Sarah smiled. ‘Take a look at this, Mr Dockett. It might change your mind.’
She handed him an enlarged photograph. He hesitated, knowing that if he looked at it he might be committing himself, but curiosity got the better of him.
At first he felt embarrassment on Ann’s behalf, that she should have been seen naked and in such a compromising position. Then he realised that she’d been deceiving him. The concern and solicitude she’d shown during her visits were just play‑acting. Ann had other things to occupy her now. He slammed the photo face down on the table. ‘Who are they?’ he snarled.
‘Erick Elgberg, your wife’s employer, and his wife, Andrea. It was taken on board Elgberg’s yacht. This one,’ Sarah said, passing over another print, ‘was taken only a few days ago. I’m sorry we have to show you these, but we need your help.’
Paul sat, breathing heavily. He clutched at straws. Surely Ann wouldn’t willingly have gone along with this filth? She must have been coerced, even blackmailed. ‘It’s my wife who needs help.’
‘Why?’ Sutcliffe leaned forward. ‘Judging from these, I’d say she was having the time of her life.’
‘No! She wouldn’t do that from choice. She was forced... Oh God, it’s all my fault. I put her into that situation...’
‘What do you mean?’
Paul shook his head. ‘I need time to think.’
‘I understand.’ Sarah picked up the photographs. ‘But before we go, see if you can recognise any of these voices.’ She switched on the tape recorder.
For five long minutes Paul listened blankly to the tape. Then he asked her to run it back. The accent of Aaron Nicholstein was unmistakable.
‘Thanks, I’ve heard enough.’ He stood up, almost suffocated by jealousy and rage. His own wife sleeping with the enemy. ‘I’ll think about what you’ve told me. I’ll get back to you,’ he said in a dead voice.
Sarah opened her mouth to speak to him, but Sutcliffe stopped her. Better to let Dockett stew for a while. Then he’d be desperate to talk, Sutcliffe could feel it.
Paul shed silent tears all that night. There was no relief from seeing the evidence of his wife’s infidelity. It was branded on his eyes.
Now more than ever before, he wanted revenge on the man who had robbed him of her.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
_________________________
Lodeve, France, Sunday, 11th October 1987
Cecilia had insisted that the wedding should be very simple. She had had difficulty arranging a Church dispensation for John, who had eventually signed a declaration that he would convert to Catholicism and that any children of the marriage would be brought up in the faith.
On the morning of the wedding she and John drove from the farm to the small village church next to her own house, where they had mourned the death of Michael. The service was simple but memorable. Afterwards they went back to the farm with their guests, where Madame Popougnot had prepared a feast which was set out on a long table in the yard, with Winston sleeping under it.
The guests included the priest, Monsieur and Madame Lebrun with their four children, Erick and Andrea Elgberg, Arthur and Diana Black, Randolph and Dorothy Purcell, Bertrand Boucher with his brother and mother, William and Vera Webster, and the eight men who worked on the lavender all year, together with their wives and ten children. John’s connections all arrived by different routes and means of transport. Surveillance of the village and the lavender farm had been discreetly carried out by Jim and Neil Clark who by now knew the area better than most and were able to spot any car which was not local. They had informed John that the security would never be 100% which he accepted. Cecilia was not in any way aware of the precautions taken.
At the end of the table sat a beaming Madame Popougnot who had looked forward to and prepared for this day for months. At last Le Patron had made an honest woman of his mistress and Madame could now look forward with a clear conscience to the arrival of the little one.
When Monsieur Lebrun brought out his guitar and started singing some of the regions gentle songs, they all joined in as best they could.
* * *
The next day, John and Cecilia drove to Paris for a week’s honeymoon. Cecilia had never been there. She had wanted no expensive gifts, just to be alone with John. Only after some argument had he bought a new but unpretentious Peugeot for the trip. Cecilia despised any form of ostentation.
‘Mangez, abimez, suffire. Pas bosoir.’
“Eat it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Or do without,” Cecilia had told John. ‘Happiness comes only with a simple life.’
He did not comment, but smiled, while stretching out his hand to her.
They arrived in Paris late on Monday evening, after having stayed one night in a hotel outside Lyon. On Tuesday morning John sat drinking coffee outside their small hotel in the centre of the city. A kiosk a few yards away sold English newspapers, so he wandered over to buy the Daily News and The Telegraph.
On the front page of the News was the story of Purcell Industries’ friendly takeover of Jensen Trust PLC, the huge conglomerate trading in Europe and America, one of the world’s ten largest.
It had started with the theft of a single small pistol. And now he was sitting here, unnoticed, having achieved exactly what he had set out to do. A glow of pride filled him. Then, just as suddenly, he felt drained of all energy.
He went and bought all the English papers. Drinking his coffee, he picked up the Financial Times and read the three‑column front page report thoroughly. Only now did he realise the full implications of the merger, and the impact this could have.
He realised he must immediately take decisive action to permit Bertrand Boucher to assume complete control over the criminal operations. He should have done this much earlier, instead of prevaricating. Why couldn’t he let go of the past? Was he afraid that the new power he had just achieved could not match his criminal pre‑eminence? Was it because it was his past, the base on which he had founded his legitimate power? Was he afraid of stripping himself of this power? Did he still crave power for its own sake?
Cecilia suddenly appeared beside him, making him jump.
‘What has happened?’ She glanced at all the papers. ‘Business again! What’s so interesting today?’ She picked up one of the papers and looked at it.
‘Nothing special,’ John answered evasively.
‘Non mon cher, pas de secrets. You are my husband. I want to know what is so interesting that you bought so many papers and did not even notice me? You think I am just a stupid little farm girl who will not understand.’ She pinched him playfully on the arm. ‘Tell me right now or all Paris will see my Languedoc temper!’
‘OK, OK, if you insist. Read the story, not just the headlines.’
She shrugged, frowning with concentration as she read, then pointed at a photograph of Randolph Purcell. ‘Monsieur Purcell! It is his company, n’est‑ce pas?’
‘Non, c’est la mienne.’
She threw down the paper. ‘Yours. What do you mean? I see no pictures of you.’
‘I own Purcell Industries and now Jensen Trust, and many more companies besides.’
She stared at him in horror.. ‘La croix que les femmes doivent porter.’ What have I married?’
It took John hours to calm her down. Cecilia insisted on reading every English and French newspaper that carried news of the merger. In the end he convinced her he had made this investment so that he could sit back and concentrate completely on his new life with her, the lavender farm and their expected child.
‘I understand when you say this, but don’t expect me to believe it,’ she said unhappily. ‘I love you so much that it is a torment to me, but I realise I do not know you at all. Perhaps, mon cher, I never will.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
_________________________
Lodeve, France, Black Monday, 19th October 1987
Erick phoned at seven o’clock the morning after they got back fro
m Paris.
‘Hope you had a good honeymoon,’ he said, and without waiting for an answer rushed on ‘The stock market in New York suffered a 20% fall in one day, starting at two o’clock yesterday. They’re saying it’s worse than Black Tuesday in 1929. There’s bound to be a knock on effect on the London Exchange in a couple of hours. We could have a major disaster on our hands. We have borrowed heavily to support the Purcell‑Jensen merger.’
John was silent for a few seconds. Then he said calmly, ‘What’s caused it?’
‘No specific reason I can pinpoint. A bit of everything from the hurricane to computer‑driven speculation. If there had been the slightest indication of a drop in share prices, the markets would have been falling steadily over the past few days. In my opinion it’s general lack of confidence with all this news about the Guinness affair, Irangate, Lloyds of London, insider dealing here and in the States. The Purcell‑Jensen merger may have played a part. I don’t know.’
John’s first thought was that the police investigation had set off a rumour about criminal involvement in Purcell‑Jensen and other quoted companies. Would they risk making their suspicions public? Surely not.
‘I’m trying to work out what would happen if we started selling our shares,’ he said slowly.
‘Listen, Erick. Ask George von Fritzenberg to check with his contacts if they’ve heard the slightest rumour about a suspicious enterprise entering the market. Then look back over the last couple of weeks and see if anyone in the States has significantly unloaded Purcell or Jensen shares. Phone me back right away.’
John leaned back in the chair. Winston came in from the yard and slumped down at his master’s feet, falling quickly asleep.
John and Erick had foreseen the risk of investing all available funds and their full borrowing capacity in shares, but John had been convinced that, because they were not in the business of speculation but were committed to long‑term share ownership, the vagaries of the market did not really affect them. But a downward spiral in share prices at this rate was a different matter entirely. Millions could be wiped out if the market continued to drop. The banks which held their shares as security for loans could start selling if they felt that security was no longer good.
He switched on the television and watched the news until Erick called back.
‘In London it’s sell, sell, sell. This ball will roll and roll. But George assures me there are no rumours about the Purcell‑Jensen merger being anything other than above board. There was some trading in our shares at the end of last week but nothing big.’
‘Right,’ said John, satisfied. ‘Don’t sell. I repeat, don’t sell a single share. Hang on to everything we’ve got. Keep the banks with Purcell‑Jensen shares as security happy, and let it be known that we’re buying shares.’
‘That’s impossible!’ Erick gasped. ‘I can’t borrow a penny more with the prices expected to fall by twenty per cent here as well.’
John continued unperturbed. ‘Tell Sam and Ann Dockett to be ready to travel. I’ll instruct you later today where to locate funds. Pay them into the banks where they are most needed. I’m prepared to bet everything on the market bouncing back. And ask the banks to tell us the name of a prestigious, high‑profile company we can buy.’
‘Buy!’ Erick echoed in disbelief. ‘What kind of money are we talking about here?’
‘At least twenty‑five million which is available now. If it comes to it I can borrow from Italy four or six times that.’
Erick sighed. ‘All right. Karen’s just told me that Purcell’s on the other line.’
‘Come back to me as soon as you’ve got some news.’ John put the receiver down and looked at the television screen, where a special news programme about share prices had just begun.
‘Cecilia, come here,’ he shouted. ‘Please translate this for me!’
* * *
Erick phoned back later and conveyed a suggestion from Purcell.
During Tuesday night Purcell‑Jensen PLC bought the share majority in a subsidiary owned by various banks. It was called Bower Venture Capital PLC, and had invested money in 76 start‑up high‑tech companies. The banks felt that, in the present financial climate, this commitment was far too risky. Purcell‑Jensen bought the Bower shares as a gesture of good faith against the bank’s promise not to sell any of the conglomerate’s shares and to advise their clients to do the same, which should help stabilise the market. Purcell‑Jensen bought the shares in Bower Venture Capital at half the price they would have been a few weeks before and were given five years to pay.
‘We’re going public at a press conference at ten this morning,’ Erick explained. ‘We’ll take that opportunity to present our new Group Managing Director, James Fisher, who will work closely with Randolph Purcell.’
‘That’s perfect, Erick. The press should like it. They can say a lot of positive things about the rescue of seventy‑odd new high‑tech companies.’
John was well satisfied, and not only with what Erick had told him. News of the rescue package would send a clear message to the team of Operation Vagabond to forget any high‑profile investigation into the death of Malcolm Fox. The government could not afford a scandal, particularly at this time. Any whiff of dishonest share dealings and it could be forced to resign and call a general election.
By the end of the day, shares in Purcell‑Jensen PLC had stabilised while other FTSE‑100 companies were still in free‑fall.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
_________________________
Arundel, West Sussex, Friday, 22nd January 1988
Paul Dockett still had the job of cinema orderly. In his long solitary hours in the dark office behind the projection room, he considered his various options. Prison was a waiting room where time stood still, the perfect place for considering every detail of a plan. It was his only remaining pleasure.
Without wife, career or house, life as he’d known it was over for him. But he had one remaining purpose, one goal. The more methodically, but realistically, he planned, the more confident he felt, that it was going to happen. He knew that in the closed prison‑world dreams and plans could often get confused. He had to avoid that at all cost.
Paul had come to terms with what he had seen and been told by Sarah Wilson. The voice on the tape recorder was without doubt Aaron Nicholstein’s. He had long suspected a link between Nicholstein, the man who had been instrumental in his downfall, and Erick Elgberg, his wife’s employer, and now he had proof.
He had accepted that Harold and Jeffrey had links with Aaron Nicholstein, and Nicholstein was linked to Elgberg – but that Elgberg had blatantly used Ann as a plaything after having ruined her husband’s whole life was unforgivable.
That photograph of them together still haunted him. That man, lying on his back, with his wife on one side and Ann on the other. The wife on his right, her head turned away. Ann facing Elgberg, her head on his shoulder, her hand between his legs...
The other photo, the one of them all having a meal on a roof garden, was just as wounding – perhaps even more so. The date showed it had been taken after the one on the yacht so Ann obviously enjoyed being with them. It had been entirely voluntary.
He had no confidence in the promises of the police.
They didn’t want to help him; they wanted Elgberg, and at any cost.
The early release they had spoken of would at the best be a mere six‑month reduction of sentence. Elgberg would inevitably get to know about it and wonder why. It would need no great leap of the imagination to work out that Paul Dockett had made a pact with the police, told them all he knew. Then he would be a marked man. He would end up in a ditch with his throat cut, or drown accidentally like Inspector Fox.
Paul was in no hurry to be released. His marriage was over. He had nothing to go to. He would not cooperate. But, when he eventually did get out, he would live with Ann for a while so as to get close to Elgberg. He would choose his moment carefully and then he would strike.
/> * * *
Paul was called to the governor’s office one morning a week later and found DCI Sarah Wilson waiting alone.
‘I’ve decided to decline your offer,’ he said. ‘I like it here.’
‘Then you’ll have to serve another two and a half years,’ she snapped. She could see he had made up his mind but she had one last card to play. ‘Actually there is another set of photographs I didn’t show you. I have them here. Take a look at them.’
Paul felt strong enough to see them. The more he knew, the better he could plan his strategy. He took the first photograph she held out, but at first could not recognise anyone. Then he realised that the woman lying on her back, with several pillows under her head and her legs spread wide, had to be Andrea Elgberg. Ann was the one on top. He recognised her hair. Her head was buried between the other woman’s legs, her bottom slightly raised, half obscuring Andrea Elgberg’s face. On the edge of the picture was Erick Elgberg, watching.
Paul screwed the photo up in his fist. Then he looked at the others. They showed Ann coming out of hotels, offices, restaurants. He was amazed at how elegant and sophisticated she looked. She had never dressed like that when she had visited him.
‘Nice holiday shots.’ He threw the pile across the table, pushed back his chair and walked towards the door. He was not giving in to blackmail. If anything, this last lot of photographs had made him even more determined to exact his own revenge on Erick Elgberg and his bitch of a wife.
Sarah tried one last time. ‘If you don’t cooperate, it could mean the end of our investigation into Elgberg. Surely you want to see him come to grief? I certainly would, if I were in your shoes.’
‘But you’re not, are you?’ said Paul, leaving the room.
* * *
From Ford, Sarah Wilson went directly to a prearranged meeting at Scotland Yard with Higgins and Sutcliffe. She told them that Paul Dockett had refused to cooperate.
‘I’ve had a word with my Minister,’ said Higgins, ‘who in turn has spoken to Number Ten. We think the time has come to wind up Operation Vagabond.’
Sutcliffe showed his feelings by decapitating a cigar.
‘The Purcell‑Jensen merger,’ Higgins went on, ‘has shed a different light on the investigation. It’s my Minister’s view that nothing in the public interest can be achieved by continuing this exercise.’