A week later her solicitor accepted the offer. Erick then instructed the foreign banks and the companies he had already set up to buy further shares via their brokers in London. Over a four‑month period, small numbers of shares changed hands. By early‑June 1984, the Invisible Company had become the majority shareholder in the long‑established and highly respectable, Crown Bicycle PLC.
Erick’s next task was to make its board aware that this power could now be wielded. He decided it was vital to gain influence over its Managing Director, Howard Femberley. It had been Femberley’s personal vision that had gradually changed the company into a modern industrial giant.
From the report Erick had received on Femberley and his wife, he knew there was nothing detrimental to be found out about his personal life. He would have to approach Femberley himself and make him aware of the situation. He would have to demonstrate a show of strength at the next board meeting.
In the Sunday Times Business to Business section, Thomas Wren advertised for a person with good references to become a company board member. A £6,000 annual fee was mentioned in return for attending six meetings a year. Several suitable applicants applied whom Wren interviewed.
After consultation with Erick, a 66‑year‑old retired Army Major called Angus Collaby was selected. Although he had no business experience, he made no secret of the fact that he needed the money badly. He was finding his pension very difficult to survive on and, after having served in Aden, Malaysia and Northern Ireland, found this a bitter pill to swallow.
Wren approached Crown’s directors and informed them that he wanted, on behalf of a shareholder, to put forward a new board member to speak on their behalf. The application recommended Major Collaby to the board.
The next meeting went as planned, with Major Collaby being voted on to the board, much to the surprise of Howard Femberley. The written votes were shredded after the meeting, to ensure that board members did not know who had voted for Collaby. After the meeting Femberley cornered the new board member and demanded to know whom he represented.
Collaby gave him the rehearsed answer, adding with a smile that the board would have nothing to fear from him, as he was there merely as an interested overseer.
The look on Femberley’s face told Collaby that the implications were apparent to him. Femberley now knew that somewhere, somehow, there was someone who could make decisions about his company and there was nothing he could do about it.
Soon after this, Erick wrote to Howard Femberley in Sheffield and explained he wanted to discuss a matter of importance with him personally.
‘I am an investor in Crown Bicycle,’ Erick introduced himself. ‘I wanted to come here today to tell you how pleased I and my co‑investors are by the way you’ve handled the turnaround of the firm.’
‘How big a holding do you have?’ Femberley asked.
‘Only a few per cent myself, but I am in contact with many other investors and together we represent at the moment fifty‑one per cent.’
Femberley tapped his fingers together. ‘So you control a majority shareholding without declaring it? I suppose you know that’s illegal?’
‘No. We are all individual investors, any one of whom could sell their holding tomorrow.
At the right price.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this,’ Femberley murmured. ‘It doesn’t seem right that someone can quietly buy up a majority shareholding and gain control of my board without declaring who they are or whom they represent.’
Erick smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m merely a wealthy investor, with contacts all over the world.’
‘It looks to me like a flock of vultures have landed on the roof.’ Femberley was a man who had worked his way up from the factory assembly line. He knew he had a talent for business; regarded his position as something he had worked hard for and deserved, and here was a wealthy playboy who lived in Mallorca, according to his business card, implying that he, the Managing Director of Crown Bicycle PLC, was a mere figurehead!
‘Let’s cooperate instead of fighting,’ Erick went on smoothly. ‘How about if we rewrite your contract to reflect your achievements? We’ll also give you the opportunity of buying more personal shares. If you’re willing to cooperate with us, we can help the company buy more factories and expand into retailing. We are your supporters, not your enemies.’
Femberley’s mouth twisted into an ironic smile. ‘Cooperate and we’ll look after you,’ he said dryly, ‘or go against us and we’ll sack you. That’s what you mean.’
‘If we can come to some agreement today,’ Erick said, ‘I’d like to invite you and your wife to Mallorca for a long weekend in August. The island is beautiful at that time of year. You’ll soon realise that our intentions for the company are entirely honourable and it will all be to your personal advantage.’
Femberley gave in with a resigned shrug.
* * *
In the summer of 1984 the Cave was ready for occupation and on the last Saturday in June the Elgbergs moved in.
Mr and Mrs Howard Femberley were picked up by Sam at Palma airport a few weeks later. At midday, sitting round the pool bar, Erick asked if they were interested in spending the rest of the day on the yacht.
The two couples spent a relaxing day and evening without talking business. Getting to know Femberley was the purpose of the exercise as well as gaining his confidence. Erick knew that Femberley himself would bring up anything which concerned him, if Erick were patient.
After lunch on Sunday, Femberley could not suppress his curiosity any longer. ‘I am interested in your proposal to rewrite my contract. What did you have in mind?’
Erick was pleased that he had obviously accepted the fait accompli. He went through his suggestions, which included a substantial amount in shares if the company’s three‑year plan were carried out within that time. Then he said, ‘Put in writing what you’d like included in your contract and I’ll guarantee that it’s accepted by the board.’
At the end of their discussion, Erick said casually, ‘If I telephoned you from time to time about other companies my co‑investors are interested in, would you be willing to give us your support?’
Femberley looked out over the azure sea and sipped his dry Martini. ‘Of course. May I say how much we’ve enjoyed this weekend? I hope you will visit us next time you’re in England.’
After the Femberleys had left, Erick sat alone at the pool. He had no doubt that Femberley had completely accepted the situation without any threat ever having to be made. How remarkably easy it had been to convert the hard‑working, upright Managing Director of Crown Bicycle PLC into another pawn in the Invisible Company’s net!
* * *
After the successful takeover of Crown, Graham Rose found another target company, a large magazine publishers, Lina Publishing PLC. Its shares were so spread that just 30% of the share capital could swing any boardroom decision. Lina Publishing also owned a 20% holding in one of the British tabloids and had magazine interests from Hong Kong to the States.
Femberley’s support, together with acquisitions by the Zurich bank and from the States, meant that this time it was easier to obtain the necessary shares. Erick was left with the delicate problem of informing the directors of the publishing company that the balance of power had shifted.
This time, instead of forcing an appointment to the board, he merely had to show the managing director, Lina Pinto, confirmation that twenty new shareholders were requesting Thomas Wren, Solicitors, to act on their behalf. This he did after Miss Pinto had spent three days at the Cave enjoying his hospitality.
The day after that Graham Rose came back to Erick with the information that the shares they had bought had been owned by the well‑known English tycoon, Randolph Purcell.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
_________________________
Cerne Estate, March 1985
Catherine Forbes put down the receiver. The prison had just confirmed that John was b
eing released on Monday.
Why had he not telephoned with the news himself? Because he had finally decided not to come back to her? Would someone else ‑Mona Hobson – be waiting for him at the gates?
She had known his release was coming up, but the date has been uncertain before the parole board had given its final approval. She and Michael had visited him every month, and during the last year she had seen him become more and more withdrawn. He seldom smiled. It was as if he had a burden on his shoulders and did not know how to ease it.
Michael was away at college and was not expected home until the end of the week. She wondered whether to contact him but decided not to. If John did not want her there, she did not want Michael to know. She could phone the prison to ask if her husband wanted her to meet him. No, it would be too embarrassing if she were told that someone else was picking him up. And she would not humiliate herself by contacting Arthur to see if he were going. He and Diana had both been very helpful and supportive, but they were dependent on John and would always do his bidding.
Next month she would be 44. Her parents were in their seventies and her father had just been diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s Disease. So many things in their lives were different from the first time, she had welcomed John home from prison, she thought.
His affair with the Hobson woman had ruined everything. Although they had been together in France, she felt it could never be the same between her and John. Now, she only occasionally thought about sex.
She sat in the living room and looked out over the lawn. Could he change? Was it naive to ask that question even to herself. However, she knew that the Elgbergs’ move to Mallorca was part of John’s new plan. He had certainly had enough time to decide what to do, but why had he not made his plans clear to her? John owed it also to Michael to come and explain what he intended to do.
Catherine got up and paced the room. The house was cold because she could not keep the heating on for long; the cost was astronomical.
Her husband was a professional criminal. She had to face it. Very little dignity in that. But if she were honest with herself, she wanted him back. She missed him – the way he smiled, the way he used to look at her. Even if his affair had ruined the magic, she was happiest when he was with her.
She should have looked for another man while he was in prison. If she had, John would have been pleased for her. He wanted whatever made her happy. But no man would be interested in her. That was why John had been forced to find a mistress all those years ago. If she had a hold on him sexually, she might not have failed to keep him. It could only be that she was no good in bed.
Michael was the only card she held. John would never do anything to hurt him again.
‘Damn you, John. Why didn’t you phone?’ Lying in bed she looked at the pillow beside her. She would have to face that empty pillow for the rest of her life, if he decided not to return.
* * *
On Monday morning at five o’clock Catherine drove John’s dark blue Jaguar towards Kent. Keith Spike maintained it regularly and it had never let her down. The smell of the leather interior reminded her of John. At least he would be happy to see the car!
At twenty past six she parked outside Blantyre House, switched off the engine and settled down to wait. She had brought a flask of coffee to keep her warm.
Half an hour later the day shift prison staff began to arrive. Catherine moved the car further along the road, but still in sight of the blue mesh gate. There were no other cars waiting.
At about seven o’clock, she noticed two men walking from the administration building towards the gate. One of them opened it and they shook hands. Then John stepped through. He looked round, pulled up his collar and walked to a bus stop on the other side of the road.
For a minute she did not move. He had not seen her. She switched on the ignition and flashed the headlights. John glanced towards her, then waved.
As he came towards her, she wound down the window and asked, ‘Would you like a lift?’
‘I’m not in the habit of being picked up by good‑looking women in expensive cars.’ He got in beside her, staring awkwardly ahead. Silence descended.
‘I thought – someone else might be picking you up,’ faltered Catherine eventually.
He leaned over to kiss her cheek. ‘No. I don’t know how you could get such a silly idea. I went to prison to sort out our relationship, if you remember?’
‘Do you want to drive?’
‘No, I want to sit here and admire you.’
‘I wish I could cope with you better,’ she sighed. ‘You walk out of prison after all kinds of dramas and here I still am, the faithful, trembling wife. It’s pathetic.’
‘Catherine.’ He took her hand and clasped it between his own. ‘I love you in my own way. Perhaps that’s not enough for you, but it’s as much as I can offer. Why do you look so gorgeous? You’re too much for an old lag like me to cope with. Please take me home.’
She smiled. ‘I think you’ve gone stir‑crazy.’
‘Probably. I know I’m sad and everyone thinks I’m bad, so I’m probably mad as well. How’s Michael?’
‘He’s at school till Friday. I haven’t told him yet. I wanted us to have a few days to ourselves.’
‘Good idea.’
They were quiet for the rest of the journey. Once inside the house, John took off his coat and went into in the living room.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked.
‘A whisky would be nice.’
He looked around him, then opened the doors and walked out on to the terrace, barely able to believe for a minute or two that he was at liberty to move freely around this beautiful old house and garden. It felt strange to him now. He knew that he owned it, but after his time in Brixton, the dreadful waiting time in Hans Court, Maidstone, the escape and then two years in Kent, it was the farm in France that now filled the quiet space in his head to which he retreated in times of stress. Such as now, if he were really truthful with himself.
‘Welcome home.’ She gave him the drink.
‘Thanks.’
With his arm round her, they walked back inside. He put the glass down and took his wife in his arms. They kissed for a long time, gently, companionably. This homecoming was very different from their first passionate reunion. After a while Catherine led him upstairs to bed. They stayed there till midday, then went for a walk round the Estate. In the evening they dined in a local restaurant, where the other customers tried not to stare at them.
‘If this embarrasses you, we can go home,’ John suggested.
‘It’s all right. I prefer the village to know you’re back, the sooner the better.’
John sat quietly, his thoughts far away.
‘So what are your plans?’ Catherine asked suddenly.
He brought his gaze back to her. ‘The only active business will be the one Erick is running in Mallorca. I think that’s all you need to know.’
She sighed. ‘I meant, are you going to stay with me or not?’
He lifted his glass of wine and took a long mouthful before replying. ‘I’d like you and Michael to move to France with me.’
‘So you want to uproot us all?’
‘Catherine,’ he said solemnly, ‘we need a fresh start in another country. I’m too well‑known here. I don’t want to sell the Estate. If you don’t want to come with me, you can live here as long as you want. I’ll see you’re taken care of financially. But please, think about coming to France with me. Give it a year and then decide if we stay there or come back here. We could close down the Estate for a year, leave it as it is, or we could rent it out, whatever you prefer.’
Catherine was silent. Michael would jump at the opportunity to live in France, so her options were limited. To be alone on the Estate, while Michael spent as much time as he liked with his father, was not a happy prospect. Also, she thought, John’s intention of moving to France surely ruled out his resuming the affair with Mona Hobson.
‘It would be worth a try, I suppose,’ she said at last.
‘I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm.’
She kicked him hard under the table.
He smiled. ‘I have some meetings to attend to for a few days and at the end of the month I’ll have to go away for a couple of weeks. When I come back we can leave for France. But keep it under your hat for the time being.’
‘The same old skulduggery,’ she sighed.
He took her hand. ‘There won’t be any in France, I promise. There I’m just a Parisian lavender grower, as they say.’
‘You’ve worked it all out,’ she said. ‘And I can’t make a scene without the whole village knowing.’
‘Exactly.’ He held out her glass, which she took and raised to him in a silent toast.
‘I think we should phone Mike tonight or he’ll feel left out,’ she murmured.
* * *
A few days after his release, John went to his office in Esher, which had been unused for several years. The secretary was paid merely to come in and forward any post.
He sat down at the boardroom table and stared for a while at the Picasso drawings, thinking of Mona. Then he took a piece of paper and wrote a list of the meetings he must hold.
Arthur – the Clarks – Rose Miller – Philip Higginson – Bertrand Boucher – Rudi Grattini,‑ William Webster – Erick – Cecilia and the farm.
He folded the paper as if in a trance, then carefully tore it up and put the pieces in his pocket.
Then he started taking his few private belongings down to his car. He asked the accountant, whose office was in the same building, to arrange for the Picassos to be sent to Mrs Hobson at the address in St. John’s Wood. The lease, together with the furniture, light fittings and carpets was to be sold and the bank accounts closed. All the toy samples were to be donated to Great Ormond Street Hospital.
John wrote a cheque to cover expenses and told the accountant he was moving to Mexico and gave him the address of a hotel he had seen in a brochure, although he had never been there and never intended to go.