something. If the bank'll let me have half a million I can do it. There's the house as security if they need it.”
“Well, Martin, if you can do that the US side of our problems might well be solved, and it's always possible that your insurance will cover that liability too although frankly I think it unlikely.”
“So do I. I'll get it all sorted tomorrow. What else do we need to do?”
“I will respond to Smithson's legal team and that matter will then take its natural course. You must, though, put your insurers on notice that they will be receiving a substantial claim as they may well wish to have a say in how we do our work, so as to minimise their exposure. And you must make the speediest possible arrangements to repay the film company.”
The solicitors departed, leaving behind them a very troubled couple. Martin took refuge in his library and Agnetta went out for a drive. Both found themselves in urgent need of some uninterrupted thinking time.
It was mid-afternoon the following day before Martin could see his bank manager. The atmosphere at home had been difficult; Agnetta was not exactly hostile, but was certainly cold towards her husband. It's the shock, he told himself, she'll get over it, we'll be all right. We were fine before we went to America, so we'll be fine now. He was even prepared to concede to himself that a million and a half was a lot of money, but hell, he'd earned it several times over and could do it again. It just didn't occur to him that he was the lucky beneficiary of some outrageously good fortune which was highly unlikely to happen again: in Martin's mind it was all down to his skill as a writer.
When he was shown into the manager's office Martin was relaxed and, he felt, in control. He was perhaps rather more relaxed than he should have been and explained, in no detail whatsoever, that he needed an increase in his overdraft to half a million pounds 'for film production purposes'. It might not have been strictly true, but it was at least related to the truth.
The manager stared at his computer screen, pressed a few buttons and sat back. “I don't think that'll be a problem. How long would you like the facility to last?”
“I think it may be as long as a year, perhaps a little longer.” Martin's casual, matter-of-fact manner came quite naturally.
“As long as we have some security I think we can oblige. The house, perhaps?”
“I think that would be easiest, yes.”
“Both you and your wife will sign the documents?”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“And when do you need access to the money?”
“Actually it's quite urgent, so straight away, really.”
“I can set it up for tomorrow, but there'll be a fee to pay. If that's not a problem I just need your wife's verbal confirmation that she'll sign on the dotted line.”
“She will,” Martin replied confidently, “just give her a call.”
The manager smiled as he picked up the phone and dialled Martin's home number. Martin sat back, relieved that he'd made the necessary arrangements to repay the film company. As the rest of the financial damage was covered by insurance he had no problems, did he?
He spotted the manager's face break into a wider smile; Agnetta must have answered. “Mrs Harrison, good afternoon. I have your husband here with me....... yes, yes....... he's asked for an increase in his overdraft facility which I'm happy to give....... half a million, for a year or so, which is why the Bank feels it necessary to ask for security....... Mr Harrison is offering the house as security........ yes, I'm aware that it's owned by you both jointly....... your husband tells me that you'd sign the paperwork........ I see........ yes, I see that too........ very well, Mrs Harrison, I agree, it is indeed your choice........ well, thank you for your time, a pleasure to talk to you, as always........ Goodbye Mrs Harrison.”
Very slowly and with a serious expression the manager settled the receiver back in its cradle.
Still looking serious he turned his face towards Martin to be met with an open, confident look of positive expectation.
“I'm very sorry, Mr Harrison, your wife is unwilling to sign the papers. She seems quite adamant. All I can suggest is that you go home and talk to her, then come and see me again when she is ready to support you.”
Martin was confused as he drove home after receiving news that he classified in his own mind as 'a bit of a surprise'. Why, he kept asking himself, would Agnetta not sign up? Why would she be difficult? She knew the position he was in, she'd been there when George Hadley had explained it all, so why would she put up any objections? A million and a half was a fair bit of money, he'd admit that, but it wasn't as if they couldn't afford it. It was just a minor obstacle, and hadn't he sorted out a way round it? Maybe she just didn't understand what 'security' meant, after all things might be different in Sweden. That must be it, she didn't understand what a minor thing it was. Once he explained that she'd come round, of course she would, then she'd want to apologise – and that would mean he'd enjoy bedtime that night!
“I'm home,” he shouted as he walked into the house.
Silence.
Martin looked outside again and only then noticed that Agnetta's car, which had been beside his when he went out, was not there. She'd gone out, obviously, and that was mighty strange because she knew he'd be home. Why wasn't she there to greet him, like she always was? She must have dashed out to the shops, he thought. She'll be back any minute.
A lot more than a minute passed before Agnetta reappeared, and it was a confusing reappearance for
Martin since she didn't arrive in her BMW and was instead in a big Volvo estate car. What's more, she emerged from the passenger seat. Martin assumed that her own, usually faultless car had somehow let her down and she'd found someone to bring her home.
That conclusion wasn't quite right.
Agnetta found Martin and sat down wordlessly. He wasn't sure what he should say, particularly as something about Agnetta was different: she looked serious and nervous. Nevertheless he spoke, but only managed to say 'Agnetta' before she silenced him.
“No, Martin, I need to speak. The man from the bank talked to me and what you are doing is wrong. The solicitor talked to us both and I don't think you believe that the situation you've put us in is serious. So I went out and spent time alone, thinking. Now I know what I want.
“It is over, Martin. We must sell the house, it will fetch a good price. I will take my share and start a new life somewhere else, you can do whatever you like. Then we divorce. I am taking some things now. My, friend, is waiting outside. I hope you will let him help me with my things. Then we go, you will not see me again. My lawyer will talk to your lawyer. Will you let my friend help me?”
Martin nodded, too shocked and numb to do anything else. Agnetta left the room; through the window Martin could see the Volvo, saw a much younger man get out and walk into the house – Martin's house – hand in hand with Agnetta. She smiled at him, just like she used to smile at Martin.
He wondered who the man was, if he was just a casual acquaintance helping Agnetta when she needed a hand, or if he was a lover, perhaps even the man to whom she was running with the great deal of money she would get from the house sale. It was all too much – in the silence tears ran down Martin's cheeks.
Agnetta was driven away. Martin would never see her again.
He spoke to local estate agents; the 'for sale' boards went up. He also spoke to George Hadley, instructing him to handle the divorce. George commiserated, of course, but also had to tell Martin that their day in court had been set. It was just two weeks away and that prompted George to make sure that Martin had put his insurers in notice. He hadn't, but promised to do so straight away.
In fulfilment of his promise Martin spoke to his insurance brokers; he could almost feel the tension rising in their office. The brokers undertook to tell the insurance company and they must have done just that with no delay at all because, within the hour, the insurers were on the phone to Martin wanting to make an appointment for someone to come out to Martin's house. He agreed, since h
e could do nothing else.
At the appointed time the next day – the insurance company were taking it seriously even if Martin believed it less important than the sudden collapse of his marriage – a figure in a well-cut business suit emerged from a grey Mercedes that had pulled up on Martin's drive. Martin, unshaven and dressed in unwashed casual clothes, let him in.
“Mr Harrison, pleased to meet you. I'm Alan Walker, here to help you in what I'm sure must be a stressful time.”
“Thank you,” Martin replied a little distractedly, “but as my marriage has just fallen apart this libel thing is a bit less than top priority.” He led his guest into his library and sat him down as he spoke.
“I'm so sorry,“ Walker replied, “but I hope I can take some of the strain off you. Now, tell me, how has this come about?”
That might have been what Walker said, but what Martin heard was 'tell me about your glorious career', so he did.
“It's my book – I wrote a spy thriller which my publisher thought was a cracking little read, and a copy found its way to a film company in LA. They bought the film rights and that movie's been seen by millions around the world. But it turns out that the villain of the story, called Steve Smithson, actually exists and lives where I said he does. This chap Smithson, the real one I mean, probably hasn't read the book but he's probably seen the film. Anyway he got upset and