Almost a Crime (46 page)

thing. You’re not that worried, are you?’

‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ said Tom gloomily.

At midday there was a call from the one remaining potential

client, the one of whom they’d had the highest hopes: the

restaurant chain. He thought he should let them know

that he’d decided on another firm. ‘Nothing personal, just

feel I’d like the weight of one of the bigger boys behind

me.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. ‘Very understandable.’ He

didn’t even try to put up a fight. He knew there was no

point.

Octavia was finding it very hard to concentrate; she and

Melanie were in the middle of their meeting with Lauren

Bartlett about the day at Brands Hatch. Lauren had been in

a difficult mood, questioning every point, quibbling over

costs, criticising the suite they had provisionally booked — ‘I

really don’t think it’s big enough, three hundred people is

nothing for us’ — the programme they had drawn up — ‘It’s

too male orientated. All the men will want to go round the

circuit, but half the women will be terrified. And it’s the

women who are our prime target, surely.’

‘But, Lauren,’ said Melanie, her eyes glittering dangerously,

‘you specifically said you wanted to get the men in.

Said they’d spend the money.’

‘Did I? Well, maybe I was wrong. I think we should

make it more of a family day out. More of the gokarting,

that sort of thing.’

‘I thought you wanted glamour,’ said Octavia wearily.

‘And anyway, it’s not that sort of day. It’s the classic touring

race day, we booked into that one deliberately, agreed that

would pull in what they call the tweeds and pearls. After all,

you’re not just going to make money from the invited

guests, are you? We’re targeting the other eighty-five

thousand people as well.’

‘Yes, yes, I know all that, but I want family fun. And

glamour as well. Look, this is costing us an awful lot of

money. We have to get it back. And if we’re going to get

the sort of publicity you promised, there’s got to be more

than a few races and stalls and an opportunity for the chaps

to go round the rallying circuit. We need some — excitement. Something to talk about. I’m still hoping that the Princess of Wales will come. Bring the boys. She did

seem interested when I told her about it. Just before she

went away, you know.’

‘Really?’ said Melanie.

‘But of course they won’t come unless—’

‘How about making it a vintage day?’ said Melanie. ‘For

your guests, I mean. Since it’s the classic day. Everyone

come in ‘twenties and ‘thirties costume. The women would

like that much more. We could have waiters in period

costume, making cocktails, maybe a jazz band up in the

hospitality suite, special posters everywhere. And then the

kids could have a fancy dress prize, and—’

‘Yes,’ said Lauren. She smiled graciously at Melanie. ‘I

like that a lot. What a pity you didn’t come up with

something like that before. Look, would you like to rethink

the whole day along those lines, get back to me in — let’s

see—’ she consulted her small black Hermes diary — ‘a

week?’

‘A week isn’t long,’ said Octavia, ‘not to clear it with the

Brands Hatch people, rehash the programme, the invitations,

the early press release. Couldn’t we—’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Melanie quickly. ‘It won’t be that

difficult.’

Octavia looked at her; she had an expression on her face

she knew very well. Her face was alive, her eyes sparkling,

her hawklike nose somehow scenting the air. It was a

brilliant idea; but it annoyed her. It meant they would be in a fearful panic from now on, and Lauren Bartlett and Next

Generation most certainly wouldn’t pick up any more of

the bill; they were doing the whole thing on a break-even

basis already. It meant that the only thing that Melanie

actually had in mind was the raising of the profile of Capital

C. If she hadn’t been so sick at heart, she might have put up

a fight.

That evening, one of Fleming Cotterill’s existing clients,

the owner of a small chain of garden centres, said that he

had decided most reluctantly that he was going to have

dispense with their services. ‘Nothing personal, just have to

make sure every penny’s being wisely spent in these hard

times.’

Shortly after that, Derek Illingworth phoned and said

that Terence Foster had declined their offer to become

involved in the company.

‘Someone up there doesn’t like us,’ said Aubrey wearily,

refilling their glasses with the stiff brandy suggested by Bob

Macintosh much earlier in the day.

‘Or out there.’

‘Sorry? Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Have you any idea

at all who might have done that, Tom? Or why?’

‘None whatsoever. Do you think we should have tried

to check the postmarks?’

‘Difficult. Under the circumstances. Mountain out of

molehill stuff’

‘Yes, but he might have some other little surprise in store

for us. Isn’t there anyone else we could ask? Someone like

Mike Dutton.’

‘It could be worth a try. And look, I hesitate to say this,

but there really is only one last port of call now. And you

know who that is, don’t you?’

‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Tom.

‘So how are things with Tom?’ said Felix. They were sitting

in McDonald’s with the twins, who were devouring Big Macs and strawberry milkshakes; Octavia smiled at him fondly. It had been Gideon’s sports day; Tom had pleaded

pressure of work, ‘or should I say, the threat of enforced

idleness’, as an excuse, and Felix had gone with her and the

children.

Felix had, rather surprisingly, covered himself with glory

by coming in third in the fathers’ race (having got special

dispensation to compete), and Poppy even more so by

winning the sisters’ race. Gideon had won nothing, but had

played for the First Eleven in an exhibition game and didn’t

care.

‘Tom’s fine,’ said Octavia briefly. ‘You were so wonderful

this afternoon, Daddy. Not many grandfathers could

have done that.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Felix modestly. ‘We’re not all in

wheelchairs.’

‘I still remember you winning the fathers’ race at

Wycombe Abbey. I was so proud of you. And Louise said

you were amazingly good looking, the most handsome

father there, as well as the fastest.’

‘Yes, well, she always was rather a one for the

compliment. How is she, by the way?’

‘Managing, just, I think. Poor Louise - and poor Charles.

I spoke to him the other day. He was clearing out Anna’s

room. He was so upset, being so brave.’ Saying that stirred

something; something uneasy, something she had half

forgotten. What was it?

Tom had a very large whisky and then made two phone

calls. The first was to Mike Dutton, of Dutton Distilleries,

to say they were looking for any kind of clue as to who

might have sent the letters: would it be an awful lot to ask if

the secretary could check the postmark? Dutton said she’d

gone home, but he’d have a quick look in the bin himself;

and came back to the phone to say the cleaners had already

been and emptied the bins.

‘Sorry, Tom. This is really worrying you, is it?’

‘Oh, not too much,’ said Tom, ‘it’s all such utter nonsense. But forewarned is forearmed and all that.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, cheers. Sorry we couldn’t help.

Oh, and, Tom—’

‘Yes?’ said Tom, feeling his bowels turning to water.

‘Please don’t think we’ll be taking any notice of that

memo. Couldn’t manage without you, and we know it.’

‘Mike,’ said Tom, ‘you’re a hero.’

The exchange had made the contemplation of the next

phone call more bearable: he dialled Felix Miller’s office.

Felix’s secretary said that he was out that afternoon, ‘At

your son’s sports day,’ she said. Tom hoped he was

imagining the edge to her voice, and said, yes of course, but

could she ask Felix to call him in the morning.

‘Yes, of course, Mr Fleming.’

‘Mrs Fleming?’

‘Yes, Mr Bingham,’ said Octavia, smiling into the phone.

‘I rang to see if you were coming down out of the smoke

this weekend?’

‘No, I don’t think so. The children have got things on

and I’ve got work to do.’

‘Well, it’s a pity. I was hoping to spend some more time

coaching Gideon. If you change your mind, give me a ring.

In Bath.’

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Fleming.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Bingham. Have a nice weekend.’

‘There’d be more chance of it being that if you were

coming down,’ he said and rang off.

Octavia sat smiling foolishly at the phone for several

moments, tantalised by the thought of another weekend at

the cottage. Maybe she could go. At least on Saturday night,

after the twins had attended their respective parties. That

would give her Sunday there. That would be fun. Only

now maybe it would look a bit pushy. She didn’t want him

to think she was chasing him. Well, maybe she could ask

someone else. Louise and Dickon, for instance. Sandy was away in France on one of his promotional wine tours. That would make it look a lot less calculating. It seemed ages

anyway since she and Louise had had any time together.

And Louise had said she couldn’t wait to meet Gabriel. Yes,

she’d ask her. She dialled Louise’s number. She was out, but

the cleaning lady said she’d get her to call back.

‘She’s gone to the dentist. I’ve got Dickon here. Oh, just

a minute, he wants to speak to you.’

Octavia was touched. She was very fond of Dickon.

‘Hallo, darling! How are you?’

‘All right. Mummy’s gone to the dentist again. She went

the other day too.’

‘Poor Mummy. Has she got toothache?’

‘Yes, but she’s not ill.’

‘Of course she’s not ill. Toothache isn’t ill. I thought you

might like to come and see us on Sunday.’

At the cottage.

What do you think? The twins’ll be there. And Minty.’

‘Yes!’

‘Well, tell Mummy to phone me when she gets back.

And we’ll try and arrange it.’

‘All right, Octavia. ‘Bye.’

“Bye, darling.’

Sweet little boy, he was, thought Octavia; obviously still

desperately worried about illness. It was so sad.

Mike Dutton phoned Tom Fleming, but was informed he

was on another call: would he wait?

‘No, I’m in rather a hurry. Could you just give him a

message from me? Tell him my secretary’s just come up

trumps. The postmark was Gloucester. He’ll know what it

means.’

Barbara Dawson said she would certainly pass the

message on.

Tom arrived shortly after lunch at Nico Cadogan’s penthouse

office, looking appalling: drawn, pale, heavy eyed.

He’d also lost weight: a good half stone, Cadogan reckoned,

since their first meeting.

‘You having a bad time with this memo business?’

Cadogan said briefly.

‘What? Oh, a bit. A couple of defectors, but most people

seem to be piling in behind us.’

‘It’s not true about the financial problems?’

‘Lord, no.’

‘Good,’ said Cadogan briefly. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘The share price has steadied,’ Cadogan said, ‘and, rather

pleasingly, some shares have been bought.’

‘Really? That is good news. Obviously some speculators

out there have faith in you. It always happens, of course.

Now, strictly between ourselves, I have heard this morning

that we are likely to go to referral.’

‘Quick.’

‘Yes, I know. And it’s not official. But your MP got his

question asked, there are a lot of signatures on the EDM there

are a great many keen new MPs wanting to look

efficient. And the government is anxious to show its mettle.

Supporting the individual, that sort of thing. They’re no

more bothered about huge conglomerates than the last lot,

of course, but they like to be seen to be.’

‘Can I say that in the interview?’

‘Absolutely not! It would almost certainly reverse the

decision. But I think you can feel more relaxed. Right,

now, if we could just run through—’

‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Cadogan. There’s an urgent call

for Mr Fleming. A Mrs Cornish.’

Nico Cadogan was not given to cliched thought, but

looking at Tom Fleming’s face at that moment, the phrase

‘drained of colour’ seemed totally appropriate. He set down

his cup, with a slightly unsteady hand, cleared his throat.

‘Nico, would you excuse me? Just for a moment?’

‘Sure. Want to take it in here, in private? I’ll clear out.’

‘No, no, I’ll call her back. On my mobile.’

‘Of course. There’s a meeting room empty, use that.’

‘Thanks.’

He came back after a few minutes, still looking ghastly, but more in control. ‘Sorry about that. Prospective client.

Now then, if we could just run through this list of possible

questions

Mrs Cornish was about as likely to be a prospective

client, Cadogan thought, as Fleming Cotterill were to be on

sound financial ground.