Almost a Crime (41 page)

‘Well, I—’ ,—

‘I wonder if you and she could come in to the agency

this afternoon. After school, of course. To discuss the deal

with Christie’s?’

‘I’m afraid this afternoon won’t be possible,’ said

Marianne firmly. ‘Early next week would be the soonest.

And incidentally, I would like my lawyers to be present at

any future meeting with Christie’s.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Ritz Franklyn’s voice was soothing and

very calm. ‘I quite understand. Well, shall we say Monday

afternoon?’

‘I should think so, although I must speak to my husband.

He has unfortunately not been able to come over this week

as I had hoped.’

‘What a shame. I was looking forward to meeting him.

But I really think this is the beginning of a very long and

happy association between us. Goodbye, Mrs Muirhead.’

Ritz Franklyn put the phone down, picked up a very

heavy, cut-glass ashtray and hurled it at the wall.

‘You are being trouble,’ said Ritz to the phone. ‘Very

big trouble. But we’re going to win, Mrs Muirhead. Make

no mistake about it.’

‘I need to talk to you,’ said Tom. They were in a taxi,

going home from a drinks party at the House of Commons.

For the time being, they had agreed to honour their joint

obligations; it was simpler.

Octavia turned to look at him; his face was very set, his

eyes fixed unseeingly out of the window, his fingers

twisting endlessly at his signet ring.

‘What about?’ she said coldly. ‘Where you’re going to

live? How soon we can see a solicitor? Those are the only

things I want to talk to you about.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing to do with us personally. The

company is in serious trouble, financially, that is. Losing the

Carlton account was a disaster for us.’

She looked at him, and felt briefly stricken. Then she

rallied. No company, if it was well run, collapsed on the loss

of one client. It really wasn’t her fault; she should not be

blamed for it. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ she said.

‘Especially for my contribution to that.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t just that,’ he said wearily, surprising her.

‘We’ve been running things on a knife edge for over a year.

It was certainly a last straw, but the camel’s back was pretty

near breaking before. The bank won’t let us have any more

money, the house is remortgaged, as you know, and frankly

next month we won’t even be able to pay the staff salaries.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She felt rather sick. ‘So what—’

‘We’re trying to get further backing. From a private

investor. Now it is absolutely essential that no word of this

gets out. I have two prospective clients, teetering on the

edge of joining us. There’s no way they’d come in if they

thought we were a dodgy prospect. By the same token, people like Nico Cadogan would probably question

whether they wouldn’t be better with someone else, as

almost certainly would a couple of other clients who are not entirely satisfied at the moment. No fault of ours, things not going their way, but of course we get the blame. And having a new government has obviously made things more complex. New systems to work, new people to work with;

Whitehall doesn’t change, thank God, but other things oh,

it’s very complicated. But none of it helps create a very

easy climate for us. Anyway, please, Octavia, for God’s sake, don’t talk about any of this.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ she said, genuinely indignant. ‘I know at

least enough to keep my mouth shut.’

‘Do you?’ His eyes on her were very cold.

‘Yes, I do. Bardes Wood was a one-off thing, you know it was.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And it was just bad luck that the Mail put out that story about Carlton being your client as well as mine.’

‘I don’t see it quite like that. Actually. Not quite bad luck. It wasn’t very difficult to ferret out. Tip-off or not.’ ‘The tip-off couldn’t have helped. Have you any idea who it might have been? Some rival of yours or something?’

‘Absolutely

none. Anyway, there’s no point talking about it. Blood on the tracks and all that. But it’s also essential your father doesn’t get to hear about it.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, Octavia, do use your brain. He’d be delighted to

spread any muck about me. You know he would. Nothing would make him happier than to see me brought down.’ ‘Tom, he may not see you as the ideal son-in-law—’

‘Now would such a person ever exist, I wonder?’

‘He was right about you, wasn’t he?’ she said, her words

lashing at him. ‘I should have listened when he told me I was making a mistake. That you weren’t right for me. That I’d regret it.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone running to him,’ he said

bitterly, ‘Daddy’s little girl. Asking for comfort, asking him

to take you back.’

“That’s a vile thing to say,’ she said, tears stinging her

eyes. ‘You know how hard I’ve worked to break away from him, not to let him manipulate me, run my life. I’ve kept it from him most carefully, what you’ve done. I dread him finding out. Not really because of what he might do to you, I couldn’t care less about that, but because of all the recriminations, the self-justification, the “I told you so”s, the emotional blackmail to go home to him …”

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’d be grateful if you could keep my

professional perfidy from him. As well as my personal. Until I’ve managed to sort myself out.’

‘Yes, all right,’ she said.

The taxi had reached the house. Tom paid it off, and they went inside. Octavia walked into the small study to check the answering machine and the pad where Caroline left messages about the children.

He followed her in. ‘Any messages?’

‘Only one, from Louise. Thanking us for going to the funeral.’ She turned, suddenly, looked at him. ‘Did you talk to her yesterday at all?’

‘No,’ he said. His voice was exhausted suddenly, devoid

of emotion.

‘Not at all?’

‘No. Not at all. Should I have?’

‘No, not really, I suppose, but she — well, let’s just say she’s not my favourite person at the moment.’

‘Oh, really?’ There was a silence, then he said almost reluctantly, ‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it. Good night, Tom. And don’t worry, I won’t say anything about the company. To anyone. I promise.’

Thank you. I’m sorry to have to ask you, Octavia. Sorry about all of it.’

And then he was gone.

She recognised the voice. She was surprised to find how

instantly she did recognise the public school vowels

carefully slurred over: a sexy voice. ‘Mrs Fleming?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s me. How are you, Mr Bingham?’

‘I thought we’d got past that stage. Please, call me

Gabriel. Now why aren’t you coming to this meeting on

Friday? When it was planned carefully round my parliamentary

duties, so that I can be there. I shall begin to think

either that your little performance was cosmetic, put on to

please your client, or that you are more under your

husband’s thumb than you led me to believe.’

‘Of course I’m not,’ she said, and then realised the

indignation in her voice was out of proportion, lowered the

decibel level carefully. ‘I’m not in the least under his

thumb. Not in the very least.’

‘Good. Spoken like a truly independent woman of today.

Why aren’t you coming to the meeting, then? Or was my

other assumption correct, that your involvement was all in

aid of furthering client relations?’

‘No, it wasn’t. I find that rather offensive, actually.’

‘Well, I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t intend to give offence.

But I did feel quite sure you’d be there. I was looking

forward to seeing you.’

She said, surprised that he should say anything so - so

what? Flattering? Charming? ‘Thank you.’

‘I find you a most satisfactory sparring partner.’

She felt stupid suddenly, gauche, awkward.

‘Well, it might interest you to know, Mr Bingham—’

‘Gabriel

‘Mr Bingham, that I do have claims on my time other

than my work — my children, and — and my husband.’

‘Ah. So not an independent woman of today.’

‘It is perfectly possible,’ said Octavia, ‘to be an independent

woman of today, and to care about your children and

your husband. In fact, it’s very much an integral part of it.’

‘Indeed? I’ve obviously got a lot to learn. Just a simple

bachelor, you see.’

‘I thought you had a fiancee, Mr Bingham. Or is she

cosmetic too?’ That was probably rude.

‘What an interesting concept. No, she is not cosmetic.

Nor a fiancee either, as a matter of fact. Anyway, you’re in

London this weekend, are you? I shall have to manage

without you. Pity. If the social diary suddenly clears, give

me a ring. I’ll buy you another half afterwards. If that

doesn’t tempt you, nothing will.’

‘Nothing will, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Mr

Bingham.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Fleming.’

She could hear the amusement in his voice and felt

fractious for the rest of the morning.

Especially as her diary was blank for the entire weekend.

Charles Madison was forcing himself through the painful

process of clearing up Anna’s most personal possessions,

trying to decide which things to keep, which to store away

somewhere, which he could bear to throw away. It was

proving very painful indeed: her hairbrush — still with a few

of her golden hairs in it — the perfume she had continued to

spray herself with even that last day, the book he had been

reading her — Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, doubly poignant,

since they had spent their honeymoon on a Greek island — all the letters and cards she had been sent by loving friends, her handbag, with her diary, her cheque book … She had

been so extravagant, had always come to him with confessions just before the bank statement arrived each

month - her lace handkerchiefs, a huge heap of them — she

loved lace hankies, had a huge collection, and she left them

everywhere, in everyone’s houses, people were always

having to send them back … Charles suddenly found

himself in need of one of the lace handkerchiefs, blew his

nose on it, and went to find something more substantial.

And stopped dead in the hall, for he could hear Louise’s

voice coining from the study.

‘Please!’ she was saying. ‘I must see you. Just this once.

And try to explain. Please …’

She sounded tearful; she had been better lately, since the

funeral, had made a clear effort to be more cheerful both for

his sake and Dickon’s. Sandy had wanted both of them to

go back with him that night but she had refused, had said

she must stay a few more days, although Charles had assured

them both it wasn’t necessary. She had promised Sandy that

she would go back on Saturday or Sunday and he had

accepted it.

He was proving to be a bit of a saint, was Sandy,

endlessly patient with her; well, Charles had always liked

him, always defended him against Anna’s and the boys’

criticism. ‘He’s a rock,’ he had said over and over again, as

they laughed at his heartiness, his old-fashioned manners,

‘and Louise needs someone like that, someone reliable and

strong. He loves her; he’ll love her whatever she does. You

mark my words.’

And he’d been right, it seemed; Sandy had been

marvellous over the baby’s death, supporting Louise

through her breakdown without complaint, never mentioning

his own misery, and he was a wonderful father to

Dickon, patient, kind, loving. Charles admired him greatly.

And enjoyed his company, never having been too bothered

by what most of his family termed Sandy’s dullness. He

couldn’t see it himself.

He cleared his throat loudly so that Louise would know

he was there, that she could be overheard.

It obviously worked because her voice became more

normal, almost cheerful, quite brisk. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘yes,

that’ll be fine. Good, thank you. Friday afternoon. I’ll be

there.’

She came out and smiled at him. She looked quite

cheerful. ‘Hallo, Daddy. You all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. Bit of a bad morning, clearing up

Mummy’s things. What I’m going to do with—Oh, that

wretched phone!’

‘Shall I get it?’

‘No, it’s all right. Hallo? Yes. Oh, hallo, Octavia. How

are you? Good. Yes, well, I hoped it was as good an

occasion as possible. It was lovely to see you, and so good of

Tom and your father, and Marianne, to come. What a nice

woman she is. Yes, I’m fine. What? Yes, it is a difficult

time. Sorting things out, you know. I don’t know what

we’re going to do with Anna’s collection of lace handkerchiefs.

Some of them are so lovely it’s a pity to put them

away and never use them again. Perhaps you’d like a few? I

know she’d like you to have them. Yes, of course. I’ll sort

one or two out. Now you want Louise — she was here a

minute ago. I’ll see if I can find her, just a minute, Octavia.’

He put down the phone, went into the hall, bellowed for

Louise.

A rather feeble voice came from the bathroom. ‘I’m in

here, Daddy. Sorry. I know it’s Octavia, could I call her

back?’

Charles went back to phone. ‘Octavia? Sorry, my dear.

She’s not feeling too good. I know we’re not supposed to