Cometh the Hour: A Novel (41 page)

“Not a lot of progress, I’m afraid. The Russians won’t even let us know if he’s still alive.”

“And how’s Mrs. Babakova bearing up?”

“She’s moved to New York and is renting a small apartment on the Lower West Side. I visit her whenever I’m in the States. Yelena remains an eternal optimist and continues to believe that they’re just about to release Anatoly. I haven’t the heart to tell her it isn’t going to happen in the foreseeable future, if ever.”

“Let me give the problem some thought,” said Karin. “After spending so many years behind the Iron Curtain, I might be able to come up with something that would irritate the Russians enough to reconsider their position.”

“You might also mention my lack of progress to your father. After all, he hates the communists every bit as much as you do,” said Harry, carefully observing how Karin reacted. But she gave nothing away.

“Good idea. I’ll discuss it with him when I next go down to Cornwall,” she said, sounding as if she meant it, although Harry doubted if she would ever raise the subject of Anatoly Babakov with her controller.

“Karin,” said Jessica, handing her a copy of the menu. “A little gift to mark our first meeting.”

“I’ll treasure it,” said Karin, giving her a warm hug.

*   *   *

“Do you ever hear from Gwyneth or Virginia?” asked Grace.

“Gwyneth occasionally,” said Giles. “She’s teaching English at Monmouth School, which should please you, and has recently become engaged to one of the house masters.”

“You’re right, that does please me,” said Grace. “She was a fine teacher. And Virginia?”

“Only what I pick up in the gossip columns. You will have seen that her father died a couple of months ago. Funny old stick, but I confess I rather liked him.”

“Did you go to his funeral?”

“No, I didn’t feel that was appropriate, but I wrote to Archie Fenwick, who’s inherited the title, saying that I hoped he’d play an active role in the Upper House. I received a very courteous reply.”

“But you surely don’t approve of the hereditary system?” said Grace.

“No, I don’t. But as long as we keep losing votes to the Tories in the Commons, reform of the House of Lords will have to be shelved until after the next election.”

“And if Mrs. Thatcher wins that election, reform of the Lords won’t be shelved, it will be buried.” Grace drained her glass of champagne before adding, “Touching on a more sensitive subject, “I’m so sorry you and Karin haven’t had any children.”

“God knows we’ve tried everything, even sex.” Grace didn’t laugh. “We both visited a fertility clinic. It seems that Karin has a blood problem and, after two miscarriages, the doctor feels the risk would be too great.”

“How sad,” said Grace. “No one to follow you into the Lords.”

“Or, more important, open the batting for England.”

“Have you thought about adoption?”

“Yes, but we’ve put it on hold until after the election.”

“Don’t put it on hold for too long. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Giles, but there are some things more important than politics.”

“I apologize for interrupting you, Aunt Grace, but may I give you this small gift?” Jessica said, handing over another portrait.

Grace studied the drawing for some time before she offered an opinion. “Although I am not an expert, you undoubtedly have promise, my dear. Be sure you don’t squander your talent.”

“I’ll try not to, Aunt Grace.”

“How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Ah, the same age as Picasso when he held his first public exhibition—in which city, young lady?”

“Barcelona.”

Grace awarded her a slight bow. “I shall have my portrait framed, hang it in my study in Cambridge and tell my fellow dons and pupils alike that you are my great-niece.”

“Praise indeed,” said Giles. “Where’s mine?”

“I can’t fit you in today, Uncle Giles. Another time perhaps.”

“I’ll certainly hold you to that. How would you like to stay with me at Barrington Hall while your parents are away on honeymoon? In return, you could paint a portrait of Karin and myself. And while you’re with us you could visit your grandparents, who are just a couple of miles down the road at the Manor House.”

“They’ve already invited me to stay. And didn’t try to bribe me.”

“Never forget, my dear,” said Grace, “that your great-uncle is a politician.”

*   *   *

“Have you heard anything back from the Bank of England?” asked Hakim.

“Nothing official,” said Arnold Hardcastle. “But, strictly between ourselves, Sir Piers rang me on Friday afternoon to let me know that Gavin Buckland didn’t show up for his second interview, and the committee have decided not to pursue the matter any further.”

“I could have told them he was unlikely to turn up because his letter of resignation was on my desk even before I’d got back from our meeting with the Ethics Committee.”

“He’ll never be offered another job in the City,” said Arnold. “I can only wonder what he’ll do next.”

“He’s gone to Cyprus,” said Hakim. “Barry Hammond followed him to Nicosia, where he’s taken a job on the commodities desk of a local Turkish bank. He was good at his job, so let’s just hope there aren’t too many racetracks in Cyprus.”

“Any news of Sloane or Mellor?”

“Gone to ground, according to Barry. But he’s pretty sure they’ll resurface in the spring like all pond life, when no doubt we’ll find out what they’ve got planned next.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Arnold. “I was at the Bailey last week, and a police sergeant told me that—”

“A little gift for you, Mr. Bishara, on behalf of my father.” Hakim swung around nervously, thinking someone might have overheard their conversation.

“What a wonderful surprise,” he said when he saw the portrait. “I’ve always admired the drawing of your mother that hangs in your father’s office, and I’ll certainly put this one in mine.”

“I do hope you’ll do one of me,” said Arnold, admiring the drawing.

“I’d be delighted to, Mr. Hardcastle, but I must warn you, I charge by the hour.”

*   *   *

The loud banging of a gavel could be heard coming from the top table. The guests fell silent as Victor Kaufman stood up once again.

“Not another speech, I promise. I thought you’d want to know that the bride and groom will be leaving in a few minutes’ time, so if you would like to make your way to the entrance, we can all see them off.”

The guests began to rise from their places and drift out of the ballroom.

“Where are they going on honeymoon?” Emma asked Harry.

“No idea, but I know someone who will. Jessica!”

“Yes, Grandpops,” she said, running across to join them.

“Where are your mother and father spending their honeymoon?”

“Amsterdam.”

“Such a lovely city,” said Emma. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s where Dad first proposed to Mom, eleven years ago.”

“How romantic,” said Emma. “Are they staying at the Amstel?”

“No, Pops booked the attic room of the Pension De Kanaal, which is where they stayed last time.”

“Another lesson learned,” said Harry.

“And have they finally decided which country they are going to live in?” asked Emma.

“I decided,” said Jessica. “England.”

“And have you let them know?”

“Pops can hardly be expected to run Farthings from Washington, and in any case Mom has been shortlisted for a job at the Tate.”

“I’m so glad you’ve been able to sort everything out to your satisfaction,” said Emma.

“Got to go,” said Jessica. “I’m in charge of confetti distribution.”

A few minutes later, Samantha and Sebastian came down the sweeping staircase arm in arm, Seb’s limp now almost indiscernible. They walked slowly through a tunnel of well-wishers throwing confetti vaguely in their direction, until they emerged into the evening sun of the courtyard, to be surrounded by friends and family.

Samantha looked at a dozen hopeful young women, then turned and tossed her bouquet of blush-pink roses over her head and high into the air. It landed in Jessica’s arms, which was greeted with wild laughter and applause.

“God help the man,” said Sebastian as the chauffeur opened the back door of the waiting car.

The ambassador took his daughter in his arms and seemed reluctant to let her go. When he finally relinquished her, he whispered to Seb, “Please take care of her.”

“For the rest of my life, sir,” said Seb, before joining his wife in the backseat.

The car drove sedately out of the courtyard through the sculpted gates and onto the main road, with several of the younger guests in pursuit.

Mr. and Mrs. Clifton looked back and continued to wave until they were all out of sight. Sam rested her head on Seb’s shoulder.

“Do you remember the last time we were in Amsterdam, my darling?”

“Could I ever forget?”

“When I forgot to mention I was pregnant.”

44

T
HE TWO MEN
shook hands, which helped Sloane to relax.

“It was good of you to come in at such short notice, Mr. Sloane,” said Chief Inspector Stokes. “When a policeman visits someone like you in their office, it can lead to unnecessary gossip among the staff.”

“I can assure you, chief inspector, that I have nothing to hide from anyone, including my staff,” said Sloane as he sat down, leaving the policeman standing. Sloane stared at the large Grundig tape recorder on the table between them. His mind began working overtime as he tried to anticipate what might be on the tape.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you have anything to hide,” said Stokes, sitting down opposite Sloane. “But you may be able to help me by answering one or two questions concerning a case I’m currently working on.”

Sloane clenched his fists below the table, but didn’t respond.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to listen to this tape, sir.” Stokes leaned forward and pressed the Play button on the tape recorder.

“Customs office, Heathrow.”

“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No, you may not.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.”
There was a pause before another voice was heard.
“SCO Collier. How can I help you?”

“If you’re interested, I can tell you about some drugs that a passenger will be trying to smuggle in today.”

“Yes, I’m interested. But first, would you tell me your name?”

“The passenger’s name is Hakim Bishara. He’s well known in the trade, and is traveling on flight 207 from Lagos. He has thirteen ounces of heroin in his overnight bag.”

Sloane remained silent after the tape had come to an end. The chief inspector removed the spool and replaced it with another one. Once again he pressed the Play button. Once again he said nothing.

“Is this Adrian Sloane?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Chief Inspector Mike Stokes. I’m attached to the drug squad at Scotland Yard.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Stokes?”

“I’d like to make an appointment to see you, sir.”

“Why?”

“I can’t discuss the matter over the phone, sir. Either I could come to you, or you could visit me at Scotland Yard, whichever is more convenient.”

“I’ll come to you.”

Sloane shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve had both those tapes analyzed by an American voice specialist,” said Stokes, “and he’s confirmed that not only were they made by the same person, but from the same telephone.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Are you sure?” asked the interrogator, his eyes never leaving Sloane.

“Yes, I am, because the telephone call to the customs officer lasted less than three minutes, and is therefore untraceable.”

“How could you possibly know that, Mr. Sloane, if it wasn’t you who made the call?”

“Because I attended every day of Hakim Bishara’s trial and heard all the evidence firsthand.”

“You did indeed, sir. And I confess I’m still puzzled about why you did.”

“Because, Mr. Stokes, as I’m sure you know, I was the previous chairman of Farthings Bank, and one of my clients at the time was a substantial shareholder, so I was doing no more than my fiduciary duty. You’ll need something a little more convincing than that to prove I was involved.”

“Before we go on to discuss the role you played on behalf of your substantial shareholder, and how you were both involved, perhaps I could play the first tape again. I’m going to ask you to listen more carefully this time.”

Sloane could feel the palms of his hands sweating. He wiped them on his trousers as the tape recorder whirred back into action.

“Customs office, Heathrow.”

“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No, you may not.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

Stokes pressed the Stop button. “Listen carefully, Mr. Sloane.” The chief inspector pressed the Play button once again, and this time Sloane could hear the faint sound of chimes in the background. Stokes pressed Stop.

“Ten o’clock,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Sloane.

“So what?”

“Now I’d like you to listen to the second tape again,” said Stokes as he swapped the cassettes. “Because I called you in your office at one minute to ten.”

“Is this Adrian Sloane?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

A long pause, and this time Sloane couldn’t miss the ten chimes. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead and, despite having a handkerchief in his top pocket, made no attempt to wipe them away.

The detective pressed Stop. “And I can assure you, Mr. Sloane, those chimes came from the same clock, which our American expert has confirmed is St. Mary-le-Bow, Cheapside, less than a hundred yards from your office.”

“That proves nothing. There must be thousands of offices in the vicinity, and you know it.”

“You’re quite right, which is why I requested a court order to allow me to check your phone records for that particular day.”