by Graham Hamer
“That name, Alice Alston, where does she fit into this?”
“She was the mother of Jack Tweedle's illegitimate child. Why?”
Her face was pallid but her voice was agitated. “This child, it's a male isn't it.”
“Yes.”
“About forty years old?”
“We don't know exactly, but from what Tweedle told me, that would seem to fit.”
“What did Jack Tweedle say to you, about handing over the envelope personally and everything?”
“Is it important?”
“It's very important.”
He closed his eyes to envisage the old man's visit to his office. “Old Jack Tweedle was very specific. He told me I was to hand it over personally because the beneficiary would have a lot of questions to ask me that only I would be able to answer. He said that the beneficiary should know all about his past, that the letter in the envelope contained a lot of information about who he was, and that I'd be able to help him fill in certain gaps.”
“Nothing else?” she asked, clenching her hands together.
It had been a long meeting with Tweedle and William tried to summarize the highlights. “He said that this person had been married but was now single again. That he'd been born on the island but that he'd been given as a baby to a woman who'd had a stillbirth, so there were no official adoption papers. He gave me lots of clues but not the identity of the man himself.”
“Oh Lord, William, it all fits,” Nancy said with one hand over her mouth.
“What does? Are you telling me you know who it is?”
“Yes, I know who it is. It's Ian.”
William's mouth opened and closed, like a caught fish. She couldn't possibly be referring to her ex-husband.
“It's Ian.” she said again. “His mother, his adoptive mother, died when he was still a boy and he was raised by his adoptive father. Then, just before the father died, he told Ian that he'd been unofficially adopted. Ian knew that his real mother, his biological mother, was a woman called Alice Alston, but I don't think he ever found out who his natural father was. Or if he did, he never said anything about it to me.”
“But how could he be 'unofficially' adopted?”
“Back in those days, illegitimacy was frowned on so his biological mother who was, in any case, quite poor, had already made the decision not to keep him. The father, the biological father that is, supported her enough to keep the birth secret. Having children at home was a lot more common then than it is today. At about the same time that Ian was born, his adoptive mother had a baby that was stillborn at home and, since she knew of the biological mother's situation, it was immediately agreed that she would register Ian as her own home-born child and raise him as hers. Nowadays, you'd call it a surrogate birth, but forty years ago it was one of those things that happened in private - probably more often than people would admit to. But at least, before he died, Ian's adoptive father was honest enough to share the details with him.”
William sat back in the chair. “Good heavens, Nancy, you're a genius. Not only have you resolved the issue for me, you've made Ian a multi-millionaire.”
“Not so fast,” Nancy said, grabbing his hand. “You're forgetting something aren't you?”
“What's that?”
“The bit about giving Ian the envelope personally. About filling in the gaps. About why his life was a mess. Don't you see, William? Old Man Tweedle lived next door. He knew that we'd been seeing each other. He wants you to face Ian while he reads all about us. He wants you barred from practicing. He wants to punish us.”
William's jaw dropped. “Bloody hell. I see what you mean. The cunning old bastard. So that's why he chose me to administer his estate.”
“I don't know,” Nancy said. “I do know one thing though; If you value your profession as a solicitor, that envelope must never reach Ian.”
WEDNESDAY 3 DECEMBER
Ron Scott leaned back in the chair, almost to tipping point. “It's almost over,” he said, displaying a satisfied smile as he hoisted his feet onto the wide oak desk.
Richard shifted around in the chair opposite. The room felt wrong when viewed from the other side of the desk. “How much longer do you think we'll be? I've delayed completion on the sale of my own house once. I don't think I'll get away with it a second time.”
“What date do you have agreed at the moment?”
“A week on Friday.”
“That's fine. We can bugger off as soon as the sale of the land behind the factory is completed. The buyers are due to pay a week today - tenth of December. It'll be an electronic transfer so we can empty the accounts straight away. I suggest we transfer everything from the Company account into either your bank or mine, then transfer it out of the country.”
“Why go through another bank?”
Scott sighed as though the answer was obvious. “Because, when Legg gets back, he's bound to ask the bank where the money was transferred to. If we pass it through one of our own accounts, it'll be months going through the courts before anyone can get the details. Banking privacy etcetera.”
“I see. So what day shall we leave?”
“I suggest we book our flights for the Saturday - that's the thirteenth.”
“Why the Saturday? Why not the same day?”
Scott picked his nose. “So that you can get the money for your own house. If you're not due to complete until the twelfth, it wouldn't be very sensible to leave on the eleventh, now would it?”
Richard stood up and crossed the room to stare out of the window. “No,” he muttered. “It probably wouldn't. I'll be glad when all this is over. I keep worrying about Legg getting back. He's been away five months now.”
“Yeah, it's getting tight,” Scott said, rolling something between his fingers. “Nick tells me that Legg's been hinting to the diving operators that he plans being back in good time for Christmas.”
“Jesus, Ronald. Why don't we just transfer the money we've already got and get the hell out of here?”
Scott, his feet still on the desk, skimmed something from under his fingernails with a paper clip. “Because the land at the back is being sold for over two million pounds. We're not going to do a runner and leave that lot behind, are we?”
“No, I guess you're right. It's just that—”
“I know you're concerned, Richard, but we've got to hold our nerve for a few more days. Everything's gone well so far, so let's see it through to the end”
“I'm glad you can stay so cool, old boy. Personally, I'm getting all of a fluster.”
“Well, there is one thing we could do. We could bank the cash you've got in your safe.”
Richard spun round on his heel. “No! We've had this discussion before. That cash is travelling with us. Call it security if you like, but I'd rather have a chunk of money safe in my hands when we leave this island. If anything goes wrong—”
“Nothing will. The transfer will be just as smooth as silk, you'll see.”
“I hope you're right, Ronald. For your sake I hope you're bloody right. Now, do you think I can have my chair back?”
“Oh, er — yes, of course.”
Richard paced back to the desk. “That's better. Now I know where things are.” He took out a cigarette and blew the first mouthful of smoke in Ron's direction. “Now then, old chap, I think I should know exactly how much we plan to transfer, don't you?”
“Er — yes, Richard. Of course.”
* * *
Sean lay on the pearl-white sands and smiled back at the clear blue sky. The dive had been a good one - the best, in fact. Barbados was no less exciting than all the other islands that he and Fergie had visited over the previous eight weeks or so. Fergie and Bertram had promised him a good dive today and had kept their promise. They'd taken him back to the wreck of the S.S.Stavronikita - The Stavros - and the three of them had stroked a five-foot Atlantic barracuda that the locals had christened George.
It had been the ultimate thrill. He had swum with monstrou
s basking sharks and he had played with tiny seahorses - he had cajoled octopuses from under rocks and he had fed raw eggs to Moray eels - but he had never, ever, seen a sight like George. To be able to coax and stroke five and a half feet of sleek, efficient killing machine seemed to be a perfect way to end his sabbatical. Perhaps tomorrow he would start making some arrangements for his return. The sun was great and the diving was better, but the thought of spending Christmas snuggled up in front of a winter log fire was one which held a great deal of attraction.
* * *
Richard watched fascinated as Ron Scott rattled his finger down a column of figures and scribbled a total at the end.
“Grand tally thirteen million, eight hundred and eighty five thousand and some bits,” Scott said, throwing his pencil onto the desk. “That excludes the cash at your house. Take off the three million odd that it cost to buy the Three Leggs shares and the investment agency, and it leaves us with a profit of ten million in round figures — as predicted.”
Richard sat quietly for a moment, on the other side of the desk, and jotted figures onto his own pad.
“What are you calculating?” Scott asked.
He continued making notes.
Scott pressed the button on the base of the phone and waited for the response —
“Wot?” said a female voice.
“Two coffees Miss —”
“Jackson — and it's Ms.”
“Okay - two coffees, Ms. Jackson. What happened to the other woman, Miss —?”
“Williams.”
“Yes, Miss Williams.”
“Cathy got pissed off and left last week,” she said, before slamming down the receiver.
Richard looked up from his labours, lit a cigarette and favoured Ron with a satisfied smile. “Twenty eight and a half million, Ronald.”
Scott peered at him. “Twenty eight and a half million what, Richard?”
“Twenty eight and a half million quid, old boy. You asked me the other day what I thought my own personal worth would be when this little deal was all over, and that's the figure — twenty eight and a half million. What do you reckon my old man would have had said about that then?”
“How do you calculate that?”
“Well, you should realize, Ronald, that I'm not telling you this to boast or anything, but you did ask, didn't you.”
“Yes, okay, but how do you get to that figure?”
“Well, I know my methods aren't quite as sophisticated as yours, Ronald, but they're good enough for my purposes.” He ran his finger down the list that he'd compiled, reciting each item in turn. “First of all there's the six mill that my father left me. Then there's the six mill that dear old Frank left me. Then there's the nine mill net profit from this deal, after you've taken your share. Then there's the net results of selling the land next to Headland View, plus my house and other bits - another three mill, roughly. Then there's the cash in the safe.”
Scott sat up with a jerk. “Good God, you mean there's four and a half million in your safe at home?”
Richard looked up. “That was good, Ronald. How did you calculate it as quickly as that?”
“Practice. If you can crap, you can count. But how come it's so much? I thought there was only about one and a quarter million in there. Two hundred and fifty thousand that you brought back from Kuwait, five hundred thousand from the Saudis and five hundred thousand for that Iraq order. So where did the other three million odd come from?”
Richard lit a cigarette and noticed that he'd left the first one burning in the ashtray. A smug smile settled on his face. “Houses,” he said. “Houses and a few shares.”
“What houses? What shares?”
He laughed – and coughed. “Headland View,” he said, enjoying the puzzled look on Ron Scott's face. “I was stuck with the last few houses up there and couldn't find buyers before we applied for planning permission on the adjacent land, so I sold them to myself.”
“I don't follow you. What do you mean - you sold them to yourself?”
“Just that, Ronald, dear boy. I've been learning from you – or should I say you could learn something from me. The investment agency that we bought to do this deal took a loan from the bank for three mill—”
“Three million?”
“Yes, Ronald, three million. Do listen while I'm talking”
“But how? What security did you give?”
“The houses.”
“But the bank wouldn't lend three million quid just on a few houses. What else did you offer them?”
“The shares, Ronald. The shares.”
“What are you going on about, Richard? What shares?”
“The—”
A grumpy Ms. Jackson entered the room, without knocking.
“Coffee,” she said, slopping insipid liquid as she deposited two saucer-less cups onto the desk.
“Looks more like bloody gnat's piss to me,” Scott said.
“It's the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
Ron took it.
“So come on,” he said, when the unhappy Ms. Jackson had left the room. “What were these shares you offered the bank for security on this loan?”
Richard spoke in a patronising voice. “The Three Leggs shares, Ronald. The ones we bought off Sean Legg to get control of this company.”
Scott sat back in his chair, staring at him. Slowly, like a bloated corpse rising from the seabed, a broad smile spread over his face. “Why Mr Tweedle, you clever bugger. It's brilliant!”
“Thought you'd be impressed.”
“Impressed? I should say I'm bloody impressed. I never thought about the shares still having a value. As far as I was concerned, they were just an expenditure - a means to an end. It never crossed my mind that they could be used as security to raise cash. So when did you do all this?”
“Just after I came back from Kuwait, old boy. The bank - my bank, that is - loaned against the assets of the Investment Company which, of course, included the Three Legg's shares. I gave the bank last year's balance sheet and they valued the shares based on that. They decided that three mill was a safe loan, given that they had the shares and the unsold Headland View houses as security. I told them that the money was for further private investments.”
“Astounding!” Scott said. “I take my hat off to you. I just wish that I'd thought of it. That means then, that the actual profit from this whole deal is thirteen million rather than ten.”
Richard's body stiffened and he screwed up his eyes. He hadn't foreseen that particular complication. “Not bloody likely. The shares were my idea, not yours. You said yourself, a few minutes ago, that the profit from this deal was ten million. Ten million, as predicted, you said.”
“But Richard—”
“No bloody 'buts', Ronald. If you'd included the idea as part of the original concept, then I could have accepted that you were entitled to your ten percent, but the shares deal is down to me. You'd never even have known about it if I hadn't mentioned it.”
“But we're partners,” Scott shouted, thumping his fist on the desk.
“Certainly, Ronald. Partners in the deal that you outlined when poor old Frank died. But this particular gain was never mentioned. It was one I dreamed up myself.”
“I don't bloody well believe it. I can't accept it.”
Richard sat back in the chair and blew his smoke towards the ceiling. “Like the coffee lady said, old boy, you can take it or you can bloody well leave it.”
THURSDAY 4 DECEMBER
Apart from having had the dubious honour of staging a brief half-hour trial for a well-known pop singer, who was caught with a few dollars worth of ganja on his person, Holetown was not the centre of the universe. The village, just a mile south of Fergie's dive store, boasted a police-station-cum-courthouse, three or four open-fronted shops, a minuscule post office, and a bar where a noisy version of dominoes was played under the shade of a mighty mango tree. To Ferris's great relief, it also boasted a single, battered public telephon
e, which led a precarious life balanced on a dilapidated bird table. He waited behind the wide-bottomed black lady, as she discussed her varicose veins with her sister.
Since local calls were free, the lady was in no rush. Ferris shuffled uncomfortably and swatted a mosquito from his ankle as he heard her say goodbye for the fourth time.
“Come on fatso - come on.”
The large lady looked around and glared at him. “I got some toorist bein' rude behine me, honey,” she told her sister, in a louder than normal voice. “He look kinda English, so I guess he ain't got no manners —.Wassat, honey? Yo hope he fry in de sun? — An' so do I.” She slammed down the receiver, hurled the sweetest, most insincere smile at him, then flounced across the sand - her outlying regions trying desperately to keep up.
Nick Ferris grabbed the phone and dialled for the operator. “Hello, I want to make a reverse charges call to Britain. Reverse charges —. yes —okay — Collect.” He spelt out the number, then repeated it twice — and then a third time. As he waited for the connection, he danced from one foot to the other. “Hi, Sandy. Listen, I've got to be quick. Sean's been and booked his flight home — Yes, it's booked — He'll be on a direct, overnight flight leaving here next Wednesday - three a.m. local time — Yeah, Wednesday tenth, three o'clock — No, there's nothing more I can do to keep him here. He's told Fergie, that's the dive-store owner, that he's heading home for Christmas — No, it wasn't Fergie who told me the flight times - I checked it out for myself, so cash everything in and get yourselves out of there as soon as possible.”
Ferris looked around him as Sandy spoke. “Well, I think you're cutting it a bit fine,” he said, when she'd finished, “But as long as the land goes through and the transfers are made next Wednesday morning, you should be away in time. I'll meet you and Ron at the bank at midday on Friday. That'll give you both plenty of time to do some ducking and diving — yeah, okay girl. Look after yourself. See you a week Friday. Bye.”
“Three in the morning local time next Wednesday,” Sandy said, passing her uncle the note she had scribbled during the conversation. “So, with an eight hour flight, and a five hour time difference, he should be in Heathrow about four in the afternoon. That should give us enough time to be out of here. If the land deal goes through first thing on Wednesday morning, and Tweedle makes the transfer, we can catch a tea-time flight and be on our way.”