Fatal Legacy (2 page)

Jeremy Kemp had given his secretary strict instructions to keep a minimum of a half-hour gap between the Wainwright family meetings. The last thing he wanted was an impromptu gathering that might deteriorate into a brawl.

Colin and Julia arrived first, without their children. It was an uncomfortable meeting that overran, so that as they left, Julia, in Jaeger and pearls, was able to confront Sally, wearing a neat navy Marks and Spencer suit and pink blouse. As she tried gently to step to one side, the other woman moved to block her way.

‘Just where do you think you’re going, young woman? I want a word with you.’

Sally shook her head, unmoved by Julia’s anger. She had been patronised by the older woman ever since she had married Alex, and she knew that the knowledge of their inheritance would be enough of a punishment.

‘Please, Julia, this is hardly the time or place. Why don’t we discuss this in private later over a nice cup of tea?’

‘Cup of tea?! Dear God, who the hell do you think
you
are, inviting
me
for a cup of tea like Lady Bountiful. Frankly you’re the last person I want to have tea with. I have my standards, you know.’

Alexander stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Julia’s shoulder.

‘Aunt Julia, please don’t upset yourself. The last thing Uncle Alan would have wanted was for this to divide the family.’

Julia threw back her head and let out a blast of high-pitched laughter.

‘You simpleton, that’s
precisely
what he wanted. This is
hardly the stuff of happy families. You’re so stupid. Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised; your father was an idiot. What can one expect?’

‘That’s enough.’ Alexander’s tone was barely polite and carried the unmistakable weight of authority behind it. They all looked at him, held silent by surprised intakes of breath. Julia recovered first, but her voice was querulous and had lost much of its arrogant assurance.

‘Don’t think I don’t know how all this has come about. You wait until I take you both to court. It’ll all come out then, about you and your whore!’

‘Enough, Julia!’ Colin looked aghast at his wife. The new Alexander standing before him seemed quite capable of retaliating with an action for slander. He glanced sideways at the young couple. If his wife’s outrageous insult had been intended to discomfort them, it had missed its mark completely. His niece by marriage regarded him with a cool, detached contempt; his nephew with impatience. Then, with absolute assurance, they stepped past his wife and greeted Jeremy Kemp with a warm handshake, leaving him to escort his unusually silent spouse outside.

Kemp settled Alexander and Sally into comfortable leather chairs and offered them a sherry. It was only eleven o’clock but he felt they all needed one. Sally sipped hers gratefully whilst Alexander, after touching the glass to his lips, ignored it. The meeting ran on past twelve, then to one o’clock. Kemp, engrossed in the detail, had forgotten about the appointment with Graham at quarter past, until he heard raised voices in the outer office. He looked apologetically at his clients.

‘Graham was due to see me at one fifteen. For once he’s early, and he’s obviously objecting to being kept waiting.’

The door was flung back with such force that it rattled the windows, and Graham stalked in, smelling faintly of whisky. An apologetic Jenny stood behind him, dressed in extraordinary tight flared white hipsters and a cropped lime-green top that left her flat brown stomach and pierced navel bare.

‘Typical. I should have known you two’d get in first.’

‘We were just leaving. And as to what we discussed, none of it was confidential. We will very happily share it with you
when you can spare us a moment.’ Sally smiled, openly relaxed. Alexander took her arm and turned to Kemp.

‘We’ll leave you to it then, Jeremy. Come on, Sally.’

He opened his mouth to say something to Graham, but then closed it again and shook his head, as if unable to find the words. Graham stared in astonishment at the sudden change that had come over his cousin.

Alexander might have adjusted with unexpected ease to his sudden wealth but his world was about to become even more complicated. He walked into Doggett and Hawes, Wainwright Enterprises’ accountants, with a simple list of questions at three o’clock in the afternoon, and left at seven with a set of new responsibilities that would have intimidated even the most experienced of businessmen.

Doggett and Hawes’ offices were the essence of anonymity and discretion on the outside, but once past the security-coded front door and card-controlled lift, the façade was swept aside, to be replaced by solid, tasteful luxury. As Alexander stepped out of the lift and walked towards the antique table that served as a reception desk, he was sure that he’d made a mistake and had somehow ended up in a gentleman’s club.

Faded Persian rugs covered a highly polished dark oak floor; a round inlaid rose- and satinwood table supported a massive willow-patterned bowl, planted with spring bulbs which
perfumed
the air with hints of an alpine meadow; an
eighteenth-century
grandfather clock ticked away steadily with a satisfactory ‘ker-clunk’, as it had done for the last two hundred and fifty years. The receptionist was a balding, portly little man dressed in a pristine white shirt, regimental tie and navy pinstriped three-piece suit.

He rose to his feet and said, before Alexander had gone three steps, ‘Mr Alexander Wainwright? Mr Doggett is expecting you, sir. Would you like to leave your, er, anorak with me?’

The clock was chiming three as Alexander walked down the short corridor, past closed mahogany doors with brass fittings that had been polished to a smooth glow, to the last door on the left. The third chime sounded as the receptionist opened the outer door without knocking and then tapped
firmly on the inner door immediately behind it.

‘Mr Alexander Wainwright, sir.’ He ushered Alexander in and closed both doors behind him.

Frederick Doggett sat behind an antique desk in an office more than double the size of Alexander’s sitting room. It was better furnished, too. Despite the air-conditioning, a log and coal fire burned in a cast-iron grate set in a reproduction Adam marble fireplace. Walnut bookcases lined one wall and a
collection
of shooting prints covered the other three, while yet another grandfather clock measured out the time with a dry tick.

Alexander was so taken aback by the room that he missed the opportunity to study Doggett before the man was at his side, shaking his hand and simultaneously guiding him to a wing-backed chair in front of the fire.

‘Alexander, how good to see you, but in such tragic
circumstances
. Please do allow me to extend my condolences to you and your family. A great loss and, I am sure, a great sadness.’

The man was so smooth that it was impossible to discern any double meaning behind his extravagant sympathy. Yet he must have known how little Uncle Alan had been loved. The sense that he was being laughed at, however cleverly, irritated Alexander and made him determined to dislike the accountant no matter what else the man said or did. As he took an A4 lined sheet of paper from his pocket, Doggett watched him in silence, a one-sided smile playing on his lips that changed
infinitesimally
, as Alexander looked up at him, into one of concerned enquiry.

‘It’s a list of questions my wife and I want to ask you concerning Wainwright Enterprises. I believe you already have a copy.’

‘Of course, by all means. Would you like to go through them now or after you have had your uncle’s directions concerning the future management of his companies?’

Alexander felt a fool, and that in turn made him annoyed. However, he said, mildly enough, ‘Good point. Uncle Alan’s instructions first, I think.’

As he sat in silence listening to his dead uncle’s words, he realised with growing satisfaction that his working life would never be the same again. At its simplest, his uncle had
recommended him as managing director of Wainwright
Enterprises
. He was to be given a seat on the main board and executive positions in the subsidiaries.

‘I know that this must be a shock, and it is a considerable responsibility, but your uncle had the highest regard for your abilities. He felt very strongly that you should succeed him. You have spent time working in many of the company’s businesses, and your uncle told me you have done well in them all. I know that he would have wanted you to step up to the mark, Alexander. It may be slightly earlier than any of us might have expected but nevertheless it was his wish.’

Alexander leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. From being the family underdog to controlling the whole firm was an intoxicating idea, yet Doggett clearly felt that he might need persuading. How they all misjudged him. After a suitable pause he nodded.

‘Very well, I agree. Now you’d better tell me what it is that I’m responsible for.’

Doggett explained every aspect of the business – he had no choice under Alexander’s relentless questioning. After over three hours, Doggett raised a weary hand as if he had had enough, but Alexander had one final question.

‘As managing director I report to the shareholders. Tell me about them.’

Doggett’s expression of helpful enquiry didn’t change, but his whole body tightened slightly.

‘Well, it’s rather a complicated shareholder structure. The company has grown up in quite a … let’s say higgledy-piggledy way over the past thirty-odd years. Wainwright Enterprises is eighty per cent owned by Wainwright Holdings; ten per cent was held personally by your uncle and has been bequeathed fifty-fifty to you and your cousin, Graham Wainwright; and ten per cent is owned by Councillor Ward.’

‘George Ward? I voted for him.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And who owns Wainwright Holdings?’

Doggett shifted slightly in his seat.

‘Would you like some more tea? Or a beer or whisky perhaps, given the hour?’

‘No thanks. You were saying, about Wainwright Holdings.’

‘This is where it becomes more complicated. For various reasons – predominantly tax, but I can assure you it is all legitimate – Wainwright Holdings is owned by a number of trusts on behalf of several local businessmen.’

‘And they are?’

Three of the names he recognised immediately: Frederick Doggett, the man sitting opposite him; Jeremy Kemp, their solicitor; and James FitzGerald, his late uncle’s financial adviser.

The clock chimed the quarter hour. Doggett glanced at it and stood up.

‘This is a little bit awkward, Alexander, but I actually have a dinner engagement – I’m meant to be there now. Could we continue this some other time?’

‘Of course. How about first thing tomorrow morning?’

‘Diary’s rather full, I’m afraid. I’ll get my secretary to call yours and set up a time.’

Despite his urgent supper engagement, Doggett watched from the vantage point of his upper window as Alexander left the building, following the underdressed new managing director of Wainwright Enterprises with his eyes until he turned a corner and was out of sight. Then, all thoughts of dinner apparently gone, he sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. The number he dialled was answered at once, and he spoke without preamble.

‘James, he just left. It didn’t go quite as well as we expected. He’s more assertive than we were led to believe … Bright? Well, yes, I’d say he was, surprisingly so, but I think it’s more his persistence than any intelligence we’ll have to worry about. There’s more of the Wainwright blood in him than we’d all thought.’

There was a longer pause, in which Doggett shifted
uncomfortably
in his grand leather chair, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. When he spoke next it was with an effort to maintain his smoothness.

‘Yes, of course, if you want to meet. I’ll call Jeremy and wait for you here.’

Doggett replaced the receiver with a shaky hand and ran
knobbly fingers nervously through his hair, disturbing its immaculate finish. He sat unmoving for several moments then, loosening his tie and undoing his top shirt button, he got up, walked over to the drinks tray and poured himself three fingers of whisky. The splash of soda he threw into it was so brief it was virtually all spray, but psychologically perhaps he could tell himself that he wasn’t drinking neat spirits. Then he sat down heavily in a wing chair and stared vacantly into the dying embers of his fire.

James FitzGerald let himself into the rear entrance of the office block using his own key. Frederick Doggett and Jeremy Kemp were waiting for him in the ridiculously oversized office that Fred insisted on, and he gave them one of his smiles. He knew that it would unsettle them and the thought made him grin even more broadly.

‘Evening, gents!’ He had never bothered to change his working-class Sussex accent and he enjoyed watching their joint suppressed shudder at his tone. ‘I’ll have one of whatever it is Jeremy’s drinking, thanks.’

Doggett handed him an iced gin and tonic and he took a swig.

‘Lovely. Let’s sit down then, no point standing around like spare pricks at a wedding.’ He took the chair closest to the low fire and waited for the others to settle before asking, ‘So what’s your considered opinion, Fred?’

‘Of Alexander Wainwright-Smith? He’s very curious and far from the pushover Alan led us to believe.’

‘He’s a Wainwright; bound to be an awkward bastard. When we agreed to him becoming the next MD on Alan’s retirement, we had assumed that the old man would replace George as chairman and be able to keep his nephew in check. Now he’s dead you’ll just have to do it yourselves. I’ll get you both on the board.’

James watched their reaction as his shot went home. They were neither of them made of the same stuff as their fathers, and he missed his old contemporaries with a sudden yearning. With Alan’s death he was the only survivor of the original team that had restructured Wainwright’s to suit their own ends. Fred
Doggett’s father had died a grand old man at the age of ninety, leaving his wimp of a son to run the accountancy practice and play with young men in his spare time. Jeremy’s father had died of a heart attack less than a month later.