Exposure (18 page)

‘I'm not going to fucking dinner!' Gloria shouted, and slammed the door of King's study behind her. She found the package, the cause of that dreadful burst of anger and abuse. It wasn't her fault. Anything marked private was never opened, that's all she knew. It was just a rule. She couldn't even remember seeing anything marked up like that before. She started writing out a label and began telephoning.

What could be in it, to make him erupt like that? Something to do with his business in New York. The delay must have compromised him in some way. But how could she
know
? She wailed aloud as she made the arrangements, at exorbitant cost, to get it on the next plane by special courier to New York and then to his hotel.

It reached Harold King just before a working breakfast with the finance director and deputy chairman of Field Bank.

Harold King didn't open it. He knew where it came from, and he couldn't risk losing his concentration by looking at the contents before an important meeting. It had waited a week, bearing its warning message. It would have to wait another two hours.

The meeting was long and difficult. His American financiers wanted more collateral than he had on offer, and he had failed to convince them that it wasn't necessary. No deal had been in sight when they parted with a further meeting scheduled for the next morning. He was short by too many millions to launch his bid successfully. Unless he could come up with guarantees against the money he needed to back his bid, Field Bank was not prepared to bank roll him.

King kept his nerve. He blustered, cajoled, joked and tried to overbear, but it didn't work. Then he switched roles. He became quietly confident. He had, he said as they were leaving, ample resources which he could call upon if they insisted, but he maintained they were not necessary. He would discuss it further with them in the morning.

The resources were ample, but they were not his to pledge.

They consisted of the Pension Fund of his thousands of employees in all corporate businesses throughout England and Canada.

When he shut the door on them, he was calm. Crises had this effect on him. He had seen his solution, and he was weighing up the risks. If he was successful, the money would never be called in and he would never be found out. He had gambled before, and won. He would win this, the biggest gamble of his business career.

Then he opened the package and started to read the report. The meeting took place the next morning. He was smiling and almost cherubic with good humour. He had thought the position over, and although he deplored the lack of confidence evident in their attitude, he understood the reasoning behind it. He was a man of responsibility himself, and he appreciated the Bank's commitment to its investors. He would therefore pledge the extra money from his personal resources. Details would be made available to them when the agreement was in a draft stage. He concluded the meeting with handshakes and warm expressions of goodwill all round. He cancelled the other meetings. They could take place later.

More urgent business needed his attention.

He packed up and flew home to England almost a week ahead of schedule.

King worked on the flight. He had sent his assistant and his two secretaries on a later flight, so they could clear up and reschedule the meetings with other financial institutions for a month's time. He had promised Field Bank, but he wasn't going to deliver till he'd exhausted one or two other possibilities. Where the moral tone wasn't quite so high. He took his paperwork with him and settled down in First Class, angrily waving away the proffered champagne. But, throughout the flight, the issues blurred. The report written in German overlaid the columns of figures and financial predictions. He was after Western, but Western was after him. Ben Harris and Julia Hamilton had taken up the old trail in Nessenberg, so long gone cold, thanks to his friends and his connections. And the few words spoken to the girl clerk in the Bauhaus as they left the dusty old files in their dusty basement-room … those words shrilled in his head like a warning siren.

Thank you. We found some useful information
.

What information? What had they found that hadn't been excised from the records? King locked his papers away in his briefcase and pulled an eye-shade over his eyes. He wasn't sleeping, but blackness helped him concentrate. Something had prompted Western's clever newshound to say that. Perhaps it was the woman who had spotted something he had missed. ‘A fresh eye,' he muttered. She'd retraced Harris's path and deviated from it in some way. They'd left the Nessenberghof and gone to Munich.

Why Munich? The proprietor of the hotel had answered his contact's questions in all innocence, even showing him the hotel register confirming the names. And added the information that they were going to Munich and had booked into the Bernerhof. The grandest hotel in the city.

Munich. It tormented him. They'd found something that sent them to Munich. He pulled off the eye-shade and reached for the report again.

So painstakingly assembled, every spoken word, however trivial, had been noted down. Thank God for Teutonic efficiency and attention to detail.

Before checking out and going off to indulge themselves – it must be indulgence to stay at the Bernerhof – the couple had asked about the best way to get to Hintzbach. A funny choice, it struck her, there was nothing of interest there for English tourists. But they set off, and left the Nessenberghof afterwards. They didn't seem to be lovers. They had separate rooms. No, King thought savagely, they weren't lovers, they were journalists on an assignment. And Harold King, alias Hans Koenig, was that assignment. It all tied in. The schedule of flights to Germany written on a scrap of paper, which Joe Patrick's break-in had discovered, and now this. Western had been stopped in his tracks following the same line ten years ago. Now it was reopened.

He landed at Heathrow and drove straight home. He didn't wake his wife or look for Gloria. He went to his study and dialled Joe Patrick's number. He'd given the bastard a job to do and heard nothing from him. He wanted answers. He didn't get them that night, or for the following two days.

Nobody knew where Joe Patrick had gone. He had left no contact number. All King needed was confirmation of the evidence from Germany. He had looked to the Irishman to prove it. Then he could decide what to do.

The old lever on Western might not work a second time. A drastic solution might be needed. A permanent solution.

Joe Patrick knew how to take a bollocking. He didn't try to excuse himself while King was in full flow. He shrank into himself as if the furious invective were a rain of blows.

He'd seen the boss lose his temper before. There was no stemming it. You just had to wait till it blew itself out like a hurricane. He marvelled at the scope of insults; King might have a foreign accent, but he had native vocabulary when it came to swearing. Joe had no pride or resentment; he had the good henchman's mentality. He'd fouled up by not being in reach when he was needed. At last, when King stopped abusing him, he ventured to speak. He knew better than to make excuses.

‘I'm sorry. I won't fuck up like that again.'

‘You do,' King exploded for the last time, ‘and you're fired!' His tone lowered. He spoke normally. ‘Did you get hold of Hamilton's boyfriend?'

‘Yeah, no problem. I needled him a bit and he spilled. He's a dick-head. Hamilton's the boss of “Exposure”, the
Herald
's super snoop, checking on you. He thinks it's tied up with the Honours List. I don't think he knows any more.'

‘“Exposure”,' King repeated. ‘That adds up. They say it will launch its first feature in November.' He was almost talking to himself. Then he looked up sharply. He'd chewed the balls off Joe. Most human beings responded to being kicked, but that type needed assault and battery from time to time, to stop them getting lazy.

He said, ‘I want her followed. And Harris. I want to know everything they do, where they go, who they see. I want to know when they crap! Understand me? Reports come to you on a daily basis, and you pass them to me the same day. Take my advice, Joseph,' he said the full name with heavy emphasis, ‘don't go to the races while this is on!'

He gave him a cold glare.

‘Get out of here.'

‘She won't sign an affidavit,' Julia said.

‘Did you call her back?' Ben asked.

She shook her head. ‘No. I'll have to go and see her again. And this time I want you to come with me. She might respond better to a man. But she's quite a determined lady, and she's not going to change her mind in a hurry.'

Ben slipped an arm round her. They were in Julia's flat; she was wondering whether she could persuade him to move in permanently.

‘Listen, you tracked her down, you've opened up the real can of worms on that bastard. What we want to follow up is the war crime angle. If we can prove that – we'll get him! I'll go and see her alone, if you like. We don't want to get heavy with a widow.'

‘No,' she agreed, ‘you're right. If Jean Adams thinks we're trying to push her, she'll dig in and nothing will shift her. I know the type. You go, Ben. It's her solicitor's advice. He's too scared to let her sign an affidavit in case King slaps a load of writs on her. It makes me furious!'

‘Which he would,' Ben countered, ‘if he knew. Come on, calm down.' He smiled and said gently, ‘Fiery lady, aren't you?'

And then unpremeditated, he said it for the first time. ‘Maybe that's why I love you.' Before she could say anything, he leaned over and kissed her. It was a long kiss, tender and then passionate. He let her go and said, ‘I mean it, I love you. I hope it doesn't spoil anything.'

Julia touched his lips with the tips of her fingers. ‘I never thought you'd say it,' she whispered, and then kissed him in return.

As she felt his hands moving on her breasts, she withdrew a little.

‘Don't love me,' she said. ‘Not yet. Talk to me. Let me talk to you. That's what I love about
you
, Ben. There's so much more to us than just sex.'

‘Like what?' he murmured, still holding her, but now his hands were still.

‘Like sharing things, talking them over. Our work, our stupid jokes – I even love your cat!' She laughed at herself. ‘Why don't you bring Pussy to live here – I think she'd like it.'

‘I think she would too,' he said. ‘But not yet, my darling. I caught you at the end of a relationship. I want to be sure you're ready for a real one with me. No rebounds, no second thoughts till you've had time to know me and make up your mind. There's the age gap, too.'

‘It's the right way round this time,' she insisted. ‘You're your own man, Ben. There's no competition between us. You said it early on; we make a very good team.'

‘Then let's keep it that way for now,' he suggested. ‘Let's stay lovers and colleagues and friends, till we see how it works out. And if it does,' he looked at her, ‘I'll want you to move in with me.'

Jean Adams put the telephone down. She stood beside it, biting at her lower lip. ‘Don't touch it,' her solicitor had begged. He was a family friend of many years, and his alarm had communicated itself to her. ‘Don't get involved with the Press, my dear Jean, they'll promise anything. And then let you down without a moment's hesitation. If you sign an affidavit, they'll use it. You'll be dragged into their campaign against Harold King, and God knows where that would end for you.' He'd been sympathetic, but adamant. He owed it to Bob to protect her, as Bob would have done if he'd been alive. He'd told her to forget the past a long time ago, and that advice held good today. More than ever.

Let the lady journalist do her own dirty work. She had the might of William Western to fight her battles. Jean had nobody. He went further. He found the undertaking signed by King in return for money in the office safe, among Bob Adams' papers, and suggested that he should destroy it. ‘Tell them what you've done,' he said. ‘Better still, if they try to pressure you, call me in on it. I'll get rid of them.'

Jean Adams had agreed, and telephoned Julia with her decision. The call she had just taken was from a man, a colleague of Julia Hamilton. He sounded pleasant enough, very reasonable. Could he come and see her just once, just to fill in some more details? He accepted her decision not to sign anything, and sounded as if he meant what he said, but he would really appreciate a meeting. Jean had said rather sharply, ‘With my solicitor present, Mr Harris?' And he had said, ‘Of course. All the better.' So she found herself agreeing to an appointment. She sighed. Perhaps she'd been foolish to let him talk her into it. Certainly their old friend would think so. But then, it was up to her, wasn't it? She had a mind of her own, after all. She wasn't going to look like a silly vacillating old woman and ring this man Harris up and say she'd changed her mind again. Let him come down. It might be very interesting. She believed in being decisive. Decision made, why waste time? She dialled the solicitor's office and left a firm message with his secretary.

She was seeing a journalist from the
Sunday Herald
on Wednesday afternoon at two-thirty at her house and she would like him to be there. Then she went out into her garden to tackle the rose bushes.

Joe Patrick didn't deal with sleaze when the client was Harold King. You couldn't rely on the small fry, the ones that were just legal. Only just. He employed the most reputable firm of private detectives in the country, with branches in all the major cities. They had wide-ranging facilities, from business and industrial surveillance to simple domestic.

They charged top rates, but they were absolutely reliable and honest. No operatives of theirs had ever tried to use his information for his own advantage. A twenty-four-hour watch was mounted on Julia Hamilton and Ben Harris. Ben was followed when he drove down to Midhurst to see Jean Adams.