Джеффри Арчер - This Was a Man

When the doors opened, a neatly printed sign on one of the desks announced which agent was Mr Alan Carter. Seb sat down opposite a young man wearing a pinstriped suit, white shirt and green silk tie. He gave Seb a welcoming smile.

‘Are you a buyer, a seller or possibly both, Mr—’

‘Clifton.’

‘You’re not by any chance related to Lady Clifton?’

‘She’s my mother.’

‘Then I hope you’ll pass on my best wishes to her.’

‘You know her?’

‘Only as chairman of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. My wife had breast cancer, and they met when she was on one of her weekly ward rounds.’

‘Every Wednesday morning, from ten to twelve,’ said Seb. ‘She said it gave her a chance to find out what the patients and staff were really thinking.’

‘And I can tell you something else,’ said Carter. ‘When my son was knocked off his bike and twisted an ankle, there she was again, this time in A and E observing everything that was going on.’

‘That would have been a Friday afternoon, between four and six.’

‘That didn’t surprise me, but what did was that she came over and had a word with my wife, and even remembered her name. So just tell me what you want, Mr Clifton, because I’m your man.’

‘I’m afraid I’m neither a buyer nor a seller, Mr Carter, but a seeker of information.’

‘If I can help, I will.’

‘The bank I represent is currently involved in a takeover bid for Mellor Travel, and I was interested by a statement you made to the local press concerning the sale of Mr Desmond Mellor’s flat in Broad Street.’

‘Which one of the many statements I made?’ asked Carter, clearly enjoying the attention.

‘You told a reporter from the Evening News that you had held back part of the proceeds from the sale of the flat rather than pass over the full amount to the executors of Mr Mellor’s will, which puzzled my father.’

‘Clever man, your father. Which is more than can be said for the reporter, who failed to follow it up.’

‘Well, I’d like to follow it up.’

‘And if I were to assist you, Mr Clifton, would it be of any benefit to your mother?’

‘Indirectly, yes. If my bank is successful in taking over Mellor Travel, my parents will benefit from the transaction, because I manage their share portfolio.’

‘So one of them can get on with the writing, while the other runs the NHS?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Between you and me,’ whispered Carter, leaning conspiratorially across his desk, ‘I thought it was a strange business from the start. A client who can only phone you once a week and is restricted to three minutes because he’s calling from prison was a challenge in itself.’

‘Yes, I can believe that.’

‘Mind you, his first instruction was straightforward enough. He wanted to put his flat on the market, with the proviso that the whole transaction had to be completed within thirty days.’

Seb took out a cheque book from an inside pocket, and wrote on the back ‘30 days’.

‘He called a week later and made another request that puzzled me, because I’d assumed he was a rich man.’ Seb kept his pen poised. ‘He asked if I could advance him a short-term loan of ten thousand pounds against the property, as he needed the cash urgently. I began to explain to him that it was against company policy, when the line went dead.’

Seb wrote down ‘£10,000’, and underlined it.

‘A fortnight later, I was able to tell him I’d found a buyer for the flat, who’d deposited ten per cent of the asking price with his solicitor, but wouldn’t complete until he’d seen the surveyor’s report. Mr Mellor then made an even stranger request.’

Seb continued to look enthralled by every word Carter had to say.

‘Once the sale had gone through, I was to hand over the first ten thousand to a friend of his from London, but not until they had produced a legal document that had been signed by him, witnessed by a Mr Graves, and dated May twelfth 1981.’

Seb wrote down ‘friend, £10,000, legal doc signed by Mellor/Graves’ and the date.

‘Whatever sum was left over,’ continued Carter, ‘after we’d deducted our fees, was to be deposited in his personal account at Nat West on Queen Street.’

Seb added, ‘Nat West Queen Street’ to his ever-growing list.

‘I finally managed to get rid of the flat, but not before we’d lowered the price considerably. Once I had, I carried out Mr Mellor’s instructions to the letter.’

‘Are you still in possession of the document?’ asked Seb, who could feel his heart pounding.

‘No. But a lady rang this office, and when I confirmed I was holding ten thousand in escrow, she sounded very interested, until I added that I couldn’t release the money unless she could produce the document signed by Mr Mellor. She asked if a copy would suffice, but I told her I’d need sight of the original document before I would be willing to release the ten thousand.’

‘What did she say to that?’

‘Frankly, she lost her cool, and started to threaten me. Said I’d be hearing from her solicitor if I didn’t hand over the money. But I stood firm, Mr Clifton, and I haven’t heard from her since.’

‘Quite right.’

‘I’m glad you agree, Mr Clifton, because a few days later the strangest thing happened.’ Seb raised an eyebrow. ‘A local businessman turned up late one afternoon, just as we were about to close, and produced the original document, so I had no choice but to hand over the ten thousand to him.’

Seb wrote down ‘local businessman’. He now had to agree with his father — Carter was in possession of several pieces of the jigsaw. However, he still needed one more question answered.

‘And the woman’s name?’

‘No, Mr Clifton,’ said Carter after a slight hesitation. ‘I think I’ve gone quite far enough. But I can tell you that she was a lady like your mother, but not like your mother, because I doubt if she would remember my name.’

Seb wrote down the word ‘lady’ on the back of his cheque book before rising from his place. ‘Thank you,’ he said as he shook hands with Mr Carter. ‘You’ve been most helpful, and I’ll pass on your kind comments to my mother.’

‘My pleasure. I’m only sorry I can’t give you the lady’s name.’

‘Not to worry,’ said Seb. ‘But if Lady Virginia should call you again, do give her my best wishes.’

Sebastian placed his cheque book on the table in front of him. Hakim Bishara, Arnold Hardcastle and Giles Barrington were clearly intrigued, but said nothing.

‘I’ve just spent the weekend in Somerset with my parents,’ said Seb, ‘and I discovered that my father has been taking an inordinate amount of interest in the death of Desmond Mellor. Like Barry Hammond, he’s not convinced it was suicide, and once you accept that as a possibility, several options arise.’

The three men seated around the table were listening intently.

‘My father advised me to visit a local estate agent on Saturday morning and have a chat with the man who was responsible for selling Mellor’s Bristol flat.’ Seb looked at the long list of bullet points he’d written on the back of his cheque book during his meeting with Carter. Twenty minutes later he had explained to his attentive audience why he thought the lady in question was Lady Virginia Fenwick, and the local businessman none other than Jim Knowles.

‘But how could those two have met?’ asked Giles. ‘They hardly mix in the same circles.’

‘Mellor has to be the common factor,’ suggested Arnold.

‘And money the glue,’ added Hakim, ‘because that woman wouldn’t waste her time on either of them unless she could see a profit in it for herself.’