Jeffrey Archer - The Sins of the Father

Emma was sitting on the edge of her seat when the warden came on the line.

‘Good morning, Mr Stuart. This is Warden Swanson. How can I help you?’

‘Good morning, Mr Swanson. I made an application ten days ago on behalf of my client, Miss Emma Barrington, requesting a visit on compassionate grounds to an inmate, Thomas Bradshaw, at the earliest possible opportunity. I received a letter from your office this morning saying the application has been turned down. I can find no legal reason for-’

‘Mr Stuart, your application was processed in the usual way, but I was unable to grant your request because Mr Bradshaw is no longer being held at this establishment.’

Another long silence followed, although Emma could see that the tape was still turning. Alistair eventually said, ‘And which institution has he been transferred to?’

‘I am not at liberty to disclose that information, Mr Stuart.’

‘But under the law, my client has the right to-’

‘The prisoner has signed a document waiving his rights, a copy of which I’d be happy to send to you.’

‘But why would he do that?’ said Alistair, casting a line into the water.

‘I am not at liberty to disclose that information,’ repeated the warden, not rising to the bait.

‘Are you at liberty to divulge anything at all concerning Thomas Bradshaw?’ asked Alistair, trying not to sound exasperated.

Another long silence followed and, although the tape was still running, Emma wondered if the warden had put his phone down. Alistair placed a finger to his lips, and suddenly the voice was back on the line.

‘Harry Clifton was released from prison, but continued to serve his sentence.’ Another long pause. ‘And I lost the best librarian this prison’s ever had.’

The phone went dead.

Alistair pressed the stop button before he spoke. ‘The warden went as far as he could to assist us.’

‘By mentioning Harry by name?’ said Emma.

‘Yes, but also by letting us know he served in the prison library until very recently. That explains how Lloyd got his hands on the diaries.’

Emma nodded. ‘But you said there were three important clues,’ she reminded him. ‘What was the third?’

‘That Harry was released from Lavenham, but continues to serve his sentence.’

‘Then he must be in another prison,’ said Emma.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Alistair. ‘Now we’re at war, my bet is that Tom Bradshaw will be serving the rest of his sentence in the navy.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘It’s all in the diaries,’ said Alistair. He picked up a copy of The Diary of a Convict from his desk, turned to a page marked by a bookmark and read: ‘ The first thing I’ll do when I get back to Bristol is join the navy and fight the Germans.’

‘But they’d never have allowed him to return to England before he’d completed his sentence.’

‘I didn’t say he’d joined the British Navy.’

‘Oh God,’ said Emma as the significance of Alistair’s words sank in.

‘At least we know Harry’s still alive,’ said Alistair cheerfully.

‘I wish he was still in prison.’

SIR WALTER’S FUNERAL was held at St Mary’s Redcliffe, and the late chairman of Barrington’s Shipping Line would surely have been proud to see such a packed congregation and to hear the heartfelt eulogy delivered by the Bishop of Bristol.

After the service, the mourners lined up to offer their condolences to Sir Hugo as he stood at the north door of the church, alongside his mother. He was able to explain to those who asked that his daughter Emma was marooned in New York, although he couldn’t tell them why she’d gone there in the first place, and his son Giles, of whom he was inordinately proud, was interned in a German PoW camp in Weinsberg; information his mother had passed on to him the previous evening.

During the service, Lord and Lady Harvey, Hugo’s ex-wife Elizabeth and their daughter Grace had all been seated in the front row of the church, on the opposite side of the aisle from Hugo. All of them had paid their respects to the grieving widow, and had then pointedly left without acknowledging his presence.

Maisie Clifton had sat at the back of the church, her head bowed throughout the service, and left moments after the bishop had delivered the final blessing.

When Bill Lockwood, the managing director of Barrington’s, stepped forward to shake hands with his new chairman and to express his condolences, all Hugo had to say was, ‘I expect to see you in my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Mr Lockwood gave a slight bow.

A reception was held at Barrington Hall after the funeral, and Hugo mingled among the mourners, several of whom were about to discover that they no longer had a job with Barrington’s. When the last guest had departed, Hugo went up to his bedroom and changed for dinner.

He entered the dining room with his mother on his arm. Once she was seated, he took his father’s place at the head of the table. During the meal, while there were no servants in attendance, he told his mother that, despite his father’s misgivings, he was a reformed character.

He went on to assure her that the company was in safe hands, and that he had exciting plans for its future.

Hugo drove his Bugatti through the gates of Barrington’s shipyard for the first time in over two years, at 9.23 the following morning. He parked in the chairman’s space before making his way up to his father’s old office.

As he stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor, he saw Bill Lockwood pacing up and down the corridor outside his office, a red folder under his arm. But then Hugo had always intended to keep him waiting.

‘Good morning, Hugo,’ said Lockwood, stepping forward.

Hugo strolled past him without responding. ‘Good morning, Miss Potts,’ he said to his old secretary, as if he’d never been away. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m ready to see Mr Lockwood,’ he added, before walking through to his new office.

He sat down at his father’s desk – that was how he still thought of it, and he wondered how long that feeling would last – and began to read The Times . Once the Americans and Russians had entered the war, far more people were beginning to believe in an Allied victory. He put down the paper.

‘I’ll see Mr Lockwood now, Miss Potts.’

The managing director entered the chairman’s office with a smile on his face. ‘Welcome back, Hugo,’ he said.

Hugo gave him a fixed stare and said, ‘Chairman.’

‘I’m sorry, chairman,’ said a man who had served on the board of Barrington’s when Hugo was in short trousers.

‘I’d like you to bring me up to date on the company’s financial position.’

‘Of course, chairman.’ Lockwood opened the red folder he’d been carrying under his arm.

As the chairman hadn’t invited him to sit, he remained standing. ‘Your father,’ he began, ‘managed to guide the company prudently through troubled times, and despite several setbacks, not least the Germans continually targeting the docks during their nightly bombing raids in the early part of the war, with the help of government contracts, we have managed to weather the storm, so we should be in good shape once this dreadful war is over.’

‘Cut the waffle,’ said Hugo, ‘and get to the bottom line.’

‘Last year,’ continued the managing director turning a page, ‘the company made a profit of thirty-seven thousand, four hundred pounds and ten shillings.’