Джеффри Арчер - Tell Tale - Stories

“I’d like to begin,” said Arthur, “by thanking those people, and in particular Barbara, for organizing such a splendid party, and to all of you for this magnificent gift. And to you, Gerald,” he said, turning to face the manager, “I must say it will be quite hard to forget who gave me the watch, when engraved on the back is the inscription, ‘To Arthur, from all his colleagues at NBT.’” Everyone laughed and applauded as Arthur strapped the watch on his wrist. “And if any of you should ever find yourself at a loose end in Vancouver, do please look me up.” He didn’t add, but should you do so, you won’t find me.

Arthur was touched by how warm the applause was when he rejoined the guests.

“We’ll all miss you,” said Barbara.

Arthur smiled at the bank’s biggest gem. “And I’ll miss you,” he admitted.

Arthur left the bank at six o’clock on quarter day. He took the bus back to his small apartment and packed up all his belongings before spending his last night in Toronto.

The following morning, after handing over the keys to his apartment to the janitor, he took a cab to the airport. He only made one stop on the journey, when he donated four packed suitcases of his past to a grateful volunteer worker at the local Red Cross shop.

After checking in at the domestic terminal, Arthur boarded the midday flight for Vancouver. On arrival on the west coast, he collected his only suitcase from the carousel, and took a shuttle bus across to the international terminal. He waited in line before purchasing a business-class ticket to London, which he paid for with the last of his Canadian dollars. By the time Arthur boarded the plane he was so exhausted he slept for almost the entire flight.

When he landed at Heathrow and had passed through Customs, he once again transferred to terminal five and purchased a ticket to Edinburgh, also with cash. Arthur checked the departure board, and although he had an hour to spare, he made his way slowly across to gate 43. He stopped at every lavatory en route, locked himself into a cubicle, ripped out one page of his Canadian passport, tore it into little pieces, and flushed it down the toilet.

By the time Arthur reached the check-in desk, all he had left of his old passport was the cover. Mr. Dunbar dropped it into the bottom of a waste bin outside McDonald’s.

“Will all passengers...”

Mr. Macpherson stepped onto the plane.

On arrival in Edinburgh, Arthur took a taxi to the Caledonian Hotel and checked in.

“Welcome back,” said the desk clerk, as he checked his credit card against the customer’s reservation. He handed him a room key and said, “You’ve been upgraded, Mr. Macpherson.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, who was shown up to a small suite on the sixth floor, to be greeted with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a handwritten note of welcome from the manager. He gave the bellboy a handsome tip.

Once he’d unpacked, he called Mr. Buchan and made an appointment to see him later that afternoon. Following a light lunch in the brasserie, Arthur took a stroll along Princes Street and arrived outside the bank with a few minutes to spare.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Macpherson,” said Buchan, leaping up from behind his desk when Arthur entered the account manager’s office.

“It’s nice to see you too,” said Arthur, as the two men shook hands.

“Can I offer you a tea or coffee?” asked Buchan once his client was seated.

“No, thank you. I only wanted to check that my bank in Toronto had carried out the transfer, and there hadn’t been any problems.”

“None that I’m aware of,” said Buchan. “In fact, the transfer couldn’t have gone more smoothly, thanks to Mr. Dunbar, and I’m looking forward to representing you in the future. So can I ask, Mr. Macpherson, is there anything you require at the moment?”

“A new credit card and some checkbooks.”

“Can I suggest our gold club card,” said Buchan, “which has a daily credit limit of one thousand pounds, with no security checks, and I’ve already put in an order for some new checkbooks, which should be with us by Monday. Would you like me to forward them on to Ambrose Hall?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Arthur, “as I intend to spend a few days in Edinburgh before I return to Ambrose. So perhaps I can drop in on Monday and pick them up.”

“Then I’ll put a foot on the pedal and make sure they’re ready for you to collect by then.”

“And my old NBT card?” asked Arthur.

“We’ll cancel that when we hand over the new one on Monday. Do you have enough cash to see you through the weekend?”

“More than enough,” said Arthur.

Arthur left the bank and began walking back down Princes Street. What he hadn’t told Buchan was that he intended to do some shopping before he headed for Ambrose, and even take in a concert or recital. In fact he dropped into four shops on his way back to the hotel, and purchased three suits, six silk shirts, two pairs of Church’s shoes, and an overcoat in the sale. Arthur had done more shopping in three hours than he’d previously managed in three years. As he continued down Princes Street, Arthur stopped to look at the painting in the window of Munro’s, a Peploe of a bowl of fruit that he much admired. But he already had half a dozen of his own. In any case, he decided it might not be wise to enter the gallery where Mr. Macpherson had purchased so many pictures in the past, so he continued on his way back to the hotel.

After a cold shower and a change of clothes, Arthur made his way down to the hotel dining room, where he enjoyed an Aberdeen Angus steak with all the trimmings, and a bottle of red wine he had read about in one of the color supplements.

By the time he’d signed the bill — he nearly forgot his name — he was ready for a good night’s sleep. He was passing Scott’s Bar on his way to the lifts when he turned and saw her image in the mirror. She was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar sipping a glass of champagne. Arthur continued on toward the lifts, and when one opened, he hesitated, turned around, and began walking slowly back toward the bar. Could she really have been that attractive? There was only one way he was going to find out. In any case, someone had probably joined her by now.

A second look, and he was even more captivated. She must have been about forty, and the elegant green dress that rested just above her knees only convinced Arthur she couldn’t possibly be alone. He strolled up to the bar and took a seat on a stool two places away from her. He ordered a drink, but he didn’t have the nerve to even glance in her direction, and certainly wouldn’t have considered striking up a conversation.

“Are you here for the conference?” she asked.

Arthur swung round and stared into those green eyes before murmuring, “What conference?”

“The garden centers annual conference.”

“No,” said Arthur. “I’m on holiday. But is that why you’re here?”

“Yes, I run a small garden center in Durham. Are you a gardener by any chance?”

Arthur thought about his flat in Toronto where he’d had a window box, and Ambrose Hall, that couldn’t have been less than a thousand acres.

“No,” he managed. “Always lived in a city,” he added, as she drained her champagne. “Can I get you another?”

“Thank you,” she said, allowing the barman to refill her glass. “My name’s Marianne.”

“I’m Sandy,” he said.

“And what do you do, Sandy?”

“I dabble in stocks and shares,” he replied, taking on the persona of Macpherson. “And when you said ‘run,’ does that mean you’re the boss?”

“I wish,” she said, and by the time Marianne’s glass had been refilled three times, he’d discovered she was divorced, her husband had run away with a woman half his age, no children, and she had planned to go to the Schubert concert at the Usher Hall that night only to find it was sold out. After another drink, he even found out she didn’t consider Brahms to be in the same class as Beethoven. He was already wondering how far the journey was from Edinburgh to Durham.