This Was A Man (17 page)

‘She’s willing to make an offer?’ said Ellie May. ‘But I thought she was penniless?’

‘So did I,’ admitted Lord Goodman. ‘I have it on good authority that she was cut out of her father’s will and her only income is a modest monthly allowance supplied by
her brother.’

‘How much is she offering?’

‘One million pounds, to be paid in ten equal instalments of one hundred thousand pounds over the next ten years.’

‘But she stole two million from my husband!’ said Ellie May. ‘She can go to hell.’

‘I sympathize with your feelings, Mrs Grant, but when I received the letter I decided to have an off-the-record conversation with Sir Edward Makepeace QC, who has represented the Fenwick
family for many years. He made it clear that this offer represents a full and final settlement, and there is, to quote him, no wiggle room. He added that were you to turn it down, he has been
instructed to receive the writ on Lady Virginia’s behalf.’

‘He’s bluffing.’

‘I can assure you, Mrs Grant, Sir Edward does not bluff.’

‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘I can appreciate why you would want to be repaid in full. However, if we were to go down that path, it might take several years to reach a settlement, and as we now know, Lady Virginia
has enough money to cover her legal costs, so you might end up with nothing to show for it other than a large legal bill of your own. I’m not convinced it’s her own money she’s
putting up – I suspect she’s got her brother, the tenth earl, to bail her out. However, even Lord Fenwick will have his limits.’ Goodman hesitated. ‘And then we must
consider all the other aspects of this case.’

‘Like what?’ asked Ellie May.

‘Were the action to come to court, Lady Virginia would be ruined financially, and might possibly end up in prison.’

‘Nothing would please me more.’

‘At the same time, your husband’s reputation would also suffer.’

‘How could that be possible, when he’s the innocent party?’

‘Clearly, Mrs Grant, you have not experienced the British press on the rampage.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Then let me assure you, this story would run and run in the tabloids and I fear your husband would not come out of it smelling of roses. The papers will paint him as a naïve fool,
and a cuckold.’

‘Which is no more than the truth,’ said Ellie May scornfully.

‘Possibly, Mrs Grant, but is that something you want to share with the whole world?’

‘What’s the alternative?’ she demanded.

‘It’s my considered opinion that you should settle, unpalatable as that may seem. I suggest you accept the offer of a million pounds, return to America and put this whole unpleasant
experience behind you. I would, however, suggest one proviso: should Lady Virginia fail to honour any of the ten payments, she would still be liable for the full amount.’ Lord Goodman waited
for Ellie May’s response but she remained silent. ‘But you are the client, and naturally I will abide by your instructions, whatever they may be.’

‘My late Scottish grandfather, Duncan Campbell, used to say, “Better a dollar in the bank, lass, than the promise of a dowry.”’

‘Was he a lawyer, by any chance?’ asked Goodman.

‘It’s a damn good offer,’ said Knowles.

‘Perhaps a little too good,’ said Sloane.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I am, as you know, Jim, suspicious by nature. Mellor might well be locked up in prison but that doesn’t mean he’s lying on his bunk all day feeling sorry for himself.
Don’t forget Belmarsh houses some of the top criminals in the country, and they’ll be only too happy to advise a man they think has money.’

‘But like him, they’re all locked up.’

‘True, but just remember Mellor’s tried to stitch me up once before – and nearly succeeded.’

‘But this guy Sorkin is sending his private jet to pick us up so we can spend the weekend on his yacht at Cap Ferrat. What more could you ask for?’

‘I hate planes, and distrust people who own yachts. And what’s more, no one in the City has ever come across Conrad Sorkin.’

‘I could always go on my own.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Sloane. ‘We’ll both go. But if I sense even for a second that Sorkin isn’t what he claims to be, we’ll be on the next flight back, and
not in his private jet.’

When Virginia received a letter from her solicitor to confirm that Mrs Ellie May Grant had accepted her offer, she wasn’t sure how to react. After all, with £230,000
at her disposal, she could live a comfortable enough life swanning around Europe, staying with friends. But she admitted to Bofie that she would miss London, Ascot, Wimbledon, Glyndebourne, the
royal garden party, the Proms, Annabel’s and Harry’s Bar, especially when all her continental buddies had migrated back to London for the season.

Although she had banked the cheque for £230,000 with Coutts, Virginia accepted that if she were to honour her agreement, the money would run out in a couple of years, and she wondered if
she was simply postponing the inevitable trip to Argentina. But on the other hand, perhaps something else might turn up in the meantime, and she still had until April 13th before she had to make a
final decision.

After changing her mind several times, Virginia reluctantly handed over the first £100,000 to her solicitor on April 13th, and at the same time cleared all her small debts, loans, and
legal costs, leaving her with £114,000 in her current account. Her brother continued to supply her with an allowance of £2,000 a month, a sum that had dropped from £4,000 when she
deserted Freddie. Virginia hadn’t read the small print in her father’s will. And if Archie ever found out about her windfall, she suspected he would cut her off without another
penny.

The following morning, she returned to Coutts and cashed a cheque for £10,000. She placed the money in a Swan and Edgar bag, as Mellor had instructed, walked back out on to the Strand and
hailed a cab. She had no idea where the Science Museum was but was confident the cabbie would know. Twenty minutes later she was standing outside a magnificent Victorian building on Exhibition
Road.

She entered the museum and walked across to the enquiry desk, where a young woman pointed her in the direction of Stephenson’s Rocket. Virginia marched through the Energy Hall, the Space
Gallery and into Making the Modern World without turning to look at any of the unique objects that surrounded her.

She spotted the peroxide blonde standing next to an old steam engine, surrounded by children. The two women didn’t acknowledge each other. Virginia simply placed the bag on the floor by
her side, turned around and left the museum as quickly as she had entered it.

Twenty minutes later she was sitting in Harry’s Bar enjoying a dry Martini. A handsome young man sitting at the bar on his own smiled at her. She returned his smile.

When Virginia visited Belmarsh the following Sunday, she was relieved to discover that Desmond Mellor didn’t even know his mother had an art collection, and clearly had
never heard of L.S. Lowry. He had supplied the old lady with a small monthly allowance, but confessed he hadn’t visited Salford for some years.

‘I sold her bits and pieces for four hundred pounds,’ Virginia told him. ‘What would you like me to do with the money?’

‘Consider it a bonus. I heard this morning that the pick-up went smoothly, for which I’m grateful.’ He glanced across the room at Nash, who was having his monthly meeting with
the peroxide blonde. They never once looked in his direction.

A
DRIAN
S
LOANE
reluctantly admitted that being flown to the South of France in a Learjet was something he could get used to. Jim
Knowles agreed. A young hostess, who didn’t look as if she knew a great deal about air safety, poured them another glass of champagne.

‘Don’t relax, even for a moment,’ said Sloane, rejecting the drink. ‘We still don’t know what Sorkin expects for his money.’

‘Why should we give a damn,’ said Knowles, ‘as long as the price is right?’

As the plane taxied to its stand at Nice Côte d’Azur airport, Sloane looked out of the window to see a Bentley Continental waiting for them on the tarmac. They climbed into the back
seat – no passport checks, no queues, no customs. It was clear that Conrad Sorkin knew which palms to grease.

The harbour was packed cheek by jowl with gleaming yachts. Only one had its own dock, and that was where the Bentley came to a halt. A smartly dressed matelot opened the back door while two
others collected the luggage from the boot. As Sloane walked up the wide gangway, he noticed a Panamanian flag fluttering gently in the breeze on the stern of the yacht. As they stepped on board,
an officer in full whites saluted them and introduced himself as the purser.

‘Welcome aboard,’ he said in a clipped English accent. ‘I’ll show you to your cabins. Dinner will be served at eight on the upper deck, but do not hesitate to call me if
there’s anything you require before then.’

The first thing Sloane noticed when he entered his state room was a black attaché case in the middle of the double bed. He tentatively flicked it open to reveal row upon row of neatly
stacked fifty-pound notes. He sat on the end of the bed and counted them slowly. Twenty thousand pounds – one per cent of the offer price in advance? He closed the lid and slid the case under
the bed.

Sloane slipped out of his room and entered the next-door cabin without knocking. Knowles was counting his money.

‘How much?’ said Sloane.

‘Ten thousand.’

Only half a per cent. Sloane smiled. Sorkin had done his research, and had already worked out which one of them would be closing the deal.

Sloane returned to his cabin, undressed and took a shower, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He ignored the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket by the bedside. He needed to
concentrate. After all, this could be the deal that would not only decide when he retired, but how much his pension would be.

At five to eight, there was a light knock on the door. Sloane looked in the mirror and straightened his bow tie before opening the door to find a steward waiting for him.