“An ideal bedfellow for Sloane and Knowles,” suggested Brook.
“Agreed,” said Seb, “and as you know, Sorkin has recently matched our bid of two million for Mellor Travel. However, I think it’s unlikely we’ll be treated as an equal.”
“But surely Sorkin can’t instigate a full-blooded takeover without Mellor’s backing,” said Cook’s lawyer.
“He doesn’t need to,” said Hakim, “because we’re not convinced that’s his purpose, as Seb will explain.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not the company that Sorkin is interested in,” said Seb. “Just the forty-two shops and offices, which have a book value of under two million pounds, whereas my property analyst has valued them at over five million.”
“So that’s his game,” said Dawson.
“I think he’ll be happy to sell off the properties without consulting Mellor,” said Arnold, “or even worrying about breaking the law, because I suspect Mr. Sorkin will have long since disappeared before the police catch up with him.”
“Can we do anything to stop him?” asked Brook.
“Yes,” said Seb. “Get hold of Mellor’s fifty-one percent, and sack Sloane.”
* * *
When a letter landed on Virginia’s doormat the following morning, she recognized the handwriting, and opened it to find another envelope inside addressed to Miss Kelly Mellor, but with no address attached, just a scribbled note:
Please be sure Kelly gets this. It’s most important. Desmond
Virginia immediately ripped open the second envelope and started to read a letter Desmond had written to his daughter.
Dear Kelly …
* * *
Sebastian was just about to get in the lift, when Arnold Hardcastle came running down the corridor toward him.
“Haven’t you got a wife and family to go home to?”
“Good news,” said Arnold, ignoring the comment. “Mellor has not only agreed to see us, he wants a meeting as soon as possible.”
“Excellent. Hakim will be delighted.”
“I’ve already spoken to the prison governor, and he’s agreed that a legal meeting can be held in the prison at twelve tomorrow.”
“Hakim will want to be there.”
“God forbid,” said Arnold. “He’d probably end up strangling the man, and who could blame him? No, you should represent Farthings. After all, it was you he asked to see when he came up with his original proposal. I’d also suggest that Ray Brook be present, so Mellor realizes the bid’s serious. One chairman to another. He’ll be impressed by that.”
“That makes sense,” agreed Seb.
“Do you have anything scheduled for tomorrow morning?”
“If I do,” said Seb, opening his pocket diary, “it’s about to be canceled.”
* * *
Virginia had been in touch with Kelly Mellor’s mother, but she wasn’t at all cooperative. She probably thought Virginia was Mellor’s latest girlfriend. However, she did reveal that the last time she’d heard from her daughter she was somewhere in Chicago, but admitted she’d lost touch with her.
* * *
At eleven o’clock the following morning, Sebastian, Arnold and Ray Brook climbed into the back of a taxi, and Seb instructed the driver to take them to HMP Belmarsh. The cabbie didn’t look pleased.
“Not much chance of a return fare,” Arnold explained.
“Why so early?” asked Brook.
“You’ll find out why when you get there,” replied Arnold.
The three of them discussed tactics on their way to the prison, and agreed that their first priority was to put Mellor at ease and make him feel they were on his side.
“Keep mentioning Sloane and Knowles,” said Seb, “because I’m confident he’d rather deal with us than them.”
“I don’t think he would have agreed to see us,” said Brook as the cab left the city and headed east, “unless we were in with a chance.”
By the time the cab drew up outside the vast forbidding green gates of HMP Belmarsh, they each knew the role they were expected to play. Arnold would open the proceedings and attempt to persuade Mellor that they were the good guys, and when Seb felt the moment was right, he would make him an offer of £1.5 million for his shares. Brook would confirm that the money would be deposited in his account the moment he signed the share transfer and that, as a bonus, Sloane and Knowles would be sacked before close of business that day. Seb was beginning to feel more confident.
When the three of them entered the prison they were escorted to the gatehouse and thoroughly searched. Brook’s key-ring pocket knife was immediately seized. The chairman of Cook Travel may have visited almost every country on earth, but it was clear he’d never entered a prison before. They left all their valuables, even their belts, with the desk sergeant, and, accompanied by two other officers, made their way across the square to A Block.
They passed through several barred gates, unlocked then locked behind them, before arriving at an interview room on the first floor. The clock on the wall showed five to twelve. Brook no longer needed to ask why they had set out so early.
One of the duty officers opened the door to allow the three men to enter a rectangular room with glass walls. Although they were left alone, two officers stationed themselves outside, looking in. They were there to make sure no one passed any drugs, weapons, or money to the prisoner. Nothing gave the screws greater pleasure than arresting a lawyer.
The three visitors took their seats around a small square table in the center of the room, leaving a vacant chair for Mellor. Arnold opened his briefcase and extracted a file. He took out a share-transfer certificate and a three-page agreement, the wording of which he checked once again before placing it on the table. If all went to plan, by the time they left the prison in an hour’s time, there would be two signatures on the bottom line.
Seb couldn’t stop staring at the clock on the wall, aware that they would only be allowed an hour to close the deal and sign all the necessary legal documents. The moment the minute hand reached twelve, a man in a green bow tie, striped shirt, and tweed jacket walked into the room. Arnold immediately stood and said, “Good morning, governor.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hardcastle. I’m sorry to have to inform you that this meeting is no longer able to take place.”
“Why?” demanded Seb, leaping to his feet.
“When the wing officer unlocked Mellor’s cell at six o’clock this morning, he found his bed upended, and he’d hanged himself using a sheet as a noose.”
Seb collapsed back into his chair.
The governor paused to allow them all to take in the news, before adding matter-of-factly, “Sadly, suicides are all too common at Belmarsh.”
* * *
When Virginia read the paragraph reporting Mellor’s suicide on page 11 of The Evening Standard, her first thought was that another source of income had dried up. But then she had a second thought.
17
“IT’S SO RARE nowadays to have the family all together for the weekend,” said Emma, as they strolled into the drawing room after dinner.
“And we all know who’s to blame for that,” said Sebastian. “I only hope you’re still enjoying the job.”
“Enjoying would be the wrong word. But not a day goes by when I don’t think how lucky I am, and how a chance meeting with Margaret Thatcher changed my whole life.”
“What’s it like working for the PM?” asked Samantha, pouring herself a coffee.
“To be honest, I don’t get to see her that often, but whenever I do, she seems to know exactly what I’ve been up to.”
“And what have you been up to?” asked Seb as he joined his wife on the sofa.
“The new National Health Bill is about to leave the Commons and come to the Lords. It will be my job to steer it through the House clause by clause, before sending it back to the Commons, with I hope not too many opposition amendments attached.”
“That won’t be easy with Giles trying to trip you
up at every turn,” said Grace, “though I expect you’ll catch him out on the detail.”
“Maybe, but he’s still one of the finest debaters in either House, even though he’s been relegated to the backbenches.”
“Has he given up any hope of rejoining the shadow cabinet?” asked Samantha.
“I think the answer to that has to be yes, because Michael Foot can’t have been pleased with his outspoken remarks following the donkey jacket incident.”
“Turning up at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday wearing a donkey jacket revealed a certain lack of political nous,” suggested Seb.
“Just a pity Giles couldn’t keep his mouth shut on the subject,” said Grace, as Emma handed her a coffee.
“The front bench’s loss is our gain,” said Seb. “Since Giles has rejoined the board of Farthings, he’s opened doors we didn’t have a key to.”
“Joining the board of a City bank is something else that won’t have endeared him to Michael Foot,” said Emma. “So I don’t suppose we’ll see him on the front bench again until the Labour Party has a new leader.”
“And possibly not even then,” suggested Seb. “I’m afraid the next generation may well consider Giles a bit of a dinosaur, and, to quote Trotsky, consign him to the dustbin of history.”
“You couldn’t get a dinosaur into a dustbin,” said Harry from a corner chair no one else would have dreamed of sitting in. The rest of the family burst out laughing.
“Enough of politics,” said Emma, turning to Samantha. “I want to know what Jessica’s been up to, and why she hasn’t joined us for the weekend.”
“I think she’s got a boyfriend,” said Sam.
“Isn’t she a bit young?” said Harry.
“She’s sixteen going on twenty,” Seb reminded his father.
“Have you met him?” asked Emma.
“No. In fact, we’re not even meant to know about him,” said Sam. “But when I was tidying her room the other day, I couldn’t avoid seeing a drawing of a handsome young man on the wall beside her bed, where a poster of Duran Duran used to be.”
“I still miss my daughter,” said Harry wistfully.
“There are times when I’d be only too happy to give you mine,” said Seb. “Last week I caught her trying to slip out of the house wearing a mini skirt, pink lipstick, and high heels. I sent her back upstairs to remove the lipstick and change. She locked herself in her room and hasn’t spoken to me since.”
“What do you know about the boy?” asked Harry.
“We think his name is Steve, and we know he’s the captain of the school football team,” said Sam. “So I suspect Jessica is waiting in a long queue.”
“I don’t think Jessie does queues,” said Grace.
“And my other grandchild?” asked Emma.
“Jake’s now walking without actually falling over,” said Sam, “and spends most of his time heading for the nearest exit, so frankly he’s a handful. I’ve put on hold any idea of going back to work for the time being, as I can’t bear the thought of handing over the little fellow to a nanny.”
“I admire you for that,” said Emma. “I sometimes wonder if I should have made the same decision.”
“I agree,” said Seb, leaning on the marble fireplace. “I’m a classic example of someone who had a deprived upbringing, and ended up depraved.”
“Gee, Officer Krupke,” said Harry.
“I had no idea you were that with it, Dad,” said Seb.
“I took your mother to see West Side Story at the Bristol Old Vic on our wedding anniversary. And if you haven’t seen it, you should.”
“Seen it,” said Seb. “Farthings Kaufman is the show’s biggest backer.”
“I’d never thought of you as an angel,” said Harry. “And I certainly didn’t see any mention of it in your latest portfolio report.”
“I put half a million of our clients’ money into the show, but considered it too high a risk for the family, even though I had a dabble myself.”
“So we missed out,” said Grace.
“Mea culpa,” admitted Seb. “You ended up with a 7.9 percent annual return on your capital, while my other clients managed 8.4 percent. West Side Story turned out to be a slam-dunker, to quote the American producer, who keeps sending me a check every quarter.”
“Perhaps you’ll put us into your next show,” said Emma.
“There isn’t going to be a next show, Mama. It didn’t take much research to discover I’d been blessed with beginner’s luck. Seven West End shows out of ten lose every penny for their investors. One in ten just about breaks even, one makes a worthwhile return, and only one in a hundred doubles its money, and they’re usually the ones you can’t get into. So I’ve decided to quit show business while I’m ahead.”
“Aaron Guinzburg tells me the next big hit will be something called Little Shop of Horrors,” said Harry.
“Farthings won’t be investing in a horror show,” said Seb.
“Why not?” said Emma. “After all, you tried to invest in Mellor Travel.”
“Still am,” admitted Sebastian.
“So what did you invest in?” asked Emma.
“ICI, Royal Dutch Shell, British Airways, and Cunard. The only risk I took on your behalf was to buy a few shares in a fledgling bus company called Stagecoach, and you’ll be pleased to know one of the founders is a woman.”
“And they’ve already shown a good return,” said Harry.
“I’m also considering picking up a sizable holding in Thomas Cook, but only if we succeed in taking over Mellor Travel.”
“I never cared much for Desmond Mellor,” admitted Emma. “But even I felt sorry for the man when I heard he’d committed suicide.”
“Barry Hammond isn’t convinced it was suicide.”
“Neither am I,” said Harry. “If William Warwick were on the case, he’d point out that there were far too many coincidences.”
“Like what?” asked Seb, always fascinated by how his father’s mind worked.
“For a start, Mellor is found hanged in his cell during a takeover battle for his company. And at the same time, Adrian Sloane, the chairman of the company, disappears without trace.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Emma.
“You’ve had more important things on your mind,” said Harry, “than reading the Bristol Evening Post, and to be fair, I wouldn’t have known about Mellor either if the local rags hadn’t been obsessed with it. ‘Bristol businessman commits suicide in high-security prison’ was a typical headline. And whenever the chairman of Mellor Travel is asked to make a statement on behalf of the company, all we get is that he’s ‘unavailable for comment.’ Even more curious, Jim Knowles, who’s described as the interim chairman, keeps trying to assure any anxious shareholders that it’s business as usual, and that he’ll be announcing some exciting news in the near future. Three unlikely coincidences, and certainly William Warwick would want to track down Adrian Sloane in case he could throw any light on the mystery of Mellor’s death.”
“But the governor of Belmarsh was convinced it was suicide,” said Seb.
“Prison governors always say that whenever there’s a death on their patch,” said Harry. “So much more convenient than murder, which would mean setting up a Home Office inquiry that could take up to a year to report its findings. No, there’s something missing in this case, although I haven’t fathomed out yet what it is.”
“Not something,” said Seb, “someone. Namely Mr. Conrad Sorkin.”
“Who’s he?” asked Grace.
“A shady international businessman, who until now I’d assumed was working with Sloane.”
“Does Sorkin run a travel company?” asked Emma. “If he does, I’ve never come across him.”
“No, Sorkin isn’t interested in Mellor Travel. He just wants to get his hands on the shops and offices the company owns so he can make a quick profit.”
“That’s one piece of the jigsaw I wasn’t aware of,” said Harry. “But it might ex
plain another coincidence that’s been nagging away at me, namely the role played in this affair by a Mr. Alan Carter.” Everyone in the room stared at Harry in rapt silence, not wanting to interrupt the storyteller. “Alan Carter is a local estate agent, who up until now has only played a minor role in this whole saga. But in my view, his evidence might well prove crucial.” Harry poured himself another cup of coffee and took a sip before he continued. “So far Carter has only merited the occasional paragraph in the Bristol Evening News, for example when he told the paper’s crime reporter that Mellor’s Bristol flat was on the market. I assumed he’d done so simply to get some free publicity for his firm and a better price for his client’s property. Nothing wrong with that. But it was his second statement, made a few days after Mellor’s death, which I found far more intriguing.”
“Turn the page, turn the page,” demanded Seb.
“Carter told the press, without explanation, that Mellor’s flat had been sold, but that he had been instructed by his client to hold back part of the sale money in escrow. What I’d like to know is how much he was asked to hold back, and why he didn’t send the full amount to Mellor’s executors and leave them to decide who was entitled to the money.”
“Do you think Carter will be working on a Saturday morning?” asked Seb.
“It’s always the busiest morning of the week for an estate agent,” said Harry. “But that wasn’t the question you should have asked me, Seb.”
“You are maddening at times,” said Emma.
“Agreed,” said Seb.
“So what’s the question Seb should have asked?” said Grace.
“Who is Desmond Mellor’s next of kin?”
* * *
Sebastian was standing outside Hudson and Jones on the Commercial Road at five to nine the following morning. Three agents were already seated behind their desks waiting for the first customers.
When the doors opened, a neatly printed sign on one of the desks announced which agent was Mr. Alan Carter. Seb sat down opposite a young man wearing a pinstriped suit, white shirt, and green silk tie. He gave Seb a welcoming smile.
“Are you a buyer, a seller, or possibly both, Mr.—”