The Legacy (33 page)

He didn't move; he crumpled the jacket between his hands and then flung it aside.

‘I'm still going to help you,' he said.

‘I don't want your help. I'm seeing Humfrey tomorrow, don't be there.' She walked to the door and let herself out. She felt calm, she insisted; it was done. She didn't even want to hear excuses or reasons. Thank God, she thought, he hadn't offered any. Something alien and frightening had touched her life; from her first sight of him in the library, she'd felt it and recoiled. Yet they'd shared something, a passion stronger than her instincts and his terrible isolation, and she'd seen real pain when he'd looked at her. As she drove home she began to weep, and realized that, in spite of everything, it was for him.

9

‘I hope this doesn't inconvenience you, Mr Stone.'

‘Not at all, not at all,' Ruben answered, ‘but I am surprised. I thought you and Mrs Farrington worked very closely in the last few months?'

Rolf nodded. ‘We did and I was fully committed to her. That's why I asked to stay on here and see the case through, but she has changed her mind.'

He was stony-faced as he explained. Recently Ruben had seen a more human side to the man, now he was his remote off-putting self again, and he was leaving, to Ruben's great relief, but if he had upset a client, Ruben wanted to know why.

‘I imagine there was a disagreement between you,' he said. Surely Wallberg hadn't been indiscreet. He frowned. ‘A professional disagreement, yes.' Quickly Rolf calmed his fears.

‘She is a very headstrong lady,' he remarked. ‘I didn't agree with her proposal to go on fighting if she lost the case, so she sacked me.' He gave a bleak smile. ‘So, if it's all right with you, I'll clear up a few details of my other work here and be gone in about ten days? I haven't contacted my firm at home before speaking to you, but I'd like to let them know I'll be back in the office after Christmas.'

Ruben smiled. It was genuine because in ten days he'd be rid of the man. ‘We'll be sorry to see you go, my boy. It's been a pleasure and your work here has been superb, quite outstanding. But does this mean you've given up the idea of coming to practise in London? You did mention that as a possibility.'

Rolf said, ‘I made a few enquiries, but the financial prospects weren't good enough, and the wet weather helped me make up my mind. I would like to know how the meeting went the other day, with Mrs Farrington and Humfrey. Out of interest.'

‘Not very well, I'm afraid, Humfrey had a difficult time with her. She is determined to resist any judgement in her stepson's favour, and she asked Humfrey to suggest a loan company where she could borrow money to finance an appeal. When he explained to her that she couldn't use the estate as collateral because it was not only in trust but subject to dispute, she offered her own assets in lieu. Everything Farrington left her, including a small picture that might prove to be very valuable: a family portrait of a Tudor child. She's asked somebody from Sotheby's to come and give an attribution.'

‘I know it,' Rolf said slowly. ‘And Humfrey couldn't persuade her not to mortgage herself like this?'

‘No,' Ruben said. He shook his head in sadness at the woman's folly, and then, because he fundamentally disliked the man, he added, ‘If she hadn't been told what her stepson did to his father's body she might have listened to reason, but now nothing will move her. If she doesn't win the case, she'll be penniless at the end of it all, but she doesn't seem to care.' He sighed. ‘Ah well, we'll do our best for her, of course. I wish you a happy holiday, my dear Rolf, and don't forget to come and see us when you come over to London again. We'd be delighted to see you.'

‘Thank you,' Rolf said. ‘Thank you for accommodating me here. You have been very helpful, very kind. I've enjoyed my time here very much.'

Ruben said, ‘We must give you a farewell lunch before you leave. Some time next week?'

Rolf opened the office door and turned towards him. ‘That won't be necessary, Mr Stone, you've done enough for me already. Thank you again.' The door closed after him. Ruben returned to his chair behind the handsome desk. Now he could throw away the long spoon, he'd supped with that particular devil for the last time.

Alan was in a buoyant mood. His brother was in London; they'd had lunch together—Fay seemed unenthusiastic about asking him, so they met during the week—and his new venture in Birmingham was going well. There had been opposition from the established business community and the interwoven family networks among the Pakistanis, but he was confident he'd bought enough of the smaller ones to set up his franchise and begin the new chain of Farrington's Curry Houses. There had been odd sounding telephone calls to his hotel, warning him to stay out of the business, but he hadn't taken them seriously. He was not a man to back down; opposition made him more determined. One of his Pakistani advisers, soon to take over the management of the franchise when it was up and running, mentioned aggressive Muslim elements among the community, but Alan brushed that aside. ‘What are you worried about? A fucking fatwa against me? Forget it. Business is business and nobody understands the value of hard work and money better than you people.'

And then there was the opening of the case in the High Court. The counsels were ready, the barristers and solicitors straining at the leash, or so he liked to picture it; he loved a fight and this one was the climax to a lifelong battle. He and James—poor sod, always trying to please and getting kicked up the arse for it—it would be James's triumph too. He was convinced that he was going to win, doubt never crossed his mind, nor was it permitted to surface within his circle of friends. Fay held the same view. Christina had cheated a lascivious older man into accepting another man's child. There was only her word that she'd told him, nothing Richard Farrington had said or done during the marriage indicated that he'd known she was pregnant when he married her. Much as he disliked John Cunningham and resented his autocratic attitude, Alan longed to see the QC get his teeth into that piece of fiction; he'd rip her to bits. So honourable that she risked losing a rich husband and a lifetime of luxury in England? Remarkable! What moral rectitude! But not the same degree of moral sense when it came to having lovers … Alan had been given a brief outline of the proposed cross-examination, mostly to keep him from telephoning with unwanted advice. He had been almost sadistically excited by what he read, and that was just the outline. Christina was cunning and the Swedes were a shrewd people, but faced with John Cunningham and his relentless probing, she would destroy herself.

He couldn't wait for the show to get on the road. He went out and bought the very expensive sapphire and diamond brooch from Tiffany as a Christmas present for Fay. He didn't need to wait for the verdict as an excuse; he was on a winning streak, with his bold new business venture, and his struggle to defeat his father once and for all. In a moment of rare sentiment, after too much to drink, he shed a private tear for his dead mother. It would be her victory too.

Rolf's caller didn't suggest a meeting at the Lanesborough; plush bars were not his preferred choice. The Rubens Hotel in Buckingham Palace Road was a popular tourist venue; close to the palace and the changing of the guard, and the Queen's Gallery where there was a permanent exhibition of royal treasures. Inside there was a polyglot mixture of races: Japanese, Americans, Spaniards, a few Chinese, Scandinavians … He wouldn't be noticed and neither would Rolf Wallberg. They met, as arranged, at one o'clock, when the lounge bar was crowded and they had to share a table. Rolf found him because he was wearing a baseball cap with New Haven Yachting Club printed on the front. He'd kept a chair vacant. The other seats were occupied by a group of earnest Japanese, talking like a flock of magpies. He was younger than Rolf had expected. This casual-looking fellow, with his cap turned back to front and his thick anorak slung over the chair, was younger than he was.

‘Roy,' he said and smiled. It was only a widening of the lips, showing good even teeth, but the eyes were not smiling. Rolf nodded, but didn't say anything. ‘You want something to eat? The burgers look good.'

‘No, just coffee.'

He saw the waitress and hailed her. ‘Hey … you take an order?' Typical brash tourist, American Hispanic or something like that, with swarthy skin and a black pony-tail hanging down his back. He ordered a beefburger with onions and two cups of coffee. The Japanese were shrilling even more and the girls were giggling.

‘What's the answer?' Rolf demanded. The food had arrived and ‘Roy' was smothering the inside of the burger with brown sauce. He took a bite, chewed it and swallowed.

‘It's yes,' he said, ‘but there are terms.' He swigged his coffee. He had uncouth manners which Rolf felt were part of the image.

‘Tell me about them.'

He bit hugely into the burger, and rubbed a crumpled paper napkin across his mouth to catch a smear of sauce.

‘You have to go,' he said.

Rolf answered, ‘I'm going, next Monday; I'm booked.'

Roy shook his head; the pony-tail swung from side to side. With his mouth half full, he said, ‘No, they mean
really
go, and no coming back. It's one way, you must understand that.' He'd dropped his voice and the crude eating habits with it. ‘If they do what you want, you can't be left running around loose; you might be connected. So it's out and it's one way. You want to think about it? They don't want to push you, it's a big decision. I can call you tonight.' He finished his coffee.

‘Have another cup,' Rolf suggested. Roy knew he was asking for time to consider.

‘OK,' he agreed, ‘but don't rush it. You going to drink yours?'

‘No.'

Roy leaned across and moved the cup and saucer. ‘Then I'll have it. It tastes like gasoline anyway.'

Rolf watched him slurping the tepid coffee. He wasn't seeing him; he wasn't hearing the Japanese, who were paying their bill and making a lot of noise getting their cameras and bags; he was seeing the rest of his life. He had to go; that was the price for what he had asked: a one-way ticket. Not such a big price to pay, after all, for making Christina happy, for keeping his promise to a child. A lifetime among strangers, never to see his home again, but he had never had a home, never belonged anywhere. He wouldn't have roots, but that was nothing new; his had been severed when he was born. She would be secure, able to live her life and bring up her daughter, to keep what was hers by right, given to her as a reward for the love and happiness she'd brought to that other lucky man. The same love and happiness he had imagined he might have, one day. Instead, he would have the sun. For the rest of his life.

Roy came into focus. ‘If that's the deal', he said, ‘then I go. No problem. When?' Roy slid a hand inside his jacket, pulling it round from the chair back, and passed the envelope to Rolf under the table.

‘Tonight,' he said. ‘You're booked on the nine o'clock flight—direct. Your ticket and passport's inside. Be on that plane or nothing happens, all right?'

Rolf stood up. The envelope was in his pocket now. Unlike the cuff-links, which had ruined everything he had hoped for, he wouldn't forget the envelope. ‘I'll keep my part,' he said in a low voice, ‘so long as they keep theirs.'

Roy was on his feet, shrugging on the anorak, snapping his fingers rudely for the bill. ‘They don't fail,' he said. ‘You should know that.'

By they, Rolf guessed, he meant
we.
He pushed his way through a new influx of students in search of some fast food, and went out into the cold crisp December day.

Friday evening and the weekenders were on their way out of London. Ruben Stone and his family didn't migrate from their big homes in North London; they all bought houses near each other and, though Ruben wasn't Orthodox, he liked to spend Saturday among his relatives and children. Humfrey was among them that weekend, staying with his wife and family at a cousin's house. There was a cheerful lunch in a local restaurant, where everyone talked at once and nobody told the children to be quiet. At one pause in the noisy exchanges, Humfrey said to his uncle, ‘Wallberg's gone.' Ruben raised his eyebrows and his shoulders lifted in surprise. ‘Gone? Already? He said ten days … Did he say why?' Humfrey shook his head.

‘Not a word. He didn't come to the office, never said goodbye, just took off. There were enquiries from two clients and I tried to contact him, but he'd left his flat. Paid the rent in full and went. I can't say I'm sorry, but it did seem strange.'

‘Well,' Ruben decided not to encourage speculation. ‘Well, once Mrs Farrington wanted him off her case, there wasn't much for him to do. He'd asked for extra time to work with her, or he'd have been gone earlier. And neither of us liked him, so if he's gone, he's gone. How
is
the case shaping up, Humfrey?'

‘No new developments. Ronald made a tentative suggestion that we might try for a settlement once more. He thinks his client, Farrington, is the pits and he said so to me. He won't deal with him direct, somebody else writes to him and takes his calls, but Ronald's the brains behind it all. I had to tell him we'd tried several times and failed.'

The case would come to the High Court on Monday of the next week. Christina had been sent a formal notice of the hearing and the time schedule; seats would be reserved for her and anyone she wished to bring with her. She had sent a message to Humfrey's secretary saying that her husband's cousin, Harry Spannier, would be coming to court. Humfrey took a careful forkful of the excellent food and, before he put it in his mouth, said, ‘She's hell-bent on ruining herself. Nobody can stop her.' Then he began to eat. Ruben didn't answer; a grandson was claiming his attention across the table.