Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“She’s also spoken to me a couple of times.”

“Jessie’s been calling you reverse charges?”

“Only when she can’t get hold of you.”

“I’ll kill her.”

“No, no,” said Hakim. “Don’t do that. She makes a pleasant change from most of my callers, although heaven help the man who marries her.”

“No one will ever be good enough.”

“And Samantha? Are you good enough for her?”

“Of course not, but I haven’t given up hope because Jessie tells me they’re going to Rome in the summer, when they hope to see all nineteen Caravaggios.”

“I assume you’ve booked your holiday at the same time?”

“You’re worse than Jessie. It wouldn’t surprise me if you two were in league together.”

“I’ll see you around twelve tomorrow,” said Hakim, before the phone went dead.

Mai Ling returned the phone to the little table in the corner of the room before starting to work on Seb’s neck. But he couldn’t help wondering why the chairman wanted to see him the moment he got back, and why he wasn’t willing to discuss the matter over the phone.

A little buzz on Mai Ling’s clock indicated that his hour was up. Seb was so relaxed he’d almost fallen asleep. He climbed off the table, went into the bedroom and extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet. By the time he returned, the massage table had been folded up, the bottles of oils returned to their case and the towels deposited in the laundry basket.

He handed Mai Ling her tip, and she bowed low before quickly leaving the room. Seb sat down next to the phone, but it was some time before he picked it up.

“How can I help you, Mr. Clifton?”

“I’d like to place a call to the States.”

“Any idea why the chairman wants to see me so urgently?”

“No, Mr. Clifton,” replied Rachel. “But I can tell you that Barry Hammond is in there with him.”

“Right. Send the English copy of the contract down to accounts and remind them that the first payment is due on quarter day, in francs.”

“And the French copy?”

“File it along with the others in the gathering-dust cabinet. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve seen the chairman.”

Sebastian left his office, walked quickly down the corridor and knocked on the chairman’s door. He entered to find Hakim deep in conversation with Barry Hammond and someone he thought he recognized.

“Welcome back, Seb. You know Barry Hammond of course, and I think you’ve recently met his colleague, Mai Ling.”

Sebastian stared at the woman seated next to Barry, but it took him a moment to realize who she was. She rose and shook hands with Seb, no longer deferential, no longer shy.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Clifton.”

Seb decided to sit down in the nearest chair before his legs gave way.

“Congratulations on your triumph, Seb,” said Hakim, “and the agreement you extracted from the French. Bravo. Just remind me of the details. No, why don’t you remind me, Mai Ling?”

“Repayments of 3.8 percent per annum as long as the exchange rate remains at 9.42 francs to the pound.”

Seb put his head in his hands, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“And may I add, Mr. Clifton, how nice I think it is that your daughter Jessica calls you from the States, twice, sometimes three times a week, and you always allow her to reverse the charges.”

Hakim and Barry burst out laughing. Seb could feel his cheeks burning.

“No harm done,” said Hakim. “Barry, why don’t you explain to Seb why we put him through this charade?”

“Although we’re now fairly certain it was either Adrian Sloane or Desmond Mellor, possibly the two of them working together, who were responsible for having the drugs planted in Mr. Bishara’s bag, we’re no nearer to being able to prove it. Sloane, as you probably know, has a flat in Kensington, while Mellor’s main residence is in Gloucester, though he also has a pied-à-terre above his office in Bristol. And we recently found out that whenever he comes to London he always books into the same room at the same hotel. The Swan in St. James’s.”

“The head porter there, who shall remain nameless,” said Mai Ling, picking up the thread, “is an ex-Met copper, like Barry and myself. He recently suggested to Mellor that he take advantage of the hotel’s free massage service, which is available only to regular customers.”

“He clearly enjoys Mai Ling’s skills in particular,” continued Hammond, “because he now always books her well in advance. That’s how we know he’ll be staying at the Swan next Tuesday night. He’s made an appointment to have a massage at 4:30 that afternoon. I’ve booked his room for the night before, which will give me more than enough time to install the recording device, so we can listen in to what he and Sloane are saying to each other.”

“But what makes you think Sloane will call him at that time?”

“He doesn’t have to. Mellor is never off the phone, and the number he calls most frequently is Sloane’s.”

“But surely Sloane will be cautious about what he says over the phone?”

“He usually is, but Mellor sometimes goads him, and Sloane can’t resist trying to score the occasional point. And he probably thinks Mellor’s calling from his office, so the line’s secure.”

“But they may not discuss anything of any use to us,” said Seb.

“You may well be right, Mr. Clifton, because this will be Mai Ling’s fourth appointment with Mellor, and although certain key words regularly come up whenever he and Sloane talk on the phone — Farthings, Bishara, Clifton, Barrington and occasionally Hardcastle and Kaufman — they haven’t yet divulged anything of real significance. But now that I’ve listened to the three earlier tapes, I’d know Mellor’s or Sloane’s voice the moment I heard it. That’s relevant because David Collier has given me a copy of the tape recording of the anonymous tip-off call. I listened to it again last night and, I can tell you, it was Adrian Sloane.”

“Well done, Barry,” said Hakim. “But how do we prove that Mellor was also involved?”

“That’s where Mai Ling comes in,” said Barry. “Given time, I’m sure she’ll work her magic on him, just as she did on you, Mr. Clifton. Unless you have any more questions, we ought to get back to work.”

“Just one.” Seb turned to Mai Ling. “While I’ve been sitting here, I’ve developed a slight crick in my neck, and I wondered...”

Mai Ling set up the massage table while Desmond Mellor went into the bathroom and got undressed. When he came out, he was wearing only a pair of pants. He patted her backside as he climbed onto the table, pleased to see she’d already put the phone next to his headrest.

Mellor picked it up and began dialing even before she’d begun to work on his feet. He always enjoyed having his feet and head massaged more than any other part of his body. Well, almost. But Mai Ling had made it clear from the outset that wasn’t on offer, even if he paid cash.

His first call was to his bank manager, and the only point of interest that emerged was that he agreed the company should pay Lady Virginia Fenwick’s latest expenses claim of £92.75, a figure that seemed to increase every month. He would have to speak to her about it. He had also sent a donation of £1,000 to the Bristol Cathedral organ fund, a building he’d never entered.

His second call was to his secretary at Mellor Travel in Bristol. He barked at the poor girl for about twenty minutes, by which time Mai Ling had reached his shoulders. She was beginning to fear that this would be another wasted session until he suddenly slammed the phone down and started dialing again.