This Was A Man (23 page)

‘Supply me with a copy of the document Mr Carter wanted to see before he was willing to hand over ten thousand pounds.’

There was a long pause before Virginia spoke again. ‘Ten thousand won’t be enough for that, because I know exactly why you’re so desperate to get your hands on it.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘I’ve been authorized to go up to fifteen,’ said Giles, hoping he sounded convincing.

Another long pause. ‘Once I’m in possession of a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds, I’ll send you a copy of the document.’

‘I don’t think so, Virginia. I’ll hand over the cheque when you give me a copy of the document.’

Virginia fell silent once again, before she said, ‘When and where?’

Giles pushed his way through the revolving doors into the Ritz Hotel just after 2.45 the following afternoon. He made his way straight to the Palm Court and selected a table
from which he would be able to see Virginia the moment she appeared.

He flicked through the pages of the
Evening Standard
to pass the time, but still found himself looking up every few moments and repeatedly checking his watch. He knew Virginia
wouldn’t be on time, especially after he’d provoked her, but he was equally confident that she wouldn’t be too late, because Coutts closed their doors at five o’clock, and
she would want to bank the cheque before going home.

When Virginia entered the tea room at eleven minutes past three, Giles gasped. No one would have thought it possible that this elegant woman was over sixty. In fact, several men stole a second
glance as ‘the most classy broad in the joint’, to quote Bogart, walked slowly across to join her ex-husband.

Giles stood up to greet her. As he bent down to kiss her on both cheeks, the slight fragrance of gardenia brought back many memories.

‘It’s been too long, my darling,’ purred Virginia as she sat down opposite him. After the slightest of pauses, she added, ‘And you’ve put on so much
weight.’

The spell was broken, and Giles was quickly reminded why he didn’t miss her.

‘Shall we get the business out of the way,’ she continued, opening her handbag and extracting an envelope. ‘I’ll give you what you came for, but not before you hand over
my cheque.’

‘I need to see the document before I’m willing to part with any money.’

‘You’re just going to have to trust me, my darling.’ Giles stifled a smile. ‘Because if I let you read it, you may feel you no longer need to pay me.’

Giles couldn’t fault her logic. ‘Perhaps we can agree on a compromise,’ he suggested. ‘You turn to the last page of the document and show me Mellor’s signature and
the date, and I’ll show you the cheque.’

Virginia thought for a moment before she said, ‘First I want to see the money.’

Giles produced a cheque for £15,000 from an inside pocket and held it up for her to see.

‘You haven’t signed it.’

‘I will, as soon as I see Mellor’s signature.’

Virginia slowly unsealed the envelope, extracted a thin legal document and turned to the third page. Giles leant forward and studied Mellor’s signature, which had been witnessed by a Mr
Colin Graves, senior prison officer, and dated May 12th, 1981.

He placed the cheque on the table, signed it and passed it across to Virginia. She hesitated for a moment, then smiled mischievously before slipping the document back into the envelope and
handing it to Giles. He placed it in his briefcase, before saying casually, ‘If you only got the copy, who has the original?’

‘That will cost you another five thousand.’

Giles wrote out a second cheque and handed it across.

‘But it’s only for one thousand,’ Virginia protested.

‘That’s because I think I already know who it is. The only mystery is how he got his hands on it.’

‘Tell me the name, and if you’re wrong, I’ll tear up this cheque and you can write out another one for five thousand.’

‘Jim Knowles collected it from Carter on behalf of Conrad Sorkin.’

The second cheque joined the first in Virginia’s handbag, and although Giles pressed her, it was clear she wasn’t going to let him know how Sorkin had got his hands on the original,
not least because, like him, she suspected that Desmond hadn’t committed suicide, and she didn’t want to become involved.

‘Tea?’ suggested Giles, hoping she would decline so he could get back to the bank where the other three were waiting for him.

‘What a nice idea,’ said Virginia. ‘Quite like old times.’

Giles hailed a waiter and ordered tea for two, but no cakes. He was wondering what they could possibly talk about, until Virginia solved that problem. ‘I think I’ve got something
else you might want,’ she said, displaying the same mischievous smile.

Giles hadn’t been prepared for this. He sat back, trying to appear relaxed, as he waited to find out if Virginia was just enjoying herself at his expense, or if she really did have
something worthwhile to offer.

The waiter reappeared and placed a pot of tea and a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches in the centre of the table.

Virginia picked up the teapot. ‘Shall I be Mother? Milk and no sugar, if I remember correctly.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giles.

She poured them both a cup of tea. Giles waited impatiently while she added a splash of milk and two sugar lumps before she spoke again.

‘Such a pity the coroner concluded that poor Desmond died intestate.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘Earl Grey,’ she remarked, before adding, ‘It’s going to be
difficult for anyone to prove otherwise before June twelfth, when the company will fall so conveniently into that nice Mr Sorkin’s hands, and for a mere ten thousand pounds he’ll be
entitled to fifty-one per cent of Mellor Travel, which I estimate to be worth at least a million and a half, possibly more.’

‘The board of Farthings has already considered that problem,’ said Giles, ‘and the question of who might be judged by the court to be Mellor’s next of kin. Arnold
Hardcastle concluded that with two ex-wives, one daughter he’s lost touch with and two stepchildren, the legal battle alone could take years to be resolved.’

‘I agree,’ said Virginia, taking another sip of tea. ‘Unless, of course, someone came across a will.’

Giles stared at her in disbelief as she returned to her handbag and extracted a slim manila envelope, which she held up for Giles to see. He studied the neat copperplate handwriting that
proclaimed,
The last will and testament of Desmond Mellor
, dated May 12th, 1981.

‘How much?’ asked Giles.

S
EBASTIAN STEPPED OFF
the plane and joined the other passengers making their way into the busiest terminal on earth. As he only had an overnight bag, he
headed straight for customs. An officer stamped his passport, smiled and said, ‘Welcome to America, Mr Clifton.’

He made his way out of the airport and joined a long taxi queue. He had already decided to go straight to Kelly Mellor’s last known address on the South Side of Chicago, which had been
supplied by Virginia, but not before she’d extracted another £5,000 from Giles. If Kelly was there, the chairman considered it would have been worth every penny, because he wanted
Desmond Mellor’s heir back in England as quickly as possible. They needed to have everything in place for the crucial board meeting in ten days’ time, when it would be decided whether
it was Thomas Cook or Sorkin International that would take over Mellor Travel, and Kelly Mellor could be the deciding factor.

He climbed into the back of a yellow cab and handed the driver the address. The cabbie gave Seb a second look. He only visited that district about once a month, and that was once too often.

Seb sat back and thought about what had taken place during the past twenty-four hours. Giles had arrived back at the bank just after five, armed not only with a copy of the legal agreement
showing that Mellor had risked losing 51 per cent of his company to Sorkin for a mere £10,000, but with the bonus of the only letter Mellor had ever written to his daughter, supplied by
Virginia. No doubt acquired after the threat that if Giles didn’t pay up, she would burn the letter in front of him. The singed bottom right-hand edge suggested that Giles hadn’t given
up bargaining until the match was struck.

‘We’re going to have to move quickly,’ Hakim had said. ‘We only have eleven days left before Mellor Travel’s next board meeting, when it will be decided who takes
over the company.’

This time it was Sebastian the chairman selected for the unenviable task of flying to Chicago and bringing back to London the only person who could stop Sorkin taking over Mellor Travel,
although there was a Plan B.

Seb had boarded the first available flight from Heathrow to Chicago, and by the time the plane touched down at O’Hare, he felt he’d covered every possible scenario – except
one. He couldn’t actually be certain that Mellor’s daughter was living at 1532 Taft Road, because he’d had no way of contacting her to warn her he was coming, although he was
confident that if she was, what he had to offer would make her feel like a lottery winner.

He glanced out of the taxi window as they drove into Taft, and was immediately aware why this wasn’t an area taxis would choose to hang around at night looking for fares. Row upon row of
dilapidated wooden houses, none of which had seen a lick of paint for years, and no one would have bothered with a double lock because there wouldn’t have been anything worth stealing.

When the cab dropped him outside 1532, his confidence grew. One and a half million pounds was certainly going to change Kelly Mellor’s life for ever. He checked his watch; just after six
p.m. Now he could only hope she was at home. The taxi had sped away even before he’d been given a chance to offer the driver a tip.

Seb walked up the short path between two scrubby patches of grass that couldn’t have been described as a garden by even the most creative estate agent. He knocked on the door, took a step
back and waited. A moment later the door was opened by someone who couldn’t have been Kelly Mellor, because she only looked about five or six years old.

‘Hello, I’m Sebastian. Who are you?’

‘Who wants to know?’ said a deep, gruff voice.

Seb turned his attention to a squat, muscle-bound man who stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a grubby T-shirt with ‘Marciano’s’ printed on it, and a pair of
Levi’s that looked as if they hadn’t been taken off for a month. A snake tattoo slithered down each well-exercised arm.

‘My name’s Sebastian Clifton. I wondered if Kelly Mellor lives here.’

‘You from the IRS?’

‘No,’ said Seb, suppressing a desire to laugh.

‘Or that fuckin’ Child Protective Services?’

‘No.’ Seb no longer wanted to laugh, as he had noticed a fading bruise on the little girl’s arm. ‘I’ve flown over from England to let Kelly know her father has died
and left her some money in his will.’

‘How much?’

‘I’m only authorized to disclose the details to Mr Mellor’s next of kin.’

‘If this is some kind of scam,’ the man said, clenching his fist, ‘this will end up in the middle of your pretty face.’ Seb didn’t budge. Without another word the
man turned and said, ‘Follow me.’

It was the smell that first hit Seb as he entered the house: half-empty fast-food trays, cigarette ends and empty beer cans littered a small room furnished with two unrelated chairs, a sofa and
the latest VCR player. He didn’t sit down, but smiled at the young girl who was now standing in a corner staring up at him.

‘Kelly!’ the man bellowed at the top of his voice without looking round. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Seb.

A few moments later a woman appeared in a dressing gown embroidered with the words
The Majestic Hotel
. She looked worn out, although Seb knew she was only in her early twenties. But she
was unquestionably the young girl’s mother, and she had something else in common with the child – several bruises and, in her case, a black eye that heavy make-up couldn’t
disguise.

‘This guy says your old man’s died and left you some money, but he won’t tell me how much.’

Seb noticed the man’s right fist was still clenched. He could see that Kelly was too frightened to speak. She kept glancing towards the door, as if trying to let him know that he ought to
leave as quickly as possible.

‘How much?’ the man repeated.

‘Fifty thousand dollars,’ said Seb, having decided that the suggestion of £1.5 million would have been greeted with incredulity and would mean he’d never be rid of the
man.

‘Fifty grand? Hand it over.’

‘It’s not quite that easy.’

‘If this is a con,’ said the man, ‘you’ll wish you’d never got off the plane.’

Seb was surprised that he felt no fear. As long as this thug thought there was a chance of picking up some easy money, Seb was confident he had the upper hand.

‘It’s not a con,’ said Seb quietly. ‘But because it’s such a large sum of money, Kelly will have to accompany me to England and sign some legal documents before we
can hand over her inheritance.’

In truth, Seb had all the necessary paperwork in his overnight bag should Kelly be unwilling to return to England, Plan B. He only needed a signature and a witness, and then he could have handed
over a banker’s draft for the full amount in exchange for 51 per cent of Mellor Travel. But now he’d met her partner, that was never going to happen. He had moved way beyond Plan A, B
or C, and his mind was now working overtime.