Sleeping Cruelty (22 page)

‘Justin?’

‘Yes, Ollie said he’d met this fantastic guy out there, Justin Chalmers. In his letter he mentioned him, said I’d get on with him too.’

‘Yes, I know Justin very well.’

William sat down on the arm of the settee still wanting to put his arm around his forlorn son, but it hung limply at his side.

‘Ollie was really good about getting the other bastards off me when all that filth came out in the press. I had a really bad time. It just went on and on, especially with that chap Maynard being a pervert.’

‘Charlie, most of it was lies, you know.’

‘Then why didn’t you do something about it? Why didn’t you sue them?’

‘Whatever I did seemed to make it worse, so I buried my head in the sand. Reckoned if I kept quiet it would all go away, people would forget.’

‘They nicknamed you Willy Wanker at school. They used to pin up pictures of you and write things on them. I hated it – and I hated you more than you could believe. I used to pray you’d die, pray you weren’t my father.’

William stood up. ‘Charlie, I’ll make a deal with you. You really focus on getting straight, then come out to the Caribbean. Come and see the island. Get to know me. I have never stopped loving you – and you’re right, I should have kicked ass about those press articles. But at the time, I just didn’t have the . . .’ He tailed off. He was silent for a while, then said, ‘Sometimes, Charlie, we don’t always do the right thing. But I want your respect more than anything else in the world. I want you to be proud to say, “That’s my father.”’

Charlie stood up and went to the fireplace. He kicked at the grate, his shoulders hunched. ‘Okay, it’s a deal. Thanks.’

William went over to him, pulled him close and hugged him. ‘Got a lot of catching up to do, lot of straightening out, but we’ll do it.’

He could smell Pears soap on his son’s hair and neck and remembered that Katherine had always liked it. It took him back to when he had bathed his son as a baby. It was a clear, sweet memory, the feel of his son’s head beneath his hand. He cradled Charlie to his chest, and then did something he never had before. He cupped his son’s face between his hands and kissed him. ‘Everything will work out. We’ll do it together, all right? Let me back into your life, Charlie. Let me show you I love you.’

Charlie suddenly put his arms round William’s waist and held him tightly. Then he said, ‘I’d like to meet this Justin.’

William felt uneasy, he didn’t know why, but he smiled. ‘Yes, why not? He’s made a good job of rebuilding my villa on the island.’

‘Yes, I know, I’ve seen the pictures. It was in the papers this morning. Everyone’s talking about it. I’d like to come over.’

William was impressed at how quickly Meryl’s gossip machine had swung into action, but he only said, ‘Good, then that’s something to set your sights on.’

On the drive back to London, William felt elated. He’d got through to his son for the first time ever. As he left he’d kissed Katherine on both cheeks and told her she was still an attractive woman.

Katherine had flushed, becoming almost girlish, which amazed William. Just by using some of Justin’s phrases and a little of his manner, he was making more of an impact than ever before. He began to realize how much he had changed and how he owed it all to Justin. He saw it as a good omen that Charlie had mentioned Justin, although whether or not Justin represented a good example for his son was another thing; he
doubted it. The first thing he did when he returned home was call Justin. There was no reply, so he went to bed, but he woke three times and made three further calls. He still received no reply.

William was preoccupied with business for a further three days as a costly legal case was looming: the German company had refused to accept they did not own the patent on the fox-and-hens toy. William’s lawyers pointed out to him that it would not be a good idea to bring up the reason von Garten had withdrawn from his original deal, as the story would no doubt resurface in the press.

‘I no longer care what is printed about me, and I’m going to kick a few arses!’ William thundered.

‘But it won’t be cost-effective, William,’ came the reply.

‘Sometimes the cost of proving you can’t be shat on is worth it,’ he snapped, and hung up. Therefore he was not party to the conversation that ensued between his lawyers and business advisers.

As he put the phone down, the man to whom William had been speaking said, exasperatedly, ‘We sue, no discussions. He wants us to hit hard and heavy no matter the cost. He also appears to be on another planet. Either that or he’s losing his marbles . . .’

One of the young assistants spoke up nervously: ‘Perhaps Sir William has a point. Rumours are rife that Geffin’s may go public. A contact in Germany sent us some information about a Max von Garten, the Baron’s son. Apparently, Max von Garten has recently bought shares in Geffin’s Toys. You can bet that the purchase has been made on behalf of his father. The Baron must know the company is going to float; I’d say he’s got hold of information that has not yet gone public. He already has a fifty per cent share in the company, and now he has used his son to buy up even more, based on this inside information. Well, that’s illegal share trading! All we have to do is prove that he knew the company was going on the market
before
he bought the shares,
and we can nail him for rogue trading as well as copyright. Double whammy!’

The senior men looked at each other, then began to sift through the mounds of paperwork already accrued on the case. They read and re-read it. The trouble-shooters William had hired had dug deep and dirty. They even had transcripts of private phone calls, not to mention private bank accounts.

‘Sir William’s right,’ said one of the seniors. ‘This’ll take more time but it will be worth it. We’ll have proof of insider share trading and that von Garten’s company have stolen – four patents, is it now?’

‘Five,’ said the eager young man. ‘And their share price has gone through the roof. Sir William’s been monitoring them for months. It just goes to show that his designs were worth stealing.’

The team were a little uneasy at the methods used to acquire some of the damning material, but it became obvious that Sir William and his business acumen had run rings round them as always. An elderly man, Douglas Alexander, who had worked with William for many years, tapped the table with his pen. ‘It seems to me that Sir William has some personal grievance against Baron von Garten. Do we know whether anything might crawl out of the woodwork, so to speak?’

He was reminded that von Garten had sold his factory to William’s strongest competitor and had poached his employees. Maybe that was reason enough for him to be hell-bent on hitting the von Garten company hard.

‘But Sir William has never been vindictive. I hope there is no ulterior motive as this case will make headlines.’ Douglas closed his files. ‘I have also been asked by Sir William to look into the financial situation with regard to Cedric Hangerford, particularly in regard to substantial loans Sir William wishes to be repaid. If that is not possible, we are to file bankruptcy orders. Again, this is rather a delicate matter as Lord Cedric is his ex-wife’s cousin, so I suggest we are polite in our dealings with him. In the past
we have corresponded with him on this matter but got little response. This time, Sir William appears to want him pressured.’

William was looking forward to seeing his daughter. He wanted to get closer to her, as he had with Charlie. He was driving down the motorway on the way to Parents’ Day when Douglas Alexander called him on his mobile. What he had to say made William feel even better: Douglas felt now that they could nail von Garten to the proverbial mast.

‘I don’t suppose there’s anything personal in this, is there, William?’ he asked.

‘It’s just business, Douglas. You’ve known me long enough by now, surely?’

‘Indeed I have. But it’ll create a fuss and, after what you’ve been subjected to already by the media, I wondered whether you wanted to open yourself up to any further trouble.’

William’s lips tightened. ‘If you are referring to the scandal surrounding Andrew Maynard surfacing again . . .’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’

William hung up. He had not thought of Andrew Maynard for some time. Now he did, and he felt more than saddened. His suicide had made him weep, but had not really grieved him. In many ways his sadness now was that he had not, for inexplicable reasons, ever formed a closer friendship with Maynard. The truth was, he had wanted Maynard to like him. He had wanted to be his friend the way he had so wanted to be Peter Jenkins’ friend! Peter Jenkins, William muttered, shaking his head at himself. Dear God, why was he suddenly recalling Peter Jenkins, the freckled-face kid that sat next to him at grammar school? He remembered his overlong, curling eyelashes that made his tawny eyes look like a cat’s. Poor little Jenkins who had such a bad stammer he was bullied and constantly the butt of daily jokes. Jenkins had kissed him once. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he had kissed William’s neck and the shock of his small, wet lips had sent waves through William’s young,
pubescent body. Only now did William ask himself why Jenkins had kissed him. Perhaps he just wanted to be his friend and this was the only way he knew of expressing it. Jenkins knew that William was often bullied too. Perhaps he thought that if they became best friends, they would at least have each other. But for some reason, the kiss had only annoyed William and he had ignored Jenkins after that. He had so wanted to be close to Peter, so why had he rejected him? Shortly afterwards, Peter Jenkins was killed on a level crossing on his way home from school. William couldn’t recall what had happened next, even now, but he could remember how he had felt, seated next to Peter Jenkins’ empty desk, because he had felt the same way after Andrew Maynard’s suicide.

William had to pull the car over and park on the hard shoulder of the motorway. He had never gone into Andrew’s death this way, never asked himself so many questions. He was now even questioning why he had believed that Maynard was worth the vast sums of money he had paid out. But deep down he knew he was. He recalled how he felt on the last afternoon he had seen him. He remembered his suit with the emerald green satin lining, and he remembered his attractive smile. His eyelashes were as long as little Jenkins’, but dark like his eyes. That afternoon he had known Maynard was in some kind of emotional turmoil. That was why he had asked him for dinner. If he had accepted, if that dinner had taken place, would he still be alive? Or would William have avoided probing into his private life or taking their relationship one step further?

He turned on the radio and felt a strange feeling of relief, as if opening the memories and facing them was yet another step in his progress towards understanding himself. Then he continued driving to his daughter’s school, looking forward to seeing her and hoping to have the same success with her as he felt he had started with Charlie.

‘Sir William Benedict,’ said Sabrina’s school secretary, rather loudly, ‘would you like to come through?’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and followed her to the headmistress’s study.

‘Sir William Benedict to see you, Mrs Harper-Nathan.’

They shook hands and he sat.

‘I am so pleased you were able to join us today. We have great hopes for Sabrina. She’s certainly Oxbridge material.’

He leaned forward. ‘I’m very aware of how difficult it must have been for her, for all my family, during my recent troubles. But everything has settled down now and I am grateful for the way you and your staff have protected my daughter. In gratitude I would like you to accept a small donation towards the building fund.’ He withdrew an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Miss Harper-Nathan. She glanced at the cheque for a second, then did a double-take. ‘This is really most generous, Sir William,’ she spluttered. ‘A quarter of a million pounds. Thank you so very much.’

William rose. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said, and shook hands with her. The secretary told him that his daughter was waiting for him in room Four Omega. She would take him there.

He found Sabrina sitting half-way down the room facing the blackboard with a book open in front of her. She didn’t look up when William came in.

‘Sabrina?’ he said quietly, and closed the door. She didn’t speak, so he walked further in and sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk. ‘Is this your classroom?’

‘We move around,’ she said.

He sighed, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, I didn’t think this was going to be easy, but you might make some effort to be pleasant. I’ve driven a long way.’

‘What do you want me to do? Clap?’

He laughed. ‘I got a call from Charlie. He’s at a rehab place in Wales. Has he written to you?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll leave his address, then you can write to him. He needs all the support he can get.’ He shifted his weight. ‘I’m sorry your
mother couldn’t come with me. She had a doctor’s appointment, but she sends her love.’

‘Playing happy families, are you?’ She looked up and glared at him.

‘It’s about time, isn’t it? Sabrina?’

‘You think you can just pick up being Daddy? What a farce! You make me sick. I didn’t want to see you. They forced me. They all make me sick, two-faced bitches! You should have seen the way they whispered about you.’

‘They seem to think you’re very clever. You’ve had impressive exam results.’ She chewed her nails and kicked the side of her desk. He continued, ‘Especially your computer studies. I’m pleased about that. Maybe one day you’ll take over the firm. There’s plenty of opportunities for you to think about. According to Mrs Harper-Nathan you’re top of the league, Oxford or Cambridge. I’d have given my eye-teeth to go to either.’ Sabrina said nothing. ‘Why don’t we try to be friends?’

‘You may be able to buy Charlie, because he’s as thick as two short planks. You might even be able to buy off Mother. She’s in need of cash right now – that’ll be the only reason she’s even talking to you. She hates you, and Charlie’s only being nice for what he can get out of you. And I’ve got a life of my own . . . a secret life. There’ll be no Oxford or Cambridge.’