by Liz Fielding
Wild Justice
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Wild Justice
by
Liz Fielding
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 1965 by Liz Fielding
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CHAPTER ONE
'LUKE Devlin?'
Fizz Beaumont pushed a distracted hand through the heavy mop of chestnut hair that fell across her face, obstinately refusing to be confined by a pair of delicate antique tortoiseshell combs that had once belonged to her mother.
Irritated by their uselessness she abandoned them on her desk and scooped her unruly hair into an elastic band with one practised movement before her father's continued silence alerted her to the fact that this was more than a social call to discuss a letter he had received that morning.
She looked up. Edward Beaumont, tall, handsome, elegantly tailored heartthrob to the blue rinse brigade looked unusually awkward and her eyes finally dropped to the letter he was holding in his hand.
'Who is Luke Devlin?' she asked. Then, 'What does he want?'
'I think, my dear, that he's already got what he wants,' her father replied, heavily. 'He's taken over Harries Industries.'
'Harries? You're joking,' she began, then realised with a chill feeling in her stomach that had nothing whatever to do with the February wind finding its way through every corner of the old sash cord window, that he wasn't joking. Her father was in deadly earnest. 'But how could he take over? Harries isn't for sale. Where's Michael? Surely he isn't just letting this happen?' The questions tumbled out, her father clearly had no answers. 'I've never even heard of the man,' she finished, as if that would put an end to such nonsense.
Edward Beaumont pulled a face, sympathising with his daughter's bewildered reaction. 'It seems that not many people have, at least not until it's too late. He keeps a very low profile.'
'Low is about right,' Fizz responded, with warmth. 'Positively belly to the ground. There's hasn't been so much as a whisper -'
'He moved very quickly according to Michael. Apparently it's something he does particularly well. But since he now owns this radio station's major sponsor, I suggest you keep any opinions about his business methods strictly to yourself.'
Still confused at the suddenness of this turn of events Fizz clutched at straws. 'Are you absolutely certain? It's not just some misunderstanding?
'I'm afraid there's no doubt about it, Fizz. Michael phoned me late last night. And the news room have just received a press release.' He threw the sheet of paper embossed with the impressive letterhead of Broomhill Bay's largest manufacturer onto the cluttered desk that separated them, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his superbly tailored jacket and stared at the ceiling as if washing his hands of the whole affair. 'I thought it would have taken the new man a few days to get around to worrying about details like us. But this was delivered by messenger a few minutes ago.'
A small chill ran through her veins as she reluctantly reached out to pick it up. It was brief and brutally to the point. In the current economic climate the new management of Harries Industries was forced to "rationalize" its generous sponsorship of sport and the arts in the town. And since the support for Pavilion Radio was an informal arrangement between Michael Harries and Edward Beaumont, the company would be making immediate changes.
Fizz Beaumont's wide forehead creased in a puzzled frown. 'What does this mean?' she asked. 'Informal arrangement? Harries have been sponsoring us since we first went on air. Michael was totally on board.' It was on the strength of Michael Harries' financial support that she had borrowed so heavily in order to go ahead with her plans for the new restaurant this year.
Her father continued to avoid her eyes but his eloquent shrug spoke volumes. 'It was a gentleman's agreement, Fizz. Michael and I have been friends ever since school and a handshake seemed -'
'Some gentleman!' she exploded. 'Some friend if he's sold us out without warning!'
'It isn't his fault,' her father declared indignantly. 'He didn't have any choice.' His actor's voice vibrated against the walls of her small office, but she had lived with his role playing for far too long to be intimidated.
'Then who's fault is it? You were the one who assured me that I had no need to concern myself with the details -'
'I know.' He cleared his throat. 'And I'm sorry, Fizz, but I just never foresaw this situation. Apparently Michael's been selling off his shares for months in an attempt to keep the company afloat until things got better. They didn't...'
He raked his fingers through the thick mane of hair, beautifully distinguished by silvery wings at his temples and paused momentarily to gather himself. Her father had played so many parts in his long career on the stage that he simply wore the one that was most appropriate to the occasion. Recognising the prelude to his "betrayed Lear", Fizz hurriedly intervened.
'And this,' - she glanced at the letter again - 'this Luke Devlin has been buying them?' She felt a surge of anger that someone could have so insidiously been able to gain control of Harries Industries without a fight, without having to stand up and declare himself.
'Michael was so relieved to sell the shares at a decent price he didn't give a thought to the possible consequences.'
'Oh, lord,' she murmured, suddenly stricken with guilt that in her concern for the station she hadn't given her father's oldest friend a thought. Her life was being made more difficult, but Michael had lost a company that had been founded by his family generations ago and which had been the prop and mainstay of manufacturing employment in the town ever since. And what about the men and woman who worked in the plant? Would they still have jobs to go to this morning? Tomorrow morning? 'I'm sorry, Dad. I know that Michael's been a good friend to us. This isn't his fault. Everyone's been hard hit in the last couple of years.'
And it was true. The painful fact she had to face was that the fault was entirely her own.
If she hadn't let her enthusiasm run away with her wits she would have made certain the generous sponsorship her father had negotiated was watertight. But he had made it clear that this was something she didn't need to bother her head over and she had been sensitive about intruding on an agreement between two old friends.
'Do you think this man realises the implications for us if he withdraws support?'
'I don't suppose he cares. Why should he? He's an outsider, a stranger.' Her father seemed moment
arily to lose his poise and for once, look his age. 'Michael asked me to tell you that he was truly sorry. Apparently when the takeover move came, it all happened so quickly that there was no time to warn you.'
'I didn't realise that the company was in difficulties. Did you know? If only he had given us an idea of the trouble he was in.' She stopped. There was no point in saying what she would have done had she known. She had to deal with the situation now.
Without the new bank loan they could have managed. They would still manage. What she had to do now was persuade this Luke Devlin that Broomhill Bay would be a poorer place without its radio station. And have a convincing answer when he asked, as she knew he would, why he should be expected to support it.
She had to be positive. It might all just be a storm in a teacup. A standard letter to all Michael's good causes and there were plenty of them. Over the years the town had come to rely heavily on the Harries family.
The Beaumonts too were always there to help raise funds, but the big money had always come from the Harries, both the family and the company. But not any more.
Mr Devlin was clearing the decks and he certainly hadn't wasted any time.
She gestured towards the letter. 'I suppose we shouldn't judge the man before we hear what he has to offer,' she said.
Edward Beaumont shrugged imperceptibly. 'Maybe this is all just a formality,' he said, giving voice to her own thoughts. 'I'm sure he'll cut back, but I can't imagine that he'll withdraw his support entirely.'
Fizz re-read the letter carefully but there was no comfort to be found in the stark words. Michael's cheque had been due within days. Without it the station's own soap opera as well as live coverage of local sports events for the following twelve months would be at risk. And without those programmes the franchise was at risk as well. But the new chairman of Harries Industries made it quite plain in his letter that he expected changes to take place without delay.
Changes.
Why didn't he just say what he meant instead of playing with words?
'Surely he just can't back out of a commitment at this late stage,' she was driven to protest, 'even an informal one?'
'I imagine that even if it had been a legal commitment he would have been within his rights to change things.' Of that she had no doubt. But she would have been a lot happier nevertheless. If only he had told her the truth.
Fizz fumed helplessly. A gentlemen's agreement, indeed! She could hardly believe it. Two dear old-fashioned gentlemen, friends doing business together on a handshake; it was bound to lead to disaster.
And the radio franchise was up for renewal within months. If they failed to meet their programming agreement it was possible that they would lose it. Worse, since the relaxation of ownership rules, they were wide open to a takeover bid themselves.
She knew of one consortium that had already bought up several nearby stations and was turning out anonymous pop music so that without the station “idents” it was almost impossible to tell who you were listening to.
The whole concept of independent broadcasting by local people for local people was beginning to look very shaky. She had been so determined to make her station different, special. With the help of her family and the generous support of Michael Harries she had succeeded. And now, just when she had expanded her business base in order to make the station self-supporting, to avoid having to rely so heavily on sponsorship, she was suddenly in danger of losing it all.
'What will happen to Michael?' she asked, in an effort to keep her own troubles in perspective. 'Will he be all right?'
'He was putting a brave enough face on it, going on about how glad Alice is that he's retiring early, how great it will be to spend the winter at his place in the Algarve and play golf all day. But you know how he felt about the plant. He loved it. Every brick of it and everyone who worked there.'
And now it was owned by some anonymous financier who wouldn't care a fig about the generations of lives invested in it, wouldn't care about anything except a snappy return on his investment.
She dropped the letter on her desk and walked across to the window, rubbing at the cold glass misted with their breath.
The view of the bay curving away into the distance, the town nestling beneath the hills rising away into the distance, the sea in all its moods rarely failed to inspire her, even on glowering winter days when the waves battered remorselessly against the pier. But today the sea and sky were uniformly grey, the hills blotted out by cloud, the town misted by a heavy drizzle. February at its most dreary.
'What do you think he means by changes?' she asked, finally, turning back to face her muddled little office. It always looked so much worse on the rare occasions when her father deigned to climb the stairs from his own, far more opulent office on the mezzanine floor.
Her father, her sister, her dead mother, all had that same star quality that eclipsed everyone and everything they stood near, making the rest of the world look just plain shabby.
'I don't know. Maybe this Devlin fellow just wants to put things on a regular footing,' he suggested, hopefully.
'And if he doesn't? If he just wants to be rid of us? Can we fight it?'
She had to face the possibility. Far more than a possibility. Then as her father's shoulders slumped uncharacteristically she was sorry she had asked. He obviously felt bad enough without her rubbing salt in the wounds.
'How much can the station stand, Fizz?'
She gave a little shrug. 'The sports coverage and Holiday Bay are the major items of expenditure. Given time I might be able to put together a package, but there isn't another local company who could take on the sole sponsorship of one of those, let alone both. Not right now. Not at such short notice.'
'But you can't drop them, Fizz,' he warned. 'It was part of the franchise agreement. Live drama and live sport. It gave us the edge over the competition and the Radio Authority could fine you, or decide against renewal this summer if you drop them.'
'It might not take that long. We still have staff contracts, salaries to pay.' And the loss of advertising revenue. Even if they could drop the programmes, it wasn't a solution.
'Is there money left from the bank loan?'
'Not to spare. There are enough bills from building contractors to paper my office walls.'
'Just as well it's so small, then,' her father said, in an effort to make a light of the situation.
She conceded a smile. 'Yes, I suppose so.' Very small and very shabby. She wasn't a star and didn't need a glamorous setting in which to shine. 'But it's the bank loan that will be the main problem. If only I hadn't gone ahead with the restaurant. I should have waited another year.' She let it go. Her father had no interest in the financial side of the station. He lent it his name and his stature to Pavilion Radio, the rest was up to her.
'You just need a good season, Fizz,' her father said, trying to be kind. He continued to run on optimistically, but she wasn't listening, she was too busy trying to think.
In a worst-case scenario, assuming Harries' sponsorship was totally withdrawn it would take a lot more than optimism. It would need a great deal of patience and understanding from the young merchant banker who had been so flatteringly eager to provide the loan for the new restaurant in the restored Pavilion.
Flattering eager to take the relationship rather further than banking, if she had given him any encouragement. Her sigh was imperceptible.
It had seemed such a brilliant idea, how could it possibly fail?
They already had an informal chat and music show live from the foyer of the Winter Garden every morning in the summer season and on Saturdays in the winter. It had seemed so simple to capitalise on an audience already in a happy mood, to offer good food with the best view in Broomhill Bay and a gift shop full of locally made souvenirs, including their own Pavilion Radio merchandise to spread the word.
It would make money, she knew it would, but it would take time. She had worked so hard and it had all been going so well. If they could hold on u
ntil Easter came, bringing the first visitors.
She turned to stare once more at the letter on her desk, then picked it up. 'Devlin has asked you to phone him. Have you done that?'
'Not yet. I thought you should do it.'
'Me? Don't be silly, he'll gobble me up and spit me out. I'll come with you of course, but it's probably better that he thinks he's dealing with you.'
Everyone thought she was station manager in name only, that she had been given the job by her father because he felt sorry for her. Because she didn't have the talent of her glamorous big sister. Because she was the only Beaumont who couldn't act.
She preferred it that way.
And her father's sheer physical presence was usually sufficient to mesmerise people into doing what he wanted. Her father's expression suggested he had other plans.
'At least until we can work out what his mood is,' she wheedled.
'Fizz, darling, I'm up to my eyes with the joint schools' production of Much Ado just as the moment. And my new television series is facing a bit of a crisis.'
'What kind of crisis.'
'Financial. What other kind is there? A couple of the backers have pulled out. I've got to find someone else or put up the money myself.'
In other words don't ask me to help with the cash flow?
'And Claudia telephoned last night in a bit of a state over the film with Sean Deveraux, so I've got to go up to town today.'
'Dad, please!'
'Look, darling, I know absolutely nothing about running the station and a man like Devlin will see through me in a second. I really think it would be better if you went up there and put all your cards on the table. Michael trusted your judgement, why shouldn't he?'
Michael had just lost the company his family had built from nothing. It wasn't much of a reference. Her father had picked a hell of a time to step back and leave her to prove she could handle it.
Hidden away in her office she managed the station, made decisions, produced the ideas that kept the advertisers happy. Only two or three people knew the truth, that Pavilion Radio had been her idea.