Conflict of Interest

‘OK, OK. I’ll see what I can do.’

He slammed shut the phone with a bitter expression. The time was coming, and pretty soon, when the show would be over, and he’d be unhitching his wagon from the international travelling circus that was Jacob Strauss. But there would be no unhitching before some bargaining took place. He’d come a long way from that roach-infested tenement in Brooklyn, and he wasn’t about to throw it all up, not for anyone. He planned to continue living in the style to which he’d become accustomed. And Jay Strauss was going to continue to pay for it.

He’d had ample opportunity over the years to assemble his evidence. Plenty of time to work out his plan so that if he gave the order, or if anything happened to him, Jay would be sunk. One well-directed missile and it would all be over. He would only ask for ten million. Peanuts, to someone like Jay. Christ, he went through more than that in a year. Ten mill to keep his trap shut for ever. A small price to pay.

North thought he’d spend his first summer in Greece.

One thing she’d grown to love about London were the parks. Hyde Park especially. It wasn’t far from where they lived, and she loved to stroll along the Serpentine in the evening. She found real peace and tranquillity there – especially among the late-autumn colours. The burnished golds and mellow reds offered a soothing haven away from the confines of her home and her disastrous marriage. By the end of each visit, after an hour of communing with nature, things didn’t seem so bad.

Ever since she’d first met him, her husband had been surrounded by kids. Little boys in particular looked up to him. He was their hero – always arranging adventures for them, like trips to football games, gymnastics, motor racing. And he was constantly fixing for them to have the things that little boys so liked to have – the latest trainers, tracksuits and trendy golf peaks.

For a long time she had seen nothing untoward in it. In fact, it

had been one of the things she’d found most attractive about him when they’d met. Many men didn’t much notice children, too wrapped up in their own worldly concerns of money and power. But he’d been different. They were both different – that’s what she used to think in the early days, when she still used to believe his PR. They were the golden couple, embarked on a glamorous adventure, he with his entrepreneurial business career, she there to support him, to bear his children and ensure the future of the dynasty. Silly fool that she was.

The physical side of their relationship had never really been what she’d hoped for. It certainly hadn’t been anything like what his many fans probably fantasised about. She had been disappointed, of course; despite being hugely energetic in other areas of his life, when it came to the bedroom he just didn’t seem to have the drive or the interest. But she’d tried to be practical about things. Sex was only one dimension out of the many that made up marriage, she’d told herself. When all the others were going so well, why get hung up on it?

She had thought it strange when she’d found him, just after their fourth anniversary, helping a ten-year-old boy into a Starwear tracksuit he’d just given him. The kid was stark naked and her husband had had his hands round the front as he pulled up the pants. It had had her worried the moment she saw it. The boy was quite old enough to be capable of pulling on a tracksuit. But when she mentioned it afterwards, he’d just laughed. The kid was a bit clumsy, physically, he explained. He’d been having problems with the knot.

She supposed she’d rationalised it away. It wasn’t something she’d even wanted to think about, but she hadn’t been able to avoid doing so.

It had been undeniable the time she’d come home from a date unexpectedly. The friend she was due to meet for lunch had been struck down with a migraine. She’d walked into the games room which he’d fitted out with all the latest computer games and electronic toys. This time, they were both naked and he had the boy under him. There could be no mistaking what he was doing.

She’d gone upstairs immediately, packing her bags and those of their two children. She’d stormed out, picked the kids up from school, and spent the night with her parents in a state of deep shock. She hadn’t been able to tell them – especially not them – or anyone else, what had happened. She’d questioned the children closely about their father – but he didn’t seem to have interfered at all with them, thank heavens.

He’d pursued her, arriving on her doorstep and pleading with her to come back. When she had calmed down enough to speak to him, he didn’t try to deny what had happened or where his urges lay. But he said he didn’t want to wreck what they had. He would go for counselling. He would change.

It was the oldest come-back line in the book, and, even sillier fool that she was, she’d gone back to him. For the sake of giving the kids a family life. For the sake of appearances. But things had never been the same between them again. He’d made a great show to her of going for counselling. But he also spent increasing amounts of time away on business. Their lives had become more and more separate, and she didn’t question what went on when he was away. She couldn’t take his lies, but she feared the truth even more. Over time, she’d made up her mind to leave. She was only staying for the two girls, now. Once they were finished at school she would move out. That, at any rate, was her plan.

All the same, there were times when the light, which she tried to persuade herself was at the end of the tunnel, seemed all but extinguished. Times when she couldn’t avoid being reminded of the dark side of her husband’s nature – and became deeply unsettled. Right now she was going through one of those periods. It had been sparked off by an article she’d read in the papers about the disappearance of a young boy, Dale Nesbitt, from St Stephen’s Children’s Home. St Stephen’s wasn’t far from where they lived – she had driven past the school grounds, always filled with boys in their instantly recognisable purple and gold uniform.

She knew that her husband had been involved in corporate donations to the Home. She knew too that when a St Stephen’s boy had disappeared before, he’d later been found dead, his sexually abused body concealed in the undergrowth beside a railway line, like some discarded toy.

Of course there was nothing at all to link her husband either to that event, or to the more recent disappearance. Even the prospect of it was too horrifying to contemplate. But, no matter how she tried to suppress it, she couldn’t help thinking the unthinkable, driving herself mad with worry. She’d been to the doctor about her agitation – though hadn’t dared to hint at the cause. He’d prescribed her pills and told her to come back in a month if she wasn’t feeling calmer.

But either the pills weren’t working, or her deepest fears were just too hideous to be blocked out by drugs. If anything, in the past few days she’d felt under even greater pressure, the dread of it colouring everything else in her life, so that her whole world was miserable with foreboding. As Hyde Park sank slowly into twilight, and a chill wind swept a flurry of leaves off the branches, she paused for a moment among the ancient trees: one of these days, she felt, she was just going to crack apart.

21

Judith hurried towards the British Airways check-in desks at Heathrow Terminal 4. Unlike the remaining passengers in Economy, she didn’t have to wait. Rushing her trolley across the Departures hall, she made her way directly towards the blue, Club Class carpet to the Delhi flight check-in, and handed over her ticket and passport.

Carter’s reaction to her story had been the very last thing she’d expected, and eight hours later, she still wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Fulsome with praise, he’d told her that Starwear would be the business scoop of the year. The City desk would have its finest hour. He’d promised her a major byline when her article appeared, late this week or early next. Given the scale of her revelations, he said he was sure The Herald’s editor would pluck the story from the business section, and paste it across the front page. And if Judith didn’t get at least one investigative journalist of the year award out of this, he told her, he would eat his deerstalker.

Which was all well and good. It was what he’d then proposed that raised her doubts. Her central allegations, he expounded, concerned a factory she had never visited, three and a half thousand miles away. Firsthand interviews with kids back in London were one thing. But if she had been there and seen things with her own eyes, and got more photographic evidence, the story would be all the more compelling.

The cost of flying her to India for a few days, in the context of such a major exposé was a mere trifle. Though she’d still been surprised when he’d told her to book her ticket and sort out a visa, the latter something she already had. She’d been even more surprised when he’d said to go business class. It was a sign of approval she’d never expected. Or was it? This was where her feelings were ambivalent, as she wondered if Carter was setting her up for something. Getting her out of town to take all the credit for her story himself? Or, much worse, operating in conspiracy with North? She’d considered that possibility once before – and dismissed it as paranoia. Now it kept returning, an unknown, potentially treacherous undercurrent about which she felt decidedly apprehensive. Not, she realised, that there was so much as the flimsiest shred of evidence to support her fears. In the end, she decided she didn’t have much choice but to act on the basis that Carter was genuine, and see this trip through.

Starwear arranged press visits to its Quantum Change plants, and she’d be joining a tour of their Jaipur operations on Thursday afternoon. She had no doubt it would be all happy workers, upward-pointing graphs and impressive diagrams accounting for new efficiencies. But even that would be useful – it would set up a vivid contrast for her other, unofficial factory visit, which she’d already arranged with the help of the Jaipur Abolitionist Group. One of R. J. Patel’s cousins ran a stall in the bazaar just two blocks away from The Royal Jaipur Hotel, where she was due to stay. He knew exactly where Starwear’s real mass-production centre was to be found, and would take her there before the Thursday-morning tour. Of course, security around the child slave plant might be tough to penetrate. There were no guarantees at all that she’d witness anything to arouse suspicions in the limited time she was there. But at the very least, she’d pick up on some local colour to work into her story. And maybe more evidence would be forthcoming.

There had been a lot of arrangements to make in the past eight hours – not only setting up her flight. She’d phoned up Bernie to tell him about the sudden turn of events, and asked him to pass the news on to Chris as a matter of urgency. She could hear the puzzlement in his voice as he took down her message, but Bernie, being Bernie, didn’t press the issue. He was good that way.

The BA lady handed over her boarding pass and pointed in the direction of International Departures. It was the very first flight on which she’d travelled in such exalted circumstances, and she’d have loved to wallow in every indulgence that was going, but time was against her. She’d arrived at Heathrow with no time to spare and the ‘Boarding’ sign for her flight already flashing. Hurried along by the staff at the hand-luggage check, she made her way through the warren of corridors at a half walk, half trot, before finally making it to her flight.

‘Good evening, madam.’ She was ushered through to her Club Class seat by an air steward whose cool poise couldn’t have been more different from the sense of controlled panic she’d felt all day. ‘Would you care for a welcoming glass of champagne ?’

That, more or less, set the tone for what was to follow. Kicking off her shoes, Judith realised she had nothing left to do right now except enjoy the trip. She decided a little alcohol might help her relax into things. Several glasses of champagne were followed by wine over dinner, and then a few tumblers of Bailey’s-on-the-rocks.

By eleven o’clock she was beginning to feel quite sleepy, but decided to watch the in-flight news. It was broadcast live from the BBC in London and was running some of the stories that had been through the newsroom the previous day. She watched the bulletin through half-closed eyes, listening to the familiar round of news items. About halfway through, her attention was suddenly caught by a story just breaking. The Chief Executives of two leading UK sports manufacturers, Sportex and Active Red, were at the centre of a scandal involving allegations of sexual misconduct and business impropriety. Robert Reid and Edward Snyder were