she strove hard not to think about Jonathan Ainsley, the possible takeover bid on his part, or dwell on the frightening prospect of losing the stores to him.

  When she did become tense, she reminded herself that in the last forty-eight hours her stockbrokers and Charles Rossiter had between them managed to acquire another seven per cent of Harte shares on her behalf. They had bought them from nine small stockholders Emily and Michael had pinpointed on the computer printouts.

  Only three per cent, that’s all I need now, she kept saying under her breath whenever she needed to lift her sagging spirits. The words consoled her.

  At four o’clock she placed a pile of papers in her briefcase, locked her office and left the store. She usually stayed until six, even on Saturdays. But Emily was coming over to Pennistone Royal for dinner that evening, and Paula wanted to spend an hour with Patrick and Linnet before she arrived.

  It was a lovely September afternoon, very sunny, and Leeds had been busy all day. The traffic was heavy on Chapeltown Road as shoppers returned to the outskirts after a day in town. But Paula was an excellent driver; she dodged in and out between the other cars, was soon on the open road going to Harrogate.

  She was approaching the roundabout in Alwoodley when the Cellnet phone in her car rang. Reaching for it, she said, ‘Hello?’ half expecting it to be Emily.

  ‘Mrs O’Neill, it’s Doris at the store.’

  ‘Yes, Doris?’

  ‘I have a Mrs Rumford of Ilkley on another line,’ the switchboard operator said. ‘She insists it’s very urgent she speaks to you. Apparently you have her phone number.’

  ‘I do, Doris. But it’s in my briefcase. Please give her the car number, ask her to phone me at once. And thank you.’

  Only a few minutes after Paula had hung up, the car phone rang again. It was Iris Rumford, and she got straight to the point. ‘I wonder if you could come and see me tomorrow? To discuss those shares again.’

  ‘I really can’t, Mrs Rumford. I have to drive to London tomorrow. In any case, since you don’t want to sell, there doesn’t really seem to be much point, does there?’

  ‘I might reconsider your offer, Mrs O’Neill.’

  ‘Then why don’t I drive over now?’

  ‘All right,’ Iris Rumford agreed.

  ***

  ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ Iris Rumford was saying to Paula an hour later.

  Paula shook her head. ‘Should I? Do I know you?’ Her brows knitted together in perplexity. She fixed her gaze intently on the other woman. Iris Rumford was thin but sprightly, with silver hair and a ruddy complexion; she looked to be in her seventies. Paula was certain she did not know her. ‘Have we met?’ she asked with another frown.

  Iris Rumford sat back and returned Paula’s penetrating stare. At last, she said slowly, ‘No, we haven’t met. But you knew my brother. Or at least, you were acquainted with him.’

  ‘Oh,’ Paula said, lifting a black brow. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘John Cross.’

  This name so startled Paula she almost exclaimed out loud. She managed to say in a normal tone, ‘We met when he owned Cross Communications.’ As she spoke Paula thought of his late son, Sebastian, once her deadly enemy and Jonathan’s best friend. She realized immediately how Jonathan knew about Iris Rumford and the stock she owned in Harte’s.

  ‘You were very kind and courteous to my brother at the end of his life,’ Iris Rumford continued. ‘He told me about you when he was dying. He respected you, thought you were very fair. It was your other cousin, Mr Alexander Barkstone, that I met briefly, when my brother was in St James’s Hospital in Leeds.’ Iris Rumford looked into the fire. There was a short pause. ‘You and Mr Barkstone… well, you’re different from Jonathan Ainsley…’ She brought her eyes to Paula, half smiled.

  Paula waited, wondering what was coming next. When Mrs Rumford made no further comment, she said, ‘Yes, I do believe we are. I hope so. But sadly, Mr Barkstone is now dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ The old lady gazed into the flames again. She muttered, ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how people in families can differ so very much. He was wicked, evil, my nephew, Sebastian. I never had much time for him. John, of course, idolized him, the only son, the only child. But he killed my brother, drove him into his grave with all that wickedness. And Jonathan Ainsley was just as wicked. He hammered quite a few nails into my poor brother’s coffin. Bad lot, Sebastian and your cousin.’

  Suddenly, Iris swung her silver head, focused her eyes on Paula once more. ‘I wanted to meet you, Mrs O’Neill, to judge for myself what kind of person you are. That’s why I asked you to come this morning. You’re a sincere woman, I can tell that from your eyes. Anyway, I’ve never heard anything bad about you hereabouts. Mostly they say you’re like Emma Harte. She was a good woman. I’m glad you take after her.’

  Paula had no words. She held her breath. ‘And so, if it will help you personally, I will sell you my Harte shares.’

  For a moment Paula thought she might burst into tears. ‘Thank you, Mrs Rumford. It would help me, very much so. I would be most grateful if you sold them to me and not to my cousin.’

  ‘Oh I never intended to sell them to him. I just wanted… well, wanted to look him over again, satisfy myself that I’d always been right in my judgement. Also, I got a bit of satisfaction from dangling the carrot in front of him and then snatching it away.’ She shook her head. There was a shrewd glint in her wise old eyes. ‘When you both phoned me about selling the shares, I got a feeling he was out to make trouble for you. Well, never mind, he’ll get his comeuppance one day.’

  ‘Yes.’ Paula leaned forward, said, ‘I told you this morning I would purchase the shares at the price Jonathan Ainsley had offered. That still stands, of course.’

  ‘Good Lord, that doesn’t matter! I wouldn’t dream of holding you up, Mrs O’Neill.’

  Chapter 44

  Paula stood in front of the fireplace in her office at Harte’s in Knightsbridge, below the portrait of Emma. It was three-fifteen on Tuesday afternoon, and she was waiting for Jonathan Ainsley.

  Generally she wore black to work. Today she had chosen a bright red wool dress, simply tailored with long sleeves. She thought the colour was appropriate. It was strong, defiant, bold, and it echoed the way she felt.

  She had turned disadvantage to advantage. She had the upper hand. She was about to demolish her enemy.

  But when Jonathan appeared a few minutes later, she realized that he misguidedly believed she was going to capitulate to him. Everything about him indicated this. He sauntered in, his step jaunty, his demeanour arrogant, his smile superior.

  He halted in the middle of the floor.

  Adversaries, they did not greet each other.

  He said, ‘You sent a message. I’m here. You have something to say to me?’

  ‘You’ve lost!’

  He laughed in her face. ‘I never lose!’

  ‘Then this is a first for you.’ She lifted her head slightly, the gesture one of confidence and pride. ‘I’ve acquired additional Harte stock…’ She paused for effect. ‘I now hold fifty-two per cent.’

  This information threw him. He recovered himself. Displaying no emotion whatsoever, he sneered, ‘So what. I have forty-six per cent. I’m the second largest stockholder, and entirely within my rights in demanding a seat on the board. I shall do so formally today. Through my solicitors. I also fully intend to proceed with my takeover bid.’ His eyes swept over her coldly. ‘This will be my office in the not too distant future.’

  ‘I doubt it!’ she shot back. ‘Furthermore, you don’t
have forty-six per cent. Only twenty-six.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that I control the shares held in trust by Arthur Jackson for the Weston children?’

  ‘I forget nothing. And I am absolutely certain Arthur Jackson will not be doing business with you after today.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ His expression turned smug. ‘I have an agreement with him, with the law firm. A written agreement.’

  Paula took a step forward, reached for a manila envelope on the coffee table, stood holding it in her hands. She tapped it with a bright red fingernail. ‘When Arthur Jackson finishes reading this report, which was delivered to him an hour ago, I feel quite confident he will be shredding the agreement.’

  ‘What report is that?’ he asked, his expression now one of disdain.

  ‘An investigation into your life in Hong Kong.’

  He threw her a look of contempt, said with scorn, ‘You have nothing on me. I’m clean.’

  Paula studied him thoughtfully. ‘Funnily enough,’ she said after a short pause, ‘I’m inclined to believe you. But nobody else will.’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  Ignoring this question, she continued, ‘You have a partner in Hong Kong, a silent partner, one Tony Chiu, son of Wan Chin Chiu, who died last year. The man was your mentor, your adviser, and your silent partner from the moment you arrived in the Crown Colony. Pity the son’s not as honourable, reliable and honest as the father.’

  ‘My life and my business in Hong Kong have nothing to do with you!’ he spluttered. He was irate, trying to hold himself in check.

  ‘Oh yes it does. It has a great deal to do with me when you are trying to take over Harte’s.’

  ‘And I will take it over!’

  ‘No, you won’t!’ Her eyes narrowed, and she proceeded in a soft but deadly voice, ‘It was very interesting to discover that Tony Chiu has a sideline. A very profitable sideline. Drugs. He’s alleged to be the biggest dealer of opium in the Golden Triangle, with a huge network spreading through Laos and Thailand. Convenient, isn’t it, that he can apparently launder the drug money through Janus and Janus Holdings without anyone being the wiser about what he’s up to. What a wonderful front for him. But I wonder how the Hong Kong Government and the Hong Kong police would react, what they would do about it—if they knew the real facts.’

  He gaped at her. ‘You’re lying!’ he screamed. ‘That report you’re clinging onto for dear life is a pack of lies! Tony Chiu is not a drug dealer, he’s a respectable, and respected banker. And he certainly has not been using my company to launder drug money. I would know about it. He could not do a thing like that and hide it from me.’

  She smiled sardonically. ‘Don’t be naive. You have Chinese employees who are his men, placed there by him even when his father was alive. He hand picked them in readiness for the future, for the time he would take over his father’s banking concerns. And those men are his spies in your organization.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Your wife, Arabella, knows all about it. She is his business partner, has been for years. And he’s financed many of her businesses at various times, including the antique shop she now owns in Hong Kong. She, too, is his spy. That’s why she married you. To spy on you.’

  Jonathan was livid with rage, unable to speak coherently. He wanted to hit Paula O’Neill in the face for saying such unspeakable things about Arabella. He took several deep breaths, gasped angrily, ‘Someone with a vivid imagination has written a piece of fiction for you. It’s all lies, lies, lies!’ His breathing was ragged as he finished, ‘He is my silent partner, we are never seen together. My wife does not even know Tony Chiu.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  His lip curled and his pale eyes filled with hatred for her. He shifted his gaze to the portrait of Emma Harte above her head, and his loathing for the two of them intensified. ‘You bloody bitch!’ he hissed. ‘You’re just like that old cow used to be! I piss on her grave. I piss on yours!’ he cursed.

  His words denigrating her grandmother incensed Paula. She went in for the kill. With meticulous care, she said, ‘The beautiful Arabella Sutton, doctor’s daughter from Hampshire, is not quite what she seems to be. No doubt you are aware she lived in Paris for years. But did you know she was a “Claude girl”?’ Paula laughed coldly, taunted, ‘Don’t tell me a sophisticated man like you doesn’t know all about Madame Claude. She ran the most successful, indeed the finest, sex operation ever known in Paris. And until 1977.’

  Jonathan gaped at her. He was dumbfounded.

  ‘Arabella Sutton, your wife, was one of Madame Claude’s call girls. She went by the name Francine.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ he shouted. ‘Arabella is—’

  ‘Believe it,’ she shouted back. She flung the envelope at him. It landed at his feet. ‘The report and copies of certain official documents attached to it will make interesting reading for you.’

  Jonathan saw it out of the corner of his eye but he made no move to pick it up.

  Paula said in an icy voice, ‘Instead of trying to knock my house down, go and put your own in order.’

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He glanced at the envelope at his feet. He longed to show her what he thought about her report by walking away from it. But he could not. His overriding desire, his consuming need, to see the official documents she had just alluded to got the better of him. He bent down, picked it up, swung around and strode to the door.

  ‘I’ve won!’ Paula called after him. ‘And don’t you ever forget it!’

  He halted, looked back at her. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said.

  ***

  Paula walked back to her desk. She sat thinking for a while. There was one more thing she had to do to ensure complete success, but it required her to be utterly ruthless, more ruthless than Emma Harte had ever been. She was still balking at the idea. She glanced over at the portrait of her grandmother, then brought her eyes back to the photograph in the silver frame on her desk. It was of Shane and the children. They, too, were Emma’s heirs. She had to protect Harte’s for them, no matter what it took.

  Without any further hesitation, she reached for her private phone, dialled Sir Ronald on his direct line.

  He picked up the phone after two rings. ‘Kallinski here.’

  ‘Uncle Ronnie, it’s me again. Sorry to keep bothering you today.’

  ‘You’re not, my dear.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Has he left?’

  ‘Yes. Shaken, but not conceding anything. In fact, he was obviously determined to keep on fighting me. And so I will dispose of him in the way we discussed. A copy of the report will go to the authorities in Hong Kong. But honestly, Uncle Ronnie, I—’

  ‘No regrets, I hope, Paula.’

  ‘It’s such a ruthless thing to do. It makes me far more ruthless than Grandy ever was.’

  ‘That’s not true, my dear. Emma could be extremely ruthless, too, when there was something for her to be ruthless about… such as Harte’s, the business empire she built from nothing, and those she loved.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘I know I am,’ Sir Ronald murmured, speaking in a softer voice. ‘I told you last night that Jonathan Ainsley will never leave you alone, never be off your back. He’ll always keep trying to get the stores. That’s the nature of the man.’

  When she remained silent at the other end of the phone, Sir Ronald added, ‘You have no option but to stop him now. To protect yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I realize that, Uncle Ronnie.’

  ***

  He sat in the corner of Claridge’s foyer, where afternoon tea was being served. But he scarcely heard the rattle of tea cups, the violins, or the varied background noises. He was reading far too intently to notice anything.

  Jonathan had read the report twice.

  At first he had wanted to dismiss it as pure invention, a vindictive interpretation of the facts on someone else’s part, and especially the sections
about Tony Chiu. But now he was finding this difficult to do. There was too much genuine information included to dismiss the entire thing as bogus. He had been amazed to read a whole page about his affair with Lady Susan Sorrell. That had been such a clandestine relationship he could hardly believe his eyes when he had come across her name. He was convinced Susan would not have talked about their sexual relationship when it was in progress. Or after it finished. She was terrified of gossip and of invoking her husband’s wrath. Divorce from her rich banker was the last thing she wanted.

  He came out as clean as he had insisted he was to Paula O’Neill, despite the information about Tony, which disturbed and alarmed him. If it was actually true, then he could be implicated in something he knew nothing about. Janus and Janus could be in jeopardy, as he might be himself. It could turn out to be serious. He would have to fly back to Hong Kong as soon as possible, start his own investigation there.

  The thing which truly distressed him, however, was the detailed account of Arabella’s past. This was backed up with photostats of documents relating to her years in Paris. Her whole life in France had been tracked and meticulously recorded in these pages of typescript. There was no longer any question in his mind that she had used the name Francine, and that she had been one of Madame Claude’s girls. Quite aside from the documentation, there were so many other things which made him give credence to the report. There was her sexual expertise and knowledge, her overall attitude towards a man, which smacked of the courtesan’s trade, her sophistication, her worldliness, her elegance… Madame Claude’s girls had all been like her.

  Carefully sliding the papers back into the envelope, he got to his feet, hurried out to the lift. There was nothing productive he could do about Hong Kong at this moment, but he could go upstairs and confront the woman he was married to.

  As he rode up in the lift to the tenth floor, his suppressed anger bubbled up in him, spiralled into a terrible fury. He was ashen faced and shaking inside when he entered the suite. He went in quietly, but she heard him and came out into the foyer, smiling.