6 Stone Barrington Novels (90 page)

SARAH WAS LATE. STONE SAT AT THE corner table in the handsome Connaught restaurant, with its glowing mahogany paneling, and sipped a vodka gimlet as slowly as he could manage. The restaurant quickly filled with people, and still Sarah did not arrive. He knew that if she phoned, the front desk would get a message to him, and he wondered why she had not.

Then she came into the dining room, looking flustered. Mr. Chevalier, the maître d', showed her to the table, and Stone stood up to receive her, pecking her on the cheek.

“God, I need a drink,” she said, breathless. A waiter materialized at her elbow. “A large Johnnie Walker Black,” she said to him, “on ice.” The waiter vanished and returned with the drink.

“Take a few deep breaths,” Stone said.

“It didn't work, going out the back way,” she said, pulling at the drink. “I had planned to get a taxi, but they were laying for me in the mews, and I had to duck into the garage and drive my car. I went twice around Belgrave Square at high speed, with them on my tail, and I finally lost them at Hyde Park Corner, when some traffic cut them off. God, these people are awful!”

“I'm glad you finally evaded them,” Stone said. Then, near the restaurant's door, a flashgun went off. Some people in the restaurant turned and looked in the direction of the photographer, but Stone noted that others hid behind their menus or napkins. Apparently, not all the couples in the restaurant were married, at least, not to each other.

The flashgun went off again, but two waiters were grappling with the photographer, pushing him into the hallway. He was complaining loudly about freedom of the press and making as big a fuss as possible, but gradually his voice faded as they got him into the lobby, then out the door. Stone saw the man outside a window, jumping up and down, trying to spot his prey, then a police officer appeared and led him away by the collar.

“Apparently, I didn't lose them,” Sarah said. “I hope to God his pictures don't come out.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Stone said.

“Did you see the tabloids? They know your name. Apparently, there was a reporter at the inquest, though I didn't see any photographers. Apparently, there aren't any newsworthy rock stars or politicians anymore, so they've settled on me. I've never had an experience like this.” She signaled the waiter for another drink.

“Slow down,” he said. “You've still got to drive home, you know.” The waiter came and brought menus.

“I can't deal with it; you order.”

Stone turned to the waiter. “Surprise us.” The waiter vanished.

“Just keep breathing deeply,” he said. “Don't rely on the whiskey to calm you down.” He took the drink from her hand and placed it on the table. “Now, would you like to hear about my meeting with Julian Wainwright?”

“Yes, please; I'd like something else to think about.”

“Well, you've a lot to think about,” Stone said. “First, let me ask you some questions: Did James say anything to you about making you his beneficiary?”

“No. Well, he mentioned something in passing, like, ‘Of course I'll have to make a new will,' but I assumed he meant after we were married.”

“Were you aware of the day he went to sign the will?”

“Yes, because we had seen his solicitor the night before. I knew he was going there.”

“Did you discuss the will at all?”

“No, he just said he was going to see Julian; he implied that he had a number of things to discuss with him. There had been an offer for his companies some time back, and I think they were going to talk about that.”

“Yes, Julian mentioned that.” Stone patted his pocket. “I have the will and James's financial statement, and I'll give them to you later, but the thrust of it is that he left three hundred thousand pounds—”

“Good God! He left me three hundred thousand pounds?”

“No, he left that much to his schools and to charities. He left everything else to you.”

She stared at him blankly. “You mean his business?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes welled up a little. “I don't know anything about running a business; I don't want it. Tell Julian to take it back.”

“Take it easy, now, that's not how it works. You don't have to run the business.”

“I don't?”

“Remember the offer that James was discussing with Julian?”

“Yes.”

“I asked Julian to investigate whether discussions might be reopened.”

“So you think Julian can sell it?”

“Yes.”

“What a relief!”

“Do you want to know how much it's worth?”

“Yes, please.”

“The offer was for four hundred and ninety million pounds.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Surely you mean thousand.”

“No, million.”

“But that's . . .”

“A lot of money.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Of course, there will be taxes to pay and other fees, but you should come out of this with a substantial amount of cash or stock.”

“I think I'd prefer cash,” she said absently, as if her mind were elsewhere.

“And there were other things—James's house in London and a country house, investments. He was a very wealthy man.”

“I knew he was well off,” she said, “but I had no idea, really. He never talked about it much, the way a lot of businessmen do. I thought he was in it because he loved wine so much, and because his father before him was.”

“And his grandfather and great-grandfather, apparently.”

“He didn't even mention that.”

“Do you know the two houses?”

“Of course. They're both in wonderful locations, but they need a complete redoing.”

“I'm sure you'll enjoy that.”

Their dinner arrived, and they talked less as they dined. Stone thought the food was sublime, as was the wine Mr. Chevalier had chosen for them. “I don't think I'll ever look at a menu here again,” Stone said.

“Stone, I never had a chance to ask you: Why are you in London?”

“A client asked me to come and look into something for him.”

“Something? What thing?”

“I can't tell you that; client confidentiality.”

“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”

“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”

“I've known Monica for years; she sells my work.”

“Of course, I knew that.”

“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”

“Do you know Lance well?”

“Not really, but he's very nice.”

“What does he do?”

“Something mysterious; I could never figure it out.”

“Neither could I.”

They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.

“I think I'd like a brandy,” she said.

“Careful, you're driving, and I hear they're tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”

“I can't go home,” she said. “They'll be waiting for me.”

“Can you go to a friend's?”

“I can't even leave the hotel; they're bound to be waiting outside. I'll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.

“No, you won't,” Stone said. “First of all, you're supposed to be in mourning.”

“I'm not a widow!”

“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don't leave the hotel, they'll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men's hotel suites. You can't become a fugitive; they'll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they'll lose interest.”

“I hate this,” she said.

“It won't last forever.”

“I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”

“You've already done that, remember?”

She giggled. “I'll bet you thought I was Monica.”

“No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”

She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.

“Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the financial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.

As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.

BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.

Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.

Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he's on to me already. Bobby didn't follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn't looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could
look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.

Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn't he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist's shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.

 

Bartholomew looked from his window down into Grosvenor Square. “He's gone,” he said to his companion. “But I'm sure he was tailing me.”

“You're getting paranoid in your old age, Stan,” the man said. “Who would want to follow you anymore? The Cold War is over.”

“Maybe for you,” Bartholomew replied.

 

At twelve o'clock sharp a handsome blonde woman in a black silk raincoat approached Bobby's park bench. “Mr. Jones?” she asked.

Bobby stood. “Yes, indeed,” he replied.

“I'm Moira Bailey, Ted Cricket's friend.”

“Glad to meet you,” Bobby said, shaking her hand. “Let's take a stroll around the park, shall we?”

“Love to.” She took his arm.

They walked up and down the little park, always keeping the front door of the embassy in sight. “I'll point him out when he leaves,” Bobby said, “then he's all yours.”

“Right,” Moira replied.

They had to wait for three-quarters of an hour before Bartholomew appeared, walking with another man, no doubt the American that Ted Cricket had spotted him with the day before.

“He's the taller of the two,” Bobby said. He handed her a card. “Here's my cellphone number; let me know when you're done.”

“Right,” Moira replied, then set off down the square, keeping Bartholomew in sight.

 

Bartholomew and his friend walked down into Berkeley Square, then down an adjoining mews and into a restaurant. Moira waited two minutes, then followed them in.

The two men were standing near the end of a crowded bar, each with a pint of bitter. Bartholomew was leaning on the bar, pulling his suit tight against his body. Nothing in the hip pocket, she thought. Then he fished his wallet from an inside coat pocket and took out a five-pound note to pay. Oh, thanks, she thought, taking it all in. She saw the ladies' room door past them, up a couple of steps, and she walked toward it, catching Bartholomew's eye and interest along the way, offering him a little smile. She went into the ladies', freshened
her makeup, and went out again. Bartholomew had stationed himself where he could watch her come out. She smiled at him again, then put a foot out, missed the first step, and began to fall forward.

Bartholomew took a step forward, his pint in his left hand, stuck out an arm, and, grazing a breast, caught her in his right arm.

She deliberately did not regain her feet right away, leaning into him, staggering him a couple of steps away from the bar.

“There,” he said, lifting and setting her on her feet again.

“I'm so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “My heel caught on the step.”

“It's quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I'm on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies'.”

“Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What'll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.

“No, really, I can't,” Moira said. “I'd love to another time, though.” She didn't want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.

“Give me your number, then.”

She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You'll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”

“Name's Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can't you?”

“Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued
down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.

Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her pocket, checked Jones's card, and punched in the number.

“Yes?” Jones said.

“I've got it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Berkeley Square.”

“You know Jack Barclay's?”

“Yes.”

“Go and look at a Rolls; I'll be there in five minutes.”

She hung up and walked along the east side of the square toward the Rolls-Royce dealer. She walked inside, immediately attracting a young salesman, who looked her up and down rather indiscreetly, she thought.

“May I help you?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “I'm meeting my husband here; we wanted to look at a Bentley.”

“Right over here,” the young man said, taking her elbow and steering her toward a gleaming white automobile. “This is the Arnage, in our Magnolia color,” he said. “Eye-catching, don't you think?”

“It's gorgeous,” she said, catching sight of Bobby Jones over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!” She waved and smiled brightly.

Bobby approached them. “Hello dear,” she said, pecking him on a cheek. “Isn't this a beautiful Bentley?”

Bobby looked at the car sourly. “You'll have to be content with your Mercedes,” he said. “Let's get out of here.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door, with never a glance at the salesman.