‘You want us to close down completely, sir?’ asked Sarah.
‘Personally, no. If something relevant happens on the stock market, we’ll still need to investigate. So it’s been decided that you, Miss Wilson, will continue alone for a time, concentrating purely on anything you can find that’s relevant to Fox’s death. You will report directly to Mr Sutcliffe.’
Sarah exchanged glances with the Chief Inspector who struck a match and lit his cigar, inhaling deeply. When he exhaled, he deliberately enveloped the man from the ministry in a cloud of evil‑smelling smoke.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
_________________________
Lodeve, France, 2nd March 1988
Push! Push! The child is close now!’ shouted Madame Popougnot upstairs. In the kitchen John sat on a hard chair out of the way but not out of earshot. He had wanted to stay with his wife for the birth but she and Madame had been outraged by the thought. Then everything went quiet. A few minutes later, a furious howl cut straight to his heart. He had another child. He was a father once more.
‘Une petite demi‑Anglaise!’ Madame Popougnot gave him his newborn daughter wrapped in a blanket then returned upstairs to Cecilia.
John looked down at the tiny bundle in his arms. Her skin was soft and white, and she had a startling crop of black hair. Her blue eyes stared up at him, as if searching for recognition. She was perfect. They had already decided what they would call a girl.
‘Hello Alina,’ he said and gently kissed the top of her tiny head.
These days John hardly ever left the lavender farm. He had arranged for various taxi companies to pick up his mail from a constantly changing list of poste restantes.
Cecilia was worried that he was withdrawing completely into himself. He spent hours playing with Alina, but seemed to become easily tired. He read a lot and listened to classical music. When alone, he played the piano. His repertoire was becoming wider and he knew his playing continued to improve. Alone in the late evening Cecilia sometimes asked him to play.
Often he was still tired when he awoke, having slept badly. In the early hours he would twist and turn and Cecilia would roll against him, pressing her body into his as if she sensed his desperation. She said nothing, just held him close.
On other mornings, he awoke revitalized and full of energy and ideas for the lavender farm. On these days he felt confident in the future and went for long walks with Winston trotting along by his side.
Despite his resolution he still had not formally relinquished control over the criminal operations. Bertrand Boucher was nominally in charge, but the final decisions still rested with John. He knew Bertrand kept the details of occasional arrests and daily vicissitudes within the criminal enterprise. Large sums of money were accumulating in the Company’s various holding accounts and only when he felt like it did he tell Erick to convert the money into more shares.
John had built up a huge Invisible Company, was able to control every aspect of it. But now he felt powerless to begin to dismantle it.
More than anything in the world he longed to be free of it, to live the quiet uneventful life of a Languedoc lavender grower, filling his days purely with thoughts of his farm, his wife and daughter. After twenty‑five years of controlling every aspect of the Company, John was ready to leave it behind. But how?
After months of reflection he had been forced to the reluctant conclusion that there are some positions which are not lightly abandoned. In the company his power was absolute, his word law. He was its uncrowned King.
And in the darkest reaches of the night he had come to suspect that there was only one way for this King to leave his Invisible Company – when another was ready to assume his mantle and strong enough to push him aside. Did he want Bertrand to demand or just take control? If that happened and John had outlived his usefulness, he could imagine his fate.
The King is dead... long live the King.
* * *
‘Good to see you, Arthur,’ said John, entering Black’s of Mayfair. ‘I just wanted to say hello. I’m only here for the day. How’s Diana?’
‘What a surprise!’ Arthur took him upstairs to his elegant but untidy office. ‘She’s fine, as am I.’
‘And how’s the shop?’
‘Wonderful. We’re mostly open only to selected clients, by the way. I’ve become a highly regarded expert whom other dealers pay to consult.’ He poured coffee, then raised one eyebrow at John. ‘Anyway, enough of me. What brings you to London?’
John took his coffee and sat back. ‘As you know, I want to relinquish the criminal operations but it’s more difficult than I’d anticipated, just handing them over. Different loyalties at stake, that sort of thing. I want your advice.’
‘Are you sure!’ Arthur stirred his coffee, shaking his head. ‘The drugs operation alone is worth millions and millions every year. You could agree a price and have it paid in property, shares, whatever, over quite a time.’
‘If I do that, then I’m still involved until the end of the settlement period. And my name would be drawn into the negotiations, however careful we are. We both know that if something happened higher up in the organisation to alert police attention, I could find myself back in jail. I’m too old for that now. Since Michael died, I’ve even begun to question the morality of it all.’
Arthur studied him seriously. ‘Old friend, I can only tell you what you already know. Even if you gave the entire criminal operation over to Bertrand, if in five years’ time the whole thing collapsed, I’m afraid to say that in all probability you would still be dragged into any investigation, implicated and suffer the consequences. You’ve built up a large and highly diversified secret organisation, and it’s taken over your life. You’ve been able to control, however remotely, the overall objectives of that organisation. You can foresee and defuse any possible danger. You have kept the power and no one has ever dared question that. But if you let go, anything could happen without your knowledge, and you would be helpless to take action.’
‘But I have to get out. Surely there must be a way?’
Arthur shrugged. ‘The only way I can see would be to dismantle the operations, one by one. But that could take years.’
‘I haven’t the time or the strength to do that. Closing down the operations might make enemies of friends, and I don’t want that.’
‘I agree.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘John, when you created your group of groups, you created a power base which cannot continue in a vacuum. Take away the one central guiding hand and the whole gigantic concern could go under with devastating consequences for you as well as for everyone else.’
‘I’m not sure you’re right.’ John understood Arthur’s argument, but this was definitely not what he wanted to hear.
‘Erick is in daily charge of his part and you don’t have any problems there. If things went wrong, who knows what would happen? But why should they? You’re in the background. Bertrand is very astute in business matters and ruthless in other ways. You couldn’t have picked a better man to be in nominal control. But, John, you have to hang on in there as well.’
‘Ruthless in other ways? What do you mean?’
Arthur could not quite meet his eyes.
‘He uses the Clark brothers from time to time with my approval. They still work only on my or your instructions. And you’ve never queried it when he’s asked for their services. What I’m trying to say is, maybe he uses them too often.’
‘I see. Yes. But I trust him to do what’s necessary.’
‘He’s a very strict disciplinarian. For further details you’ll have to talk to him or the twins directly.’
‘I’m meeting them later today,’ John said, frowning at the prospect. He’d been hoping to talk to them about a handover of power but it didn’t look as if the time was right.
* * *
For lunch, John had arranged to meet Catherine in the Dorchester Grill. This was the first time they had met since
the divorce.
He had not looked forward to seeing her, fearing that the memory of Michael would be hanging over them. But when she walked towards him, he was glad to see that she looked well and happy.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure that you would.’
She smiled. ‘What’s past is past, John. Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. Diana told me. I’m so pleased for you.’
‘Thanks, Catherine,’ he said earnestly. ‘That means a lot to me, coming from you.’
‘So what are you doing in London?’
‘Oh, just having a couple of days off.’
She sighed and smiled. ‘Ever mysterious! Never mind. I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to meet, because I need your advice.’ She took some papers from her handbag and gave them to him.
They were last year’s accounts for the Cerne Estate and showed a loss of several hundred thousand pounds.
‘What’s this, Cathy? I told you I’d pay off all debts.’
‘I want to sell,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve thought about it for months, but your invitation today meant I could discuss it personally with you. I once promised you I would offer it to you first, remember?’
‘Where would you go?’
‘A house in London. Maybe Chelsea.’
‘OK. I’ll buy the Estate and get someone else to run it. Erick can arrange it.’
Impulsively, she took his hand and kissed it. ‘I hoped you’d say that! Thank you, John. I’ve loved it for so long but finally I need to be free of it. To begin again, as you have done.’
‘There are more new beginnings in the pipeline.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Nothing settled yet and it may be difficult to arrange, but I’m planning to get out for good – just a simple farmer from now on.
‘Oh, John.’ She slid her hand across the table to take his. ‘You don’t know how long I....’ With a stab of guilt he realised he had hurt her again.
Throughout their marriage she had longed for him to leave the life, turn his back on crime, and stubbornly he had gone his own way, no matter what the cost.
Catherine wiped the tears from her eyes, stiffened her shoulders.
‘I’m very pleased for you and Cecilia.’ she told him in a more collected voice. ‘Maybe one day I could be allowed to visit Michael’s Place at the river? Would Cecilia mind, do you think?’
‘Of course not. You are welcome any time. She understands these things.’
‘Thanks, maybe after I have moved out. Now, won’t you show me some pictures of Alina? I’m longing to see them.’
* * *
Jim Clark was waiting at Kingston Gate, Richmond Park, at four o’clock as arranged. To ensure he was not followed, John had taken buses and the train to Kingston, and then a taxi.
‘Hello, Jim. Where’s Neil?’
‘He’ll join us in a minute.’ ‘He’s just making sure we’ve no uninvited guests.’
Jim led the way over the park and up a hill towards the edge of the plantation where Neil appeared and joined them. He confirmed that no one had followed John.
‘So how’s life?’ he asked them.
‘Fine,’ said Jim, and Neil nodded. ‘It’s good news that the police have wound down Vagabond.’
‘Is the bug still under the floorboards?’
‘Yes. We can hear everything that goes on loud and clear, but there’s not much to report now.’
‘Then I think you’d better take it out.’ As they walked along together, John remembered the first of these walks on Epsom Downs. It seemed a long time ago now. ‘How do you get on with Boucher?’ he asked, coming straight to the point. ‘Can you handle what he asks you to do?’
Jim and Neil exchanged glances. ‘Times have changed, Mr Forbes,’ said Neil. ‘I must admit we preferred the investigative work we did for you. Even the odd elimination was OK, when we knew it was part of a bigger picture.’
‘So what do you do now that’s different?’ As soon as John had asked the question, he realised he had let slip that he did not know what work they had carried out for Boucher. That could be a mistake. For twenty years they had taken orders only from him, if sometimes through Arthur. Now they might realise that, although he had sanctioned their actions, it was only Boucher who knew what they were actually required to do.
‘What’s different, Mr Forbes,’ Jim said slowly, frowning, ‘is that now we only carry out eliminations. Six to ten a year on average. Mostly abroad, but it’s getting dangerous for us personally.’
John tried not to show his alarm. ‘I have every confidence in Bertrand,’ he said finally, keeping his voice neutral.
‘And the business has changed. Things go wrong all the time and we’re called in to clear up the mess. Mr Boucher prefers to eradicate his mistakes rather than adapt to them.’
John was silent for a few minutes. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation,’ he said at last. ‘Do you want to get out altogether?’
‘No,’ said Neil firmly. ‘But we can’t continue like this for much longer.’
‘We’re both married now, and fathers,’ Jim put in. ‘We’re not Gorbals thugs anymore, Mr Forbes, but respectable married men with children. We’ve our families to think about.’
‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
* * *
John phoned Bertrand Boucher from Heathrow Airport and asked to be picked up from Charles de Gaulle airport. They met that same evening in a flat close to the L’Etoile.
After Boucher had brought him up to date regarding the various operations, John said, ‘The Clark brothers tell me that they’re principally hit men now. Apparently they’re quite frequently employed.’
‘Is that a problem, John?’
‘With so many eliminations every year, there is a danger of building up a pattern which the police could trace.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Boucher sounded as calm as ever. ‘We are extremely discreet. And elimination is always a last resort. Maybe more frequent because the organisation is bigger.’
John was silent. Deep down, he felt uncomfortable. He was being forced to make a decision as he was still in overall charge of the Company. He remembered Arthur’s advice about keeping control but was sorely tempted to hand everything over to Boucher right this minute.
‘If we don’t keep strict control, it will be all over the place and increase our personal risk. I’m sorry if I have used your men too often. But it was necessary, as I say. I could recruit my own specialists for these tasks, if you agree?’
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ said John, realising that this was the only way of ensuring that the Clarks were released from their obligation to Boucher. ‘But please limit the eliminations as much as possible.’ He glanced round at the beautifully decorated sitting room. ‘Have you moved from Montmartre?’
‘No. But I also have a private life,’ Boucher smiled. ‘I adore beautiful homes, women, antiques and good food. My brother is still living in the old flat.’
John nodded, remembering Mona. So this was Boucher’s retreat. He was human after all. ‘And is the beautiful violin an investment or do you play?’
‘I have taken lessons since I was five. Still do.’ John thought about mentioning his interest in the piano, but decided not to say anything. Bertrand would probably know anyway.
‘May talent is as a chef, not playing the violin,’ the Frenchman went on. ‘I took the liberty of starting dinner for us. I also made the guest room ready for you. It’s too late to find a hotel. Come and sit in the kitchen and watch me, the master chef at work.’
‘That sounds very pleasant,’ John said, suddenly tired and disarmed by his casual and friendly approach. ‘ It seems you’ve thought of everything.’
‘That’s right,’ Bertrand said. He put on a long white chef’s apron and started to fillet a couple of plaice. Working deftly with a long slim blade.
An ex. magistrate and a man without scruples, how thoroughly at home he looked.
PART EIGHT
NEMESIS
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
_________________________
Arundel, West Sussex, England, Thursday, 7th March 1991
‘Bloody hell! What a stench.’ The warder stood looking at Paul Dockett from the doorway of his room.
He sat at the tiny desk, smoking a joint before going to bed. He did not bother to stub it out, realising there was nothing he could do to hide it. He would go on report and lose his job as cinema orderly, but so what?
‘I want you at the gate tomorrow at seven.’ The warder went to close the door.
‘Why? You can’t send me back to a closed nick without the governor’s say‑so.’
The warder laughed. ‘You fool, Dockett! You’re being released. The parole board in their wisdom have knocked months off your sentence, so you’d better put out that spliff and get your bags packed.’
Paul could hardly believe his ears. Released? The word sounded almost foreign.
‘You want me to phone your wife tonight?’
He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. She’s abroad.’
* * *
At exactly five minutes past eight the next morning, Paul walked out of the newly built reception building, not listening to the usual jokes and advice. He looked back for the last time at the cricket pitch then began walking the two miles towards Ford railway station. It was raining and a strong wind cut through his ill‑fitting clothes which smelled of mothballs and did not fit after years of prison food.
He had made a few acquaintances in prison, but intended to contact only Bradley.
After spending three hours at a probation office in the centre of London, arguing that if he were not allowed to work abroad he would without doubt be jobless for years, having no place to live and loose his wife, they finally agreed to give him special permission to leave the country.
He went to a travel agent selling cheap air tickets and bought one for Palma de Mallorca.
The same evening, on his arrival in Mallorca, he took a taxi to Cala Vinas where he found a telephone box outside Ann’s apartment block. He dialled her number.
‘Hello, Ann.’
There was silence for a moment, then a small, stifled gasp. ‘Paul! Where are you? You’ve never phoned before. You sound very close....’
‘I’m in the phone booth across the road.’ Looking up at the block of luxury flats, he saw a hand lift a blind at one of the windows. Smiling grimly, he said, ‘Yes, that’s me.’