‘You wouldn’t give it to me anyway.’
John frowned. ‘Look, if it’s not too way out, and if your mother agrees, you can have it, I promise.’
‘Terrific! Look!’ Michael took a crumpled colour brochure out of his pocket and handed it to his father.
John laughed. ‘A fishing trip! We’ve done that loads of times. We can go fishing any weekend.’
‘This is different. It’s fly fishing, based in various bed and breakfast places or inns along the river Usk. With fishing permission included. You know what the Usk is, don’t you? The finest trout river in Britain, maybe the world. Please say it’s all right?’ Michael implored.
‘And who’s going with you?’ John asked although he already knew the answer.
‘You, of course. Look. It’s all in the brochure. It’ll be just you and me for a whole week.’
‘And that’s your fondest wish?’
John searched desperately for a way out. A week was a long time for him to be out of touch these days. Since David’s death he’d become more closely involved with the day‑to day monitoring of the drugs side of things, despite his avowed intention of standing back from this operation and concentrating on the master plan. He still meant to make the break but, ever sensitive to atmosphere, knowing just how shocked the team had been by David’s execution, he had personally to bring them round again.
‘I’ve already asked Mum,’ Michael was running on. ‘She thinks it’ll do us both the world of good.’ He laughed at his father’s expression of defeat. ‘And you promised!’
Nevertheless, John was careful to clear it with his wife personally. Since her mental collapse after the Italians had forced their way into the house, John had treated her with kid gloves. He showered her with expensive gifts. A magnificent full‑length sable coat, designer clothes, specially commissioned jewellery. And Catherine threw it all back in his face. She was unimpressed by anything funded by the proceeds of crime, and in any case had long since abandoned any pretence of keeping herself svelte and desirable for her husband, though these days she drank far more than she ate.
There were vodka bottles stashed in several different hiding places in her bedroom – they’d slept separately since her return from the clinic – and in her stable‑yard retreat. Catherine stuck to Vodka during the day as it was odour‑free and easily passed off as water, but when the clock struck six each evening she was at the drinks table, pouring herself the first of several large Scotches before dinner, to be followed by a steady intake of wine during the silent meal.
Under the relentless tide of alcohol her figure had thickened and her once fine skin was etched with fiery threads of scarlet. Her eyes remained her best feature, surprisingly clear still and a striking dark blue. But these days John could hardly bare to meet their gaze for the depth of hurt and condemnation they contained.
When he spoke to his wife about the fishing trip, she merely shrugged and laughed sardonically.
‘Don’t look to me for a convenient excuse, John. I know you’d rather be away from here, taking care of what you call business. But you promised your son anything he wanted and now’s he’s called your bluff – so you’re stuck with playing the devoted father for a whole week. Isn’t that just too bad?’
The unfairness of it stung him like acid. He had never begrudged time spent with their son, and Catherine must know that. But glancing at her puffy face and glassy eyes, he knew she was past caring about the truthfulness of the accusations she hurled at him. She sought only to wound and shock, as he had wounded and shocked her.
John sighed and turned away without entering into the argument for which she was spoiling. There was no point. He would stay from a sense of duty for as long as his son remained at home. Love for his wife no longer entered into it.
They left Cerne on 20th March, so they could be back the day before Michael’s birthday. John had insisted on travelling in his Jaguar, even though Michael would have preferred taking the coach and train. They spent a pleasant afternoon walking round Abegavenny and arrived at their bed and breakfast place ten miles outside town in the late afternoon.
They both liked the homely room. After unpacking, they bounced on the bed a few times then went down to speak to their elderly landlady and ask where they could eat locally.
‘But you can’t go out! I’d expected you to eat here, evening meals are included in the price. So’s breakfast.’
John looked at Michael and nodded.
‘Well, that will be fine, Mrs...’
‘I’m Gwladys. You’re the only guests at the moment strangely enough as I’m usually full. I’m so pleased to have such nice people in the house. Some come down here and because there’s nothing much to do in the evening, just drink and sit around telling nasty stories. I can see I’ll not be having any nonsense like that from you two.’
And so the mind behind a criminal organisation and his soon to be fourteen years old son, passed a highly agreeable evening being royally fed by Mrs Gwladys Ifans and entertained with fishing yarns, before going early to bed, ready for the following day.
‘Thanks for today, Dad,’ Michael said, just before falling asleep.
They were up at seven. Over breakfast Gwladys told them about the complicated fishing regulations. Large stretches of the river were privately owned and could only be fished with the permission of the owner.
‘My husband paid more than a hundred thousand pounds for our part of the bank some years ago, when we moved here from Cardiff,’ she explained. ‘Unfortunately he died suddenly a year ago and left me with the house, the fishing beat and a large mortgage, hence the B and B.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said John.
‘Oh, don’t be sorry for me. Love this life, I do. Howard was always complaining and moaning. Maybe he saw too much sadness. He was a doctor, you see. No, I’m quite happy here. Let me go down with you and get you started. It’ll be a dry day.’
After an hour she left them alone, promising to bring sandwiches and tea for lunch. Michael enjoyed teaching his father what he could about the different flies used and directing John’s attempts with the unfamiliar rod. Throughout the afternoon he became more adept and fascinated by fly fishing, which was a skill he was quite happy to learn. No telephone or urgent messages disturbed the day, a completely new experience for him.
* * *
‘Dad, why is it that we have everything and the villagers here are so poor?’ Michael asked on their second day.
‘That’s just the way it is. You have to look after yourself and your family before anything else.’ But Michael’s question lodged like a knife between his ribs. John knew his answer had been glib, that his son deserved a better explanation.
‘I think you know,’ he added slowly, ‘that things are more complicated than that. These people have different values, a sense of community. I’m sure that the owner of one of these battered old houses or small farms is regarded as being just as rich and important by his friends and neighbours as we are by ours. I had to make my own way in the world. I chose my path Through it I’ve made a lot of money, which was what I thought I wanted.’
‘To be rich?’ Michael asked.
‘More or less,’ John replied. ‘Now I can’t quickly change my way of life. Maybe I can’t change it at all. If I don’t go on, our whole lives – mine, yours, your mother’s – could collapse round us. And I’m too set in my ways to imagine doing anything else.’ He looked into his son’s innocent eyes. ‘But you have a choice, Michael. You’re young and can choose a career which is more important and maybe will improve other people’s lives. Like medicine, science, teaching. Or anything that interests you. Photography, painting, acting. You can do anything you want.’
‘Does that mean I can help you in your business one day?’
‘It would make your mother happier if you chose a different occupation,’ John answered quietly, unable to tell his son she would be appalled by such a suggestion.
‘How about if I became
a fisherman?’
‘There’s not much money in it,’ John replied. ‘It’s fine by me, but your mother might not like that either.’
‘I wouldn’t mind being a chef.’
‘Ah,’ said his father relieved, ‘that’s much better.’
Then Michael leapt up with a yell. His line was being pulled into the water, the reel whirling round. ‘Dad. I’ve caught something. Help. I don’t want to lose it!’
They settled into a routine, finishing until around four o’clock then going back tired to Mrs Ifans for a cup of hot chocolate and a shower. After dinner, Michael phoned his mother and gave her full details of that day’s adventures. The fish they had caught were placed in the freezer for him to take home. By eight o’clock each night they were in bed and slept fast and deep.
The weather had been fine for March, although on the last day it poured with rain from early morning and the wind was bitter. They were both lucky, though, catching two plump trout apiece.
‘Can I prepare the fish in the kitchen tonight?’ Michael asked. ‘I want to do it myself and Gwladys said it would be okay.
As soon as they entered the house, he proudly handed the fish to their landlady. He and John were cold and soaked to the skin. With their mugs of hot chocolate, they went up to their room.
John suggested that Michael should take a shower first to warm himself up.
‘Yes, okay. And Dad, thanks for this week. It’s been really great. The best time ever. I have enjoyed fishing and being with you.’
John smiled. ‘Thanks, Michael. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it too.’ He took off his wet clothes and dried his hair with a towel. ‘Now, you go and take a shower. I’ll just lie here and wait. If I fall asleep, wake me so I can get a shower before dinner.’
* * *
John woke an hour later when Mrs Ifans knocked on the door.
‘I thought you were coming to help me, Michael?’ she shouted.
John looked round. He could not see his son anywhere. His clothes were still on the chair where he’d left them.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ their landlady continued. ‘But it’s your last evening here.’
John jumped out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe and went into the en suite bathroom. On the floor his son lay unconscious, the shower still running. John propped him up against the wall, swathed him in towels and began to chafe his hands and cheeks. They felt icy despite the steamy warmth of the room.
‘Is everything all right?’ Mrs Ifans shouted.
‘No, get a doctor,’ John exclaimed, opening the door. ‘Michael collapsed in the shower while I was asleep. Please... hurry.’
Within a few minutes the doctor had arrived. Together they carried Michael to the bed, where he started to stir and look around.
The doctor made a thorough examination and questioned him carefully.
‘I believe your son may have collapsed from exhaustion,’ he told John after he had finished, ‘but unfortunately that is not the whole explanation. I believe Michael needs to go into a hospital for a thorough check up, particularly of his blood.’
‘His blood?’ John said surprised. ‘He’s been absolutely fine for the days we have been here. Nothing the slightest bit wrong until now.’
‘My point precisely.’ The doctor kept taking Michael’s pulse. ‘There’s an underlying cause for this collapse which might be serious. I can’t explain why his gums are bleeding. We can either arrange transportation to London or admission to a local hospital.’
‘No, London,’ John said immediately. If a hospital was necessary, he wanted his son to go to the best available. ‘Great Ormond Street. Is it possible to get an ambulance to take us there? Will he be all right for those three or four hours?’
‘I can go with the ambulance,’ the doctor offered. ‘I believe I can get someone to stand in for me here. I’ll phone Great Ormond Street now and talk to the registrar.’
John took his son’s hand and held it tight. ‘Thank you very much Doctor. Please make whatever arrangements are necessary. ‘
‘I can go home by car,’ whispered Michael.
‘No, I think we should do what the doctor says. Are you warm enough? Try to relax, Michael.’
He nodded and closed his eyes.
‘A private ambulance will be here in ten minutes,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘Great Ormond Street will have a consultant standing by.’
At that moment there was a knock on the bedroom door.
‘Mr John Forbes?’ a man’s voice asked.
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘We’d like a word with you. Step outside, please. I’m a police officer. It will only take a second, we don’t want to make a spectacle out of this and upset your son.’
From the man’s tone John deduced it would be unwise to argue. He took a few steps outside the door to be confronted by the two plainclothes officers, incongruous in their city suits and raincoat.
‘My name is Chris Mills, Chief Inspector with the Police Intelligence Unit. My colleague here is Chief Inspector Adrians.’ He pointed to the dour‑looking man standing to one side of him.
‘We’re sorry about your son and will try to accommodate you as much as we can, but I should warn you, John Forbes, that you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder David Kennedy and for importing an illegal substance.’ The policeman continued with a formal reading of his rights.
‘Oh, my God!’ Gwladys Infans had come out of her bedroom and overheard what the policeman said. She rushed down the stairs, wringing her apron between her hands.
John sagged against the wall. Why was all this happening at once? He couldn’t think straight. He looked at the policeman who had done the talking.
‘I guess you want to take me to London?’
The policeman nodded.
‘There’s an ambulance coming,’ John said, then noticed the doctor standing in the door wearing a shocked expression, eyes fixed on John’s face.
‘Yes, it’s all in hand,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘The ambulance is on its way. We have a very sick boy here.’
Mills stepped forward to reinforcing his authority over events.
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘Great Ormond Street, the children’s hospital,’ John replied with a sigh of resignation.
‘Then we’ll return to London together. You go with the ambulance, cuffed to one of us, and we’ll see your son settled in. Your car will be transported sometime during the coming week.’
‘I must phone my wife right away about Michael,’ John insisted.
‘I’m sorry, but I have more bad news,’ Mills continued imperturbably. ‘We arrived early this morning at your house in Dorset with a search warrant. I’m afraid Lady Catherine collapsed after we detained her and is at present in a hospital close to Holloway Women’s Prison, whereto she will be returned tomorrow. I have spoken to her doctors half an hour ago and they confirm she’s under sedation, but hopefully will soon recover. Maybe it was the shock of seeing the team in her home. I’m afraid she can’t come to Great Ormond Street at present.’
‘She’s under arrest?’ John could not believe what he’d heard.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. The charges you face are serious and wide ranging. We believe she must have been involved as an accessory. Maybe you can give us your solicitor’s name? He should be able to arrange bail for her. Unless there is further evidence, we’re not going to object. I think we both know who the key player are, John.’
With the lapse from the carefully, polite ‘Mr Forbes’, John realised just how serious a threat he faced. The police seemed horribly confident, altogether sure of their ground. Someone must have talked. The Clarks wouldn’t mess up, by leaving any evidence of his death.
‘Let’s get Michael to hospital first,’ he sighed. He could not at present see his way through this. His son was the most important thing.
Mills took out some handcuffs and offered half to John, with exaggerated politeness closing the other on a detective constable, who
had just entered the room as if he knew he was expected to do the honours..
‘I take it we have your word that this will all go smoothly, Mr Forbes?’ The policeman casually pushed aside his jacket, showing John that he was armed.
‘Yes, of course. And Michael need not know. Please. Not yet.’
* * *
At the hospital John, the Welsh doctor and the policemen were asked to wait in the consultant’s office while urgent tests were carried out on Michael. Two hours later the consultant joined them.
‘I’m sorry to say that all the indications are that your son has leukaemia,’ he told John. ‘It’s rare in a boy of fourteen. We have to find out whether Michael could have inherited it from someone in your immediate family. We can treat it with chemotherapy, which kills the malignant cells, but this might entail a bone marrow transplant at a later date, possibly followed by regular blood transfusions. Michael’s a brave boy. He knows that we must do a bone marrow test. It is not pleasant, I’m afraid, but he’s a stout chap. Says he’s prepared.’
John felt tears well in his eyes and searched blindly for a handkerchief. ‘Please go ahead. The sooner the better,’ he said with difficulty. He could hardly speak for the great weight he felt pressing down on his chest, almost suffocating him with its alien presence. His son, sick and in pain. And any minute now John was going to be forced to leave. He could feel Mill’s restlessness at the other end of the handcuffs. ‘Is his life in danger?’ John inquired in a low voice.
‘No,’ the doctor said, ‘not at this moment, but I don’t know what the further tests may show. It is possible it won’t be good news.’
Used to coping with crisis and danger, John was usually abnormally calm in tense situations. But this was different. This was happening to Michael his son. For almost the first time in his life, he found himself floundering, not knowing where to turn. He was breathless with terror, within inches from screaming it aloud.
‘Can I see him?’ John asked with difficulty.
‘He’s asleep,’ the doctor said. ‘Not now.’
They both knew that with John in police custody it was unlikely that father and son would see each other for days, possibly weeks.
John refused to let himself think further than that.
* * *
John left the hospital in a marked police car. For even the short distance from Great Ormond Street to the Paddington police station, the police car was escorted to the front and rear, all sirens wailing. with several policemen on motorbikes following the convoy, while above them a helicopter traced their route. Other traffic moved quickly out of their way.