False Impression (15 page)

For many years,
the insurance industry showed handsome returns and your father received a large
annual income.’ Simpson ran his finger down a long list of figures.

‘But did you
point out to him at the time,’ asked Arabella, ‘the meaning of unlimited
liability?’

‘I confess,’
said Simpson, ignoring the question, ‘that like so many others, I did not
anticipate such an unprecedented run of bad years.’

‘It was no
different from being a gambler hoping to make a profit from a spin of the
roulette wheel,’ said Arabella. ‘So why didn’t you advise him to cut his losses
and leave the table?’

‘Your father was
an obstinate man,’ said Simpson, ‘and having ridden out some bad years,
remained convinced that the good times would return.’

‘But that didn’t
prove to be the case,’ said Arabella, turning to another of the numerous papers
in her one file.

‘Sadly not,’
confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower in his chair so that he nearly
disappeared behind the partners’ desk.

‘And what happened
to the large portfolio of stocks and shares that the family had accumulated
over the years?’

‘They were among
the first assets your father had to liquidate to keep his current account in
surplus. In fact,’ continued the solicitor, turning over another page, ‘at the
time of your father’s death, I fear he had run up an overdraft of something
over ten million pounds.’

‘But not with
Courts,’ Arabella said, ‘as it appears some three years ago he transferred his
account to a small bank in New York called Fenston Finance.’

‘That is
correct, dear lady,’ said Simpson. Indeed, it has always been a bit of a
mystery to me how that particular establishment came across...’

‘It’s no mystery
to me,’ retorted Arabella, as she extracted a letter from her file. ‘It’s clear
that they singled him out as an obvious target.’

‘But I still
can’t work out how they knew...’

‘They only had
to read the financial pages of any broadsheet.

They were
reporting the problems faced by Lloyd’s on a daily basis, and my father’s name
appeared regularly, along with several others, as being placed with
unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.’ no ‘That is pure speculation on your
part,’ said Simpson, his voice rising.

‘Just because
you didn’t consider it at the time,’ replied Arabella,

‘
doesn’t
mean it’s speculation. In fact, I’m only surprised
that you allowed your close friend to leave Courts, who had served the family
for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.’

Simpson turned
scarlet. ‘Perhaps you are falling into the politician’s habit of relying on
hindsight, madam.’

‘No, sir,’ replied Arabella.
‘My late husband
was also offered the opportunity to join Lloyd’s. The broker assured him that
the farm would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon Angus
showed him the door.’

Simpson was
speechless.

‘And how, may I
ask, with you as her principal adviser, did Victoria manage to double that debt
in less than a year?’

‘I am not to
blame for that,’ snapped Simpson. Tou can direct your anger at the tax man, who
always demands his pound of flesh,’ he added as he searched for a file marked
‘Death Duties’. ‘Ah, yes, here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 per cent
of any assets on death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse,
as I feel sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I
managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so
myself
,
to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors, which Lady
Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.’

‘My sister was a
naive spinster who never left home without her father and didn’t have her own
bank account until she was thirty,’ said Arabella, ‘but still you allowed her
to sign a further contract with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in
even more debt.’

‘It was that, or
putting the estate on the market.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’
replied Arabella. It only took me one phone call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman
of Christie’s, to be told that he would expect the family’s Van Gogh to make in
excess of thirty million pounds were it to come up for auction.’

‘But your father
would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.’

‘My father
wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,’ countered Arabella. ‘It was a
decision you should have advised her on.’

1 had no choice,
dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.’

¦Which you
witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to
go on paying 16 per cent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed
her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.’

‘But you can
still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.’

“Wrong again, Mr
Simpson,’ said Arabella. ‘If you had read beyond page one of the original
contract
, you would have discovered that should there be a
dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I
certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own
backyard.’

‘You don’t have
the authority to do so, either,’ retorted Simpson,

‘
because
I...’

‘I am next of
kin,’ said Arabella firmly.

‘But there is no
will to indicate to whom Victoria intended to leave the estate,’ shouted
Simpson.

‘Another duty
you managed to execute with your usual prescience and skill.’

‘Your sister and
I were at the time in the process of discussing...’

‘It’s a bit late
for that,’ said Arabella. ‘I am facing a battle here and now with an
unscrupulous man, who seems to have the law on his side thanks to you.’

‘I feel
confident,’ said Simpson, once again placing his hands on the desk in a
prayer-like position as if ready to give the final blessing, ‘that I can wrap
this whole problem up in...’

‘I’ll tell you
exactly what you can wrap up,’ said Arabella
rising
from her place, ‘all those files concerning die Wentworth estate, and send them
to Wentworth Hall.’ She stared down at the solicitor. ‘And at the same time,
enclose your final account -’ she checked her watch – ‘for one hour of your
invaluable advice.’

A
nna walked down
the middle of the road, pulling her suitcase behind her, with the laptop
hanging over her left shoulder.

With each stride
she took, Anna became more and more aware of passengers sitting in their
stationary cars, staring at the strange lone figure as she passed them.

The first mile
took fifteen minutes, and one of the families who had settled down for a picnic
on the grass verge by the side of the road offered her a glass of wine. The
second mile took eighteen minutes, but she still couldn’t see the border post.
It was another twenty minutes before she passed a 1 mile to the border sign,
when she tried to speed up.

The last mile
reminded her which muscles ached after a long, tiring run, and then she saw the
finish line. An injection of adrenaline caused her to step up a gear.

When Anna was
about a hundred yards from the barrier, the staring looks made her feel like a
queue jumper. She averted her eyes and walked a little more slowly. When she
came to a halt on the white line, where each car is asked to turn off its
engine and wait, she stood to one side.

There were two
customs officials on duty that day, having to deal with an unusually long queue
for a Thursday morning. They were sitting in their little boxes, checking
everyone’s documents much more assiduously than usual. Anna tried to make eye
contact with the younger of the two officers in the hope that he would take
pity on her, but she didn’t need a mirror to know that after what she’d been
through during the past twenty-four hours, she couldn’t have looked a lot
better than when she staggered out of the North Tower.

Eventually, the
younger of the two guards beckoned her over.

He checked her
travel documents and stared at her quizzically.

Just how far had
she trudged with those bags? He checked her passport carefully. Everything
seemed to be in order.

What is your
reason for visiting Canada?’ he asked.

Tm
attending an art seminar at McGill University.
It’s part of my
PhD thesis on the pre-Raphaelite movement,’ she said, staring directly at him.

Which artists in
particular?’ asked the guard,
casually.

A
smart ass or a fan.
Anna decided to play along. ‘Rossetti,

Holman
Hunt and Morris, among others.’

What about the
other Hunt?’

‘Alfred? Not a
true pre-Raphaelite, but...’

‘But just as
good an artist.’

‘I agree,’ said
Anna.

Who’s giving the
seminar?’

‘Er, Vern
Swanson,’ said Anna, hoping the guard would not have heard of the most eminent
expert in the field.

‘Good, then I’ll
get a chance to meet him.’

What do you
mean?’

Well, if he’s still
the Professor of Art History at Yale he’ll be coming from New Haven, won’t he,
and as there are no flights in and out of the US, this is the only way he can
cross the border.’

Anna couldn’t
think of a suitable response and was grateful to be rescued by the woman behind
her, who began commenting to her husband in a loud voice about how long she’d
been waiting in line.

‘I was at
McGill,’ said the young officer with a smile, as he handed Anna back her
passport. Anna wondered if the colour of her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment.
We’re all sorry about what happened in New York,’ he added.

‘Thank you,’
said Anna, and walked across the border. Welcome to Canada.

“Who is it?’
demanded an anonymous voice.

‘You’ve got an
electrical fault on the tenth floor,’ said a man standing outside the front
door, dressed in green overalls, wearing a Yankee baseball cap and carrying a
tool box. He closed his eyes and smiled into the security camera. When he heard
the buzzer, the man pushed open the door and slipped in without any further
questions.

He walked past
the elevator and began to climb the stairs. That way there was less chance of
anyone remembering him. He stopped when he reached the tenth floor, glancing
quickly up and down the corridor. No one in sight; 3.30 pm was always a quiet
time. Not that he could tell you why, it was simply based on experience. When
he reached her door, he pressed the buzzer. No reply. But then he had been
assured that she would still be at work for at least another couple of hours.
The man placed his bag on the floor and examined the two locks on the door.
Hardly Fort Knox.
With the precision of a surgeon about to
perform an operation, he opened his bag and selected several delicate
instruments.

Two minutes and
forty seconds later, he was inside the apartment.

He quickly
located all three telephones. The first was in the front room on a desk, below
a Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe.

The second was
by her bed, next to a photograph. The intruder glanced at the woman in the
centre of the picture. She was standing between two men who looked so alike
they had to be her father and brother.

The third phone
was in the kitchen. He looked at the fridge door and grinned; they were both
fans of the 49ers.

Six minutes and
nine seconds later he was back in the corridor.

Down
the stairs and out of the front door.

Job completed in
less than ten minutes. Fee $1,000. Not unlike a surgeon.

Anna was among
the last to step onto the Greyhound bus that was due to leave Niagara Falls at
three o’clock.

Two hours later,
the bus came to a halt on the western shore of Lake Ontario. Anna was first
down the steps, and without stopping to admire the Mies van der Rohe buildings
that dominate the Toronto skyline, she hailed the first available cab.

‘The
airport please, and as fast as possible.’

‘Which
terminal?’ asked the
driver.

Anna hesitated.
‘Europe.’

‘Terminal
three,’ he said as he moved off, adding, ‘Where you from?’

‘Boston,’ Anna
replied. She didn’t want to talk about New York.

‘Terrible, what
happened in New York,’ he said. ‘One of those moments in history when everyone
remembers exactly where they were. I was in the cab, heard it on the radio.
How about you?’

‘I was in the
North Tower,’ said Anna.

He knew a smart
ass when he saw one.

It took just
over twenty-five minutes to drive the seventeen miles from Bay Street to Lester
B. Pearson International Airport, and during that time the driver never uttered
another word. When he finally pulled up outside the entrance to terminal three,
Anna paid the fare and walked quickly into the airport. She stared up at the
departure board, as the digital clock flicked over to twenty eight minutes past
five.