Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles 4)

“But there’s a strong possibility that were I to carry out these instructions to the letter, you would lose a great deal of money.”

“It’s my money to lose, and in any case, Barrington’s shares are currently trading above the price I originally paid for them, so I’m confident of getting most of my money back. At worst, I might lose a few pounds.”

“But if you were to allow me to dispose of the shares over a longer period, say six weeks, even a couple of months, I’d feel more confident that I could claw back your original investment, possibly even make you a small profit.”

“I’ll spend my money in any way I please.”

“But it is my fiduciary duty to protect the bank’s position, especially remembering you are currently overdrawn by one million, seven hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds.”

“That is covered by the value of the shares, which at their present price would return me more than two million.”

“Then at least allow me to approach the Barrington family and ask if they—”

“Under no circumstances will you contact any member of the Barrington or Clifton families!” shouted Don Pedro. “You will place all my shares on the open market the moment the Stock Exchange opens on Monday, August seventeenth, and

accept whatever price is offered at that time. My instructions could not be clearer.”

“Where will you be on that day, Mr. Martinez, in case I need to get in touch with you?”

“Exactly where you would expect to find any gentleman: grouse-shooting in Scotland. There will be no way of contacting me, and that’s the reason I chose the place. It’s so isolated they don’t even deliver the morning newspapers.”

“If those are your instructions, Mr. Martinez, I shall draw up a letter to that effect, so that there can be no misunderstanding at a later date. I’ll send it around to Eaton Square by messenger this afternoon for your signature.”

“I’ll be happy to sign it.”

“And once this transaction has been completed, Mr. Martinez, perhaps you might consider moving your account to another bank.”

“If you’ve still got your job, Mr. Ledbury, I will.”

29

SUSAN PARKED THE car in a side street and waited. She knew the invitation for the regimental dinner was 7:30 for 8 p.m. and, as the guest of honor was a field marshal, she felt confident Alex wouldn’t be late.

A taxi drew up outside her former marital home at 7:10 p.m. Alex appeared a few moments later. He was wearing a dinner jacket boasting three campaign medals. Susan noticed that his bow tie was askew, one of his dress-shirt studs was missing, and she couldn’t help laughing when she saw the pair of slip-ons that certainly wouldn’t last a lifetime. Alex climbed into the back of the taxi, which headed off in the direction of Wellington Road.

Susan waited for a few minutes before she drove the car across the road, got out and opened the garage door. She then parked the Jaguar Mark II inside. Part of the divorce settlement had been that she would return his pride and joy, but she’d refused until he was up to date with his monthly maintenance payments. Susan had cleared his latest check that morning, only wondering where the money could possibly have come from. Alex’s solicitor had suggested she should return the car while he was at the regimental dinner. One of the few things both sides were able to agree on.

She climbed out of the car, opened the boot and took out a Stanley knife and a pot of paint. After she’d placed the pot of paint on the ground, Susan walked to the front of the car and thrust the knife into one of the tires. She took a step back and waited for the hissing to stop, before she moved on to the next one. When all four tires were flat, she turned her attention to the pot of paint.

She prised open the lid, stood on tiptoe and slowly poured the thick liquid on to the roof of the car. Once she was convinced that not a drop was left, she stood back and enjoyed the sensation of watching the paint slowly trickle down each side as well as over the front and rear windows. It should have dried long before Alex returned from his dinner. Susan had spent some considerable time selecting which color would blend best with racing green, and had finally settled on lilac. The result was even more pleasing than she’d thought possible.

It was her mother who’d spent hours going over the small print in the divorce settlement and had pointed out to Susan that she had agreed to return the car but without specifying what condition it should be in.

It was some time before Susan dragged herself away from the garage to go up to the third floor where she intended to leave the car keys on his study desk. Her only disappointment was that she wouldn’t be able to see the expression on Alex’s face when he opened the garage door in the morning.

Susan let herself into the flat with her old latch key, pleased that Alex hadn’t changed the lock. She strolled into his study and dropped the car keys on the desk. She was about to leave, when she noticed a letter in his unmistakable hand on the blotting pad. Curiosity got the better of her. She leaned over and read the private and confidential letter quickly, and then sat in his chair and read it more slowly a second time. She found it hard to believe that Alex would sacrifice his seat on the board of Barrington’s as a matter of principle. After all, Alex didn’t have any principles, and as it was his only source of income other than a derisory army pension, what did he expect to live on? More importantly, how would he pay her monthly maintenance without his regular director’s fee?

Susan read the letter a third time, wondering if there was something she was missing. She was at a loss to understand why it was dated August 21st. If you were going to resign on a matter of principle, why wait a fortnight before making your position clear?

By the time Susan had arrived back in Burnham-on-Sea, Alex was bending the ear of the field marshal, but she still hadn’t fathomed it out.

* * *

Sebastian walked slowly down Bond Street, admiring the various goods displayed in the shop windows and wondering if he’d ever be able to afford any of them.

Mr. Hardcastle had recently given him a raise. He was now earning £20 a week, making him what was known in the City as a “thousand-pound-a-year man,” and he also had a new title, associate director—not that titles mean anything in the banking world, unless you’re chairman of the board.

In the distance he spotted a sign flapping in the breeze, Agnew’s Fine Art Dealers, founded 1817. Sebastian had never entered a private art gallery before, and he wasn’t even sure if they were open to the public. He’d been to the Royal Academy, the Tate and the National Gallery with Jessica, and she’d never stopped talking as she dragged him from room to room. It used to drive him mad sometimes. How he wished she was there by his side, driving him mad. Not a day went by, not an hour, when he didn’t miss her.