Lynda Plante: Sleeping Cruelty

‘You’d be surprised, Sir William...’ And with that she swanned off into a small throng of people.

On his way out, William overheard someone say, ‘God help this country if people like that vulgar fool and his protégé can buy their way into the cabinet!’

With clenched fists he walked out of Claridge’s into Brook Street and signalled for his chauffeur.

William was always up and dressed by six, his chauffeur standing by to take him to his first appointment of the morning. Recently he had been planning a takeover of a German electronics company. It was part of a large corporation owned by Baron von Garten, whose steel empire had been in his family for generations. However, it had been hinted that they were selling off their smaller electronics bases. Three previous meetings had been cancelled so William had sent his private plane and an invitation to breakfast at the Connaught. He was determined to get his hands on the prime site, sniffing out, with his fine business acumen, that von Garten was in financial difficulties. He knew that once he had his foot in the door he could make further inroads into the von Garten companies.

Sir William arrived at exactly nine for his breakfast meeting. He had been so busy making calls he had not noticed that one shoelace was undone and in danger of tripping him up as he marched through the Connaught Hotel reception into the dining room. William sat down at a table with a pristine pink cloth and a single rose in a tubular silver vase. He tossed aside the menu and ordered grapefruit, coffee, wholemeal toast and kippers. He always had the kippers at the Connaught: they were perfect, not too smoked, and grilled with just a dab of butter. Just thinking about his breakfast, his mouth watered and he’d eaten two rounds of toast before his guest sauntered into the dining room.

Baron von Garten was accompanied by a shrewish little man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a soft leather briefcase. William waited, tetchily drumming his fingers on the table, but the Baron made no apology either for being half an hour late or for the previous cancelled meetings. His companion introduced himself as Herr Eric Kramer, the Baron’s lawyer.

The elegant Baron said only a few words and left his lawyer to do most of the talking. Kramer explained that the Baron’s family had to be a hundred per cent certain that, if they did agree to the sale, their name would not be connected to any of the factory’s future products. He gave a blow-by-blow account of the Baron’s ancestral history, emphasized how well connected the family still was, and declared that a transaction would be withdrawn at any whisper of scandal. He wanted a confidentiality agreement signed to ensure that any dealings would never be made public.

William was pretty sure that the Baron’s Board of Directors had not been asked to approve the deal, so that when the business was sold to William it would be too late for anyone to do anything about it. He guessed that the Baron, for all his family connections, was hurting for cash.

‘How much?’ he asked softly, and both men leaned forward as if afraid to be overheard.

William shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, that is a preposterous asking price,’ he said, and withdrew from his own briefcase a detailed document about the property: its location, its present dilapidated condition. It emphasized that William was buying the shell of the old factory to tear down and rebuild; his major interest in the purchase was its location. He wished to turn it into a computer works, offering four hundred jobs, and bringing a team of experts to train the employees to his standards. He showed them a brochure about a similar factory up and running in Paris. As they glanced over it he signalled for the bill.

The deal was concluded quickly. William would arrange a banker’s draft to pay a percentage of the fourteen million dollars he had agreed — exactly half the amount they had asked for. They would receive this as soon as all the documents were signed and the surveyors had completed their inspections.

Throughout the entire transaction the Baron had remained aloof, treating William with contempt. It was as if this business deal was beneath him. Perhaps it was no wonder that — if the rumours were well founded — he had got himself into dire financial difficulty.

William had to wait only a moment outside for his Rolls — Arthur was heading towards him immediately. The Baron walked out of the hotel accompanied by a rather well-preserved blonde woman. He introduced his wife frostily, and the Baroness smiled vacantly in William’s direction as the doorman hailed a passing taxi. The taxi drew up at the same time as William’s gleaming car, but he was already speaking into his mobile so they had no further interaction. Not that William desired any: his mind was already on his next appointment with his bankers.

After lunch Andrew Maynard joined him for coffee. He seemed relaxed and confident, his face slightly flushed, although this was noticeable only to William, who knew him well enough to realize that Maynard was drinking more than usual. But the warning bells still did not ring and William was merely pleased to see his protégé looking almost handsome: he’d been away in France and the suntan suited him, and he had started taking more interest in his clothes. Maynard was wearing a slim gold watch and the lining of his expensive new suit was of a dark emerald green satin.

The conversation turned to the predilection of the British press for public hounding, and to the most powerful man in British journalism, the newspaper magnate Humphrey Matlock. Matlock’s powerful control of virtually every newspaper in the UK made him a formidable opponent. Although William didn’t know him, he admired Matlock’s tenacious strength of mind. Maynard, however, believed that no single individual should be allowed such control of the national media. William pointed out that as long as Matlock was on their side they had no reason to try to stop him.

‘We’ll never know exactly which side he’s on. And now that everyone is afraid to get on the wrong side of him, whichever party they belong to, he’s unstoppable,’ Maynard insisted.

‘I don’t understand why you suddenly feel the need to attack him. As I recall, he’s never done anything but enhance your image,’ William replied, then stood up to leave — he had a three-thirty appointment.

The next morning at five fifty-five William had had his morning shower and was throwing on his clothes. He caught sight of the documents he’d been reading in bed the night before, and his heart leaped with pleasure. He owned numerous sumptuous homes around the world, all run by a permanent staff and ready for occupancy at any time of the year. But his latest purchase was the jewel in his crown. He was looking forward to showing it off to Maynard. He wouldn’t approve, of course: he maintained that one home was enough for anyone. William had bought a small island in the British Virgin Islands. In the sixties it had enjoyed brief fame as a jet-set getaway, and appeared in all the top magazines as one of the most exclusive playgrounds in the world. But in the intervening years the owner had grown infirm and his money had gone on health care rather than upkeep. Now the island was in a state of total disrepair.

William had spectacular plans to make his paradise rise from the ashes like a phoenix. He had bought it at a good price because the refurbishment costs would be astronomical. He invited a select group of designers to tender for the renovations, and took great delight in poring over their Toytown models. It was a huge job and, judging from the way the companies fell over themselves to produce their designs, a desirable one. Maynard would be appalled at the fact that no expense would be spared to make William’s dream come true.