He called the waiter and ordered the drinks.
Lowering his voice, he said, ‘I have an envelope in my pocket. Open your handbag and I’ll drop it in.’ His well‑modulated accent contrasted strangely with his face which Ann now saw was pitted with scars. His clipped black beard was striped with grey. She guessed he was in his fifties and gave her the impression that he was someone who accepted only the finest things in life.
‘I understand you live on Mallorca?’ he continued. ‘Are my friends Erick and Andrea all right?’
‘Oh, yes. Although I’ve only met them once.’
‘My wife and I have known them for a long time,’ he said, ‘they are among our closest friends. And now, Mrs Dockett, you may close your handbag. Inside is an envelope that you must deliver to our friend Sam O’Sullivan, the sooner the better. No, don’t look down – we don’t want to bring attention to ourselves, do we?’
At that moment the drinks arrived. Ann, taking her hand quickly away from the bag, took a grateful sip of her drink. She noticed how Arthur Black’s eyes darted round the interior of the bar, scrutinising every person in the place.
‘You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time,’ he murmured. ‘Usually that’s good enough. Can’t be too careful in this world, though, as I think you’ll agree?’ He brought his eyes down to her hand, which was clasped round her glass. ‘What a delightful bracelet. An original ‘Lava’ Medallion set in silver. Made around 1850, if I am not mistaken. May I ask where you got it?’
‘It was left to me by my grandmother,’ she said, impressed. ‘You must know a lot about jewellery, Mr Black.’
‘I own an antiques shop in Mount Street, just opposite Scott’s Restaurant,’ he explained. ‘I flatter myself that I’m a connoisseur of jewellery and much else besides. I concentrate on the art of Ancient Greece, but also work from Mesopotamia and Egypt, mostly sculpture. Much of what survives from antiquity is fragmentary and many of the finest works of art are small in size. My base is broad, but the common factor is quality. I have a passion for collecting which does not sit well with being a dealer, as sometimes I can’t bear to part with a particular treasure. When next we meet, I’ll show you the shop. I can tell you are a woman who appreciates beauty.’
Ann smiled though something about him made her uneasy.
‘I would like that,’ she said, hoping their next meeting would be long time coming.
On the following Thursday Sam gave her instructions to fly to Rome and go through the same procedure as before. The trip went without incident, until in Customs at Zurich she was asked to open the suitcase. The money caused no comment, but the official asked her where she was taking it.
This was the situation Sam had warned her about. She kept calm and gave him the letter. He read it and disappeared into an office where she could see he was making a telephone call. After this he handed the envelope back to her.
‘Welcome to Switzerland, Frau Dockett,’ was all he said.
* * *
Gradually her trips became routine. She regularly delivered documents to a young London solicitor in Cutlers Garden, Devonshire Square. Often she picked up other documents from a company called Alexander Higginson Investments in Sun Court in the City, and from Hamlet Accountancy in Old Queen Street, Victoria.
In California she had business with a company called Silverdale. Then there were various banks in Bermuda, Gibraltar and the Cayman Islands. All these trips involved picking up and delivering documents or large amounts of cash.
CHAPTER THREE
_________________________
Cannes, France, Friday, 28th August 1987
On a Thursday, two weeks before Ann’s planned holiday on L’Acqusition with Erick and Andrea, she was told by Sam to go to Paris by plane and from there to catch a train to Nice. At the station she was to make a phone call.
She did so and was instructed to take a bus to Cannes where a car would meet her at the terminal and take her to a hotel.
It was beautiful, the garden full of exotic flowers and palm trees. A cooling breeze blew from the sea.
She walked everywhere, from the small markets behind her hotel to the international film festival building. Sipping coffee in pavement cafes, she enjoyed watching the crowds who strolled the boulevards, impossibly attractive couples dressed in expensive, casual clothes, as if they had walked out of the fashion pages of a glossy magazine.
She gazed at the facade of the Carlton Hotel, near her own more modest establishment, where even the biggest film stars competed to get rooms during the festival. A film lover herself, she had watched on the television the stars assemble at this very spot.
As she came back from her walk, the hotel receptionist told her, ‘There is a message for you, Mrs Dockett. You are expected for dinner at the Carlton InterContinental at nine‑thirty in La Belle Otero.’
Ann gasped. ‘Me?’
‘Bien sur. Ann Dockett, room 201.’
She went up to her room, her brain whirling. Why hadn’t Sam warned her that this was no ordinary trip? She had nothing remotely suitable to wear.
She looked at her watch. Two hours until the shops closed! One hour and several hundred pounds later, she had bought the most elegant Ted Lapidus black dress she had ever set eyes on. It would give her confidence, she told herself.
The La Belle Otero restaurant was situated on the seventh floor of the Carlton Hotel, overlooking the sea, its French windows opening to an elegant terrace. It was the most opulent restaurant Ann had ever seen. Her heels sank into the deep‑pile carpet as she was escorted by the maitre d’ out on to the terrace towards a table which commanded the best view, where a man was seated with his back towards her.
At her approach he rose to his feet, extending his hand.
‘Hello, Ann,’ he smiled. ‘What a beautiful dress.’
He was slight and dark, fine‑featured and not as tall as her, she observed. The maitre d’ drew out her chair and the man seated himself opposite. He wore a pink cashmere sweater over an open‑necked white shirt. Ann guessed he was around the same age as herself.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and before she could stop herself, ‘I only bought it this afternoon.’
‘You certainly chose the right one,’ he said, still smiling, ‘no one could wear it better. There’s no wind tonight, so I thought we should eat outside, but if you find it too cold we’ll go indoors.’
‘No, please. This is wonderful.’ She gazed out over the promenade towards the calm blue sea. From here she could not be intimidated by her surroundings. She was sitting at the best table in the restaurant. The relaxed manner of her host made her feel at ease.
‘I understand from Erick,’ said her host, ‘that everything is working out well. I hope the travelling is not a problem?’
‘No, not at all. I really like my job.’
A waiter arrived wheeling a telephone on a small wooden trolley.
‘Do excuse me.’ Her host picked up the receiver and listened. A frown passed momentarily across his face.
‘No. We have an agreement. Our lawyers worked out the exact details weeks ago. Any variation at this stage is unacceptable.’
He waved the phone away, a frown still creasing his forehead; then he looked at Ann and smiled. ‘What would you like to drink? Krug?’
‘Lovely. I’ve only had that before when there was something special to celebrate.’
‘Then let’s celebrate our meeting.’
He nodded to the waiter, who came right away to his side. Her host spoke in fluent, rapid French, placing orders for both of them. He glanced at Ann again, smiled and murmured in English, ‘Trust me. It’ll be the best meal you’ve ever tasted. This place is living proof of the supremacy of French cooking.’ He snapped the menu shut and handed it back to the waiter.
A few of the dishes were prepared with great aplomb at the table and Ann had to keep herself from applauding. After she had finished her tarte a
ux fruits and drunk the last of a succession of fine wines, she leant back with a sigh of sheer bliss. Then she remembered with a shock that she was not here merely to enjoy herself.
Throughout the meal, messages had been passed to her host by the waiter. Another one arrived; he read it and seemed to relax. He waved to the waiter and asked for the telephone again, settling back in his chair and fixing his eyes on Ann as he did so.
Before picking up the telephone, he suggested coffee and liqueurs, which Ann accepted. He listened to someone speak on the phone for a while before saying tersely, ‘Give me five minutes, then phone me back.’
They talked about the things he knew she was comfortable with. The Elgbergs, Mallorca, Sam, London.
‘I’m impressed you haven’t asked me any questions,’ he said. She was relieved to see he was smiling.
Then another call came through. ‘I’m sorry about this, but there’s been a complication which has to be resolved tonight. Normally I wouldn’t let business interfere with dinner here.’
He spoke briefly into the receiver before saying: ‘Accept.’
He waited until the waiter had wheeled the trolley away, then straightened his back. His voice assumed a businesslike tone. ‘You’ll have to fly to Gibraltar via Paris later tonight. The travel details will be inside the briefcase they will bring here in a short while.’
Ann nodded.
‘After this, some time next week, there will be a different assignment for you. Nothing too difficult, but I must ask you to be extremely careful. Sam will give you a photograph. You will go to the airport in Palma and identify the man when he arrives. That’s all.’ He looked closely at her. ‘As I said, nothing difficult, but your spotting him is vital. If he passes unrecognised there, he could go to ground anywhere on the island.’
Ann nodded again, becoming tense. His tone of voice and stern expressions were in direct contrast to his earlier easy manner.
‘So,’ he said, lifting his glass, ‘I’m pleased you’ve joined the Invisible Company. I believe women are the ideal recruits. They’re psychologically tougher than men and more discreet. I’m glad we met.’
The wines and the liqueur made Ann reckless. He looked so calm and controlled, she thought. As if nothing would ever worry him. He hadn’t told her his name, probably on purpose, but she was suddenly curious about this attractive stranger.
‘So what do you do in the Company? Who are you?’
The moment she spoke the words she knew she had made a bad mistake.
Without speaking he rolled the fine crystal glass between his hands for what felt like minutes. It was as if the glamorous room behind them and the bustling esplanade below had fallen completely silent.
Ann felt cut off from the world, hanging on an answer which she sensed she would not like.
A party of eight, six well‑dressed men in their fifties and two elegant businesswomen entered the restaurant. Noisily they went to the table reserved for them with the maitre d’ leading the way.
An imposing man in the party had noticed their table. He stopped and walked towards them.
Ann recognised him right away. It was the prominent industrialist Randolph Purcell, to whom she had been introduced on the yacht four months ago, the day she had first met the Elgbergs.
If he was coming to their table to talk to her, she would simply die, she thought.
When the man reached their table, he put out his hand, but not to her. Ann felt relieved.
‘Nice to see you Mr Forbes,’ Purcell said respectfully.
‘Please excuse me,’ her host said politely to Ann
He took Purcell’s outstretched hand and used it to lever himself out of his chair.
To Ann’s astonishment, he did not let the hand go but pulled the larger man, Purcell, closer towards him.
She could see him whisper something into the tycoon’s ear.
Purcell’s colour changed suddenly and shockingly to a deep red.
I’m deeply sorry, Mr Forbes,’ Ann could hear him mumble, obviously realising he had made a bad error.
‘Everyone’s allowed one indiscretion,’ said Forbes and sat down. ‘Goodbye, Purcell.’
Ann looked at the man with whom she had just dined so pleasantly. He seemed sad and disappointed. All the warmth had gone out of his dark eyes, which were now flat and expressionless.
Ann found she could not hold his gaze and instead looked down at her hands, twisting nervously in her lap.
‘As you heard my name is Forbes, John Forbes,’ he said at last.
‘I’m the one in charge. You really shouldn’t know this.’
A moment later he got up, politely said goodbye and left her shivering on the deserted terrace, awaiting the arrival of the briefcase she was to take to Gibraltar.
Ann thought about the slight but unmistakable emphasis her host had placed on the word ‘one’.
It was subtly, even elegantly, delivered but she was in no doubt that her affable charming host had just delivered a threat.
PART TWO
RESTLESS AMBITION ‑
NEVER AT AN END
CHAPTER FOUR
_________________________
England, June 1955
John Forbes arrived at Waterloo Station at nine o’clock in the morning with a gun in his pocket.
It was only weeks before he was due to leave school. He had been to London a few times previously, but always travelling out of the rush hour. Now he realised he had never seen so many people pouring out of one place, dressed in business suits or smart office clothes and carrying briefcases and umbrellas. He knew that his mother wanted him to be just the same: conventionally dressed, with the correct paper under his arm, on his way to a safe office job.
On the station steps he stood still and let the throng push past him. For several minutes he was like an island in a river, buffeted by a strong current.
He was jostled and once even sworn at but refused to give ground. Other people were forced out of his way, he noticed with satisfaction. Why should he do as his mother wanted and meekly join the herd?
John Forbes believed he was born to follow his own dream.
‘I’m different, I don’t care about your rules and so‑called values, I want to live my own life,’ he muttered to himself.
He walked over Waterloo Bridge to the Strand and into Covent Garden where fruit, vegetables and flower traders were busy loading their vans.
There he noticed the newspaper headlines blazing: ‘Ruth Ellis wants to die’.
He felt pity, but a kind of scorn too for the poor doomed woman who had thrown away her life for love. He knew with all the certainty of youth that he would never throw his life away, and certainly not for love!
From Regent Street he turned into Mayfair. In Berkeley Square he sat down and, with the aid of a pocket map, familiarised himself with the West End of London. From the copies of Country Life which Lady Carven always passed on to his mother after she had finished with them, he had jotted down the addresses of several antique shops and marked their locations.
For an hour he walked round the area of South Audley Street, studying the shop windows. They seemed to sell far bigger and more expensive items than the one he had to offer.
He passed a slightly shabbier shop in Aldford Street several times. There was an alleyway next to the shop where he could make good his escape, if he had to.
Having made up his mind, he felt less nervous. He pressed a brass bell push and an assistant opened the door. He was a pale young man in a balding rust‑coloured corduroy suit worn with a toning bow tie and green shirt. His face was pitted with small white scars, probably from teenage acne, John thought. The effect was oddly sinister.
Before John could open his mouth, the assistant commented in a high, slightly effeminate voice: ‘About time too. I’ve seen you pass the shop a dozen times. What can I do for you?’
John hovered on the coconut matting just inside the door. I
n the gloom of the shop’s panelled interior, relieved here and there by the flash of a gilded picture frame or the liquid gleam of crystal and silver, he felt tongue tied and out of place.
‘I‑I’ve got something I want to sell.’
‘Let’s have a little look then. Come on, I shan’t bite you.’
Stepping forward, John took the gun from his pocket and laid it on the well‑polished surface of a rosewood secretaire. The pale young man winced at the clatter of metal on wood then his eyes kindled with excitement. He picked up the little pistol and cradled it in his hands, turning it over several times. When he glanced back at John, his gaze had the strange, almost blind look of pure covetousness.
‘Well, you don’t mess about, do you? This is original. Must be sixteenth‑century if it’s a day?’
John nodded. ‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Will you answer me one question, absolutely truthfully?’
The assistant looked at him from sharp eyes.
‘Yes.’ With a shrinking heart, John guessed what the question would be.
‘Have you tried to sell it to anyone else?’ the assistant asked.
John unconsciously let out the breath he had been holding.
‘No,’ he answered with relief. ‘It’s taken me long enough to get up the courage to come in here.’
The assistant smiled. ‘Then I’ll give you two hundred and fifty pounds. Cash. If you have anything else to sell in the future, don’t bring it here. Come in and describe it to me. If I’m interested, I’ll have a look somewhere else. Then, if I’m still interested, you’ll deliver it to an address I’ll give you where you’ll be paid.’
John nodded and smiled.
‘I’m not offering market value, you understand?’ the young man told him waspishly. ‘But then, you’re hardly in a position to offer this at Sotheby’s, are you?’
He looked meaningfully at the gun and then at the shabbily dressed fifteen year old, with his frayed collar and bitten finger nails.
John was so amazed at the huge sum of money that was being counted into his hand he could only nod silently.
It was several years before he fully appreciated just how lucky that chance encounter with Arthur Black had been.
* * *
The Cerne Abbas bus dropped him at the top of the beech avenue in the early hours of a golden summer evening. Filtered through the fresh lime green of the trees arching overhead, the light had a cool subaqueous quality, but when he emerged on to the gravel carriage circle the sun was still warm upon his back and turned the mellow ragstone of the Jacobean manor house the colour of molten honey. This was Cerne House, the place he liked to think of as his home.