Unfortunately, rather than just paying out, the insurers seemed to think they might recover the wretched thing. The claims handler wanted to speak to the crew – a bad idea. The underwriter wanted to initiate a salvage operation – even worse. They wanted a full maintenance history and any recent surveys. Disastrous.
Through the window he could see the airplane taxi towards the gate, Jump! in large letters along the side. Frank wasn’t sure what offended him most: the stupid name, the jokey font or the exclamation mark calling attention to the fatuous name. Johnny Foreigner really didn’t have a clue about branding. And no concern for accuracy. Given the delays, they might as well call it Limp! or Crawl!
There was risk in this insurance claim. Instead of signing over his interest in the late Good Ship Frankium to Assurance Actif, there was another option.
Jaqueline Silver had signed an agreement when she borrowed his yacht.
All things considered, it would be much easier to hold her to the contract.
And bleed her dry.
Teesside, England
Yarm High Street was abnormally quiet, businesses taking a holiday to avoid the mayhem that was about to descend in the form of the annual fair. Jaq crossed the river, swishing through a carpet of dry leaves as she climbed the hill to the north. She bent to pick up a chestnut, peeling back the spiky green casing with its soft white insulation to reveal a glossy nut inside. She slipped it into her pocket for Ben.
Her destination, Natalie’s hairdressing salon on West Road, sat back from the main road between Yarm and Stockton, the front room of a Victorian terraced house hidden away above the railway viaduct. Since leaving Cumbria, where she had spent a week recuperating, Jaq had been busy sorting out her life: doctor, dentist, utility meter readings, mortgage, tax, insurance and MOT (failed), overdraft application (denied), fitting a new lock on the garage door, a deep-clean of her flat, a telephone catch-up with her stepdaughter and offers to help with the new baby (declined). Putting off the meeting with Frank Good for as long as she could.
Natalie was waiting at the window, her hair completely different – short and purple – but her welcoming hug as warm and rib-crushing as ever.
‘So, what’s it to be then?’ she asked, twisting her mouth in disapproval as she inspected her client.
‘Have I left it too late? Will you have to shave it all off?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Natalie scowled. ‘You’re so lucky. You have gorgeous hair. It just needs a trim and some conditioning.’
‘Will you fix it?’
‘That’s my job.’
Natalie washed Jaq’s hair and then smothered it in conditioner.
‘Been anywhere nice?’
‘Let me see.’ Jaq counted off on her fingers. ‘A Slovenian prison, a brothel in Belarus, the Chornobyl nuclear power complex and a yacht in the Black Sea.’
‘Hmm, the yacht sounds all right.’
‘It sank.’
Natalie threw her head back and laughed. ‘Now I see why your hair needs attention.’ She rinsed away the conditioner and wrapped Jaq’s head in a towel. ‘Did you get the job done?’
Jaq grinned. ‘Done and dusted.’ The Spider would be standing trial at the International Court of Justice in The Hague.
‘That bloke who was following you last time, the one with the black beard?’
Jaq shivered at the memory of The Spider’s henchman. ‘In prison.’
‘You going to tell me about it?’
‘Over a glass of wine?’
‘Training tonight.’ Natalie harrumphed. ‘Anyway, I’m on the wagon. Not drinking. My body is my temple, and all that.’ She got to work with a comb and scissors.
‘How’s the kung fu?’
Natalie and Jaq had met at a self-defence class. Of similar height and build, they had been paired in a fight, but Natalie had won easily. And then shown Jaq how.
‘Passed my exams. I’m an instructor now.’
‘Brilliant!’ Jaq clapped her hands. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Last year. I’m saving up for more training. In the meantime, I still need this.’ She gestured around her tiny salon. ‘The day job.’
Jaq focused on her rapidly improving reflection in the mirror.
‘You work miracles in here, Nat.’
‘You should see my kung fu action.’
‘Can I come along?’
‘Tuesdays and Thursdays.’ Natalie named a local school hall. ‘Still got your togs?’
Jaq shook her head.
‘No problem, I can lend you some. But first.’ The whir of a fan and a blast of hot air as Natalie raised the hairdryer. ‘Let’s get this lovely hair of yours back into shape. Hot date after this?’
Jaq checked her phone. ‘A meeting in Gateshead.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Definitely not pleasure.’
‘Oh, that sort of meeting. Someone I know?’
‘I hope not.’ Jaq sighed. ‘A prize bastard.’
‘Better look your best then,’ Natalie said. ‘Straighteners, too?’
Why not? Keep him waiting. Because this would be her very last meeting with Frank Good.
London, England
The blond auctioneer was still in his dressing gown when the doorbell rang. He slid his fingers under soft fur and gently moved the sleeping cat from his lap. Knotting a silk cord around his waist, he peered through the spyhole. A quiet street, but you could never be too careful.
A young Chinese woman stood on the doorstep.
He left the security chain in place as he opened the door a few inches. Xiǎo Māo followed him, rubbing herself against his leg.
‘Bernard Ashley-Copper?’ The voice was soft, the accent heavy.
‘Cooper,’ he corrected her. ‘How can I help you?’
‘A message for you. May I come in?’
Bernard hesitated. He was expected at Jude’s party later and he still had work to do.
‘A message from whom?’
She swivelled to show him the large sports bag, the strap diagonal across her slight body, open to reveal an ice-blue velvet cylinder. ‘From the Emperor Qianlong.’
More treasures from China. Goody. Bernard glanced up and down the street to check that she was alone. A curtain shifted opposite. Nosy parkers.
Xiǎo Māo meowed and skittered away from the blast of cold air as Bernard released the chain and opened the front door.
‘Please.’ He stepped back and gestured with a silk-robed arm. ‘Come in.’
Gateshead, England
The three bridges over the Tyne, visible from the esplanade of the Sage Gateshead concert hall, perfectly exhibited Frank Good’s approach to problem-solving.
The first bridge, a green arch anchored by two granite towers, stood high over the river. It didn’t matter what sailed up the grey water underneath – and let’s face it, it was little enough these days – the stone structure remained aloof, above it all, uninvolved in the day-to-day seedy details of Geordie commerce.
Detachment was Frank’s default setting.
A pair of fat birds, white and black, soared above the southern tower and swooped towards the river below, crying kittee-wa-aaake, kittee-wa-aaake. He turned his good ear away to check the voicemail.
The second bridge, a pontoon built on the remains of an ancient Roman crossing, lay almost at water level. When a ship needed to pass, the painted red and white superstructure pivoted on a central platform, swivelling until it was parallel to both shores. This was Frank’s second strategy. Get out of the way. Maintain a low profile when a problem snowballed and drew attention from lords and masters above. It was rarely worth the effort to stand and fight the approaching shitstorm. Smarter to step aside and let someone else collapse. Take the credit when all went well; let someone else take the fall. Play both sides. A little forward planning was required, but there was never any shortage of ‘brave’ individuals ready to tackle something head-on.
People like Dr Jaqueline Silver.
> An involuntary shudder ran down his spine at the message on his phone. She was on her way. Not long now.
The third bridge, the most recent, was a white metal structure, which the locals called the Blinking Eye. The modern bridge was built to twist; huge pistons tilted the curved deck to form an arch over the water. This was his third approach: set a trap. Hover above, watch and wait until the unsuspecting target blundered into the shadow.
Then pounce.
Sometimes, he combined all three problem-solving methods.
He’d first come to Newcastle, some months ago, to get the contract drawn up. The Teesside lawyers had been too obstinate to draft it the way he wanted. But this city had a proud maritime history, long since destroyed, and his money talked. Smoggies, Mackems and Geordies: the towns were only a few miles apart and yet the natives of Middlesbrough, Sunderland and Newcastle regarded each other with suspicion and ridicule. Useful knowledge when it came to manipulation. He pocketed his phone and strode back in through revolving doors to resume his meeting with the corporate sponsorship director of the Sage Gateshead.
‘Bottled water, wasn’t it?’ A willowy man in a pale fawn suit sat at a circular table, a tray with two bottles in front of him. ‘Wasn’t sure if you wanted still or sparkling, so I brought one of each.’
Frank took both. He didn’t really want either, but it was important to start the relationship on the correct footing. If they wanted his money, they would have to work for it.
‘So, Mr Good, you wanted to talk about sponsorship?’
Frank looked him up and down. With his hair so black it was almost blue and his long, pale body, he could have tumbled out of a Scottish Bluebell matchbox. ‘I’d be interested in understanding the options.’
‘Can you tell me a bit more about what Zagrovyl do?’ Match Man inspected Frank’s business card. ‘You’ll understand that the board of trustees is supersensitive when it comes to industry. We are committed to reducing our carbon footprint and making a positive environmental impact in everything we do.’
Frank suppressed a sneer. This absurd dome of curved glass and steel had been paid for by the corporation taxes of Zagrovyl and other successful businesses. And yet these pygmies thought they could pick and choose, sniff the money and refuse the notes that stank of industry.
Zagrovyl International supported Carnegie Hall and the Sydney Opera House. No way were they going to approve charitable funding in this backwater, however good the acoustics. A global company needed global visibility.
‘I’m considering a personal donation,’ Frank said.
‘Ah, I see. Well, that should be no problem.’
Match Man ran through the various packages, ranging from millions of pounds to name one of the concert halls, through thousands for a music education suite in the basement, down to hundreds to name a seat in the auditorium.
‘Level 2, Row AA, Seat 17. Is it available?’
‘Excellent choice.’ The man blinked a couple of times. ‘I can check, sir. What about—’
‘Only that one.’ Frank checked his watch. ‘I have another meeting now.’
Match Man sprang to his feet in confusion and disappointment.
‘It was great to meet you, sir,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘I’ll check on the seat availability and get back to you. I do hope we can count on you for further support.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Frank said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.
Frank remained seated as Match Man scuttled off. He perused the new season classical programme. A little heavy on the Romantics and light on Baroque, but there were some interesting options.
A pulse started beating in his bad ear as he spied Jaqueline approaching from a distance, striding across the concourse full of unshakeable, misplaced confidence. No broken limbs, no obvious cuts or bruises; in fact, she looked better than she did before the shipwreck.
He’d tried to describe Jaqueline Silver to a private investigator once but stumbled over the contradictions. Too tall for a woman, but well proportioned. Athletic in movement but curvy in form. Southern European in appearance – long dark hair and olive complexion – but English in manner. Beyond the first flush of youth yet with sexual energy undimmed. Magnificent or monstrous? Delectable or dangerous? Radiant or radioactive? People in the café, men and women, looked up to follow her progress across the concourse. However you described her, she was hard to ignore. So what? Definitely not his type. His throat tightened.
Of course, it would have been much cleaner if she had gone down with the yacht. Even neater if she’d taken her prisoner with her. But that would have raised questions; a fatal accident inquiry might delve deeper into the condition of the vessel before it sank. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the beads of sweat forming on his brow.
Her footsteps slowed as she approached. He could feel the effort she was making, as if the air had turned to treacle. He smiled internally at the flicker of distaste that flitted over her face as she spotted him.
‘Hello, Jaqueline,’ he said.
‘May I?’ She took the seat opposite him without waiting for his assent. ‘I guess you already know what happened?’
Straight down to business.
In some ways it was refreshing. No small talk, no false enquiry – how are you; fine, thank you, and you? – no comments on the weather. His pulse slowed a little.
He let her talk, assessed her version of events. She was mercifully brief.
‘So,’ he said, ‘in summary, you borrowed my yacht and then wrecked it in the Black Sea?’
She answered him between gritted teeth. ‘That yacht was unseaworthy. You nearly killed me, Frank.’
‘Now, now. Calm down,’ he said. ‘Don’t get hysterical.’
She failed to rise to the jibe, fixing her eyes on his with a long cool stare of distaste.
‘Your boat had a serious structural problem.’
‘When you ran it aground.’
She shook her head. ‘We were twenty miles off the coast.’
‘Tsk, tsk.’ He shook his head. ‘I doubt that. Perhaps your map-reading skills need improving.’
She was hard to goad, but he relished the challenge. Over the years, he had collected a rich resource of trigger phrases. He’d never met a woman yet who didn’t react eventually. Sometimes with anger, more often with tears.
‘It was a bad storm, but nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘You were at the helm when it went down?’
‘I’m not here to fight with you, Frank.’
‘So, you have the money you owe me?’
That silenced her. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, the moment to spring the trap. The Blinking Eye descending before the quarry was clear, ensnaring it. He opened his briefcase and pulled out the contract.
‘Remember this, Jaqueline?’
The contract she’d signed before taking the yacht consisted of ten pages of dense legalese, old-fashioned maritime language.
He flicked over five pages to the annexes, small print in a font so tiny he strained to read without his glasses. He didn’t need to read them, having dictated these clauses in the first place.
‘“The signee agrees to protect, defend, indemnify and hold harmless from and against any and all loss, liability, damages, claims, demands, and expenses (including without limitation, court costs and legal fees) which may arise out of any claim relating to or resulting from the use of—”’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘“In the event of damage or loss to the Good Ship Frankium, irrespective of cause, fault or circumstance, the consignee agrees to pay compensation equivalent to the full replacement value of an equivalent yacht—”’
‘You must be joking.’
‘“With fixtures and fittings and additional equipment as listed below: navigation system, VHS radio, outboard motor . . .”’
‘I want you to tear up that contract.’
Frank laughed, a short, scornful burst of mirth. ‘You pay
me the money you owe me, and you’ll be released from the contract.’
‘I gave you the benefit of the doubt,’ Jaq said, her voice low and quiet now. ‘Assumed you were an incompetent owner who knew nothing of the faults that nearly killed me. But if you pursue this, I’ll counterclaim for attempted murder.’
‘Be my guest.’ He sat back and spread his legs wide. ‘Lawyers are expensive, and you already have one lawsuit on your hands.’ He’d checked with his adviser. The private prosecution, brought by the families of men who’d died at Seal Sands, her former workplace, was likely to drag on for years. ‘I think you’ll find that I have deeper pockets than you.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘You wanted me to go and fetch The Spider.’
‘I expected you to bring my yacht back in one piece.’
‘It wasn’t my fault—’
‘The excuse of scoundrels. And women. When will you learn that equality means not just equal opportunity but equal responsibility?’
‘You tricked me.’
‘Perhaps you should have read the contract before you signed it.’
‘I’ll fight you, Frank.’
He jutted his chin forward, eyes blazing. ‘I look forward to it.’
She rose abruptly, the chair clattering to the floor.
‘Of course, there is an alternative.’ He flicked over the page. ‘In the event that you are unable to raise the funds, you can offset the debt by working for me.’
She retrieved the chair and righted it. ‘You are a despicable, manipulative monster,’ she hissed.
‘Get used to it, Jaqueline.’ Frank Good smiled. ‘I own you now.’
The Chemical Reaction Page 5