It had been many years since he was last in the City. The brass plate was still on the wall outside Alexander Higginson Investments; the same one he had polished twice a week. He walked into reception. ‘Hello, Tania. Remember me?’
‘Of course I do,’ she said, put on her horn‑rimmed glasses. ‘It’s John Forbes, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’
‘I’d like a word with Mr Higginson. Can he spare me five minutes this morning?’
‘Since you’re already here, I expect he will.’
John entered the familiar room, glad that he was not still working in this suffocating atmosphere. ‘Good morning, Mr Higginson,’ he said politely, though his loathing of the man had not diminished.
‘Hello, Forbes. This is quite a surprise.’
‘I’m sorry to have come without making an appointment. How’s your son. Philip, isn’t it?’
‘Studying hard at Cambridge.’
‘He was a bright boy.’ John sat down and smiled at his former boss, who glared back suspiciously. ‘I just wanted you to know how grateful I am for all the help you gave me. I’ve my own company now.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Higginson sniffed. ‘And what line of business are you in?’
‘Toys. I import from the Far East, sell to all the major wholesalers in Europe and the United States.’
‘Well done. You also married Carven’s daughter, if I remember rightly.’ Higginson peered at him through thick‑lensed glasses. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘Over the last couple of years,’ John said, ‘I’ve made quite a lot of money. Now I’m interested in investing in another type of business.’
‘Well, I’m sure Higginson’s can advise you.’
‘I don’t want advice. No, what I’m after is something slightly different.’ John paused then said, ‘Would you consider selling Alexander Higginson Investments, if the price were right?’
For a long moment Higginson looked stunned. ‘Why, you young puppy!’ he said at last. ‘You walk in off the street and ask if I want to sell the business built up by my father, and which will be taken over by my son one day? The firm which carries the family name. Never!’
Slowly John rose and held out his hand.
‘Very well. I trust that won’t be your last word. But goodbye for now.’
Ignoring his hand, Higginson stared over John’s head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Forbes.’
It was only ten‑thirty. John had a lunch appointment with Arthur Black, so decided to walk from the City to Mayfair, via St Paul’s, then Piccadilly and Berkeley Square. It took less time than he had anticipated and he arrived at Black’s about midday.
When he entered the shop a young man with long blond hair came towards him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Is Mr Black in?’
‘No, he’s gone for coffee with an American collector. He’ll be back within the hour. Can I inform him who has called?’
‘Tell him John was here. I’ll just look around and come back later.’
To kill time he walked along Bond Street, where he went into Sotheby’s auction rooms. In reception he bought a catalogue and, stepping back without looking, heard a stifled cry. A woman, picking up some papers from the floor, was nursing her hand which he had obviously trodden on.
‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you. Hope nothing’s broken?’
She got to her feet, still holding one finger. John took her hand and looked at it.
‘I’d better take you to hospital just to be on the safe side. Can you move the fingers?’
‘I think so,’ she said, bending one painfully, then waggling all the others. Her hand, he noticed, was covered in paint of various colours.
‘It was very clumsy of me,’ John said. ‘Are you an artist by any chance? I hope you’ll be able to continue working.’ He noticed her lively hazel eyes and wide well‑shaped mouth.
She laughed. ‘It’s a special paint I experimented with yesterday. I can’t get it off.’
‘Not even with turpentine?’
‘No. I used it on some Dutch porcelain to get a special effect.’
She was, he guessed, in her mid‑thirties. Her dark hair was shoulder‑length and she was wearing a hair band that matched her dark green Sotheby’s uniform. She was just his height. John found that pleased him. On her lapel was a name badge.
‘Mona Hobson.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry we had to meet in this way, but if you have any trouble with your hand, please let me know.’ He gave her his business card.
‘I’ll survive.’ She pointed to a few papers left on the floor. ‘They’re yours, by the way. I was trying to retrieve them after they fell out of your folder.’
Picking them up, John realised they were his notes about Higginson Investments, which he must have dropped while flicking through the catalogue. While he was at floor level he noticed her attractive legs.
‘So you work here and also paint?’ he asked, to keep the conversation going.
‘Yes. This job helps pay for materials. They cost a fortune.’
‘Now I feel even worse about your hand.’
‘Oh, don’t worry! It’s better already. But it’s nice having someone fussing over me.’ She coloured a little, as if embarrassed by having said that. ‘Aren’t you going into the auction room? They started half an hour ago.’
‘Right. I’d better do that. Merry Christmas.’
She nodded, looking into his eyes. ‘Yes, and the same to you.’
John found his old friend back in his office and complimented him on the shop’s display.
‘This place is looking good, he said. ‘The hemp side of things is going like a dream too but I leave that to David nowadays. With the Company cash rich it gives me the opportunity to invest in something else. I’m thinking about going into finance.’
‘I thought you’d just done that, with von Fritzenberg?’
‘That was a chance I couldn’t pass up on, but this is something I’ve planned over some months. I intend to buy Alexander Higginson Investments. It’s an old, respected firm that’s not making any money.’
Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘Why bother then?’
‘By taking bigger risks, I know I could make it highly profitable. And I’m thinking of setting up another company, financed by Higginson Investments.’ John hesitated then said, ‘I might need your expertise there.’
‘I don’t follow?’
‘Would you be interested in helping me set up this new business maybe recruiting someone to be in charge of it, reporting to you? Of course you’ll still be able to run this place too. I’ll pay all expenses and guarantee you a minimum income of thirty thousand a year from the new interest, plus a share of the profits.’
Arthur did not say anything, but waited for John to continue. ‘I suggest we set it up as a bona fide limited company, specialising in the financing of cars. We could call it something downmarket like Auto‑Trade‑Factors.’
‘Why is it suddenly so imperative to embroil yourself – and me – in a notoriously dodgy trade? And what skills do I have that are vital for this enterprise?’
‘Our security will be the cars waiting to be sold. We’ll charge a reasonable rate of interest and make the system easy to use and operate. Banks won’t usually touch this type of thing. We won’t be so choosy and should quickly have a substantial business.’
‘Why do I have this feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye?’
‘After we have become established and the car dealers have got used to us, we’ll make a small operational change. We’ll stop accepting payments by cheques, dealing only in cash, blaming the changes on too many bounced cheques. Our high street bank will quickly get used to the cash coming in daily, opening up the possibility of letting other cash deals go through it.’
‘I thought the Swiss handled that side of things now?’
‘They do, but even they baulk at receiving too much cash from one client.’
‘And that’s all there is to it?’ Arthur was u
nconvinced.
‘No,’ John said. ‘The Company will also have another type of customer: career criminals. The new business will be lending money to finance criminal operations. Tools, machinery, cars, muscle, etcetera, needed to set up a robbery, fraud, forgery, credit card scam or whatever. What can be more profitable to invest in? If successful, the clients we bankroll pay us fifty per cent of their haul. But we’ll have to be flexible. No two operations will be the same.’
Arthur was thoughtful. ‘What if things go wrong? How do we get our money back?’
‘We don’t. If the police get involved, we write the investment off. The clients won’t owe us anything. However, if they pull off a scam and don’t repay the loan, we’ll use every possible means to get the money back and ensure that nothing similar happens in the future.’
John looked closely at Arthur, who did not seem very enthusiastic.
‘This new company, Auto‑Trade‑Factors, will never take part in any crime directly and nothing will be recorded on paper. The money will be loaned on trust. We’re only talking ten to twenty operations a year, perhaps more later on. Of course, we’ll need a cover for this activity, so hence the car deals.’
Arthur cocked an eyebrow. ‘And Alexander Higginson is kept as clean as clean, I presume? Well, congratulations. You’ve done it again. Knocked me for six with your big ideas.
But they are hardly people I’d like to spend much time dealing with.’
‘You wouldn’t need to. Just keep an eye on the books and study the funding proposals. You’ve got the contacts, Arthur. Do you think you can find someone to keep Auto‑Trade looking respectable?’
He nodded. ‘I may know just the person.’
‘Good. And we’ll need to dig into Higginson’s background. There’s a receptionist there called Tania who might help. Perhaps she knows of some skeletons in the family cupboard. For instance, any investment that has gone wrong and been covered up. The son, Philip, is at Cambridge – maybe he’s up to something.’
‘So Higginson won’t sell? Now you tell me.’
‘He will eventually,’ John said grimly. ‘Money’s no object when it comes to putting that bastard where he belongs. On the scrap heap.’
Leaving Arthur at the shop, John strolled slowly back in the direction of Berkeley Square, where he entered Moyses Stephens, the exclusive flower shop, and ordered three bouquets.
One a seasonal bouquet he sent to Tania, with a Christmas card.
One of white irises, anemones and greenery he sent to Lady Catherine Forbes, to be delivered without a card.
The last bouquet, of forty‑eight blood red roses, was delivered to Mona Hobson at Sotheby’s. He put his business card with the flowers and wrote on the back:
Dear Mona,
I hope your hand has recovered from my clumsiness.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
John Forbes
P.S. Would you like to meet me for lunch?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
_________________________
Esher, 30th December 1966
John needed to get away from his parents‑in‑law and mother after Christmas, and yearned for a few quiet hours. The day after Boxing Day, he slipped away to his office in Esher.
He picked up some letters from the doormat and put them on the front desk. He always left his elderly secretary to open them, as she enjoyed the feeling of importance this gave her.
From the windows of his office he looked down on to the High Street. A light snow fall disguised the suburban surroundings and with so few people about, he felt cut off from daily life. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk with the Telegraph.
The sound of the telephone made him jump. He wondered if he should let it ring. It had to be Catherine. Who else would call him here?
But it was not his wife. ‘Is Mr Forbes there?’ asked a soft familiar voice.
‘Speaking.’
‘Mona Hobson here. I wanted to thank you for the lovely roses.’
‘Glad you liked them. How’s the hand?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘I hope I haven’t upset anyone, sending you flowers. Is there a Mr Hobson?’
‘My husband died a year ago.’ There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Actually, I’m in Esher – that’s why I phoned. I live on Kingston Hill.’
‘So where exactly are you?’
‘In a telephone box outside a pub in the High Street. I was going to invite you for a drink, but I wasn’t sure if you went out with strange women?’
‘Strange ones, no. Interesting ones, yes.’
She laughed. ‘Then meet me outside. I don’t like going into pubs alone.’
‘I’m on my way.’
She was waiting outside the pub, wearing a long black Russian style coat and a fur hat. Her hair was caught in a black velvet bow at the nape of her neck. The pub was nearly empty. They chose a discreet corner table.
‘I insist on getting the drinks,’ said Mona, taking her purse out of her leather bag.
‘Gin and tonic, please.’
She went to the bar and ordered. John sat at the table and studied her, admiring the graceful movement of her body under the long coat. When she sat down, he asked about her husband.
‘He had a heart attack. It was such a shock. He’d never had a day’s illness in his life. Was a keen sportsman.’ She lifted her glass. Drank and sighed. ‘Life must go on, they say. Only it doesn’t. This is the first time I’ve been out with another man since he died.’
John thought it wise to change the subject. ‘But you still paint?’
‘I was an artist before I married. I studied at Ruskin. That’s the fine art faculty of Oxford University,’ she explained, seeing his blank expression. ‘After that I did a couple of years at Ravensbourne, then I had my own studio in Pimlico. It was a struggle, but I was doing what I wanted to do. When I met my husband, we bought an expensive house and needed two incomes so I had to find a job. I like the work, don’t get me wrong, but I wish I had more time to paint. I could be wasting my best years.’
Once she got talking, she was warm and friendly, and John had trouble keeping his eyes off her. One gin and tonic followed another. At last, realising she would have to leave her car and take a taxi home, Mona stood up to go.
‘You can ring for a taxi from my office,’ he suggested. ‘It’s just over the road. And I can show you my Picassos.’
‘I’m sure you say that to all your pickups.’ But she smiled, and tucked her hand under his arm as they walked across the road.
John had made some improvements to his office, especially in the conference room, which now had new wallpaper and carpets and better lighting. He had done this not because he ever received visitors, but so as to display the six precious Picasso drawings Arthur had given him to mark the acquisition of Black’s of Mayfair. Before showing Mona in there, however, he took her into his private office.
‘This is nice. But where are all the toys?’
‘In that room over there.’
She opened the door and peeped in. He came up behind her, switched on the light and gently propelled her inside. She walked among the rows of dolls and mechanical toys, picking them up and putting them down. ‘Oh, this is fun!’
‘See anything you fancy?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Looking directly at him, she picked up a doll at random.
He moved back into his office and poured two gins. She followed him still carrying the doll.
‘So where are these Picassos?’ She took the glass he offered and put it to her lips.
‘In here.’ Opening the conference room door, he stepped aside for her to enter. After his visit to Black’s of Mayfair, he now kept only the frame lights on the drawings in an otherwise darkened room.
Abandoning the doll on one of the chairs, its head leaning drunkenly against the table, Mona gave a gasp of pure pleasure and inspected each drawing in detail, first standing back the
n peering closely. John sat in a chair at the table and watched her. She had unbuttoned the coat. Underneath, she wore a cream blouse and a black jersey knit skirt. She stroked each frame. ‘So simple.’
‘They were drawn in 1951 and are called ‘Judgement of France’.’
She glanced at him and sat down in the chair opposite, with the width of the table between them. Placing her glass in front of her, she cupped her chin in her hands and stared at him openly.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘It must be the light. I’m quite ordinary really.’
John regretted having said something so banal. Her tone was cool and ironic. They sat in silence for a long minute.
‘There’s too much distance between us,’ she said finally and lifted her hand, pulling her hair loose without removing her hat. Then, still holding his eyes, she unbuttoned her skirt.
‘That was brave of me,’ she said. ‘The first step is always the most difficult.’
‘Walk towards me,’ John commanded.
She rose slowly. Trailing her skirt behind her, she moved towards him, her open coat revealing her clothes above the waist, and suspender belt and stockings below. Passing the doll, she draped the skirt over its head. ‘So young and so innocent.’
‘Walk round again,’ John said when she got close. Without any comment she obeyed, walking more and more slowly until she was back, standing between the chair he was sitting in and the table.
She pushed herself up on the board room table. Sitting, she closed her eyes, crossing her legs in front of his face with a silken rustle. She was still wearing the black fur hat. Her head tilted back, showing the elegant line of her throat and shoulders.
John stood up. Careful not to touch her body, he inclined his head and kissed her deeply. She was good to kiss, passionate, wild, responsive.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve felt like this,’ she murmured.
His hands brushed her hips, then took a firm grip and slid her backwards on her coat. She lifted herself, wriggling out of her panties, and lay back on the table. Quickly he took off his trousers. They kissed so hard he could taste blood. His hand teased her for a moment. The delicate flesh between her legs was wet. Then she took him in her hand and pulled him towards her.
Slowly he rode into her with long, deep plunges, wanting it to last for ever, but she squeezed so hard it almost hurt.