Conflict of Interest

Lying back on the sofa, they kissed and he rolled on top of her. ‘You know, I’ve never made love to a Deputy City Editor before.’

‘Oh, really?’ she whispered with a grin, reaching down and fiddling with his belt. ‘First time for everything.’

EPILOGUE

Helen Cullen surveyed the exposed branches in Hyde Park as she followed her usual route around the Serpentine. By mid-November they were stripped bare of all leaves, forming dark silhouettes against the winter sky. Even in their nakedness they had a peculiar beauty, a stillness she usually found soothing to the spirit. But not this evening. She doubted anything was capable of soothing her – not even the powerful new tranquilizers her doctor had prescribed the day before, designed to keep her emotions wrapped in a numbing, chemical cocoon.

Later this evening she was to join her husband at a State Banquet at Buckingham Palace, in honour of the visiting President of France. When Mike had phoned her with the news some time ago, he hadn’t concealed his excitement. It wasn’t so much the prospect of an evening of starchy formality with chinless wonders from the Foreign Office that appealed; it was more that the invitation itself sent out a signal of recognition. It would have been motivated and endorsed by people in high places. It was an encouraging sign that Mike Cullen was being noticed with approval. A first step, perhaps, towards an eventual knighthood? Arise, Sir Michael?

Mike had been in the news a great deal in recent days. Having previously maintained a rigid code of invisibility at Lombard, after the Starwear débâcle he’d suddenly been everywhere, talking up his Lombard Free the Children Appeal. The appeal had been a great success, having raised over £20 million in two weeks. The newspapers had been full of photographs of Mike Cullen in India, surrounded by emaciated and pathetically grateful children.

All of a sudden, Mike Cullen was the conscience of the City, the man with the heart of gold. Although a few critics pointed out that he had been all too willing to collude with Jacob Strauss – not only during Strauss’s brief period as CEO of Starwear, but for several years before that, when Strauss was Managing Director of Starwear’s International Division – the attacks had been fragmented and drew little support.

Following his vintage performance outside the Grosvenor House, the consensus of most media commentators, several of them numbered among his closest friends, was that Mike Cullen had been a victim of Jacob Strauss’s despicable duplicity.

Several senior journalists had stepped forward to confirm Cullen’s contention that Elliott North was the real PR villain. Jim Ritchie described North’s crass attempt at bribery. The hasty departure of Alex Carter from The Herald gave substance to the theory too. And with Jacob Strauss’s ‘no comment’ policy contrasting sharply with Mike Cullen’s openness, a momentum was soon established; it wasn’t long before opinion formers among the huge number of blue-chip companies represented by Lombard were stepping forward to voice their solidarity with Mike Cullen.

It seemed to Helen that she couldn’t open a newspaper without reading about her husband, or seeing some carefully placed press photograph. Bruno d’Andrea had been phoning their home every night with news of the next day’s papers. The only Lombard executive for whom she had a visceral dislike, d’Andrea seemed to be riding high at Lombard. Mike had awarded him a one-off bonus amounting to several hundred thousand pounds – exactly what for, she shuddered to think. She knew there had been all kinds of shenanigans at the office. Having overheard her husband’s muttered late-night phone conversations, she knew that his new Research and Planning Director, a young man with whom he’d been much enamoured, had returned his company car with a letter of resignation to take immediate effect, after just two and a half months at the company. It was so out of keeping for Lombard, Helen couldn’t help wondering what had prompted the sudden departure, though she suspected it was directly linked to the Starwear débâcle – and all her husband’s furtive telephone conversations in the nights that followed.

She hated it all. It was one thing trying desperately, for the sake of the girls, to keep up the pretence that theirs was a happy marriage; and it was quite another to keep up the facade with her husband revelling in the full blaze of publicity as a saviour of children. She found the whole thing abhorrent; a travesty so utterly cynical it made her feel even more disturbed than she already had been. Whatever anyone else thought of her husband, she knew that under all that charm was a well-developed core of evil.

And of course, stories about the disappearance of Dale Nesbitt continued to circulate. Just a few nights ago she had happened to turn on the television when Crimewatch was covering the case. She’d stood there, staring at the reconstruction with her heart in her throat, as the programme showed an anonymous stranger arriving at St Stephen’s to collect Dale. A police detective said he believed there was a good chance Dale might still be alive, perhaps being held captive somewhere. If that was the case, he concluded, someone, somewhere must know about it. Please would they come forward with information! There were interviews with several teachers from St Stephen’s, and with Dale’s fellow pupils from school. Dale was described as exceptionally good-looking, a committed athlete, a sensitive boy. There were pleas to call Crimewatch. with any clues, however tenuous they might seem. It was only after the piece was over she’d realised she was crying.

Of course, she still had no evidence at all to link the disappearance to Mike – only the knowledge that her husband had, once before, engaged in acts of paedophilia; that he’d had some kind of sponsor’s relationship with St Stephen’s. And, of course, her deeply troubled intuition. But was that cause to pull the whole world down around her?

She paused awhile, as she always did at the end of her walk, looking across the mirror-still water. An evening wind sent a shiver through the stark branches, and she clutched her coat to herself. This evening, as always, the only conclusion she had reached after her walk was to press on; keep putting one foot in front of the other. Deeply reluctant though she was to take part in tonight’s charade, she felt she really had no choice.

r /> Two and a half hours later she found herself being led through the reception area of Lombard House towards the lift which would carry her to the penthouse. She was always treated as something of a deity when she arrived at Lombard, with much bowing and scraping accorded to the Chairman’s wife. Tonight was no exception, as one of the exquisite Sloaney girls at Reception complimented her on her beautiful gown, before stepping into the lift beside her, and pressing the top button.

She’d arrived deliberately late so that she wouldn’t have to endure too much of the pre-Palace cocktails. Mike had arranged celebratory drinks with some of his fellow directors, and by the time she stepped into the penthouse sitting room, there were about thirty people already there – Mike himself looking even more darkly splendid than ever in white tie and tails. She accepted a fresh orange juice from a caterer, and spent a few minutes talking to Nicholas King. It wasn’t long before Mike pointed out that it was almost time to leave.

Excusing herself for a moment, she went through to the en suite bathroom leading off the master bedroom. It was as gleaming and luxurious as ever – Italian marble sparkling under concealed downlights in the ceiling. Putting the finishing touches to her make-up, she washed her hands and dried them on one of the small hand towels provided, before raising the lid of the wicker basket to dispose of the towel.

It was only when she’d closed the lid of the basket that she realised the significance of what she’d seen. Opening the lid again, she looked inside carefully; there was definitely something that wasn’t a towel, curled at the bottom. Reaching down, she pushed aside a few other towels to check what it was. As she lifted it up, she felt her heart suddenly racing. Sure enough, it was what she’d suspected. Creased and soiled, very much the worse for wear, it was, nonetheless, a boy’s tie. In St Stephen’s colours.

She felt as though she was caught in a surreal drama. She stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, depositing the St Stephen’s tie on the bed. Like an automaton she found herself picking up the telephone receiver on the bedside pedestal, dialling the emergency services, and asking for the police.

When a police officer came on the line she said, ‘I’m phoning about the boy who was abducted from St Stephen’s – Dale Nesbitt.’

‘You have some information you’d like to give me?’

‘I know who abducted him.’

Sensing a movement, she looked up to find her husband standing across the room from her, pointing at his watch. ‘His name is Mike Cullen.’ She ignored her husband.

‘And what is your relationship with this man?’

She sighed. ‘He is … was … my husband.’

Dale was found in Ledford Style, a small village in Suffolk, a few days later. He’d appeared at the kitchen door of the local coffee shop begging for food. Marj Wilkins, the proprietor, had taken one look at the bedraggled little urchin, shivering from cold, before installing him at the kitchen bench with bacon sandwiches and a mug of hot chocolate. Then she had called her brother-in-law Jim, the local police constable.

Jim had been round in minutes. He’d always had a way with children, and after a short while had persuaded Dale, revived by his meal, to tell him how he came to be in rural Suffolk. The story that followed had been like something out of a weekend tabloid. It involved a London orphanage run by priests, who were bribed by a businessman to allow access to their boys – the pædophile who had showered Dale with gifts before molesting him. Dale spoke of his fear, every time he was summoned to the man’s flat. Finally, Dale described his incarceration there, and nightly abuse for nearly a month. His chance to escape had come when the man had transferred him to a basement storage room as the flat was needed for a party. In the storeroom Dale had found a piece of wire and, using a trick he’d learned from the boys at school, had managed to pick the lock. Wandering the unfamiliar streets of the City, he’d found his way to Liverpool Street station, and jumped on the first train that was leaving.

Jim and Marj Wilkins sat listening, trying to conceal their horror. While Dale had been talking, Jim was thinking about the missing persons directory down at the station. He was almost certain a boy from a London orphanage had been reported missing not so long ago. He could easily check. Then he asked gently, ‘D’you know the man’s name?’

Dale screwed up his face. ‘He made me call him Santa. I’ve forgotten his real name’.

Jim was nodding. ‘We’ll soon find out.’