‘Not at all.’
While they waited for the arrival of the room butler with the tea trolley they discussed the weather, which they agreed was very pleasant for this time of the year, and the run-up to the American presidential elections. Bunter was a solid Republican and Hector inclined more towards him. Jo poured the coffee and when they all had their bone-china cups Bunter looked across the table at Hector.
‘Shall we continue, Mr Cross?’ Bunter went on without waiting for his reply. ‘You are aware that I am the senior trustee of the Henry Bannock Family Trust in as much as I have the casting vote on the board?’
‘Yes, my wife explained that to me.’
‘Your wife was one of the beneficiaries of the Trust.’
‘How many other beneficiaries are there?’ Hector fired a ranging shot, and Bunter ducked it.
‘I am not at liberty to disclose that information.’ The twinkle was gone from his eyes and his expression was stony. Hazel had told him this would happen but he had to test it for himself. Bunter went on. ‘Your wife had the lifetime use of some of the Trust assets. Those do not form part of her estate. They must be returned to the control of the Board of Trustees.’
‘Yes, she warned me about that also. You will have my full cooperation.’
Bunter’s expression lightened slightly. ‘Thank you, Mr Cross. Would you also be able to provide us with a copy of Mrs Bannock-Cross’s death certificate? It would save a great deal of trouble.’
‘Yes, I can do that immediately.’ Hector opened his briefcase and took from it a transparent plastic folder. He extracted the document and slipped it across the table. Bunter perused it briefly.
‘You are very efficient, Mr Cross.’
‘I think you will also require the birth certificate of my wife’s daughter?’ Hector took another document from the plastic folder.
‘Thank you, but we do have originals of both Cayla Bannock’s birth certificate and her death certificate on file.’
‘No. I was not referring to Cayla Bannock. I was talking about Catherine Cayla Bannock-Cross.’
Bunter looked startled.
Score one to me, sir, Hector thought with satisfaction. He guessed that it was not easy to win a point from this little man.
Bunter recovered swiftly. ‘I beg your pardon, but I do not follow you, Mr Cross. Your wife had only one daughter, surely?’
Hector enjoyed his discomfort for a few moments. Then he told him, ‘Five hours before my wife’s death she gave birth, by Caesarean section, to a baby girl. She wanted this child to be named Catherine Cayla. Here is Catherine’s birth certificate.’
Bunter reached across the table and took the document from his hand. He studied it avidly, muttering to himself. ‘Extraordinary. What a remarkable turn of events. A spark of beauty lighting for an instant the dun and gloomy clouds of tragedy.’ Then he looked up at Hector, and he actually smiled. ‘I do congratulate you as the father, Mr Cross.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bunter.’ Hector returned his smile, and then he felt a light touch on his arm. He looked down and saw that Jo Stanley had leaned forward and placed a hand on his forearm. ‘I am so very happy for you. I know that Catherine will be a great consolation for you,’ she said as if she truly meant it.
Bunter went on speaking. ‘This is of the greatest significance to the Trust. Catherine will be a full beneficiary.’
‘Even if she is not a blood relative of Henry Bannock’s?’ Hector was drawing him out again.
‘No doubt about it,’ Bunter said. ‘Henry was a remarkable man. One of the finest men I have ever known. There was nothing small or mean about him. From now on until the end of her days the Trust will be fully responsible for all your daughter’s needs, no matter how large or how small. You must send the invoices to us, and if you are unable to provide invoices then brief descriptions of her needs and an estimate of the cost will suffice. The Trust will reimburse you immediately. When she grows old enough to seek paid employment of any kind, the Trust will quadruple her earnings. This will apply for her entire lifetime.’
‘Yes, Henry Bannock was an impressive man. I met him on a few occasions in the line of duty. He gave me the job as head of security at Bannock Oil,’ Hector agreed.
‘Yes, I know. He mentioned your name. He liked you,’ Bunter replied.
‘That is truly gratifying,’ Hector said.
Bunter glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Twenty after six. I suppose it is still rather early, but shouldn’t we wet your daughter’s head to welcome her into this wicked world?’ He did not wait for a reply but turned to Jo Stanley. ‘Jo, my dear, I think I saw a bottle of Dom Pérignon in the minibar.’
Hector drank the flute of champagne slowly. The company was pleasing and he was reluctant to return to the empty hall. He was surprised when Bunter invited him to stay for dinner. The three of them dined in the splendour of the Ritz restaurant. Bunter was a gracious host; Jo Stanley was a good listener. It was not an occasion for merriment, but once she laughed at something Hector said, and her laughter was even more musical than her speaking voice. When Hector left, they both walked with him to the front door of the hotel. Although it had been a friendly dinner they were not yet on first-name terms. It was still Mr Cross, Mr Bunter and Miss Stanley.
When they shook hands Bunter told Hector, ‘Jo and I are flying back to Houston tomorrow, but remember I am always just a phone call away if Catherine Cayla should require anything.’
When Hector offered Jo Stanley his hand in farewell she took it without hesitation. Once again her beauty registered fleetingly in the recesses of his mind. But there was nothing subjective in it. It was like noticing a passing cloud or a blooming rose. The doorman was holding open the door of the Bentley for him. He turned away from her, slipped behind the wheel and drove away without looking back in the rear-view mirror.
*
The next morning Hector had with him Bonnie Hepworth and both the junior nurses when he arrived at the hospital in the Range Rover. They were fully equipped with carry cot, feeding bottles, packets of spare nappies and all the other paraphernalia necessary to support a single infant.
There was a small reception committee waiting for them in the maternity department. All the duty nurses had turned out to see Catherine off and to catch a last glimpse of her father. Hector carried his daughter out to the car with the rest of Catherine’s entourage trailing behind him. When they arrived back at Brandon Hall the entire household staff headed by Agatha and Reynolds were lined up under the portico to welcome them.
With appropriate ceremony Catherine was displayed to the company, and she immediately puked up half her bottle over her embroidered nightdress and the lapel of her father’s jacket. Hector was thoroughly alarmed and wanted to rush her back to the hospital. Nurse Bonnie managed to dissuade him.
‘That’s what babies do, Mr Cross.’
‘Well then, I wish she didn’t have to do it over me.’
Once Catherine was installed in her new quarters the big house came to life again with the constant excited bustle and the sound of female laughter. However, Hector seemed to stand apart from it all.
In her will Hazel had stipulated that in the event of her death she wished to be cremated as expeditiously as was possible. But the coroner would not release her body until the results of the post mortem examination were known. Hector lay awake at night tortured by images of the indignity and mutilation being perpetrated on the corpse of the lovely woman he would love for the rest of his life. It seemed an interminable wait, but eventually her remains were returned into his keeping.
Hector had wanted the cremation to be a very private ceremony but during the delay the news of her death had spread far and wide. Several hundred people had flown in from around the world to pay their last respects to her. In addition, the entire household staffs of both Brandon Hall and the Belgravia home wished to attend. The chapel was almost full. However, Hector was still trying to keep private the fact of the birth of Catherine Cayla. He left
her in the care of her nurses.
Hazel’s coffin was closed. Hector had visited her in the funeral home the previous evening and he did not want her cold pale face exposed to all those curious eyes. He sat alone in the first row of pews. The chapel was filled with white arum lilies. A priest Hector had never met before read the service. Hector’s face remained expressionless as the clergyman pressed the button to send her coffin trundling along the conveyor and through the doors that slid aside to receive her. When the doors closed he stood up and walked back down the aisle. He looked straight ahead without acknowledging any other person in the crowded chapel.
That night he sat alone at the long dining-room table in Brandon Hall and drank two bottles of claret, seeking a state of oblivion. He remained sober but with every glass of wine he consumed his anger burned higher until it became a raging inferno that threatened to consume him.
*
When he awoke the next morning he was sober and he had his anger under control. He took three aspirin and cleaned his teeth vigorously, his cure for a hangover. He showered and dressed. Then he went down to his study. The maid had left The Times on his desk. It was lying face-up so he could read the front-page headline from across the room. For a moment he was frozen with horror, then he roused himself and crossed the study with a few quick strides. He snatched up the paper.
Murdered Woman Gives Birth On Her Deathbed
It has emerged that mortally wounded billionaire heiress Hazel Bannock-Cross gave birth to a daughter five hours before she died from an assassin’s bullet. The infant is in good health and was discharged last Thursday from the Royal Hampshire County Hospital in Winchester into the care of her father, Mr Hector Cross of Brandon Hall near Smallbridge in Hampshire …
Hector’s eyes darted down the page. The story was all there, and the facts were essentially correct. He crumpled the news-sheet into a ball and hurled it against the wall.
‘Bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Bloody bastards!’ He turned and ran back into the passage and up the stairs two at a time to the next floor. He burst into the nursery and then checked himself in the doorway. Catherine lay stark naked and tummy down on the table. She was waving her legs in the air as Bonnie stooped over her, sprinkling her pink bottom with white talcum powder.
‘Mr Cross!’ she gasped with shock. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ Hector backed away. ‘I just wanted to check on something. Is everything all right?’
Bonnie smiled. ‘Oh, yes. We have just finished up our entire bottle and done a lovely big poo.’ Her use of the plural conjured up a macabre image in Hector’s mind.
‘That’s good. That’s very good. Now listen to me, Bonnie. I want you to pack up everything here. We are moving up to the London house right away.’ The press had broadcast Catherine’s birth to the world. The Beast would know exactly where to find them.
‘Pack everything?’ Bonnie stared at him incredulously. ‘But we only just got here! Do you really want us to do that, sir?’
‘Yes, I really want you to do that. Just make sure you are ready to leave by one o’clock this afternoon.’
Hector left them and went back to his study. He picked up the internal phone and called the head gamekeeper’s cottage. ‘Paul, I want all the gates to the estate closed and locked. Put one of your underkeepers on guard at every entrance. They must all carry their shotguns. No stranger is allowed onto the estate. Do you understand?’
‘What about deliveries from the village, Mr Cross? We are expecting a van from Farnham’s with feed for the pheasant chicks.’
‘Make sure they know the driver by sight. No strangers.’ He dropped the phone back on its hook and looked around the room, making a list of the few items that he wanted to take up with him to London. There was not much. With her usual attention to detail, Hazel had duplicated most of the contents of the two houses. In most instances it was a case of walk out and walk in. Even Catherine had her own nursery waiting for her there. If only they had stayed in London on the fatal day, they would never have run into the ambush and perhaps she might still be alive. He wondered bitterly what was the title of the book she had wanted to collect from Brandon Hall that day.
He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the Belgravia house in London. The butler answered. ‘You have reached the Cross residence. How may I assist you?’
‘Morning, Stephen.’
‘Ah, Mr Cross! How are you, sir? We have all been so distressed about Mrs Cross. Thank you for inviting us to the service.’
‘Thank you, Stephen,’ Hector replied gruffly. ‘I will be arriving this afternoon with the new baby and her nurses. We will be staying for an indefinite period. Please have everything ready for our arrival.’
When they left Brandon Hall the gates to the estate were locked and Paul Stowe, the head keeper, was on guard with his shotgun under his arm. Hector rolled down the side window of the Range Rover to speak to him. Paul had served with the SAS, which was Hector’s old regiment. In Afghanistan he had been badly wounded in a firefight with the Taliban and after leaving hospital he was discharged from the army. Hector had not hesitated when Paul applied for the gamekeeper’s job, and he had never had any reason to regret the decision. Hector reinforced his instructions to keep the gates locked and allow no strangers into the grounds. Then they drove on and in the rear-view mirror he watched Paul close the heavy steel barred gates behind them. He drove into the underground parking garage at No. 11 in Belgravia three hours later. Hector had moderated his speed to give Catherine a smooth ride.
When Hector visited the nursery an hour after their arrival he found Catherine fed, burped and tucked up in her cot fast asleep. He relaxed for the first time that day.
*
One of the items he had brought with him from Brandon Hall was his favourite portrait of Hazel. He hung it on its hook facing his desk in the study before he even switched on his desktop computer.
As soon as the computer booted he logged on to his Gmail account. Near the top of the column of incoming messages was the one he had been keenly anticipating.
Nastiya and I arrive Emirates flight EK 005 at 1800 hours GMT this Thursday. Heathrow Terminal 3. Can you meet please? I have news. Paddy.
Twenty-four hours later when the two of them came through the arrivals gate Hector was waiting for them. Paddy’s craggy face was tanned cocoa brown. Nastiya’s face and bare arms were a glowing shade between copper and gold. They both looked fit and vital. Hector embraced each of them in turn. Their bodies were hard and lithe as those of trained athletes, which of course they were.
‘You are staying with me at Number Eleven,’ he told them.
‘I hoped you would say that,’ Nastiya replied. ‘It’s good to be treated like a duchess for a change.’
‘You are no duchess, Nazzy. You are a tsarina.’
‘What kind of bullshit you must speak all times, Hector Cross?’ She tried to look haughty, but she failed. Hector knew she secretly loved it when he called her that. She kissed both his cheeks.
They piled their luggage into the Range Rover. Paddy sat in the front passenger seat and Nastiya took the seat behind him. Hector suppressed a smile as he thought about how when Nastiya was not kicking the guts out of somebody who had annoyed her, she was convincingly playing the role of a subservient wife.
As soon as they were alone, both Paddy and Nastiya reiterated their commiserations on Hazel’s murder and spoke of their determination to revenge her. Hector responded awkwardly, maintaining a brave face with difficulty. It was a relief to all three of them when their conversation became more relaxed and commonplace. They had not been with each other for a while and so they exchanged news of their mutual friends and acquaintances and Paddy brought Hector up to date with the activities of Cross Bow Security.
Once they hit the motorway the traffic was light and Hector could give his full attention to the important issues.
‘So you say that you have news for me, Paddy? Good or bad?’
‘Good and bad. I’ll give you the good gen first. Nazzy has found a perfect safe house for your Catherine. As you suggested, it’s the entire top floor of one of Prince Mohammed’s new beachfront developments in Abu Zara. It is served by a private lift. It also has a helicopter landing pad and a swimming pool on the roof. There is plenty of space for a good security team on the site. We can make it impregnable. That’s the good gen.’
‘And the bad?’ Hector raised an eyebrow.
‘Princey wants one hundred and twenty million US for an outright sale, cash on signature of contract.’
‘Jesus!’ Hector exclaimed, and Paddy shook his head in disagreement.
‘Jesus isn’t involved in this deal. Princey doesn’t believe in him.’
‘Will he rent it to us?’
‘Yes, he will. But that’s not much of an improvement. He wants fifteen mill for a one-year rental. That’s his best price for good friends, or so he says.’
Hector thought quickly.
‘He has got us by the testicles,’ he said at last.
‘Not me, he hasn’t,’ Nastiya said smugly.
‘Can’t you keep that woman of yours under control, Paddy?’ Hector asked and relapsed into silence again while he pondered the problem. Ronald Bunter had assured him that the Bannock Trust would foot all Catherine’s expenses. This wasn’t a luxury, it was a necessity. It was for Catherine’s safety; probably her very survival was at stake. Now was the time to put old Ronnie’s word to the test. If Bunter refused, Hector was determined that he would pick up the tab himself. God knows, Hazel had left him enough ‘small change’ to do the job, and then some. Catherine had to be moved to the safe house, and price didn’t come into the reckoning.
‘We have to take it. One year should see us running free. How soon can we move in?’ he asked Paddy.
‘Pretty much right away. Furnishings and fittings are included in Princey’s price. The property is highly liveable as it stands. You can add the finishing touches once we get Catherine safely installed. How long will it take you to get her down to Abu Zara?’