Almost a Crime, page 65
‘Yes. I suppose so. Now then, Felix, this is it. Unless you pull out of that bid in the morning and find a feasible reason for doing so, I shall tell Octavia what you did just before she left the house that morning. When she was going to Barbados.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Felix. He felt dizzy again.
‘I think you know what I mean. That you first lied to me and told me she’d left when she hadn’t. And then you hid her mobile phone, so that I had no way of contacting her once she’d left the house. Or of telling her that I wasn’t in Tuscany with a new mistress, as you had so carefully encouraged her to think, but in London, desperately trying to get hold of her. Now, how do you think that would make her feel about you, Felix? Do you think she would still see you as her knight in shining armour, her perfect and beloved daddy, the source of all goodness, who can do no wrong, and who shields her from any evil that might come her way? Eh? What about it, Felix? Do you think she’d love you quite as much after that?’
CHAPTER 45
‘Darling, don’t be so upset. Please. I’m sure something can be done.’
‘I’m sure it can’t.’ Megan looked at her mother, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘That was our last chance. Stopping them knocking the house down.’
The letter stated quite unequivocally that, in the opinion of their inspector, the Department of the Environment had to inform Megan that Bartles House, while being an interesting example of its kind, was of no real architectural value and could not therefore be considered for listing.
‘So it’ll go. And the land will go and the wood will go and they’ll build their horrible houses and shops and it’s not right. It’s just not just right.’
‘Look, why don’t we tell Octavia?’ said Pattie. She didn’t actually feel very hopeful about that either, but it was a way of diverting Megan from her misery. ‘She’ll know what to do next.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do next,’ said Megan. ‘It’s down to chaining ourselves to trees and things now. We must tell Sandy. He’ll be very sorry.’
‘Sandy’s coming to tea tomorrow,’ said Pattie. ‘You can tell him then.’ She smiled at Megan.
‘Mum! You’re blushing. You really like him, don’t you?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘He’s very good looking. I’m not surprised.’
‘Now, Megan, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Pattie primly. ‘I don’t like him in that way. Anyway he’s married.’
‘Of course I want her home,’ said Sandy. He felt himself flush; he forced himself to meet Charles’ slightly reproachful eyes. ‘But not unless she’s really better.’
‘But it seems she is. I’ve had a word with Dr Brandon, and really, he feels she could leave early next week. But I think a call from you would help. To confirm that you could cope, take a week off, settle her in properly. Apparently, you rather gave Louise the impression that might be difficult. Which – upset her, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I’m sorry about that,’ said Sandy. He was finding it very hard to speak.
‘She’s so very vulnerable at the moment,’ said Charles. ‘And she misses you and Dickon so much. She needs all the love and support we can give her. So – I wonder if you’d have a word with Dr Brandon. Tell him how much you’d like to have Louise home. There’s a good chap. I know it would be best for her.’
‘Have you heard anything from Felix Miller?’ said Tom casually.
‘No,’ said Nico. ‘Why on earth should I? Today of all days.’
‘Oh.’ He was mildly disappointed – that would have been the best, the most dramatic outcome – but not really surprised. ‘Oh, I just thought you might. As today’s the day.’
‘Indeed. Today is the day.’
He looked ghastly, Tom thought, white and exhausted, drained of his vitality. He felt a surge of vast sympathy for him.
‘Nico, would you excuse me a minute, I just want to make a couple of calls.’
He went into his office, spoke to a couple of financial journalists, one at The Times, one at the Mail. Was the press conference called by Felix Miller still on?
It was. A sliver of unease went through Tom. Maybe this wasn’t going to work after all. It had been a huge gamble but he really had thought it would pay off. Had thought that the spectre of being revealed to his daughter as an out-and-out baddie would have frightened Felix into silence. Suddenly he saw that it could easily not frighten him at all. He could lie his way out of it. He could lie his way out of anything. Just the same – surely, surely he would be afraid that Octavia would at least half believe it. He had his own mobile phone print-out, showing the time he had called her that morning; she wasn’t stupid, wasn’t that blind. Even to Felix’s faults. There was also the fact that it was Felix who had first put the idea of the Tuscan holiday with Lauren into her head. It would be a huge risk for him to run. Surely, surely he wouldn’t do it.
Tom felt himself beginning to sweat. This was going to be a long morning.
Pat Ford was very tired. Tired and upset. This whole thing was beginning to get her down. The tension, the waiting, keeping it from the patients – especially sharp-eared and -eyed old Lucilla Sanderson. She was beginning to think it just wasn’t going to happen, that she would be trapped at Bartles House for the rest of her life, with the endless stairs, the eccentric plumbing, the impossibility of attracting staff. And the last straw that had laid itself on her increasingly narrow back this morning had been when Mrs Tims, one of the two cleaners, had given notice. ‘I’m going to have to leave, Mrs Ford. The work is just too hard. Those floors are murder. And it’s the hours as well, what with the journey and everything. I’m sorry, but I really can’t stay any longer. I can get better-paid, easier work in Felthamstone.’
When Mrs Tims had left the office, Pat Ford sat down at her desk and burst into tears. She was so tired, it hurt. Suddenly she decided she had to know. Or try and find out. One way or another. Even if the news was bad, knowing would help.
She got up and shut the office door; and then did what Mr Ford had always forbidden her to do – she phoned Michael Carlton. He was such a nice man, so helpful and reasonable. Surely she could at least ask him if he knew anything yet, when they might at least be able to look towards moving. If ever.
Mr Carlton was out, his secretary said; she was very sorry, could she help?
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Pat. A fresh wave of weariness and despair hit her and she felt a sob rising in her throat again. ‘No, I need to speak to him myself.’
‘Well, can you at least tell me what it’s about? So that I can tell him, make sure he has all the necessary information when he does call you back?’
‘It’s about – about Bartles House,’ she said, ‘whether – whether the scheme is going ahead or not. I – well, I really do have to know. Soon.’
‘Of course,’ said the secretary soothingly. ‘Of course you do.’
‘So – could he ring me, do you think? I’ll give you the number.’
‘I’m sure he will, Mrs Ford. Yes.’
Sheila Edwards, Michael Carlton’s secretary, put the phone down. Poor woman had sounded desperate. She was the matron, of course, looked after all those old people. What a dreadful life. Well, from what Sheila had heard that morning, she was going to get some good news. Some very good news indeed.
She scribbled a note to Michael Carlton which said, ‘Mrs Ford from Bartles House phoned. She sounded really very upset. Is there any chance we could let her know it’s all going through all right, cheer the poor woman up? Sheila.’
Then she looked at her watch. God. Almost eleven. She and Michael Carlton had a site meeting at eleven thirty, with the borough surveyor. She needed to get her skates on. She picked up her coat and bag and hurried out of her office, calling to Sharon Parker, the junior secretary, to take messages carefully, and to get on with photocopying the plans for the Warminster development and that she’d be back by one. Oh, and could Sharon have some sandwiches ready for her and Mr Carlton?
Sharon said yes, she would, but she had a dental appointment at one. Sheila said she would be back in plenty of time. ‘I promise. But I’d rather you didn’t go until then, Sharon.’
Tom phoned one of his favourite journalists, a girl called Jenny Angus on the Daily Sketch. Would she do him a great favour, call him from the London Wall Bank the minute the press conference was over, tell him what had happened?
‘Yes, of course I will,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Let’s just say it really rather matters to me,’ he said.
Nico and he were in his office; Nico was pacing up and down.
‘You look like an expectant father,’ said Tom, in an attempt to cheer him up.
‘Expectant fathers are in at the off these days, I thought,’ said Nico gloomily, ‘not waiting until the obstetrician’s good enough to let him know what’s emerged. God, this is bloody agony.’
Pat Ford looked at the clock. Twenty to one. Any minute now Donald would be back, and he might get the phone call from Carlton’s office. And he’d be so angry with her; so terribly angry, tell her what a fool she was, how dangerously stupid she’d been. She really couldn’t risk it.
She picked up the phone again, dialled the number.
Sharon was getting very annoyed. Sheila Edwards had phoned to say the meeting was dragging on, and she might be slightly delayed.
‘The dentist’s only just down the street, isn’t he, and he’s bound to be running late. Sorry, Sharon, but there’s a very important client phoning. I really don’t want the phone unattended. Do please wait for me.’
The phone was ringing now: obviously the important client. Sharon put on her personal secretary voice. ‘Mr Carlton’s office. Sharon Parker speaking, how may I help you?’
‘Oh – hallo. Yes. This is Mrs Ford again. Is Sheila Edwards not there?’
‘No, she’s out, Mrs Ford. Perhaps I can help you.’
‘Oh – it’s just that I phoned earlier. I’m from Bartles House. To see if there was any news.’
‘Bartles House. Yes?’
‘We’re – well, we’re waiting for news. About what was going happen to it. I just wondered if . . .’
She sounded nice: and as wound up and edgy as Sharon herself. ‘There’s a note here about Bartles House, actually, Mrs Ford,’ she said, noticing it suddenly. ‘I wonder if that’s what you want?’
‘It might be. What – what does it say?’
‘It says – oh, yes. It does look like good news for you. It says it’s going through all right, and that that should cheer you up. Does that make any sense to you, Mrs Ford?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Pat Ford. ‘Yes, it certainly does.’
Donald Ford walked in through the door.
She turned to face him, shining eyed. ‘Wonderful, wonderful news. Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘That was Michael Carlton’s office. It’s all going through. It’s all right. Do you realise what that means? It means we can leave this awful place, and go to the new one. Oh, Donald, I can’t believe it. No more Bartles House, no more struggling with the stairs and the plumbing and the awful draughty doorways.’
She went over to him and kissed him; over her shoulder she suddenly saw Lucilla Sanderson, standing very still, looking stricken. She had obviously heard every word.
‘Jesus,’ said Tom, ‘what the fuck are they doing over there? Having a party?’
‘Probably, yes. Look, shall we give up and just go out to lunch ourselves? I need to get seriously drunk.’
‘No, I think we should wait,’ said Tom. He felt very sick. He had failed Nico, as Nico had not failed him; it was not a good feeling.
‘I just want to make quite—’
The phone on his desk shrilled. He snatched it up.
‘Tom Fleming.’
‘Hi. This is Jenny. With a full news report.’
‘Yes?’ said Tom. ‘Yes?’
‘Okay. Well, he went through a whole rigmarole about the London Wall Bank, what a great place it was, how careful management and investment and really good client services had placed it in the top fifty investment banks in the country. And then he made his announcement.’
‘About . . . ?’
He was so sure she was going to say about Cadogan Hotels, he actually heard it, heard the words. And then realised rather slowly that she hadn’t. That those words hadn’t come. That she was saying something quite different. He tried to concentrate, to make sense of it.
‘So they’re opening a telephone banking arm. Called London Wall Direct. I mean, boring or what? And then he served some rather nice champagne and then we all left again. And I called you.’
‘Jenny,’ said Tom, ‘Jenny, I love you. Thanks. Come round here and I’ll give you some more. Nice champagne, I mean.’
He looked at Nico, who was standing staring out of the window, every line in his tall, thin body an agony of tension.
‘Nico,’ he said. ‘Nico, we have work to do. We have to improve that cashflow situation further.’
Nico turned to him; his face was very drawn.
‘He’s made the bid?’
Tom waited for a just a moment, then, sensing the cruelty, smiled at him. ‘No. No, he hasn’t. Old bugger didn’t even mention the hotels. Clearly doesn’t think they’re worth bothering about. They’re safe – from him, at any rate.’
‘Jesus!’ said Cadogan. ‘Jesus. I don’t bloody believe it.’
‘You’d better.’
‘You had something to do with this, didn’t you, Fleming? What was it, what the fuck did you do?’
‘Oh – nothing much,’ said Tom. ‘Certainly nothing worth talking about anyway.’
CHAPTER 46
‘Now one thing I must ask you, of course. Have you given careful consideration to the idea of reconciliation?’
‘No.’ said Octavia. ‘I mean yes. I have considered it.’
‘And?’
‘And—’ she paused. She had been warned about this by Melanie: that Fiona Michael was bound – by professional regulation – to ask her. It was surprisingly hard to say. ‘And I – I, well, it isn’t an option.’
‘You’re sure?’
Another pause. She realised Fiona Michael’s expression was very piercing. It was obviously important to get the answer right.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I mean—’
‘Because it is important that you are absolutely sure. That it can be ruled out. Have you discussed it with your husband?’
‘I don’t discuss anything with my husband,’ said Octavia briskly.
‘It’s important that you do. Divorce is a complex procedure. This is only one thing that requires you cooperate with one another.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. I thought – thought that you’d do it all. See to it.’
‘Most of it,’ said Fiona. ‘Not all.’
She smiled at Octavia coolly, crossed one long leg over the other. She was tall and very slim, with dark red hair and very white skin; immensely attractive. Her office resembled a sitting room; they were sitting on sofas, on either side of a low table. A large box of Kleenex was placed beside the vase of flowers on the table. Octavia wondered what they were for.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘just let me have as much background as possible. When the marriage first began to break down, why you’re so sure there’s no hope of reconciliation. Does he know you’re seeing me?’
‘No. No, not yet.’
‘Well, that’s absolutely the first step. You must tell him. Unless you want things to become very unpleasant indeed.’
‘Oh – no, I don’t. Of course not.’
‘Well – let’s go through it, shall we?’
At the end of forty minutes, Octavia discovered what the Kleenex were for.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fiona, passing her the box, ‘everyone cries. Men and women. Everyone. However much they come in feeling and talking tough, they cry. It’s natural. This is your marriage you’re planning to say goodbye to. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Octavia. She felt horribly upset.
The coffee was very strong; it made her feel better. She managed to smile at Fiona. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. Where is your husband living now?’
‘At home,’ said Octavia.
‘At home? You mean, with you?’
‘Well – yes.’
‘That is rather – unwise.’
‘Why? We’re not sleeping together any more.’ She felt absurdly defensive suddenly. Of Tom, for God’s sake. What was the matter with her?
‘You’re suing him for adultery. If you and he are cohabiting, that weakens your case. You really should press him to leave. Although you can’t force him unless he’s being violent. I presume that isn’t the case.’
‘No,’ said Octavia, thinking of the night she had hit Tom, starting to cry again. ‘No, he isn’t.’
Her father had been very insistent that Tom moved out; maybe that was why.
‘He’s been having problems with his business,’ she said after a while. ‘Financial problems. It would have been – difficult for him.’
‘That’s really rather accommodating of you, Mrs Fleming. Not many wives would see things quite that way. Are the problems over now?’
‘Oh – yes. Things are much better.’
‘That’s good. We shall be able to press for a more substantial settlement. Bankrupt husbands are never good news.’
‘No. No, of course not.’
Fiona Michael hesitated. Then she said, ‘Mrs Fleming this won’t be pleasant. I do urge you to talk about it to your husband one more time.’
Octavia looked at her; she waited for a moment, trying to find order in her whirling thoughts. Then she said, ‘No. No, I don’t want to do that. I want to go ahead.’
‘Very well. Now I’d like you to take this form and fill it in for me. Before we talk any more. All rather tedious, I’m afraid, but it will save a lot of time in the long run. More coffee?’
