‘I think you’ll find that Bill has more than adequate grounds for seeking a divorce,’ Byatt said.
‘If you say so, Jeremy.’
Bill Harvey looked at his wife, then out, through the open French windows, to the field where his son was playing. He looked embarrassed, even ashamed. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you,’ he said.
Vi shrugged. For her own part, once she knew the boy was safe, she hadn’t wasted her energy on another moment’s anxiety. What was the point, since he hadn’t been harmed? He had been fussed over by parents and teaching staff after the botched abduction. Tea and cakes in the headmaster’s drawing room had soon restored him to his old self. In fact, Connor had thought it a terrific adventure.
‘Your little charade certainly convinced the police,’ she said. ‘Did you hire an actor? I hope you paid Equity rates.’
Harvey ignored the question. ‘You have lied and cheated throughout our marriage, Vivienne. You would no doubt have continued to do so, and I probably would have tolerated it. But I couldn’t — could never have tolerated — you stealing from me.’
‘It’s my money, too!’ she yelled. His refusal to be baited always infuriated her.
‘It was the firm’s money,’ Jeremy corrected her. ‘And what you did was fraudulent . . .’ He stared at her, a look of severity on his narrow lawyer’s face. ‘You could go to prison. Bill would be awarded custody of Connor by the courts.’
‘You have no rights over him!’ She was screeching now, almost out of control. ‘You aren’t even his natural father!’
Jeremy broke in: ‘The Children Act is more concerned with what’s in the best interest of the child than genetics, Vivienne.’ He had a rich, plummy voice, the sort of accent Vi had been trying to cultivate since Bill had signed his first big contract. She resented it, and she resented him.
‘I’ll fight you.’
‘If you do, you won’t get a penny from me,’ Harvey said.
‘And you could go to prison,’ Jeremy reminded her.
Vi laughed, a little shakily, but she was regaining her composure. She flipped open her handbag and retrieved her cigarettes and lighter. ‘You wouldn’t want any whiff of scandal attached to your precious firm, now, would you? That would be bad for business. And I think you’ll find there is legal provision for ex-wives, darling. Isn’t that right, Jeremy — or would it be a conflict of interest to speak up for me? I am, after all, your client too.’ She lit up, her hands not as steady as she would have liked.
‘What Bill means is that he will fight you for every penny. And he has greater resources than you.’
‘You’re asking me to sell my son to you. Money in exchange for a child. D’you think he’d want to go with you if he knew you aren’t his real father?’
‘I hope he would, but I want to tell him in my own time, and in my own way.’
‘Under the terms of the agreement, if you tell the boy, you will automatically forfeit the right to your annuity, Vivienne,’ Jeremy said.
‘I should have known there would be a clause in this obscene document to cover that.’ Vi laughed. ‘You really are a bastard!’
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to argue.’ Bill Harvey turned to his lawyer. ‘She called Connor “it” for the first two years of his life. Her own son!’
‘We’re not here to apportion blame,’ Jeremy said, ‘only to establish a framework for the benefit of Connor. One which is satisfactory to both parties.’
But Bill could not leave it at that. ‘Why the sudden interest, Vi?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she replied bitterly. ‘One has to go through the motions.’ Both men watched while she took a deep, nervy pull on her cigarette.
Bill spoke again, more gently. ‘I only want what’s best for Connor.’
‘Which is me out of his life,’ she said with an ugly twist of her mouth.
‘You would have visitation rights,’ Jeremy said. ‘But Connor will reside with his father.’
‘And who’d look after him when you’re away on business, and working late, and too bloody busy to be with him?’
‘I repeat my question: why the sudden interest?’
She suddenly realized what he was doing. Bill Harvey was used to negotiation, he understood the delicate nature of bargaining, was familiar with the rhythms of offer and counter-offer. He was looking for weaknesses that he could exploit and force her to compromise. Well, I’ve made compromises all our married life, she thought savagely. Now it’s your turn.
She stared at him, refusing to answer his question, waiting for an answer to hers and he sighed.
‘You know who’ll look after him, Vi. The same person who’s always looked after him.’
‘Oh, perfect! Mimsy, mumsy little Lynn will smother and spoil him to her heart’s content, won’t she? Did the little bitch lie to me about being ill? Was she in on this?’
‘In on what? I came home at lunchtime that day to see you. I thought we’d be able to talk, with her not being about. And when I saw Connor playing outside I . . . it was spur of the moment.’
‘And what about your actor friend? Was he spur of the moment as well? Don’t act the innocent with me, Bill — I know you too well.’
He lowered his head. ‘I told you, I regret that. I panicked when you said you wouldn’t let me see Connor. I lashed out — wanted to hurt you for what you’d done. You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘I understand ownership. And revenge,’ she said. ‘You think you own Connor because you made an investment. And we all know what a good businessman you are. You always did get a good return on your investments, didn’t you, darling? You wanted to punish me for having an affair’ — she ignored his snort of derision at the use of the singular — ‘and for having someone else’s child,’ she finished.
‘I love my son.’
‘He’s not your son!’
‘I’ve cared for him and loved him as my son. He is mine.’
Vi turned to Jeremy. She pursed her lips, suppressing a smile. ‘See what I mean? Ownership.’
‘I don’t care what you think of me, but I won’t have you thinking badly of Lynn,’ Bill said.
Vi snorted derisively.
‘She was genuinely ill,’ Harvey said.
‘I’ll bet she’s having a whale of a time — is she here?’ She saw an exchanged look between the two men and strode past them, out of the room, the tip of her cigarette glowing fiercely.
‘Are you here, you little bitch?’ She stood at the foot of the stairs, yelling. ‘Gloating upstairs, are you? Come out, come out, wherever you are!’
‘She’s been . . . detained,’ Jeremy said, avoiding an outright lie. ‘She’ll be here just as soon as we’ve got all of the . . . legalities sorted out.’
‘She’s always acted in Connor’s best interests, Vi,’ her husband said. ‘She’s devoted to the boy.’
Vi wheeled to face him, unable to control her spite, furious with herself that she was actually jealous of the respect and affection he felt for their nanny. ‘Sent her shopping to get her out of the way, did you? Now why does that sound familiar? Not that I blame you. She is rather downmarket, even for you.’ She glared at him, daring him to come back at her: You should know. You said it, darling.
But that was the sort of thing Vi said. Bill was always the perfect gentleman. Blameless Bill was above such malice. She raised her chin, waiting for his reply. He seemed hurt, saddened even, and his injured disapproval incensed her.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll all be very happy,’ she said, barging past him, back into the sitting room, dropping ash from her cigarette. She should sign the damn papers — sign them and leave. But she couldn’t simply give up. ‘What he’s proposing can’t be legal,’ she said, confronting the solicitor.
‘If you sign it, it will be legally binding, Vivienne.’
Her eyes raked the lawyer’s face, but she saw no trace of a lie there. ‘I want to show it to a solicitor. Of course,’ she added with acid emphasis, ‘I�
�ll have to appoint a new one, now the firm of Byatt & Son has turned against me.’
Jeremy nodded gravely. ‘That would certainly be advisable . . . After you’ve signed the documents, you shall have your own copy to take away and discuss.’
‘God!’ she screamed, rounding once more on her husband. ‘You’re so fucking sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘You agreed to my terms,’ Bill said, a note of pleading entering his voice.
‘This is coercion,’ she snarled.
‘Vi, we had all this out over the phone.’
She heard again, the pleading tone. Bill Harvey knew people — he knew about need and greed — but this went beyond his business skills, market projections and statistical analyses. Vi knew that his love for Connor was the most important thing in his life — she had used it to her advantage often enough to be sure of that — and he would do anything to keep him. She glanced from one to the other, deciding to test him one more time.
‘I want to see my son.’
‘But you haven’t asked to see him in the ten minutes you’ve been here,’ Byatt observed, throwing Bill a sharp look to silence him. ‘You haven’t even asked after his health and welfare.’
He returned her furious glare with a cool disparaging stare.
‘My advice, if I were acting on your behalf, would be to sign,’ Byatt said. ‘You won’t get a better deal than this in a divorce settlement. Think of all the dreary meetings with lawyers, the court appearances.’ He paused and his face brightened infinitesimally, a latent smile. ‘All those cancelled lunch engagements.’
She would have liked to fly at him, mark his smug papery features with her nails, but instead she took a puff on her cigarette, discovered that it had burned down, and finding no ashtray available, savagely stubbed it out in a flower pot. When she looked up at her husband, all she saw was weariness and anxiety. If she had read the tiniest hint of triumph in his face she would have turned and walked out and to hell with the consequences.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Where are the deeds of ownership?’
* * *
Fraser stood at the open French windows, transfixed by what he had just heard. Vi had let him think she was keeping silent — misleading the police — to protect their son, but all the time she had been negotiating a deal with Harvey. He retraced his steps, moving away from and out of sight of the house, needing time to think. He climbed over the corral-style fence and into the field. He hardly knew what his intention was. A desire to see the boy, to speak to him, perhaps.
The ground dropped away for a short distance and he found himself in a shallow, bowl-shaped depression. Cumulus clouds bubbled up on the horizon, some of them dark and threatening, and the wind had freshened to a north-westerly.
There was no sign of the boy or his kite. Then, in a tree, some thirty yards distant, he saw something. A sheet of bright orange, jerking and bobbing in its branches. Connor stood at its base, frustrated and hot, grunting and tugging at the string.
Fraser strolled over. ‘Having trouble?’ he asked.
Connor looked around. ‘Dratted thing’s stuck,’ he said.
‘Let me try.’ Fraser jumped and grabbed at one of the lower branches and dragged it down. ‘Now, pull!’
The kite slipped a foot or so and then snagged again. ‘Nearly there.’ He took off his jacket and studied the tree. It was an old oak, with stout, almost horizontal lower branches and plenty of footholds in the trunk.
He started to climb, under the anxious eye of the boy. The kite wasn’t far up, but at the end of a branch. Fraser tested it with his weight, then edged forward on his belly. The kite string had become entangled in a cluster of twigs and he wrapped one foot around the branch before releasing his grip to disentangle it. ‘Try it now!’ he yelled.
Connor gave the string a mighty tug and the kite fell, showering Fraser with bits of twigs and leaves, caterpillars and insects.
‘Sorry!’ the boy called, somewhat dismayed.
Fraser laughed, backing cautiously to the trunk, before ruffling his hair to dislodge the worst of the mess. He climbed to the foot of the tree and stood, dusting himself down.
‘That was great!’ the boy said.
‘Well, you know,’ he said modestly. ‘SAS training.’
Connor looked up at him, round eyed, unsure if he was being teased. ‘Really?’ he said.
Fraser pulled a face. ‘Ranger Scouts.’ He felt a thrill of joy when Connor laughed.
‘Your shirt’s a bit of a mess,’ the boy said. ‘And your trousers.’
‘They’ll wash,’ Fraser said.
‘Have you been to see Daddy? He’s taken a week off, so we could come here.’
‘Sort of,’ Fraser said.
‘I’m Connor.’ The boy offered his hand with solemn formality.
‘Fraser,’ he said, taking Connor’s hand in his own, then, repeating carefully, ‘Fraser Campbell.’
Connor began winding up the kite string. ‘Are you a friend of Daddy’s?’
The muscles of Fraser’s throat tightened, a circle of unbearable constriction. He swallowed, meaning to tell him, but he couldn’t speak. Didn’t he have a right to know? Shouldn’t a boy know his own father? Fraser stared down at the child. Physically, Connor was very like him: the same black, wavy hair, the same dark eyes. He remembered the photograph he had hidden from Jenny. The same open, trusting expression on his face.
The boy looked up, puzzled by his delay in answering, and Fraser thought, Doesn’t he have the right not to know? Wasn’t his dad — Harvey — entitled to tell him when he was ready, to choose his moment?
‘I was a friend of your mother’s,’ Fraser said. ‘A long time ago.’
‘Oh.’
Fraser couldn’t blame for boy for not caring. Poor kid, having Vi for a mother! Connor was too young to comprehend the reciprocal nature of love — to know that adults sometimes expect love without giving it.
‘You’re Scotch, aren’t you?’ Connor asked, having finished winding the kite string.
‘Scottish,’ Fraser corrected, with a smile. ‘Scotch is what you call whisky.’
‘Right,’ Connor narrowed his eyes, letting Fraser know that this time he knew he was being teased. ‘Are you coming to the house?’
Fraser shook his head. ‘I have to get home.’
He watched the boy race off to the rim of the basin. He turned and waved before disappearing over the other side. Fraser walked back to the fence and climbed over. ‘Connor Harvey,’ he said, trying the name aloud. ‘Connor Campbell.’
Behind him, the throaty roar of a sports car warned him to step onto the grass verge, and then Vi sped past, throwing up gravel and dust in her wake. Fifty yards up the road, she stopped, then reversed back to where he was standing, spitting grit from between his teeth.
‘You followed me!’ The idea seemed to delight and exasperate her. ‘Well, did you get what you wanted?’
‘Did you?’ he asked.
‘I got rather more than I’d expected, as a matter of fact.’ She was evidently pleased with the negotiations, despite her performance at the house. ‘Of course, I didn’t let him know that. I put the squeeze on. One never knows what one might get unless one tries.’ She jerked her head towards the gate he’d just climbed over.
‘Did you see him? The fruit of your loins? He’s out there somewhere. Playing endlessly with that bloody kite of his. Did you glimpse him from afar?’ She eyed his dirty clothes. ‘My God! Did you climb a tree for him? How heroic. Was it a touching reunion?’
The full significance of her words must have hit home, and she said, aghast, ‘You didn’t tell him who you are?’
Fraser smiled. ‘Worried about your contractual obligations, Vi?’
‘Did you, Fraser?’ All her ironic poise had abandoned her, and she seemed desperate to know the answer.
‘It wouldn’t be polite, rescuing his kite, and then not introduce myself, now would it?’
She sped off, red with rage, and Fraser grinne
d to himself as he walked the rest of the way to his car.
* * *
It was raining. It had started as a few random drops. Motorway speed sent them streaking up the windscreen, defying gravity, forming inverted exclamation marks. Pewter-grey clouds gathered low on the horizon, sending down dark veils of precipitation. Stratus, Fraser thought, registering the cloud type from habit. The naming lent an air of familiarity, an illusion of normality in a bizarre situation.
He checked the speedometer. Eighty miles per hour. He had never before driven over sixty. He eased back on the accelerator. It was difficult to judge speed — the distances — to check the mirror without drifting away from true.
Signal — Check again—
A Porsche blasted past him at over a hundred. Fraser muttered an oath and peered more closely through the windscreen, which was so badly smeared it was difficult to see. The bruise on the back of his head was beginning to throb again and he felt sick. What was he going to tell Jenny? Would she give him the chance to explain?
He fumbled with the levers either side of the steering column, trying to find the wipers, flicked one, and jumped, almost swerving the car when the VW on his left blared its horn. He had turned on the indicator. He managed to turn it off again and tried the other lever. It worked.
He slammed on the brakes to avoid tail-ending a van just in front. It was driving without lights and crawling in the middle lane. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he muttered. He hadn’t yet found the switch for his headlamps, but he would be needing them if the rain got any worse. He took a moment or two to catch his breath before trying the manoeuvre again and succeeded in easing the car into the outer lane.
The rain began to fall more heavily, and he switched the wipers to fast, pleased that he was beginning to master the controls. Rainfall, he thought, precipitation — a headlong fall. He’d had a couple of those already today, and he suspected there was more to come.
The car was flooded with angry light and a hundred hot needles pricked his spine. Bloody hell! A Mercedes behind him, hood down, lights flashing. He glanced left, intending to move in, but there were cars blocking his way. He twitched and the car veered left for a second as the Mercedes’ horn blared. He glanced left again, his heart beating fast, and his head pounding in time.
THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 24