The Talisman (88 page)

‘Who called you? Was it Alex?’

‘No, Barbara. She’s hysterical, has no idea what to do. Apparently the rags are having a field day, they’ve reporters hanging around the house. She can’t contact Alex, doesn’t know where he is . . .’

‘Why do you have to go?’

‘Because Alex couldn’t squeeze a fart out, never mind get his son off this rap.’

‘Don’t you mean your son?’

Edward hesitated, then began stuffing papers into his briefcase. Jinks continued, her voice becoming shrill. ‘You can find time for him but not for me, you’ve never had the time for me because I’m just your daughter. He’s no good, he never was! Let him rot for a while, it’ll do him good . . .’

‘What the hell would you know about it?’

He checked his passport, and she moved closer to him, trying desperately to keep herself calm.

‘Maybe before you go running to Evelyn and dear Uncle Alex, you should know that Alex is trying to get you thrown out of the Barkley Company. This is the first time you’ve seen me in months, and you never had the decency to even ask how I was doing. Happy birthday? You want to make it happy? Then you give me what I want, pay me off! Then you need never see me again – if you don’t want me in your company, give me enough to start up a business of my own.’

Edward said nothing, but he removed from his case all the documents relating to the Ming company. He tossed them on to the desk.

‘Earn it, like I had to. Here, this is for starters.’

She watched him sign all the documents over to her. She was close to tears, desperate for him to hold her, comfort her, but he did nothing but flick through each page. Satisfied everything was in order, he replaced the top of his pen carefully, and picked up his cases. She still fought to keep her voice steady, fought not to cry.

‘You don’t care about me, just as you never cared for my mother. It was knowing about Evelyn, knowing about you and Barbara that killed her. I hate you, I hate you . . . and I always have.’

He couldn’t stand her harping voice, that vicious look on her face. Her words hit him hard and he felt sick to his stomach. She was looking at him with such loathing that he could say nothing, do nothing but walk out.

Jinks bathed her face, holding the cold cloth to her cheeks. She didn’t cry, couldn’t have cried now, it was too late. She returned to the lounge and looked once again through the papers.

Ten minutes later two men arrived, introducing themselves as her father’s brokers. They listened attentively as she explained that she would be handling the business with the Ming company. Hesitantly, she enquired about her father’s other interests. The two men looked at each other, and after a moment the younger one, Mike Doytch, was given the nod to speak. His blond, crew-cut head and chiselled features gave the impression of youth although he was in fact over forty. He coughed and loosened his collar.

‘Your father made contact three, almost four, weeks ago. We have been instructed to sell all his shares and to deposit the money in Swiss bank accounts. The meeting today was simply to give him confirmation that this was all being done. However, this morning he asked us to retain his shares in the Ming company. Apparently Mr Barkley has been given some information that changed his mind. He had instructed us to sell to Miss Takeda.’

Jinks poured them drinks. She bit her lip. ‘I hope, gentlemen, that whatever we discuss will be in the strictest confidence. The instructions to sell my father’s interests, were they directly from the Barkley Company or from my father personally?’

Again the two men glanced at each other before Mike spoke. ‘Your father’s holdings in America and Mexico were private. The property and the land was, I believe, owned personally and were nothing to do with the Barkley Company. We have never done any business for them, only for Edward Barkley.’

Jinks sipped her Perrier water, the ice clinking in the glass. ‘Have you ever had any dealings with Alex Barkley? My father’s brother?’

Both men shook their heads. Jinks thought carefully before she spoke. She hinted that she would continue to use them if they could give her some idea as to how much they estimated her father had accumulated through his sell-out. She even smiled and told them confidentially, ‘You see, my uncle has insinuated that my father’s mental state is not . . . well, not one hundred per cent. He is an alcoholic, so if you could give me some idea, would that be possible? Just so I can report back to London.’

Jinks closed the door, thanking both men and telling them she would contact them within the week. Her knees were shaking, but she gave no outward hint of her nerves – quite the reverse, she was smiling and confident, and it was not until the lift gates closed that she dropped her act. She poured herself a stiff brandy and slumped on to the sofa.

The men had been very cagey, and it had taken a considerable amount of drink before they had more than hinted at Edward’s personal wealth. Once they had told her they seemed strangely relieved, and then a trifle boastful of their own capabilities, Edward Barkley had made close to four hundred million. Jinks repeated it over and over in her mind, four hundred million . . .

She felt something hard digging in the small of her back, and moved the cushion. There was the tiny box her father had given her, the one she had not opened. She unwrapped it; it contained a gold bracelet similar to the one her mother had given her the afternoon before she died. Jinks turned it over in her palm, wondering for a moment if her father knew she already had the first present he had ever given Harriet. The difference was in the clasp, this bracelet was not broken. Four hundred million and this was her birthday gift. She weighed the gold in her hand, then hurled it across the room.

‘You cheap bastard! I’ll show you, and I’ll do it without your bloody help!’

Alex had been called out of a meeting by Miss Henderson. He was tight-lipped with anger, demanding to know what was so important that it could not have waited. When he learned of his son’s arrest he was on the next flight to Paris. Sitting on the plane Alex felt numb, unable to comprehend the mixed emotions that swept over him.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the seat rest. It was strange he should think of it now, all these years later, but instead of his son’s trouble taking precedence, all he could think of was his own past. Memories that had been nothing but a blur became clear. He could see himself younger than Evelyn, his face twisted in fear arriving at the remand home, Rochester House. Long-forgotten memories came flooding back, and the grey curtain began drawing over him as it had done as a child lying weeping in his bed.

He turned to stare from the window, wanting to blank out the memory of his own frightened face. But the clouds reminded him of the dream, the dream he had been so desperate to hide behind, the dream of the rider on the black stallion, of his father and the mountain. The dream that gave him such nightmares. He felt as if he had been cursed. Why now? he asked himself, just as he was making headway, this time alone, without Edward. Just as he almost had the entire Barkley Company within his grasp, why did he feel it was being taken from him, and why, when he had first been told of his son’s arrest, had his first thought been to contact Edward? Was he always to be tied to him?

The stewardess made Alex jump, he hadn’t even heard her asking if he would like a drink. He asked for a brandy.

Sipping it, Alex’s hatred of his brother, his deep anger at everything Edward had done to him, rose up and gave him renewed energy. His head was clear again, and he was ready to fight for himself and for his son.

At the hotel Alex immediately contacted the lawyers allocated to Evelyn’s case and asked for a meeting as soon as possible. He began to read the French news coverage. The headlines ran ‘TYCOON’S SON HELD IN MASS TERRORIST ARREST’. The more he read the less likely seemed Evelyn’s involvement. He realized that he would be away from London for longer than he had at first anticipated. He began to make numerous urgent business calls to cover for his absence. Alex was making sure his departure could not be compared with any of Edward’s frequent disappearing acts. He instructed Miss Henderson to call every board member and make his personal apologies, but to say nothing regarding his son. Simply that there had been a family crisis. Should anyone require to talk to Alex urgently, they could contact him in Paris.

Alex was asking the lawyers for details before giving them time to remove their coats. He was told about the raid on the farmhouse Evelyn had rented. The police had found a veritable armoury, and it was obvious the boy was very much a part of the terrorist group. He had not attempted to deny it. He had been held in a local jail and then transferred to the Prison de la Santé in Paris.

Alex felt his initial energy and positive thinking slipping away. If anything, the newspaper articles had not suggested anywhere near the seriousness of Evelyn’s involvement. Everything the lawyers told him made Evelyn’s situation worse. After a long time, when he had digested it all, he asked quietly, painfully, how long they thought his son would get if he were convicted.

‘There is no doubt whatsoever, Mr Barkley, that he will be sent to trial, even though there is no evidence as yet that he actually took part in the raids. One of the captured men has given evidence that your son was an active member of the gang, an offshoot of the Front de Libération de la Bretagne pour la Libération Nationale et Socialisme, and that he gave them his financial backing. Eleven of their members were arrested in ’72 – they are small, and appear to be outside the mainstream of international terrorism. They don’t have much in common with the other left-wing radical groups . . .’

‘How long – for Chrissake, tell me what he’s likely to get?’

‘Ten to twelve years.’

Alex felt the breath rush from his body, and he had to be helped to a chair. Someone put a glass of water in his hand, which was shaking, and the glass rattled against his teeth when he tried to drink. ‘Will I be allowed to see him? Tonight?’

‘Yes, sir. I suggest you go to the jail immediately. They are moving them all to a top-security wing first thing in the morning. It’s a prison forty kilometres outside Paris. I am very sorry, Mr Barkley, but we will use every moment we have, do everything we can. I have a car waiting if you would like to leave now . . .’

Alex was driven to the prison in a Mercedes. He leaned back and closed his eyes, saying over and over to himself what a fool his son was, what a fool . . . All he could picture in his mind was Evelyn on his fifth birthday, running to him, yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Dad, Dad, I got a farmyard, I got a farmyard – I got cows and sheep and chickens . . .’ Alex sighed – this farmyard was full of weapons.

Alex was searched, and questioned until his brain reeled, then he had to wait for over an hour before he was led into a small visiting room. Two guards were stationed at the door.

At last he heard footsteps and keys turning in locks. His mouth went dry and he couldn’t get his breath. He half rose from his seat only to be ordered by the guards to sit down again. Through the small glass window in the door he could see the top of his son’s head. He swallowed hard to stop the tears welling up.

Evelyn was led into the room. He was wearing grey overalls and his hair had been cut very short. He was thin, almost gaunt. His wrists were handcuffed, his hands hanging loosely in front of him. He gave his father the ghost of a smile, but his eyes, his dark, wide eyes, were terrified. Alex had to sit back in his seat when he saw the guards push his son into the chair, ordering him to put his hands on the small, bare table.

‘You all right? They treating you all right?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘I got here as soon as I could, I only heard this morning.’

Alex turned to one of the guards and asked if he could hold his son’s hand. The man shrugged, and Alex reached over and gripped Evelyn’s hands tightly with his own. The boy hung his head, ashamed.

‘I’ve only got fifteen minutes, so I’ll be as informative as possible. I’ve got the best lawyers there are, and they will be working around the clock. They have asked me to tell you to be completely honest with them, and not to hold anything back – you understand? I will stay here, and when they move you tomorrow, I shall come to see you as soon as possible. I think I can do more here in Paris, see the right people and try to sort this out.’

Evelyn clung to his father’s hands, unable to look up, incapable of speech. The tears trickled down his cheeks. Alex swallowed again, trying to keep his own emotions in check.

‘I can bring you some food, and shaving stuff. They said you will be allowed fruit, and a little money for cigarettes. You must keep yourself to yourself, don’t mix. Don’t, whatever you do, get into any fights. Evelyn? This is not the time to say what you did or didn’t do, I just want you to know that I am here, I am with you, and I will stand by you . . . Look at me, son, look at me.’

Slowly, Evelyn raised his tear-streaked face. ‘I’m sorry . . . Go back to England, there is nothing you can do. I was part of them, Dad, whether I wanted to be or not is immaterial. You’ll only make it worse for me inside if you try to get me off.’

Alex gritted his teeth and held the boy’s hand so hard he could feel the bones. ‘Ask to be placed in solitary, keep away from the others, hear me? We may have a chance, but only if you are segregated. I don’t want to hear you say again that you were part of them – you were not, hear me? You were not.’

‘I was . . . I’ll take whatever they hand out, it’s the way it has to be.’

Alex could no longer hold his tears back, and his voice broke. ‘I love you, I love you, and I’ll be close, visit you whenever I can.’

The look on the boy’s face made Alex reach over to take him in his arms, hold him tight. The bell rang, it was over, and the guard had to pull them apart.

They hauled Evelyn to his feet, marched him to the door. As they took him away he whispered he was sorry, sorry . . .

Alex heard the prison warders shouting at his son. He froze into a catatonic state, unable to make his limbs work. The sounds, the walls, the smell . . . He was back inside himself, he was suffocating . . . He clawed at the edge of the table, somehow managed to rise to his feet and leave, but he had no recollection of the journey back to his hotel. Just those sounds, those echoed voices, those keys . . . and those terrible locked doors.