“He doesn’t have any worthwhile connections, or protection.”
“That makes things easier. So what are you lookin’ for?”
“I want you to break someone’s neck,” said Mellor quietly. Nash looked interested for the first time. “But it must never be traced back to me.”
“What do you take me for, a fucking amateur?”
“If you’re that good,” said Mellor, taking his life in his hands, “how did you end up in here?” Always bully a bully, his old man had taught him, and now he was about to find out if it was good advice.
“All right, all right,” said Nash. “But it won’t come cheap. The screws never take their fuckin’ eyes off me. They read my letters before I see them and listen in on my calls,” he growled, “though I’ve found a way around that. So my only chance is to set something up during a prison visit. Even then the surveillance cameras are on me the whole time, and now they’ve got a fuckin’ lip-reading expert following my every word.”
“Are you saying it’s impossible?”
“No. Expensive. And it’s not going to happen tomorrow morning.”
“And the price?”
“Ten grand up front, another ten on the day of the funeral.”
Mellor was surprised how little a man’s life was worth, although he didn’t care to think about the consequences if he failed to make the second payment.
“Get movin’,” said Nash firmly, “or the screws will get suspicious. If you do up your laces before you leave the yard, I’ll know you’re serious. Otherwise, don’t bother me again.”
Mellor quickened his pace and joined a pickpocket who could remove your watch without you ever realizing it. A party trick inside, a profession outside. Sharp Johnny could make a hundred grand a year tax-free, and rarely ended up with a sentence of more than six months.
The siren sounded to warn the prisoners that it was time to return to their cells. Mellor dropped on one knee and retied a shoelace.
* * *
Lady Virginia never enjoyed visiting Belmarsh high security prison. So different from the more relaxed atmosphere of Ford Open, where they had tea and biscuits on a Saturday afternoon. But since Mellor had been charged with a second, more serious offense, he’d been moved from the garden of England back to Hellmarsh, as it was known by the recidivists.
She particularly disliked being searched for drugs by a butch female officer, in places that would never have crossed her mind, and waiting while barred gates were locked and unlocked before being allowed to progress a few more yards. And the noise was incessant, as if half a dozen rock bands had been penned in together. When she was finally escorted into a large, white, windowless room, she looked up to see a number of officers peering down at the visitors from a circular balcony above them, while the surveillance cameras never stopped moving. But worst of all, she had to rub shoulders not only with the working classes, but with the criminal fraternity.
However, the possibility of earning some extra cash certainly helped to ease the humiliation, although even Mellor wouldn’t be able to help with her latest problem.
That morning, Virginia had received a letter, a carefully worded letter, from the senior partner of Goodman Derrick. He had courteously but firmly requested the return, within thirty days, of some two million pounds obtained by false pretenses, otherwise he would be left with no choice but to issue a writ on behalf of his client.
Virginia didn’t have two thousand pounds, let alone two million. She immediately called her solicitor and asked him to make an appointment for her to see Sir Edward Makepeace QC in the hope that he might come up with a solution. She wasn’t optimistic. The time may have come to finally accept an invitation from a distant cousin to visit his ranch in Argentina. He regularly reminded her of his offer during his annual visit to Cowdray Park, accompanied by a string of polo ponies and a bevy of handsome young men. Both changed with every visit. She could only think of one thing worse than having to spend a few years on a ranch in Argentina: having to spend a few years in a place like this.
Virginia parked her Morris Minor between a Rolls-Royce and an Austin A40 before making her way to reception.
* * *
Mellor sat alone in the visitors’ room, the precious minutes slipping away as he waited for Virginia to appear. She was never on time, but as he didn’t have any other visitors, he was in no position to complain.
He looked around the room, his eyes settling on Nash, who was sitting opposite a peroxide blonde wearing thick red lipstick, a white T-shirt with no bra, and a black leather miniskirt. It was a sign of just how desperate Mellor was that he fancied her.
He watched them carefully, as did several officers from the balcony above. They didn’t appear to be speaking to each other, but then he realized that just because their lips weren’t moving, it didn’t mean they weren’t having a conversation. Most people would have assumed they were man and wife, but as Nash was gay, this had to be strictly business. And Mellor knew whose business they were discussing.
He looked up as Virginia appeared at his table holding a cup of tea and a bar of chocolate. He remembered that Sebastian Clifton had bought him two bars.
“Any further news on your trial date?” Virginia asked, taking the seat opposite him.
“I’ve done a deal,” said Mellor. “I’ve agreed to plead guilty to a lesser charge in exchange for a shorter sentence—another four years, making six in all. With good behavior I could be out in three.”
“Not too long,” said Virginia, trying to sound optimistic.
“Long enough for Sloane to bleed my company dry. By the time I get out, I’ll be left with nothing except the sign above the front door.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes, there is, which is why I wanted to see you. I have to get my hands on ten thousand pounds, sharpish. My mother’s will has finally been settled, and although she left me everything, she only had one thing of any value, her semidetached in Salford. The local estate agent has managed to sell it for twelve grand, and I’ve instructed them to make the check out to you. I need someone to pick it up as soon as possible.”
“I’ll go up to Salford on Tuesday,” said Virginia, as she had an even more important meeting on Monday morning. “But what do you want me to do with the money?”
Mellor waited for the camera to pass over him, before he spoke again.
“I need you to hand ten thousand in cash to a business associate. Anything left over will be yours.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“Her,” said Mellor. “Look to my left, and you’ll see a blonde talking to a guy who looks like a heavyweight boxer.” Virginia glanced to her right, and couldn’t miss the two characters who looked as if they might be extras on The Sweeney. “Can you see her?”
Virginia nodded.
“You’re to meet her at the Science Museum. She’ll be waiting by Stephenson’s Rocket on the ground floor. I’ll phone and let you know the details as soon as I have them.”
It would be Virginia’s first visit to the Science Museum.
13
“ALLOW ME TO BEGIN, Lady Virginia, by reminding you that the relationship between a lawyer and his client is sacrosanct, so whatever you tell me concerning this case cannot, and will not, go beyond this room. However, it is equally important,” continued Sir Edward Makepeace, “to stress that if you are not completely frank with me, I cannot advise you to the best of my ability.”
Nicely put, thought Virginia, sitting back and preparing herself for a series of questions she wouldn’t want to answer.
“My first question is quite simple. Are you the mother of the Hon. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick?”
“No, I am not.”
“Are the parents of that child, as stated in Goodman Derrick’s letter, a Mr. and Mrs. Morton, your former butler and his wife?”
“Yes.”
“And therefore the settlement and maintenance payments you received from Mr. Cyrus
T. Grant III—” the QC hesitated—“were made erroneously?”
“Yes, they were.”
“So would it also be correct to suggest that Mr. Grant’s demand,” Sir Edward checked the figure in Lord Goodman’s letter, “for two million pounds, is both fair and reasonable.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“With that in mind, Lady Virginia, I am bound to ask, do you have two million pounds available to pay Mr. Grant, which would avoid him having to issue a writ and all the attendant publicity that would undoubtedly attract?”
“No, I do not, Sir Edward. That is the precise reason I am seeking your advice. I wanted to find out if there are any options left open to me.”
“Are you able to pay a large enough sum for me to attempt to make a settlement?”
“Out of the question, Sir Edward. I don’t have two thousand pounds, let alone two million.”
“I’m grateful for your candid response to all my questions, Lady Virginia. But given the circumstances, it would be pointless for me to attempt to play for time and try to delay proceedings, because Lord Goodman is a wily old bird, and will realize exactly what I’m up to. In any case, you would then have the extra expense of both sides’ legal costs to add to your misfortunes. And the judge would issue an order that all legal bills are paid first.”
“So what do you advise?”
“Sadly, madam, we have been left with only two choices. I can throw myself on their mercy, which I cannot believe will be met with any sympathy.”
“And the second option?”
“You can declare yourself bankrupt. That would make the other side realize that issuing a writ for two million pounds would be a complete waste of time and money, unless Mr. Grant’s sole purpose is to publicly humiliate you.” The lawyer remained silent as he waited for his client’s response.
“Thank you for your advice, Sir Edward,” Virginia said eventually, “and I am sure you will appreciate that I’ll need a little time to consider my position.”
“Of course, my lady. However, it would be remiss of me not to remind you that the date on Goodman Derrick’s letter is March thirteenth, and should we fail to respond before April thirteenth, you can be sure the other side will not hesitate to carry out their threat.”
“May I ask you one more question, Sir Edward?”
“Of course.”
“Am I right in thinking that a writ has to be served on the person named in the action?”
“That is correct, Lady Virginia, unless you instruct me to accept it on your behalf.”
* * *
During her journey north the following morning, Virginia gave some considerable thought to her QC’s advice. By the time the train pulled into Salford station, she had decided to invest some of the twelve thousand pounds she was about to collect in a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires.
When a taxi dropped her outside the estate agent’s office, she switched her attention to the job in hand, and how much more money she could accumulate before departing for Argentina. Virginia was not surprised to be ushered into the senior partner’s office within moments of telling the receptionist her name.
A man who had clearly put on his Sunday best suit for the occasion leapt up from behind his desk and introduced himself as Ron Wilks. He waited for her to be seated before resuming his place. Without another word, he opened a file in front of him, extracted a check for £11,400, and handed it across to her. Virginia folded it, placed it in her handbag, and was about to leave when it became clear that Mr. Wilks had something else to say.
“During the short conversation I was able to have with Mr. Mellor over the phone,” he said, trying not to sound embarrassed, “he didn’t instruct me as to what I should do about his mother’s goods and chattels, which we have removed from the house and placed in storage.”
“Are they worth anything?”
“A local secondhand scrap merchant has offered four hundred pounds for the lot.”
“I’ll take it.”
The estate agent opened his checkbook and asked, “Should this check also be made out to Lady Virginia Fenwick?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, this doesn’t include the pictures,” said Wilks as he handed over the check.
“The pictures?”
“It seems Mr. Mellor’s mother had been collecting the works of a local artist for some years, and a London dealer has recently contacted me to say he would be interested in purchasing them. A Mr. Kalman of the Crane Kalman gallery.”
“How interesting,” said Virginia, making a note of the name, only wondering if she still had enough time to contact him.
On the journey back to King’s Cross, she went over her plans for the next few days. She would first have to dispose of any other valuables she still had and be on her way to Heathrow before any of her creditors were aware that she had, to quote her friend Bofie Bridgwater, done a bunk. As for Desmond Mellor, by the time he got out of prison, she would be the least of his problems, and Virginia was confident he wouldn’t consider pursuing her halfway around the world for a few thousand pounds.
Virginia was grateful for Sir Edward’s advice. After all, it would be difficult for anyone to serve her with a writ if they didn’t know where she was. She’d already told Bofie she would be spending a few weeks in the South of France, to throw everyone off the scent. She didn’t give a passing thought to what would become of Freddie. After all, he wasn’t her child.
Soon after arriving back at her flat, Virginia was pleased to receive a telephone call from her distant cousin, confirming that a chauffeur would meet her at the airport and then drive her to his estate in the country. She liked the words chauffeur and estate.
* * *
Once Virginia had cashed Mellor’s checks, cleared her bank account, and purchased a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires, she set about the long process of packing. She quickly discovered just how many of her possessions, not least her shoes, she couldn’t live without, and reluctantly accepted that she would have to buy another large suitcase. A short walk to Harrods usually solved most of her problems, and today was no exception. She managed to find a trunk with a dent in the side, and agreed to take it off their hands for half price. The young salesman hadn’t noticed the dent before.
“Be sure to deliver it to my home in Chelsea,” she instructed the hapless assistant, “later this morning.”
A green-coated doorman opened the door and touched the peak of his cap as Virginia stepped out onto the Brompton Road.
“Taxi, madam?”
She was about to say yes when her gaze settled on an art gallery on the other side of the road. Crane Kalman. Why did she know that name? And then she remembered.
“No, thank you.” She raised a gloved hand to stop the traffic as she made her way across the Brompton Road, wondering if she could pick up another two or three hundred pounds for Mrs. Mellor’s old pictures. As she entered the gallery a bell rang and a short man with thick, wiry hair bustled up to her.
“Can I help you, madam?” he asked, unable to hide his mid-European accent.
“I was recently in Salford, and—”
“Ah, yes, you must be Lady Virginia Fenwick. Mr. Wilks rang to say you might come in if you were interested in selling the late Mrs. Mellor’s art collection.”
“How much are you willing to offer?” asked Virginia, who didn’t have a moment to waste.
“Over the years,” said Mr. Kalman, who didn’t appear to be in any hurry, “Mrs. Mellor acquired eleven oils, and twenty-three drawings from the local rent collector. Perhaps you were unaware that she was a close friend of the artist? And I have reason to believe—”
“How much?” Virginia repeated, aware of how little time she had before she needed to leave for Heathrow.
“I consider one eighty would be a fair price.”
“Two hundred, and you have a deal.”
Kalman hesitated for a moment before saying, “I would agree to that, my lady, and even go to two thirty, if you were abl
e to tell me where the missing painting was.”
“The missing painting?”
“I’m in possession of an inventory of all the works the artist sold or gave to Mrs. Mellor, but I haven’t been able to locate the Mill Lane Industrial Estate, which she gave to her son, and wondered if you had any idea where it is.”
Virginia knew exactly where it was but she didn’t have the time to travel down to Bristol and pick it up from Mellor’s office. However, one phone call to his secretary and it could be dispatched to the gallery immediately.
“I accept your offer of two hundred and thirty, and will make sure that the painting is delivered to you in the next few days.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Kalman, who returned to his desk, wrote out a check, and handed it over.
Virginia folded it, dropped it in her handbag, and gave the gallery owner an ingratiating smile, before turning and walking back out onto the Brompton Road and hailing a taxi.
“Coutts in the Strand,” she instructed the driver.
She was considering how she would spend her last night in London—Bofie had suggested Annabel’s—when the taxi drew up outside the bank.
“Wait here,” she said, “this shouldn’t take long.”
She entered the banking hall, hurried across to one of the tellers, took out the check, and passed it across the counter.
“I’d like to cash this.”
“Certainly, madam,” said the cashier before catching his breath. “I presume you mean you’d like to deposit the full amount in your account?”
“No, I’ll take it in cash,” said Virginia, “preferably fives.”
“I’m not sure that will be possible,” stammered the cashier.
“Why not?” demanded Virginia.
“I don’t have £230,000 in cash, my lady.”
* * *
“She’s willing to make an offer?” said Ellie May. “But I thought she was penniless?”
“So did I,” admitted Lord Goodman. “I have it on good authority that she was cut out of her father’s will and her only income is a modest monthly allowance supplied by her brother.”