This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

“You’re not by any chance related to Lady Clifton?”

“She’s my mother.”

“Then I hope you’ll pass on my best wishes to her.”

“You know her?”

“Only as chairman of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. My wife had breast cancer, and they met when she was on one of her weekly ward rounds.”

“Every Wednesday morning, from ten to twelve,” said Seb. “She said it gave her a chance to find out what the patients and staff were really thinking.”

“And I can tell you something else,” said Carter. “When my son was knocked off his bike and twisted an ankle, there she was again, this time in A and E observing everything that was going on.”

“That would have been a Friday afternoon, between four and six.”

“That didn’t surprise me, but what did was that she came over and had a word with my wife, and even remembered her name. So just tell me what you want, Mr. Clifton, because I’m your man.”

“I’m afraid I’m neither a buyer nor a seller, Mr. Carter, but a seeker of information.”

“If I can help, I will.”

“The bank I represent is currently involved in a takeover bid for Mellor Travel, and I was interested by a statement you made to the local press concerning the sale of Mr. Desmond Mellor’s flat in Broad Street.”

“Which one of the many statements I made?” asked Carter, clearly enjoying the attention.

“You told a reporter from The Evening News that you had held back part of the proceeds from the sale of the flat rather than pass over the full amount to the executors of Mr. Mellor’s will, which puzzled my father.”

“Clever man, your father. Which is more than can be said for the reporter, who failed to follow it up.”

“Well, I’d like to follow it up.”

“And if I were to assist you, Mr. Clifton, would it be of any benefit to your mother?”

“Indirectly, yes. If my bank is successful in taking over Mellor Travel, my parents will benefit from the transaction, because I manage their share portfolio.”

“So one of them can get on with the writing, while the other runs the NHS?”

“Something like that.”

“Between you and me,” whispered Carter, leaning conspiratorially across his desk, “I thought it was a strange business from the start. A client who can only phone you once a week and is restricted to three minutes because he’s calling from prison was a challenge in itself.”

“Yes, I can believe that.”

“Mind you, his first instruction was straightforward enough. He wanted to put his flat on the market, with the proviso that the whole transaction had to be completed within thirty days.”

Seb took out a checkbook from an inside pocket, and wrote on the back “30 days.”

“He called a week later and made another request that puzzled me, because I’d assumed he was a rich man.” Seb kept his pen poised. “He asked if I could advance him a short-term loan of ten thousand pounds against the property, as he needed the cash urgently. I began to explain to him that it was against company policy, when the line went dead.”

Seb wrote down “£10,000,” and underlined it.

“A fortnight later, I was able to tell him I’d found a buyer for the flat, who’d deposited ten percent of the asking price with his solicitor, but wouldn’t complete until he’d seen the surveyor’s report. Mr. Mellor then made an even stranger request.”

Seb continued to look enthralled by every word Carter had to say.

“Once the sale had gone through, I was to hand over the first ten thousand to a friend of his from London, but not until they had produced a legal document that had been signed by him, witnessed by a Mr. Graves, and dated May twelfth, 1981.”

Seb wrote down “friend, £10,000, legal doc signed by Mellor/Graves,” and the date.