Jeffrey Archer: False Impression

Every weekday she ran the Southern Loop. On the weekends she would tackle the longer six-mile loop, when it didn’t matter if she was a few minutes late. It mattered today.

Bryce Fenston also rose before six o’clock that morning, as he too had an early appointment. While he showered, Fenston listened to the morning news: a suicide bomber who had blown himself up on the West Bank — an event that had become as commonplace as the weather forecast or the latest currency fluctuation didn’t cause him to raise the volume.

“Another clear, sunny day, with a gentle breeze heading southeast, highs of seventy-seven, lows of sixty-five,” announced a chirpy weather girl, as Fenston stepped out of the shower. A more serious voice replaced hers to inform him that the Nikkei in Tokyo was up fourteen points and Hong Kong’s Hang Seng down one. London’s FTSE hadn’t yet made up its mind in which direction to go. He considered that Fenston Finance shares were unlikely to move dramatically either way, as only two other people were aware of his little coup. Fenston was having breakfast with one of them at seven, and he would fire the other at eight.

By 6:40 A.M., Fenston had showered and dressed. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror; he would like to have been a couple of inches taller and a couple of inches thinner. Nothing that a good tailor and a pair of Cuban shoes with specially designed insoles couldn’t rectify. He would also like to have grown his hair again, but not while there were so many exiles from his country who might still recognize him.

Although his father had been a tram conductor in Bucharest, anyone who gave the immaculately dressed man a second glance as he stepped out of his brownstone on East Seventy-ninth Street and into his chauffeur-driven limousine would have assumed that he had been born into the Upper East Side establishment. Only those who looked more closely would have spotted the small diamond in his left ear — an affectation that he believed singled him out from his more conservative colleagues. None of his staff dared to tell him otherwise.

Fenston settled down in the back of his limousine. “The office,” he barked before touching a button in the armrest. A smoked gray screen purred up, cutting off any unnecessary conversation between him and the driver. Fenston picked up a copy of The New York Times from the seat beside him. He flicked through the pages to see if any particular headline grabbed his attention. Mayor Giuliani seemed to have lost the plot. Having installed his mistress in Gracie Mansion, he’d left the first lady only too happy to voice her opinion on the subject to anyone who cared to listen. This morning it was The New York Times . Fenston was poring over the financial pages when his driver swung onto FDR Drive, and he had reached the obituaries by the time the limousine came to a halt outside the North Tower. No one would be printing the only obituary he was interested in until tomorrow, but, to be fair, no one in America realized she was dead.

“I have an appointment on Wall Street at eight thirty,” Fenston informed his driver when he opened the back door for him. “So pick me up at eight fifteen.” The driver nodded, as Fenston marched off in the direction of the lobby. Although there were ninety-nine elevators in the building, only one went directly to the restaurant on the 107th floor.

As Fenston stepped out of the elevator a minute later — he had once calculated that he would spend a week of his life in elevators — the maître d’ spotted his regular customer, bowed his head slightly, and escorted him to a table in the corner overlooking the Statue of Liberty. On the one occasion Fenston had turned up to find his usual table occupied, he’d turned around and stepped straight back into the elevator. Since then, the corner table had remained empty every morning — just in case.

Fenston was not surprised to find Karl Leapman waiting for him. Leapman had never once been late in the ten years he had worked for Fenston Finance. Fenston wondered how long he had been sitting there, just to be certain that the chairman didn’t turn up before he did. Fenston looked down at a man who had proved, time and time again, that there was no sewer he wasn’t willing to swim in for his master. But then Fenston was the only person who had been willing to offer Leapman a job after he’d been released from jail. Disbarred lawyers with a prison sentence for fraud don’t expect to make partner.

Even before he took his seat, Fenston began speaking. “Now we are in possession of the Van Gogh,” he said, “we only have one matter to discuss this morning. How do we rid ourselves of Anna Petrescu without her becoming suspicious?”

Leapman opened a file in front of him and smiled.

Nothing had gone as planned that morning.

Andrews had instructed cook that he would be taking up her ladyship’s breakfast tray just as soon as the painting had been dispatched. Cook had developed a migraine, so her number two, not a reliable girl, had been put in charge of her ladyship’s breakfast. The security van turned up forty minutes late, with a cheeky young driver who refused to leave until he’d been given coffee and biscuits. Cook would never have stood for such nonsense, but her number two caved in. Half an hour later, Andrews found them sitting at the kitchen table, chatting.

Andrews was only relieved that her ladyship hadn’t stirred before the driver finally departed. He checked the tray, refolded the napkin, and left the kitchen to take breakfast up to his mistress.

Andrews held the tray on the palm of one hand and knocked quietly on the bedroom door before opening it with the other. When he saw her ladyship lying on the floor in a pool of blood, he let out a gasp, dropped the tray, and rushed over to the body.

Although it was clear Lady Victoria had been dead for several hours, Andrews did not consider contacting the police until the next in line to the Wentworth estate had been informed of the tragedy. He quickly left the bedroom, locked the door, and ran downstairs for the first time in his life.

Arabella Wentworth was serving someone when Andrews called.

She put the phone down and apologized to her customer, explaining that she had to leave immediately. She switched the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the door of her little antiques shop only moments after Andrews had uttered the word emergency , not an opinion she’d heard him express in the past forty-nine years.

Fifteen minutes later, Arabella brought her mini to a halt on the gravel outside Wentworth Hall. Andrews was standing on the top step, waiting for her.

“I’m so very sorry, m’lady,” was all he said before he led his new mistress into the house and up the wide marble staircase. When Andrews touched the bannister to steady himself, Arabella knew her sister was dead.

Arabella had often wondered how she would react in a crisis. She was relieved to find that although she was violently sick when she first saw her sister’s body, she didn’t faint. However, it was a close thing. After a second glance, she grabbed the bedpost to help steady herself before turning away.

Blood had spurted everywhere, congealing on the carpet, the walls, the writing desk, and even the ceiling. With a Herculean effort, Arabella let go of the bedpost and staggered toward the phone on the bedside table. She collapsed onto the bed, picked up the receiver, and dialed 999. When the phone was answered with the words, “Emergency, which service?” she replied, “Police.”

Arabella replaced the receiver. She was determined to reach the bedroom door without looking back at her sister’s body. She failed. Only a glance, and this time her eyes settled on the letter addressed “My dearest Arabella.” She grabbed the unfinished missive, unwilling to share her sister’s last thoughts with the local constabulary. Arabella stuffed the epistle into her pocket and walked unsteadily out of the room.