This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

“But like him, they’re all locked up.”

“True, but just remember Mellor’s tried to stitch me up once before—and nearly succeeded.”

“But this guy Sorkin is sending his private jet to pick us up so we can spend the weekend on his yacht at Cap Ferrat. What more could you ask for?”

“I hate planes, and distrust people who own yachts. And what’s more, no one in the City has ever come across Conrad Sorkin.”

“I could always go on my own.”

“Absolutely not,” said Sloane. “We’ll both go. But if I sense even for a second that Sorkin isn’t what he claims to be, we’ll be on the next flight back, and not in his private jet.”

* * *

When Virginia received a letter from her solicitor to confirm that Mrs. Ellie May Grant had accepted her offer, she wasn’t sure how to react. After all, with £230,000 at her disposal, she could live a comfortable enough life swanning around Europe, staying with friends. But she admitted to Bofie that she would miss London, Ascot, Wimbledon, Glyndebourne, the royal garden party, the Proms, Annabel’s, and Harry’s Bar, especially when all her continental buddies had migrated back to London for the season.

Although she had banked the check for £230,000 with Coutts, Virginia accepted that if she were to honor her agreement, the money would run out in a couple of years, and she wondered if she was simply postponing the inevitable trip to Argentina. But on the other hand, perhaps something else might turn up in the meantime, and she still had until April 13th before she had to make a final decision.

After changing her mind several times, Virginia reluctantly handed over the first £100,000 to her solicitor on April 13th, and at the same time cleared all her small debts, loans, and legal costs, leaving her with £114,000 in her current account. Her brother continued to supply her with an allowance of £2,000 a month, a sum that had dropped from £4,000 when she deserted Freddie. Virginia hadn’t read the small print in her father’s will. And if Archie ever found out about her windfall, she suspected he would cut her off without another penny.

The following morning, she returned to Coutts and cashed a check for £10,000. She placed the money in a Swan and Edgar bag, as Mellor had instructed, walked back out onto the Strand, and hailed a cab. She had no idea where the Science Museum was but was confident the cabbie would know. Twenty minutes later she was standing outside a magnificent Victorian building on Exhibition Road.

She entered the museum and walked across to the inquiry desk, where a young woman pointed her in the direction of Stephenson’s Rocket. Virginia marched through the Energy Hall, the Space Gallery, and into Making the Modern World without turning to look at any of the unique objects that surrounded her.

She spotted the peroxide blonde standing next to an old steam engine, surrounded by children. The two women didn’t acknowledge each other. Virginia simply placed the bag on the floor by her side, turned around, and left the museum as quickly as she had entered it.

Twenty minutes later she was sitting in Harry’s Bar enjoying a dry Martini. A handsome young man sitting at the bar on his own smiled at her. She returned his smile.

* * *

When Virginia visited Belmarsh the following Sunday, she was relieved to discover that Desmond Mellor didn’t even know his mother had an art collection, and clearly had never heard of L. S. Lowry. He had supplied the old lady with a small monthly allowance, but confessed he hadn’t visited Salford for some years.

“I sold her bits and pieces for four hundred pounds,” Virginia told him. “What would you like me to do with the money?”

“Consider it a bonus. I heard this morning that the pickup went smoothly, for which I’m grateful.” He glanced across the room at Nash, who was having his monthly meeting with the peroxide blonde. They never once looked in his direction.

14

ADRIAN SLOANE reluctantly admitted that being flown to the South of France in a Learjet was something he could get used to. Jim Knowles agreed. A young hostess, who didn’t look as if she knew a great deal about air safety, poured them another glass of champagne.

“Don’t relax, even for a moment,” said Sloane, rejecting the drink. “We still don’t know what Sorkin expects for his money.”

“Why should we give a damn,” said Knowles, “as long as the price is right?”

As the plane taxied to its stand at Nice Côte d’Azur airport, Sloane looked out of the window to see a Bentley Continental waiting for them on the tarmac. They

climbed into the backseat—no passport checks, no queues, no customs. It was clear that Conrad Sorkin knew which palms to grease.

The harbor was packed cheek by jowl with gleaming yachts. Only one had its own dock, and that was where the Bentley came to a halt. A smartly dressed matelot opened the back door while two others collected the luggage from the boot. As Sloane walked up the wide gangway, he noticed a Panamanian flag fluttering gently in the breeze on the stern of the yacht. As they stepped on board, an officer in full whites saluted them and introduced himself as the purser.

“Welcome aboard,” he said in a clipped English accent. “I’ll show you to your cabins. Dinner will be served at eight on the upper deck, but do not hesitate to call me if there’s anything you require before then.”

The first thing Sloane noticed when he entered his state room was a black attaché case in the middle of the double bed. He tentatively flicked it open to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked fifty-pound notes. He sat on the end of the bed and counted them slowly. Twenty thousand pounds—1 percent of the offer price in advance? He closed the lid and slid the case under the bed.

Sloane slipped out of his room and entered the next-door cabin without knocking. Knowles was counting his money.

“How much?” said Sloane.

“Ten thousand.”