Conflict of Interest

Hurrying back to Lombard, Chris had just one thought on his mind: how to get that visa stamp in his passport so that he could get out to India immediately. He didn’t know anyone in the Foreign Office, let alone the Indian High Commission, nor could he think of anyone who did. Phoning the High Commission from his mobile, he asked yet again about speeding up visa applications – this time on compassionate grounds. A telegram would be needed from a police station or hospital in India, he was told. Which ruled out that option. It was only when his thoughts returned briefly to the news of Kate’s death, that the memory surfaced, sudden and unbidden from the past: Kashmir Development Agency. It had been one of Kate’s clients.

Back at Lombard he made his way immediately to the first floor, where Stewart Watkins, Kate’s second-in-command, was working behind his desk, ashen-faced and still coping with the shock of yesterday’s news. After exchanging condolences, Chris told him, ‘I’ve just been ordered to India to look at a Quantum Change factory. I need an Indian visa – problem is, it takes the High Commission three days and I need one a lot sooner. Do you know anyone at the Kashmir Development Agency who could pull strings?’

‘KDA is a one-man operation,’ Stewart replied, ‘Anant Singh. He’s a player all right, but he’s known round here as the client from hell.’

Chris raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Seems to have a lot of time on his hands. He won’t let us so much as phone a journalist without having to be bought lunch to discuss it first.’

Chris glanced at his watch. Twelve forty-five p.m. Looking back at Stewart he asked, ‘May I have his phone number?’

A few minutes later he was in his office, and had dialled KDA. ‘Mr Singh. Chris Treiger here from Lombard. I realise this is extremely late notice, but I was wondering if you might be able to join me for lunch today. I need to discuss an issue of some urgency …’

22

Chris had never been to India before, nor had the country ever featured on his wish-list of holiday destinations. One billion people, many living in abject poverty, had always struck him as a good reason to stay away. Now though, as he made his way through the streets of Delhi in the back of a twenty-year-old Mercedes Benz taxi, he couldn’t help being struck by the astonishing human drama unfolding before his eyes – lorries, rickshaws, bicycles, Brahman cattle, Rolls Royces, scooters, and everywhere people, a great mass of humanity in motion; he had never before been caught up in such a vivid panoply.

He could do with more speed though. He’d managed to get out to India a day earlier than expected. Thanks to the kind services of Anant Singh, secured over a two-hour lunch in the country house ambience of Rules, he’d picked up a stamped passport from the Indian High Commission the next day, then headed to Heathrow airport for the Wednesday night flight shaking off his shadowers en route. He’d already told North about his visa troubles, and North had got Starwear to shift their press tour from Thursday afternoon to Friday morning. But he hadn’t told anyone, not even Charlotte, about his early departure. Delhi time was five hours ahead of London, and right now everyone back home would be fast asleep in bed. When they got to the office they’d be expecting him in. By the time anyone knew he was in India, he’d have been here more than half a day. For a

few hours, at least, he had time on his side.

On the flight over he’d had plenty of time to think, and to follow the consequences of the Project Silo bombshell. BBC World News had carried an item about that day’s debate on the new Textiles Act in the House of Commons. A Government backbencher, no less, had referred to that day’s newspapers, and questioned the wisdom of opening up the sportswear to companies run by men ‘whose scruples are those of the gutter’.

There had been a commotion on Opposition Benches with much jeering and waving of papers, at the scent of dissension in Government ranks. When George Thannet, MP, proposed his sportswear amendment, he’d found support from both sides of the House. ‘It was an embarrassing day for the Government,’ announced the news reader, ‘and the likelihood of the Textiles Act being passed in its entirety now looks increasingly remote. An amendment excluding global sportswear manufacturers is expected to be passed tomorrow.’

Chris had leaned back in his aircraft seat, trying to get a grip on the scale of events, and the speed at which they were happening. Elliott North had successfully hijacked first his report, then the British parliamentary process, to get a law passed that would cover Jacob Strauss’s back and which would further entrench Starwear’s commercial advantage. And that translated directly into bigger profits. There seemed no end to his power.

But it was North’s malevolence, much closer to home, that he found so troubling. Knowing what had happened to William van Aardt and Merlin de Vere was one thing; but losing his most trusted colleague was quite another. Time and time again his thoughts had returned to Kate’s final hours. Exactly how had it happened? What had North’s operatives done to blast her blood sugar levels out of control? She must have known what was happening to her. There must have been some time – was it seconds, or minutes? – when she realised, and tried to do something about it.

And in Chris’s mind, at least, it wasn’t too hard to replace Kate with Judith; to imagine her trapped in some Indian nightmare from which she’d never escape. There she was, thinking she’d been sent out to Jaipur to put the seal on the biggest story of her career, when the reality was horrifically different. Please God, make it not be too late! As his plane sped through the night, the cabin lights dimmed and all the passengers around him under their blankets and eye masks, Chris had tried to work out what to do when he got to Delhi. How he’d make contact with her. A plan for their escape. His mind racing through all the options, he’d considered every step, every last detail, to bring this surreal drama to an end.

The trip to Jaipur took just over two hours and he told the driver to drive straight past the Royal Jaipur Gardens Hotel, into which he’d been booked, and towards The Forum, another hotel he’d been assured at the airport was ‘for world-class executives’. There was no problem checking in, and as soon as he was alone in his room, he put through a call to Judith. She wasn’t there, and after an interminable wait, his call was picked up again by Reception. ‘She went out this morning, sir,’ he was told. ‘Would you like me to pass on a message?’

‘No.’ He had no intention of alerting North to his arrival. ‘When is she getting back?’

‘I’m sorry, we don’t know.’

After hanging up he changed into casual clothes, tucking his passport into an inside pocket and his cash into a money belt around his waist. Then he made his way out of the hotel, trying to remain incognito, but painfully self-conscious of his colour and clothes. Walking back to the Royal Jaipur Gardens took just a few minutes. Across the road from the hotel entrance he found a few curio shops and a crumbling post office, as well as the inevitable collection of hawkers’ stalls, with everything on sale from incense to fresh fruit to luminous rubber key rings made in Taiwan. Buying himself a can of lukewarm Coke, he kept a close watch on the hotel entrance.

He hadn’t been waiting more than forty minutes when an ancient Datsun taxi pulled up and Judith stepped out. He had no doubt she was being followed, although it was hard to see who by, there was so much traffic about. Having already prepared for this moment, he pointed Judith out to a small boy whose mother had been selling cheap brass vases at the roadside. As directed, the child made his way across to Judith and handed her a vase which contained his note rolled up inside, before disappearing back into the chaos of humanity.

Ten minutes later, Judith emerged from the hotel, a camera slung round her neck and carrying a few postcards as she headed towards the post office. Once inside, she made her way towards a row of telephone booths. They were the old, colonial variety, with solid teak doors for privacy. Several were already occupied. She stepped into one that was empty. A moment later, Chris opened the door and squashed in beside her.

‘What’s happening?’ She was irritated.

‘North sent me over to go on tomorrow’s factory tour.’

Eyebrows shooting up, her snappiness turned to agitation.

‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘You mean, Carter …’

‘ … was taking orders,’ he finished for her.

‘That must have been who he phoned.’ She remembered how he’d been pacing up and down in his office, cigar jabbing in the air, after he’d read her article. ‘What d’you reckon they’re going to—’

‘Not something I want to think about too much.’ He was shaking his head. ‘Some kind of tragedy in Jaipur. You know, last Friday night Kate Taylor died. Insulin overdose,’ he grimaced.