Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (37 page)

Twenty minutes, and although the platform was now crowded with latecomers, porters by their sides wheeling heavy bags, there was still no sign of Señor Diego Martinez. Sebastian began to
despair when he saw the guard step out of the rear carriage, green flag in one hand, whistle in the other. Seb looked up at the vast black minute hand on the clock that bounced forward every sixty
seconds. 10.22. Was all the work Cedric had put in going to be for nothing? He’d once told Sebastian that when you set out on a project, always be willing to accept that a one-in-five success
rate is par for the course. Was this going to fall into the ‘four out of five’ category? His thoughts turned to Ross Buchanan; was he waiting at Glenleven Lodge for someone who
wasn’t going to turn up? He then thought about his mother, who had more to lose than any of them.

And then a man appeared on the platform who caught his eye. He was carrying a suitcase, but Sebastian couldn’t be sure if it was Diego, because the stylish brown trilby and upturned velvet
collar of his long black coat hid his face. The man walked straight past third class and towards the front of the train, which gave Sebastian a little more hope.

A porter was walking down the platform towards him, slamming the first-class carriage doors shut one by one: bang, bang, bang. When he spotted the approaching man, he stopped and held a door
open for him. Sebastian stepped out of the shadow of the clock and tried to get a better look at his quarry. The man with the suitcase was just about to step on to the train when he turned and
looked up at the clock. He hesitated. Sebastian froze, and then the man stepped on board. The porter slammed the door closed.

Diego had been among the last passengers to board the train, and Sebastian didn’t move as he watched
The Night Scotsman
make its way out of the station, slowly gathering speed as
it set out on the long journey to Edinburgh.

He shivered as he experienced a moment of apprehension. Of course Diego couldn’t have seen him at that distance, and, in any case, Sebastian was looking for him, not the other way round.
He walked slowly across to the phone booths on the far side of the concourse, coins ready. He dialled a number that went straight through to the chairman’s desk. After only one ring, a
familiar gruff voice came on the line.

‘He almost missed the train, turned up at the very last moment. But he’s now on his way to Edinburgh.’ Sebastian heard a pent-up sigh being released.

‘Have a good weekend, my boy,’ said Cedric. ‘You’ve earned it. But make sure you’re in the office by eight on Monday morning, because I have a particular job for
you. And do try to steer clear of any art galleries over the weekend.’

Sebastian laughed, put the phone down and allowed his thoughts to return to Sam.

As soon as he had hung up on Sebastian, Cedric dialled the number Ross Buchanan had given him. A voice on the other end of the line said, ‘Cohen.’

‘The sale is on. What was the closing price in London?’

‘Two pounds and eight shillings,’ said Cohen. ‘Up a shilling on the day.’

‘Good, then I’ll be placing all three hundred and eighty thousand shares on the market, and I want you to sell them at the best possible price, remembering that I need to be rid of
them by the time the London Stock Exchange opens on Monday morning.’

‘Understood, Mr Hardcastle. How often would you like me to report to you over the weekend?’

‘Eight o’clock on Saturday morning and at the same time on Monday morning.’

‘It’s lucky I’m not an Orthodox Jew,’ said Cohen.

Saturday

I
T WAS TO BE
a night of firsts.

Sebastian took Sam to a Chinese restaurant in Soho, and paid the bill. After dinner they walked down to Leicester Square and joined a queue for the cinema. Samantha loved the film Sebastian had
chosen, and as they left the Odeon, she confessed that until she came to England, she’d never heard of Ian Fleming, Sean Connery or even James Bond.

‘Where have you been all your life?’ mocked Sebastian.

‘In America, with Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, and a young actor who’s taking Hollywood by storm, called Steve McQueen.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Sebastian as he took her hand. ‘Do we have anything in common?’

‘Jessica,’ she said gently.

Sebastian smiled as they walked back to her Pimlico flat hand in hand, chatting.

‘Have you heard of The Beatles?’

‘Yes, of course. John, Paul, George and Ringo.’

‘The Goons?’

‘No.’

‘So you’ve never come across Bluebottle or Moriarty?’

‘I thought Moriarty was Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis?’

‘No, he’s Bluebottle’s foil.’

‘But have you heard of Little Richard?’ she asked.

‘No, but I’ve heard of Cliff Richard.’

Occasionally they stopped to share a kiss, and when they eventually arrived outside Sam’s apartment block, she took out her key and kissed him gently again; a goodnight kiss.

Sebastian would have liked to be invited in for a coffee, but all she said was, ‘See you tomorrow.’ For the first time in his life, Seb wasn’t in a hurry.

Don Pedro and Luis were out on the moor shooting by the time Diego arrived at Glenleven Lodge. He didn’t notice an elderly gentleman in a kilt seated in a high-back
leather chair reading
The Scotsman
and looking as if he might have been part of the furniture.

An hour later, after he’d unpacked, taken a bath and changed, Diego came back downstairs dressed in plus-fours, brown leather boots and a deerstalker, clearly trying to look more English
than the English. A Land Rover was waiting to whisk him up into the hills so he could join his father and his brother for the day’s shoot. As he left the lodge, Ross was still sitting in the
high-backed chair. If Diego had been a little more observant, he would have noticed that he was still reading the same page of the same newspaper.

‘What was the price of Barrington’s when the Stock Exchange closed?’ was the first thing Don Pedro asked as his son stepped out of the car to join them.

‘Two pounds and eight shillings.’

‘Up a shilling. So you could have come up yesterday after all.’

‘Shares don’t usually rise on a Friday,’ was all Diego said before his loader handed him a gun.

Emma spent most of Saturday morning writing the first draft of a speech she still hoped to deliver at the AGM in nine days’ time. She had to leave several blank spaces
that could only be filled in as the week progressed, and in one or two cases just hours before the meeting was called to order.

She was grateful for everything Cedric was doing, but she didn’t enjoy not being able to play a more hands-on role in the drama that was unfolding in London and Scotland.

Harry was out plotting that morning. While other men spent their Saturdays watching football in the winter and cricket in the summer, he went for long walks around the estate and plotted, so
that by Monday morning, when he picked up his pen again, he would have worked out just how William Warwick could solve the crime. Harry and Emma had supper at the Manor House that evening, and went
to bed soon after watching
Dr Finlay’s Casebook
. Emma was still rehearsing her speech when she finally fell asleep.

Giles conducted his weekly surgery on Saturday morning, and listened to the complaints of eighteen of his constituents, which included matters ranging from the council’s failure to empty a
dustbin, to the question of how an Old Etonian toff like Sir Alec Douglas-Home could possibly begin to understand the problems of the working man.

After the last constituent had departed, Giles’s agent took him to the Nova Scotia, this week’s pub, to share a pint of ale and a Cornish pasty, and to be seen by the voters. At
least another twenty constituents felt it their bounden duty to air their views to the local member on a myriad different issues, before he and Griff were allowed to depart for Ashton Gate to watch
a pre-season friendly between Bristol City and Bristol Rovers, which ended in a nil–nil draw, and wasn’t all that friendly.

Over six thousand supporters watched the match, and when the referee blew the final whistle, those leaving the ground weren’t in any doubt which team Sir Giles supported, as he was wearing
his red-and-white striped woollen scarf for all to see, but then, Griff regularly reminded him that 90 per cent of his constituents supported Bristol City.

As they headed out of the ground, more opinions, not always complimentary, were shouted at him, before Griff said, ‘See you later.’

Giles drove back to Barrington Hall and joined Gwyneth, who was now heavily pregnant, for supper. Neither of them discussed politics. Giles didn’t want to leave her, but just after nine,
he heard a car coming down the drive. He kissed her, and went to the front door to find his agent standing on the doorstep.

Griff whisked him off to the dockers’ club, where he played a couple of frames of snooker – one-all – and a round of darts, which he lost. He stood the lads several rounds of
drinks, but as the date of the next general election had not yet been announced he couldn’t be accused of bribery.

When Griff finally drove the member back to Barrington Hall that night, he reminded him that he had three church services to attend the following morning, at which he would sit among
constituents who hadn’t attended the morning surgery, watched the local derby or been at the dockers’ club. He climbed into bed just before midnight, to find Gwyneth was fast
asleep.

Grace spent her Saturday reading essays written by undergraduates, some of whom had finally woken up to the fact that they would be facing the examiners in less than a year. One of her brightest
students, Emily Gallier, who’d done just about enough to get by, was now panicking. She was hoping to cover the three-year syllabus in three terms. Grace had no sympathy for her. She moved on
to an essay by Elizabeth Rutledge, another clever girl, who hadn’t stopped working from the day she’d arrived at Cambridge. Elizabeth was also in a panic, because she was anxious that
she wouldn’t get the first-class honours degree that everyone expected. Grace had a great deal of sympathy for her. After all, she’d had the same misgivings during her final year.

Grace climbed into bed soon after one, having marked the last essay. She slept soundly.

Cedric had been at his desk for over an hour when the phone rang. He picked it up, not surprised to find Abe Cohen on the other end of the line, as clocks all around the City
began to chime eight times.

‘I managed to offload 186,000 shares in New York and Los Angeles, and the price has fallen from two pounds and eight shillings to one pound and eighteen shillings.’

‘Not a bad start, Mr Cohen.’

‘Two down and two to go, Mr Hardcastle. I’ll give you a call around eight on Monday morning to let you know how many the Australians picked up.’

Cedric left his office just after midnight, and when he arrived home, he didn’t even make his nightly call to Beryl as she would already be asleep. She had accepted long ago that her
husband’s only mistress was Miss Farthings Bank. He lay awake tossing and turning as he thought about the next thirty-six hours, and realized why, for the previous forty years, he’d
never taken risks.