Хилари Боннер - Wheel of Fire

‘C’mon Jack, I’ll get them to you whenever you want,’ said Fairbrother as he dragged the terrified airport official closer to the departure gate. ‘We can do this.’

Kivel turned a little to watch. His broad shoulders had slumped. Vogel wondered if he dared grab the gun.

‘I always go where you go, don’t I, boss?’ he said. ‘And do what you say. Always.’

‘Yes, well, you owe me, don’t you, Jack. You’d have been locked up years ago if it wasn’t for me.’

‘At least I would have been my own man.’

‘Oh c’mon, Jack, don’t I always look after you? I will now. I promise you.’

‘And you think they’re just going to let us fly out of here, do you?’ Jack asked. ‘To live this new life with your fancy Arab friend?’

‘You’ve got the gun, Jack,’ said Fairbrother. ‘And God knows, you know how to use it.’

‘Yes, like I did earlier today. Something I already regret with all my heart.’

‘C’mon, Jack,’ said Fairbrother yet again. ‘She was a loose cannon. I did love my daughter, you know, but she had to go. She was about to bring us down.’

‘We are down, boss, down as low as you can get.’

Vogel heard a noise behind him. They’d arrived at last. Numerous black-clad armed police officers were storming the terminal.

Kivel saw it too. If Fairbrother had noticed, he gave no indication. He seemed locked in his own crazy world.

‘It’s finished, boss,’ said Kivel quietly. ‘This time we’ve gone too far.’

Kivel turned towards Vogel. ‘Tell Martha, I’m sorry, will you,’ he said.

And with that he turned the handgun around, pointed it at his own face, and shot himself through the mouth. The back of his head exploded, and he crashed instantly to the ground.

Vogel was momentarily transfixed. Sir John Fairbrother immediately let go of the airport official and lurched toward the fallen Kivel. Vogel grabbed him, this time managing to attach and fasten the handcuffs in one swift motion. But Sir John did not resist. Instead he stood quite still looking down at Jack Kivel.

Then, and Vogel could hardly believe his own eyes, this man who had behaved with such wanton mindless cruelty, who had committed such terrible evil, and shown a total disregard of the lives of other human beings to the extent that he had arranged the murder of his own daughter, began to weep.

The next day, or technically later that same day, Vogel interviewed Freddie Fairbrother at Bristol’s Lockleaze police station.

There remained a lot of unanswered questions, and Freddie was now probably the only person able or likely to provide answers to any of them.

Vogel had promised Freddie, before the formal interview began, that he almost certainly would face no charges if he told the truth and revealed all that he knew about his father’s extraordinary plan of deception. Freddie had, after all, been out of the country until less than forty-eight hours previously, and his direct involvement was slight. Vogel told Freddie that he was confident he would be free to leave the UK within a few days and return to Australia, which was now all he wanted to do.

In return, Freddie — to use a phrase which had been a favourite of Vogel’s first sergeant — had begun singing like a bird.

‘My father knew that Fairbrother International was close to collapse, and that because of his irregular business practices he would probably end up in jail, possibly, at his age, for the rest of his life,’ Freddie began. ‘He had attracted the attention of fraud investigators more than once over the years, but nothing had ever been proven. If he failed to keep Fairbrother’s afloat, and he knew that he was about to fail, there would be an investigation on a whole new level. He feared that not only was he going to lose the bank, but his reputation, and that of the family, would be ruined for ever. Which to him was of massive importance, overshadowing even the probability of a jail sentence.’

‘And so, in your own words, Mr Fairbrother, will you please tell me the details of this plan your father concocted which was supposed to save the bank and keep his reputation intact?’ asked Vogel.

‘Well, I don’t know it all...’

‘Just everything you do know, Mr Fairbrother.’

‘Well, as you would be aware, Mr Vogel, the bank is a family affair, a family business, and it has survived many centuries of trading. One of the reasons for this is that continuity has always been maintained, largely by a unique system of trust funds, and other investments, which can only be released back into the bank following the death of the incumbent chairman, which is an appointment for life, you understand. Like being a monarch.’

Freddie managed a small smile. ‘A despot monarch, usually, and certainly in my father’s case,’ he continued. ‘The chairman traditionally retires from active participation at a certain age, if he lives that long, and appoints a chief executive to actually run the company, but he remains chairman until his death. These moneys are then realised when the next chair, always another Fairbrother, takes office, ensuring a fresh influx of funds with every generation, and more or less copper bottoming the future of the bank even if the previous chair has left it with problems. My father, I suppose, wanted to have his cake and eat it, as they say.

‘By faking his own death he could maintain his reputation, and at the same time ensure the future of the bank. That’s what he thought anyway. He also thought he could carry on running things from behind the scenes. The bank, in particular, had always been his toy after all. Crazy really. Now you come to think of it.’

Yes, thought Vogel. Beyond crazy.

Aloud he said, ‘Your father actually found someone to, in effect, die in his place. Do you know how he managed to do that? Why would anybody agree to that?’

Fairbrother shrugged. ‘Well, Pa didn’t actually seek someone out to do that. It happened by chance. He told me he was coming out of a restaurant in Covent Garden, with friends, when he damned near fell over this homeless guy lying on the pavement. The two of them just stared at each other. Pa said the man was his double, a slightly smaller, weaker, version of himself — even the same thick white hair — and about the same age. He could also see that this man was ill. The idea came to him that night, and he went back to Covent Garden the next day to try to find the man, which he did quite easily, and learned that he had Parkinson’s and a very limited life expectancy. So, basically, Pa offered him care for the rest of his days, a luxurious home, all the medical attention he needed and so on, if he would take Father’s place. The man wouldn’t have to do anything, he would be protected from difficult contact with outsiders, anything he wanted would be provided for him without question, and so on.’

Vogel tried not to show too much astonishment. He supposed he shouldn’t be that amazed. Sir John Fairbrother had clearly thought he was near immortal and could get away with anything. He also, equally clearly, had immense powers of persuasion.

‘And the homeless man agreed to all of this, just like that?’

Fairbrother shrugged. ‘You’re living rough, out in the cold, drinking meths and cider. Somebody offers you warmth and comfort, champagne and fine brandy. Bit of a no brainer, some might say.’

Vogel supposed Freddie Fairbrother had a point.

‘When did your father tell you all this?’ he asked.

‘He came to see me about seven or eight months ago. Just turned up in Brisbane, complete with beard and bald head. A simple but excellent disguise. I almost didn’t recognise him at first. But, of course, I hadn’t seen him in eighteen years.