Erick was silent, finding it hard to take all this in.
‘So don’t be concerned about funds,’ John continued. ‘That’s my problem. It’s only money after all. You’ll be in control of the buying of the shares which will eventually create the group of groups. They must be acquired in such a way that the Stock Exchange is not alerted. It will be important, too, to get a mix of companies under our control, to achieve a broad spread of investment. We will not be high profile. In fact the opposite. I like to think of it as the Invisible Company.’
Erick cleared his throat. ‘These companies you buy shares in,’ he said. ‘Will you appoint your own boards of directors or leave them as they are?’
‘We leave them alone. For the time being. We have no interest in running the companies on a day‑to‑day basis. Their own people will do that better than we can. But we will have to appoint a City solicitor and a respected accountancy firm to assist us in building up this group.’
‘So what is the final purpose of controlling this group?’
‘First, respectability. As I said, I need to distance myself from crime. Secondly, influence. A group such as the one I’ve outlined will wield significant public and political power. And you are the man to head it. You’ve got the business acumen, I’ve got the funds.’ He looked at Erick, still playing with the croquet ball.
‘Give yourself time to think it over. There’s no hurry.’
‘Thanks,’ said Erick, a little doubtfully. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve had a chance to sort out how I feel about all this.’
John moved in his chair, pushing himself as close as he could towards Erick.
‘You and I,’ he said, ‘are not normal businessmen. We are in business not for wealth, but for power. We must get our feet under the top table. Nothing else matters, does it?’
The two men sat for several minutes in total silence, considering the magnitude of John’s ambition.
‘Do you have time for any other interests besides business?’ Erick finally asked.
‘I go fishing with Michael which we both enjoy. Sometimes I play the piano, but only to amuse myself. What about you?’
‘I loved sailing in Denmark,’ Erick answered. ‘You’re always close to the sea there. That’s what I miss most about living in London.
‘Well, we’ll have to see what we can do to remedy that,’ said his host with a smile.
Erick, dazed by the speed with which everything moved forward, the wine and whisky he had drunk and the sheer beauty and style of his surroundings, merely nodded.
After watching Bjorn Borg winning the men’s singles final over five sets, the Elgbergs left for Wimbledon Village.
* * *
Two cheques, drawn on the Zurich Bank of Industry and Commerce, arrived at Mirage Consulting (UK) Ltd five days after the meeting at Cerne.
Kirsten Knudsen, who had moved with the Elgbergs to London, working as Erick’s personal assistant opened the envelope.
She handed the contents of the envelope to him, an expression of incredulity on her face.
Besides the two cheques there was also a glossy prospectus and a short handwritten note from John Forbes.
Dear Erick
Catherine and I so enjoyed your visit – we must do it again soon. Since you mentioned yachts, I’ve been thinking about them. I’d welcome your advice about the enclosed. Naturally, since we are now business partners, you’d be more than welcome to sail it.
I trust your judgment in this as in our joint venture. Give the broker a ring direct.
Kind regards
John
The eight page colour prospectus showed a motor yacht called L’Acqusition. It mentioned a length of 140 feet, needing a crew of six all year round and a price of £2 million.
At that moment Erick realised that this new cooperation with John Forbes was the single most significant step he had taken in his life. Bigger than GIANT of Scandinavia.. Bigger than Mirage Consultancy. He was embarking on a third career with a man he hardly knew. Bound for glory or an ignominious reunion with Rasmussen he caught himself wondering, and swiftly dismissed the thought. John Forbes did not seem to know the meaning of the word failure.
Kirsten peered over his shoulder. ‘How does it feel?’ she asked softly.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, still staring at the carefully composed, intensely seductive photographs.
‘To find yourself caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.’
Erick shrugged. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Kirsten,’ he said irritably. ‘John Forbes and I have a business relationship. He’s no more important to me than that.’
PART THREE
DON’T TREAD ON OUR DREAMS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
_________________________
Cerne Estate, Dorset, Tuesday, 23rd January 1979
John looked at his watch. It was ten past three in the afternoon and he was waiting for Michael outside his school in Dorchester.
The boy was now thirteen years old, but still happy to be picked up by his father. They would put his bike in the boot and drive home together in the Estate’s Land‑Rover or in John’s Jaguar. It gave them twenty minutes uninterrupted time together to talk about fishing, football or whatever was on Michael’s mind.
John had made it a priority that this happened at least twice a week. But what had happened to his son today? He was usually first out of the school gates and several of his classmates had already passed by on their way home.
He looked again at his watch and decided to wait a few minutes more.
‘But your son hasn’t been to school today,’ a surprised teacher explained when he eventually inquired. ‘We did phone your home. Your wife told us that Michael was feeling a bit under the weather, but that he would be in tomorrow.’
This didn’t sound right, John thought, getting into the car. Catherine would always phone him if there was a problem with the boy. Why had she not done so?
When he reached the village, he stopped and went to a public phone to dial the house.
‘Sorry, Mr Forbes. I know you don’t like uninvited visitors, but a man and a woman are waiting in the drawing room.’ Mary, the young house maid sounded nervous as she answered the phone.
‘Is Michael all right?’
‘He’s not exactly ill, Mr Forbes,’ she said finally. ‘But he is not himself today. And neither is Lady Catherine. I couldn’t say why exactly but I think it’s something to do with the visitors.’
‘Thanks, Mary. I’ll be there in five minutes,’ John said and put down the receiver, suddenly icy calm. It looked like the game was up.
It had to be police or customs officers.
* * *
He noticed an unfamiliar black Mercedes parked in the drive and gave a sigh of relief. The authorities would never use a car like that. In the hall he shook out his coat and saw a man’s black overcoat already hanging upon his usual peg on the stand.
‘Who are they, Mary?’ He tried to keep his voice steady when the maid appeared soundlessly in the hall besides him.
‘They said they were from your insurance company.’ The girl shuffled from foot to foot. She had been strictly instructed never to let anybody into the house, without prior invitation, but obviously these people had been impossible to deter.
‘All right. Go back to your work.’ After she had scuttled off pale faced, John pressed the panic button by the side of the front door.
Several of these buttons had been installed at various places in the house for just such an emergency, to alert Keith Spike that something unexpected had happened. The Clark twins were linked to them, as well as a special private telephone system connected them to the Cerne Estate, the Esher office, Arthur Black and David Kennedy. These telephones were built into cupboards, which were always kept locked. On the Estate only John had the keys. The phones triggered bleepers which John, Arthur, David and the Clarks always carried with them. The system, bought in the
United States, worked on radio wavelengths in England and via the normal telephone system abroad and was scrambled so that no one could listen in.
Keith Spike arrived, breathless. ‘What’s the problem, Mr Forbes?’
‘Some unexpected guests,’ he said quietly. ‘Why have you not noticed them and warned me?’
‘I’ve just come back a few minutes ago. You asked me to drive to Southampton and order the material for the new garages, You remember.’ Keith was red in his face. He felt he should still have checked out who had arrived in the car.
‘Yes, sorry. Give me a few minutes with them, then come into the drawing room without knocking.’
‘Understood.’ Keith flexed his broad shoulders and tensed the fingers of his hands in readiness.
John pointed out through the window, to the Mercedes. ‘And take the registration number of that car! See what you can find out via your police pal.’
As Keith went off, John’s bleeper sounded. He unlocked the cupboard under the staircase and picked up the phone. ‘Get down here. Urgently!’ Then after replacing the receiver and locking the cupboard, he walked into the drawing room to confront the visitors.
‘Can I help you? I’m John Forbes.’
The male visitor was tall and dark, wearing gold‑rimmed aviator sunglasses. He was holding an official‑looking black briefcase. The woman was younger, in a smart navy trouser‑suit, her black hair combed back from her high, olive‑skinned forehead. They looked very alien in the slightly fusty formal drawing room with its tapestry‑hung, panelled walls and pink‑shaded Famille Rose table lamps.
He saw his wife sitting bolt upright on one of her parent’s red plush‑upholstered Coronation chairs. She was holding a whisky glass in one hand and looked straight at John without acknowledging him.
The dark‑haired man got to his feet and stepped forward. ‘Sorry to come without an appointment but if you’ll just give us a few minutes of your time, I believe you’ll find it worthwhile.’
He spoke with no discernible accent but every line of his sombre beautifully cut clothes and neatly groomed raven black hair proclaimed him to be Italian.
‘Who are you?’ John enquired brusquely.
‘My name is Carlo Contorni.’ said the Italian. ‘And this is my assistant, Flavia.’ He waited for John to acknowledge her with a brief nod and then went on. ‘For some months we have investigated you and your organisation. We are here now to arrange a meeting between you and the head of the organisation we represent.’
John allowed himself to relax slightly, taking in this unexpected development. He kept his eyes on the woman, whose hand rested lightly yet significantly on the handbag that hung from a gilt chain by her side.
At that moment Keith walked in. ‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t know there was anybody here.’
The woman’s hand slid inside the bag. Instantly Carlo Cantorni held out his hand to the new arrival. ‘You must be Keith Spike.’
John’s minder was taken by surprise. He looked to his boss for guidance, ignoring the outstretched hand. Catherine started to laugh, an ugly high‑pitched sound she seemed unable to suppress.
‘Your visitors were very determined to see you,’ she told John through chattering teeth. ‘They’ve been here since eight‑thirty this morning. Said they had to see you today but they would not let me call you on the phone. Oh – and they thought it would be better to give Michael the day off school too, though I told them he had a math’s test.’
The flood of words dried abruptly. She drained the whisky from her glass and got up to refill it. She still would not look at her husband, her back stiff with unexpressed rage.
For the first time ever he had breached their unspoken agreement never to drag her into the murky world he inhabited beyond the boundaries of Cerne. The threatening visitors who had forced their way into the house this morning had lived up to her worst fears and Catherine hated her husband for forcing her to confront them. Ignorance had indeed been bliss and she knew now she would never again be able to ignore the harsh reality of John’s world.
‘Lady Catherine.’ Contorni smoothly intercepted her on her way to the drinks tray. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘You make us sound like monsters,’ he protested as she shuddered involuntarily. ‘I did explain it was absolutely vital we should meet your husband today, and now it has happened. I’m sorry if we have upset you and your son.’
When Catherine remained speechless, John told her, ‘Take Michael off riding or something. And close the door on the way out.’
For a moment it seemed she would argue. Her eyes, when they finally met his, were bleak and dazed‑looking. Finally, shrugging her shoulders, she made for the door, staggering slightly. Keith tried to steady her with a hand on her arm; she shook him off angrily.
There was no longer any need for John to disguise his fury.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ he spat out. ‘ If you’ve investigated me you must know that I’m hardly likely to welcome you here – pushing your way in, terrifying my wife and son. So tell me – who exactly do you represent and what is it you want?’
‘We represent Signor Rudi Grattini from Rome.’ Contorni nodded to his assistant who slid her hand deep into her bag.
John expected to see a gun.
Instead she brought out an envelope. ‘Here is a letter from Signor Grattini which will explain everything. He wishes to meet with you privately tomorrow.’
John tore open the expensive crested vellum envelope. On the paper inside, beneath a matching letterhead, was typed a list. It contained the names of every member of the hemp‑smuggling team.
The names of his team.
At once realising the significance of this, and the fact that these two were only messengers, John curbed an urge to force them to tell him how they had obtained the information. Instead he commented, ‘I trust, when we meet, Signor Grattini will tell me how he came by this?’
‘That is not for us to say, Mr Forbes. But I assure you he is a gentleman, a man of honour and respect. May I tell Signor Grattini you will receive him here tomorrow?’
‘Ten pm,’ John agreed. ‘But not here. Make it London. I’ll be waiting at ‘Blacks’, an antique shop in Mount Street, Mayfair. So long as Mr Grattini comes alone, I’ll guarantee his safety.’
‘I take it that it is Mr Arthur Black’s shop?’
‘Yes.’ John could not hide the fact that he was shocked by the extent of their knowledge.
Without another word he showed them to the front door and watched the shiny black saloon glide into the encroaching shadows of the beech avenue. In a moment is was as if it had never been there. But John knew it had, and worse than that his wife did too. Slowly, he went in search of her and Michael.
He’d expected to find them in the stables, saddling up, but a surprised‑looking groom told him that Lady Catherine hadn’t been in all day. John swiftly retraced his steps and took the stairs to their bedroom two at a time. Catherine was not there so he made for Michael’s and pushed open the door without knocking.
He saw his son first, hair dishevelled and the freckles standing out on his chalk‑white face like exclamation marks. Michael was sitting on the side of his bed, one hand pressed to his mother’s shoulder as she lay face down, her body riven by deep, terrified sobs.
‘She won’t stop, Dad,’ he said in a thread of a voice. ‘I told her it would be all right – I knew you’d sort it out when you got home. But she was just so frightened...’
He dashed one hand across his eyes for a moment then sat up straight, squaring his skinny shoulders. One member of the family breaking down was quite enough. He had no intention of adding to his father’s anguish.
John could read everything that was going through his son’s mind: the fright and the confusion and the determination to be strong. He had never loved Michael more than at that moment. Wordlessly he held out his arms to the boy. Michael looked down guilty at his mother, patted her shoulder a final time then ran to John and
clung to him with both arms.
‘It’s all right, son. Everything’s all right now,’ John soothed him, hugging him close. After a minute he held his son away from him and said, ‘We have to help Mummy now. Go and find Keith. Tell him to call Dr Hill. He has the number.’
The boy looked surprised, ‘But we always see Dr O’Hara...’
John glanced of his wife’s shuddering body. ‘No, I think Mummy needs a different doctor this time. Go and tell Keith. I’ll stay with your mother.’
Dr Frederick Hill, a handsome upright man with a shock of steel grey hair and a bluff forthright expression, was beloved by the retired population of Bournemouth and ran several highly lucrative nursing homes there. He also, unknown to his painfully respectable clientele, provided medical treatment and a safe house for the criminal fraternity. Having used Dr Hill several times before, John knew he would be discreet when paid to be so. He couldn’t risk calling in O’Hara with his wife in this condition for fear of what she might let slip.
Hill asked John to leave the room while he examined the patient. Through the closed door John could hear a brief exchange of words and further weeping, low and exhausted now. The doctor called him back in and explained, ‘I’ve given your wife a sedative. It shouldn’t take long to work. She’s all in.’
They sat silently by while Catherine sank into a deep sleep. Hill brushed her damp tangled hair away from her face and sighed deeply.
‘She’s in a bad way, John. I think I should take her in for a while.’
‘Oh, surely not? She’s just had a shock. Once she’s had a good night’s sleep...’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I don’t want to poke my nose in here but your wife’s mental condition is extremely precarious. I don’t know exactly what has happened today but I’d guess that this is something which has built up over many months. Perhaps years. She needs help, and for a while at least she needs to get away from here. I can call a private ambulance and take her back with me now, if you like?’