On the post mark, he could see that Madame had had the letter for a week.
The next day he found the small house in Lodeve where Cecilia’s uncle lived. He was told that the old man had died and Cecilia had moved to the village near the lavender farm.
In the boulangerie the woman owner pointed to a flight of stone stairs on the other side of the street. There were terracotta pots filled with pink geraniums on each step. They led up to a heavy wooden door on the first floor.
John knocked and the door was opened by Cecilia.
‘John! Bienvenu!’ She smiled at him. ‘I see you are still wearing the hat I gave you.’
He walked into a fresh white‑painted studio, with a view over the fields and a kitchen in the corner. The furniture was old, worn but solid, the room welcoming and clean, filled with colourful local faience and flowering plants.
‘Why didn’t you contact me when your uncle died?’ he asked.
‘I can manage by myself. I bought this place with the money you gave me. I rent out the flat on the ground floor. I am quite happy.’
For a moment John found it hard to speak. He could not bring himself to mention Michael.
Cecilia brought up the subject herself. ‘I am so sad about your son. I never knew him, but I understand what he meant to you.’
John suddenly felt his legs buckle beneath him. He clutched at a chair and sat down. ‘Michael is dead,’ he whispered. ‘He’s really dead.’ It was the first time he had allowed himself to accept that he would never see his son again and a great black void seemed to open around him, separating him from Cecilia in her bright and cheerful room. Horror, grief and loneliness engulfed him. He could not move or speak before Cecilia came to him.
Standing she held the sitting man for several minutes, then she suggested with her arms, that he stood up. She led him to the bed, pulling back the faded quilt which covered it. She undressed him, cool and impersonal as a nurse, then gently pushed him down between the sheets. When he tried to speak, she put one finger to her lips and shook her head. John lay back weakly. It was peaceful here, the only sound the low droning of a bee blundering through the geraniums spilling over the windowsill.
When he awoke, it was dark and for a moment he felt disoriented in this unknown place. Then he sensed the familiar roughness of the hand draped around his waist; caught the faint scent of lavender in the cool linen that enveloped him. From her regular breath he could hear and feel she was asleep. He turned his head towards the curtainless window. It was either becoming dark or the morning was breaking. It had to be early morning, he decided for himself. He had slept a whole night for the first time in months.
He turned to Cecilia and kissed her awake.
‘Are you all right? She asked anxiously. ‘You are going home?’
He pulled her tenderly against him, recognising the comfort she represented and loath to let it go. ‘No need, Cecilia. With you, I am home.’
After breakfast she took a black scarf out of a drawer and tied it round her head. ‘Come,’ she said. She took his hand and led him down the steps towards the church.
She pushed the heavy doors open and John followed her inside. They both lit candles. She put her arm round his shoulders. ‘Pray if you can.’
‘I can’t. I don’t know how.’
‘Make your own prayer.’
She led him to a pew and sat down beside him. They remained there, not speaking, until the shadows changed.
Then, with Cecilia’s belongings in the back of the car, they drove back to the lavender farm.
PART SEVEN
SECRETS ARE EDGED TOOLS
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
_________________________
The Cave, Mallorca, June 1986
John saw Andrea waving as soon as he and Cecilia came through Customs at Palma airport. Although they had never met, Andrea gave Cecilia a big hug, glad that she had come with John. The Elgbergs had not seen him since Michael’s funeral.
‘We have some Russian visitors staying tonight,’ she said in the car on the way to the Cave. ‘I hope that’s all right?’
‘Yes, of course. Business doesn’t stop just because we come for a few days,’ John assured her. ‘If we’re in the way we’ll go on the yacht.’
Erick welcomed them as soon as they stepped out of the lift, while Andrea took Cecilia on a tour of the house the two men sat down at the bar beside the pool.
‘How are you?’ Erick asked his friend when they were alone together.
John shrugged. ‘Coping. That’s about all. It’s going to take years for me to come to terms with it.’
‘The relationship between father and son can be very strong. I hope you don’t mind talking about it?’
‘No. And Cecilia has been a big help. She never met Michael, but she understands my feelings.’
‘How’s Catherine?’
‘Much better. I phone her now and then. The divorce is going through.’
Erick poured him a stiff drink and changed the subject. ‘I’ve sent the Osovs to Palma with Sam to do some sightseeing, so we won’t be disturbed before the afternoon.’
‘Don’t fuss over me. I’m looking forward to meeting your Mr and Mrs Osov.’
‘Then we’ll all have dinner together tonight,’ Andrea said, coming back with Cecilia.
The French woman hardly said a word, although it was obvious that Andrea had tried her best to make her feel at home. It was difficult to find anything to interest the shy country woman who preferred to sit quietly next to John, looking out over the sea.
At dinner, Ivan and Petra Osov were introduced to John and Cecilia. Petra and Cecilia seemed to sense that they were kindred spirits, equally at sea in the luxurious retreat where the discussion more often than not centred on multi‑million pound business deals. Softly, in French, the two women talked of their homes and the details of their lives while Andrea and the men talked business.
The next day, Erick invited John to sit in on a business meeting with Osov and Bertrand Boucher, who had just arrived from Paris.
‘Your investment has already borne fruit,’ Osov reported. ‘A few days ago three million pounds were deposited in your account in Switzerland, and the same amount in your Gibraltar bank.’
‘That’s very good news.’ Erick glanced towards John, who merely raised one eyebrow.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Forbes,’ said Osov. ‘I hope you are impressed also?’
‘Call me John. Is there something else we can do for you, Ivan?’
‘You know the saying: everything has its price.’ Osov paused then said, ‘I would like to ask you some favours.’
John nodded for him to continue.
‘In this type of scam we have just done there is often a scapegoat. In this case, a helpful if rather credulous bank manager from the BCCI branch, Regent Street. He’ll be at the Old Bailey in December for sentencing; pleading guilty to fraud, I understand. I would be grateful if you would arrange that his stay in prison be as pleasant as possible and especially that his wife be looked after.’
‘We can arrange that,’ said Erick.
‘Thank you. If we could also persuade Mr Dockett, while he is in prison, to tell us a little more about the bank’s cheque clearing procedures, the mechanism and timing and how to achieve up‑to‑date statements on big clients, it would be of immense value in our next venture.’ Osov handed a typed memo with the details to Erick, who again nodded.
‘The sale of the antiques is going very well, increasing in revenue all the time,’ Osov continued. ‘I have met some of your people. Very professional and reliable. I get the feeling the team are all rather wealthy business men today. Very comforting.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that it’s working out. They are all old and close friends.’
Osov inclined his head. ‘Lastly,’ he said, ‘I have discussed with Bertrand the possibility of buying from a supplier in Europe, on a regular basis, forged roubles and other curr
encies, and transporting them back to Russia. His advice is that the quality is too poor and the sources unreliable. We already have original Russian printing plates and the up‑to‑date security guide for printing roubles. Even more important, we have access to the banking system in Russia. I would like you to consider setting up a printing unit in Europe to supply us with top quality counterfeits.’
He looked carefully into the faces of the men round the table. ‘Now that Gorbachev is in power, I believe this currency will secure us a very strong position when the communist system breaks down totally, as it must. Private enterprise will return, the whole of Russian industry will be up for privatisation, and the humble rouble and other soft currencies will be in great demand inside Russia. I am in no doubt that if that happens, and we prepare ourselves properly, it would be possible to gain control of an industrial group and our own bank.’
John sat deep in thought, aware that all eyes were upon him. ‘It’s for Bertrand to decide,’ he said at last. ‘But I like the idea, Ivan. If you agree to invest some of your revenue into shares which we will choose on your behalf, I think we can do a deal.’
Osov smiled. ‘To invest my own money would make me feel a closer part of your organisation. I would like that. I take it your investments are handled here in the Cave?’ He glanced towards Erick, who gave a slight nod of the head.
* * *
Later that day John entered Erick’s office, where he found his host and Karen deep in discussion. She finished her conversation and left the two men alone.
John looked at the large canvas graphs hanging on the walls, one to either side of the wide whitewashed room, with its panoramic view over the sea below. The graphs showed details of hundreds of companies: ownership, products, annual profits, estimated value, employment records and subsidiaries. The graph behind Erick was in green, the one on the opposite wall in red.
‘This looks like a wartime command headquarters,’ commented John.
‘It is in a way.’ Erick smiled. ‘What you see behind me is what we control. Over there is the final part of the jigsaw, namely Jensen Trust PLC.’
‘Jensen Trust owns all that?’ John looked surprised.
‘It’s a huge conglomerate, but its structure is quite straightforward. All the subsidiary companies manufacture everyday products, which suits us very well.’
‘Can we really muster enough capital to take it over?’
‘We don’t know for sure, but we think it’s a possibility.’
John sat down on the sofa by the window and studied the two charts. This was the first time he had had an overview of the full operation. It was mind‑boggling.
‘I’m impressed Erick. I know we set out to achieve this, but seeing it happen is another matter. Even I sometimes doubted we could pull it off. You have made it happen. You must be very proud.’
‘We’re not quite there yet,’ said his friend, not sure how to handle a compliment from John. ‘And it’s your money which has made it possible, don’t forget.’
‘You’ll get there. After seeing this, I know it’s going to happen.’
‘Quite an achievement for a couple of outsiders. A fallen tycoon from little Denmark and a crook from sleepy Dorset.
‘In Denmark we had a philosopher called Soren Kirkegaard. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him?’
‘There’s no need to talk down to me,’ said John. His tone was affable enough but Erick was in no doubt that he had blundered.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to. Anyway, Kirkegaard said something which describes our situation perfectly: “Life can only be lived forward and understood backwards.”
John thought about that for a while, his expression neutral. ‘And in Dorset,’ he said finally, we always used to say: “The old hoss looks over his shoulder while young ‘un races to the knackers yard.”
After a moment he smiled and those dark expressionless eyes of his warmed slightly as they met Erick’s.
He breathed out, unaware until then that he’d been holding his breath for as long as
John remained angry.
CHAPTER FIFTY
_________________________
Scotland Yard, London, Monday 5th January 1987
Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox had received a telephone call from the Assistant Commissioner’s office at Scotland Yard telling him he was wanted at a meeting that day. He had no idea why but was confident there was nothing wrong with his work.
He walked the mile from his office to the Yard, where he was told to wait in reception. At all the other meetings he had attended he had known exactly where to report; they had always been scheduled at least three days ahead. Evidently this was no ordinary meeting.
Malcolm Fox’s career was shaping up nicely. In January 1985 he had been promoted to Detective Sergeant and joined the Cheque Squad, based at the Queen’s horse stable at Rochester Row Police Station in Victoria. The Squad specialised in investigating cheque and credit card fraud.
Fox had recently passed the promotion exam but, only coming low down in the order of merit, he was not due to be promoted on the spot to detective inspector, staying on the Cheque Squad.
Fox’s superior retired due to health problems a few months after he joined and he was swiftly made up to Inspector. He requested some basic training in computer accountancy, which he was granted after the usual nit‑picking over resources, and found his own painstaking methodical style was well suited to financial investigation. Computer equipment was installed that would made it easier for him to investigate incriminating pattern of behaviour.
The big financial institutions, which had grown scornful and contemptuous of the force’s refusal to grasp the nettle of petty frauds, welcomed his initiative. Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox was soon tipped as one to watch. It could only be a matter of time before he received another posting. This time he had his sights set on being part of the new Serious Fraud Office.
Meanwhile he was proud of his nickname ‘Foxy’ and tried to live up to it.
After a lengthy wait, he was called up to a room on the tenth floor where two men and a woman were already seated round a low table. None was in uniform.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Lawrence Sutcliffe,’ a burly red‑faced man introduced himself. His thinning hair was carefully combed forward to disguise a receding hair line. Ten years older than him at least, calculated Fox. Well, all in good time. Sutcliffe shook hands with him, an unlit cigar in his other hand. ‘Let me introduce Mr Graham Higgins, who represents the Minister of State for the Home Office. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Wilson from the City of London Police.’
Fox could not suppress a momentary twinge of irritation that the woman held a higher rank than himself. Her firm handshake and quizzical smile let him know she had recognised his discomfort, adding further to his sense of disorientation. What possible interest could the Home Office take in a mere DI from the dodgy cheque division?
‘We’ve asked you here today as we have a situation which needs to be handled very delicately,’ Sutcliffe went on. ‘And we feel you would be the right person for the task.’
Fox nodded, trying to control his rising irritation as Sutcliffe fumbled with his cigar and a lighter. ‘How much do you know about the Stock Market?’ he asked, after several failed attempts.
‘I understand how it operates,’ Fox replied carefully, ‘but I can’t say I have any special knowledge of share dealings.’ Sutcliffe would have known this anyway, he thought; better to be honest at the outset. Obviously he had been picked because of his other, more instinctive talents.
‘But you know that sales of shares over a certain limit must be publicly declared?’
‘Of course.’
The man from the Home Office took over. ‘Let me explain the situation. Some months ago the Stock Exchange asked the City of London Police to investigate share movements in three publicly quoted companies. The majority shareholding in each of these companies has passed to someone who has in effec
t taken control without disclosing their identity. This person – or persons – uses a string of companies and banks to mask the transaction so that their identity remains unknown.’
‘To what purpose?’ asked Fox.
‘That, too, is unknown. No changes have yet been made to any of the boards of the companies taken over. It seems it’s business as usual, which is odd. As you know, most takeovers involve structural reorganisation in the boardroom, changes of directors, management, etcetera. In these cases, nothing much has happened.’
‘Then might it not be the case,’ Fox suggested, thanking his lucky stars for his diligent daily perusal of the Financial Times, ‘that these takeovers are purely speculative investments? When the shares go up, or another bid is made for one of these companies, the big investor would be in line for a sizeable profit.’
Higgins impatiently nodded. ‘But they’ve contravened Stock Exchange regulations and have gone to considerable pains to do so. When any individual or group owns more than twenty‑nine percent of a company’s shares, an official bid has to be given for all the shares to ensure that all shareholders are treated equally. These rules are formulated to protect the company and its employees, as well as the minority shareholders.’
Fox nodded, glancing covertly at Sarah Wilson to see if she was following all this. She looked remarkably composed.
‘So what do you think is behind all this?’ he asked.
‘Corporate and political power,’ Higgins declared. ‘Think about it. What government would dare to tangle with a gigantic conglomerate employing tens of thousands, possible hundreds of thousands soon? Think of the potential for massive upheaval if they tried to: job losses, bankruptcies, secondary industries going to the wall. Financial melt down on a huge scale. Added to which, there’s always the possibility that people in high places could be corrupted by unscrupulous operators. The placing of contracts could be influenced. Share prices manipulated. Assets of companies taken over could be stripped from the inside.’
‘Pension funds,’ Sarah Wilson put in.
Higgins smiled. ‘Quite. The companies pension funds can be instructed to buy shares in other companies they want to take over, perfectly legally. And then, of course, they can launder vast sums of money and pay themselves or associates on consultancy contracts.’