Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

Anna could feel the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as the line went dead. She checked her watch: thirty-two seconds.

“Our ‘friend’ at JFK has confirmed we’ve been allocated a slot at seven twenty tomorrow morning,” Leapman said. “But I haven’t informed Tina.”

“Why not?” asked Fenston.

“Because the doorman at Petrescu’s building told me that someone looking like Tina was seen leaving there on Tuesday evening.”

“Tuesday evening?” repeated Fenston. “But that would mean—”

“And she was carrying a suitcase.”

Fenston frowned but said nothing.

“Do you want me to do anything about it?”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Fenston.

“Bug the phone in her apartment for a start. Then if Petrescu is in contact with her, we’ll know exactly where she is and what she’s up to.”

Fenston didn’t reply, which Leapman always took to mean yes.

Canadian border 4 miles declared a sign on the side of the road. Anna smiled — a smile that was quickly removed when she swung round the next corner and came to a halt behind a long line of vehicles that stretched as far as the eye could see.

She stepped out onto the road and began to stretch her tired limbs. Anna grimaced as she looked across at what was left of her battered transport. How would she explain that to the Happy Hire Company? She certainly didn’t need to part with any more cash — the first $500 of any damage, if she remembered correctly. While continuing to stretch, she couldn’t help noticing that the other side of the road was empty; no one seemed to be in a rush to enter the United States.

Anna progressed only another hundred yards during the next twenty minutes, ending up opposite a gas station. She made an instant decision — breaking another habit of a lifetime. She swung the van across the road and onto the forecourt, drove past the pumps, and parked the van next to a tree — just behind a large sign declaring SUPERIOR CAR WASH. Anna retrieved her two bags from the back of the van and started out on the four-mile trek to the border.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Arnold Simpson, as he looked across his desk at Arabella Wentworth. “Dreadful business,” he added, dropping another sugar lump into his tea. Arabella didn’t comment as Simpson leaned forward and placed his hands on the partners’ desk, as if about to offer up a prayer. He smiled benignly at his client and was about to offer an opinion when Arabella opened the file on her lap and said, “As our family’s solicitor, perhaps you can explain how my father and Victoria managed to run up such massive debts and in so short a period of time?”

Simpson leaned back and peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Your dear father and I,” he began, “had been close friends for over forty years. We were, as I feel sure you are aware, at Eton together.” Simpson paused to touch his dark blue tie with the light blue stripe, which looked as if he’d worn it every day since he’d left school.

“My father always described it as ‘at the same time,’ rather than ‘together,’ retorted Arabella. “So perhaps you could now answer my question.”

“I was just coming to that,” said Simpson, momentarily lost for words as he searched around the scattered files that littered his desk. “Ah, yes,” he declared eventually, picking up one marked LLOYD’S OF LONDON. He opened the cover and adjusted his spectacles. “When your father became a name at Lloyd’s in nineteen seventy-one, he signed up for several syndicates, putting up the estate as collateral. For many years, the insurance industry showed handsome returns and your father received a large annual income.” Simpson ran his finger down a long list of figures.

“But did you point out to him at the time,” asked Arabella, “the meaning of unlimited liability?”

“I confess,” said Simpson, ignoring the question, “that like so many others, I did not anticipate such an unprecedented run of bad years.”

“It was no different from being a gambler hoping to make a profit from a spin at the roulette wheel,” said Arabella. “So why didn’t you advise him to cut his losses and leave the table?”

“Your father was an obstinate man,” said Simpson, “and, having ridden out some bad years, remained convinced that the good times would return.”

“But that didn’t prove to be the case,” said Arabella, turning to another of the numerous papers in her one file.

“Sadly not,” confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower in his chair so that he nearly disappeared behind the partners’ desk.

“And what happened to the large portfolio of stocks and shares that the family had accumulated over the years?”

“They were among the first assets your father had to liquidate to keep his current account in surplus. In fact,” continued the solicitor, turning over another page, “at the time of your father’s death, I fear he had run up an overdraft of something over ten million pounds.”

“But not with Coutts,” Arabella said, “as it appears some three years ago he transferred his account to a small bank in New York called Fenston Finance.”

“That is correct, dear lady,” said Simpson. “Indeed, it has always been a bit of a mystery to me how that particular establishment came across—”

“It’s no mystery to me,” retorted Arabella, as she extracted a letter from her file. “It’s clear that they singled him out as an obvious target.”

“But I still can’t work out how they knew—”

“They only had to read the financial pages of any broadsheet. They were reporting the problems faced by Lloyd’s on a daily basis, and my father’s name appeared regularly, along with several others, as being placed with unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.”

“That is pure speculation on your part,” said Simpson, his voice rising.

“Just because you didn’t consider it at the time,” replied Arabella, “doesn’t mean it’s speculation. In fact, I’m only surprised that you allowed your close friend to leave Coutts, who had served the family for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.”

Simpson turned scarlet. “Perhaps you are falling into the politician’s habit of relying on hindsight, madam.”

“No, sir,” replied Arabella. “My late husband was also offered the opportunity to join Lloyd’s. The broker assured him that the farm would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon Angus showed him the door.”

Simpson was speechless.

“And how, may I ask, with you as her principal advisor, did Victoria manage to double that debt in less than a year?”

“I am not to blame for that,” snapped Simpson. “You can direct your anger at the tax man, who always demands his pound of flesh,” he added as he searched for a file marked DEATH DUTIES. “Ah, yes, here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 percent of any assets on death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse, as I feel sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so myself, to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors, which Lady Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.”

“My sister was a naïve spinster who never left home without her father and didn’t have her own bank account until she was thirty,” said Arabella, “but still you allowed her to sign a further contract with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in even more debt.”

“It was that or putting the estate on the market.”

“No, it wasn’t,” replied Arabella. “It only took me one phone call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman of Christie’s, to be told that he would expect the family’s Van Gogh to make in excess of thirty million pounds were it to come up for auction.”