The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  There was no word from Edward, where he was or what he was doing, and Alex simply worked on. No one interrupted him except Miss Henderson, who kept up a constant stream of fresh, black coffee.

  Exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed, Alex walked beside the river. He had worked day and night for a month, and now he was drained. He was due to move into his own house, but he waited for Edward to return, waited in trepidation and anger, combined with disbelief. The first two days of sifting through his brother’s files had been an eye-opener, but then it went beyond that. Edward Barkley had amassed a vast network of companies, many offshore, with so many people, so many illegal transactions, that Alex was stunned that his brother had got away with it. The frauds were like a spider’s web, weaving and interlocking. There were fake firms as fronts, covering insurance policies in Panama, Brazil . . . classic cases of ships losing cargoes, the losses obviously fictitious. In one case Edward had sold a cargo of olive oil to a small company at a very low price. The ship had put to sea and blown up, but as well as the insurance payment Edward had been paid for the cargo. Two more ships had supposedly gone down with their cargoes, only this time the ships didn’t even sink – oil streaks were left on the ocean, but the ships sailed into a port, were repainted, renamed and sold . . . and that was just one of Mr Edward Barkley’s scams. The list was endless, from small-time fiddles to big-time fraud. The details of the pay-offs read like a telephone directory: government officials, Lloyd’s underwriters, Stock Exchange runners. Edward had so many illegal businesses that Alex could hardly keep count.

  The building firm employed two hundred men, and it paid wages for two hundred, but Edward actually had over five hundred men working for him on the construction side alone. He found it as beneficial to save two pounds as he did two million.

  The Barkley Company actually owned only the fifteenth floor of the tower block, the rest belonged to different companies – but all those companies were, in fact, owned by Edward. Alex had seen turnaround businesses before, but this was on a different scale, in a different league . . . and the money was being constantly shifted, like dogs on a racetrack. The property developments were vast, the net spread right across London. Blocks of apartments were bought, given a lick of paint and sold again within days. Edward seemed to have a monopoly on blocks of flats coming up for sale – leaseholders were bought out, and the buildings were sold at three times the purchase price with vacant possession. Edward was pushing the property boom forward, but he held on to large areas of prime building land. To enable him to do this he had to have a very fast turnover on the properties.

  Car parks appeared on bomb sites, bringing in an incredible amount of cash. Some of the takings were declared, the rest was diverted into housing developments. How could tax officers know how much money a car park took each day?

  Alex went through lists of numbered companies in detail. They were on separate sheets, and were obviously smaller than the others Alex had examined. They had no names as such, simply code numbers, and it was obviously all some kind of fraud. The business ranged from toiletries to household and fancy goods for the wholesale trade. Under the heading of ‘Outlets’ were the same businesses again, plus over fifty warehouses dotted all over South London. Then there were scrapyards, transport companies, delivery companies . . . Alex calculated that the number of staff required to operate all these must run into hundreds. There were no names, no payroll details, no accounts. The scrapyards collected anything from household waste to industrial and government assignments. He began checking each one to try to make sense of it, and details of more fraudulent transactions began to emerge.

  Many of the proceeds Edward had ploughed into housing estates, but no accounts were attached. Alex kept on matching tax numbers, and realized that Edward had been using false numbers and channelling goods in quick buy-and-sell transactions that, taken together, were so immense Alex could only surmise that he had been handling cash flows of between one and two million, and recorded none of it.

  Miss Henderson buzzed through to Alex’s office. ‘Mr Edward has just returned, sir. You asked to be informed immediately.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Henderson.’

  Alex checked his watch, looked around his office. The whole room had been redesigned, with hi-tech equipment: telex machines, calculators, direct lines to the Stock Exchange, all modern and economical, streamlined and efficient. Alex pressed his fingertips together, drew a deep breath. He was going to have a showdown, and he wouldn’t back off.

  Edward’s office door was ajar, the keys dangling in the lock. As Alex entered, he turned and waved for him to sit down. He was on the telephone, so Alex sat in a heavy leather wing chair and surveyed the room. He had not been in the office before, the door was kept locked. There were the same heavily built panelled walls, a carved stone mantel with a false coal fire, and a plum-red carpet. The desk was massive, with huge claw feet. A couple of wing chairs were the only other furniture in the room. The desktop was empty apart from a row of telephones. Alex smiled to himself at his brother’s obvious taste for the old-fashioned, old-world style of living; the room could have been lifted straight from the manor. Somehow it matched Edward – he was so tall, his frame running slightly to fat, but his shoulders were like an athlete’s. The ever-present cigar was sticking out of his mouth. ‘Fine, tell them we’re not interested . . . Yes, tell them that. They refused the first offer, tell them it goes down every week they delay, it’s up to them . . . Maybe, but I also happen to know the company’s going bankrupt, so we’ll see how they react . . . fine, call me.’

  Edward replaced the phone and went to the fireplace, twisted a carved lion’s head on the mantel. ‘I had this made, you like it? It’s my safe.’

  The safe was concealed behind a portrait in oils, and Alex thought the subject was the Duke of Wellington.

  Edward removed some files from the safe. ‘Right, this is it, more or less. It’ll take time for you to sift through them all, but you’ll have to. The accountants are listed along with the documents – different man for each section, but you’ll take responsibility for them overall.’

  He went back and forth to the safe, stacking ever more files on the desk. Lights flickered on the phones, but Edward paid them no attention. ‘Got something for you, one for you, one for me . . . had ’em made specially.’

  He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a small leather case. ‘We’ve changed our names, but we must never forget where we came from. Whenever things go bad – God, hope they never do, but if they ever should, this’ll help. One look at it’ll make things all right, because we can never go back – we never want to, but I’m not ashamed, it’s necessary.’

  Alex couldn’t think what he was working up to and was surprised when, for a brief second, Edward looked vulnerable. He went to stand by his brother’s side.

  Edward continued, ‘Remember Dad saying about how they buried the Romanies’ precious things with them? Well, I buried her necklace in the grave.’ He opened the small leather box, and unwrapped some tissue paper. ‘I went back, about a month ago, dug it up – I made it all neat again, so don’t worry. I had these made up from the gold, one for you, one for me.’ He held out a small gold medallion on a fine gold chain. Alex turned it over – it was only the size of a sixpence, and engraved on it was the single word, ‘Stubbs’. Edward slipped his own on and tucked it down inside his shirt collar. ‘Put it on, after all the trouble I went to get it. Go ahead, put it on.’

  Without a word, Alex slipped the chain around his neck.

  Abruptly, Edward sat down in his leather chair, swung around and tapped the files on the desk. ‘South Africa’s wide open, doing a few deals, should have some good results by next week . . . They still live in fucking mud huts. We start a housing project over there . . . Alex my old son?’ Receiving no reply, he looked searchingly at Alex. ‘Something wrong? What’s up?’

  ‘How does twelve years for fraud sound?’

  Edward’s face changed, suddenly sharp, vicio
us.

  ‘You got something niggling you, why don’t you say it?’

  Alex threw his arms up in fury. ‘Niggling? Niggling me? Jesus Christ, Edward, you’re a fucking crook. I’ve never seen accounts like them, and what’s more, I don’t see how you’ve been getting away with it.’

  ‘Because, old chap, on the surface I am a very respectable citizen . . . I also employ a team of men whose sole job it is to make sure I don’t get copped, and now it’s your job. You think any of my little businesses are too risky, fine – I’ll get rid of ’em, because I can’t afford at this stage to have even a murmur go round. I admit there’s a few petty fiddles . . .’

  ‘Petty? Eddie, you are fiddling on every side of every business! It’d take just one, just one nosey little tax inspector, and you’d fall like a pack of cards. You’re moving money from bank to bank, next month shifting it to another – you keep on buying more and more businesses and you’ll be wiped out.’

  Edward shrugged and said fine, Alex should get rid of any he felt were not viable assets, that’s what he was in the business for.

  ‘It’s not just that. The whole structure of the company stinks. You’ve got more offshore companies than you know what to do with, half of ’em you’ve shelled out money for just for the names, you haven’t even used them . . . Unless what I read in the files is a lot of bullshit and you’re keeping stuff from me, and if so we can’t work together. You’ve got to come clean with me, Eddie.’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’

  Alex raised his hand in a gesture of submission. ‘Okay, okay – Edward, that all right? I can sort through these companies and get rid of them, fast. You cannot be associated with these frauds. All the pinball machines, the fruit machines, we can hang on to, but the scrapyards and the warehouses stocked with hot goods have to be cleaned out, and we start afresh. No documents here either, nothing must link you to them if there’s ever an investigation.’

  Edward sighed, bored. ‘The law’s paid off, I’ve paid them enough to stop any investigations.’

  Alex was round the desk before Edward knew it, grabbed him by his lapels. ‘Paid off, is it? Listen, I know every tax dodge there is, I can clean up the mess for you. But, by Christ, you don’t take me down again, not this time . . . I want any bribes, any shit, cleaned up, because I’ll never go back to jail, hear me . . .? You got it?’

  Edward pushed him away, straightened his suit. ‘Okay, okay, I hear you, no need to get uptight.’

  Alex reached for the folder on South Africa and Edward snatched it away. ‘You got your work cut out for you – go on, sell off anything you don’t like the look of. This is just a mining project I’m interested in.’

  Alex concentrated on his polished nails. His voice was quiet, controlled. ‘Ten years inside and the smell, the stench, never leaves you, it’s in your clothes, your hair. You go on this way and by Christ that’s where you’ll end up . . . You’ve got to be sharper, not so greedy, take it stage by stage. You recognize a good deal, but you can’t stop your left hand grabbing.’

  For a moment Edward seemed to hesitate, then he thumped Alex on the back. ‘You make a donation to charity, a big one, big gesture – get the Duke of Edinburgh’s youth clubs or whatever, bung it to them. We’ll clean the slate of the dodgy companies, then it’ll be right by the book, all right my son? All right, Alex?’

  Alex was still uneasy, he didn’t altogether trust his brother. But he shook the outstretched hand, then said he was about to move into his new house. Edward smiled, but his eyes were cold. ‘You’ve been very busy while I’ve been away. Who’s done it up? You get the Jap woman over?’

  Alex turned his back on Edward, walked to the door. ‘No, she was too busy on one of your projects, I managed on my own . . . Have you thought about contacting Harry yet? You just upped and left, you know, you might have had the decency to call her. I’ll be in my office, should you need me.’

  Edward drummed his fingers on the desk. He would have to tread a little more carefully with Alex breathing down his neck. He decided there and then that Alex would be informed only so far, certain deals he would keep to himself.

  Edward burst through the front door, his arms full of gifts and an enormous bunch of red roses. He called Harriet’s name and she appeared, wearing an enormous pair of men’s overalls. She waved a paintbrush at the roses. ‘You’ll get those wrapped around your neck, Edward Barkley . . . What the hell do you mean by pissing off without a word?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, really urgent business cropped up, and I had to drop everything and run . . . You want to see what I’ve brought you?’

  ‘No.’

  Edward threw everything up in the air and smiled at her. ‘Okay . . . how about getting those overalls off?’

  ‘Not bloody likely. I’m working, very urgent business cropped up, darling. I’m sorry, now do excuse me . . .’

  Edward chased her up the stairs. Laughing, she flicked her paintbrush at him, then pulled him by the hand into her new studio. He blinked, and rested his elbow on her head. ‘Now, I’m not a very critical sort of chap, Harry, but don’t you think it’s rather bright . . .’

  ‘It’s supposed to be . . . Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I love it . . . and I like the spotted pattern on the floorboards – how did you do that?’

  ‘They’re drips, you bastard . . . See, I did the ceiling – have you any idea how I’ve slaved over this room?’

  Edward pulled her close and kissed her neck. She smelt of turpentine and paint. He asked about dinner.

  The kitchen was in a shambolic state – dishes piled almost to the ceiling, empty soup tins stacked in a corner . . . ‘I think I’m going to demand a refund on you, Harry – look at the state of the place.’

  ‘Well, Alex left, and I can’t cook . . . We can go and get a takeaway . . . Indian – shall we have Indian? Or there’s Chinese . . .? Fish and chips? What do you feel like?’

  Edward tossed her the car keys and said she could decide, he was going to take a bath. A short while later he heard her call up the stairs that dinner was served, and went down to the dining hall in his dressing gown. Several small cartons of Chinese food lay on the table, and a note, attached by a drawing pin, which said, ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

  Alex was surprised to receive a call at his office so early in the morning. Harriet said he was not to worry, she had been called away on very urgent business, then she hung up. Alex had no idea what she meant.

  Alex was working on diligently, gradually putting things in order. Back taxes were being settled, the hundreds of workers legally employed, with insurance cards and tax codes. No fool, Alex was accounting for every penny – profits, valuations, securities, leases, pensions, overseas subsidiaries, losses . . . he wanted no loose ends, everything carefully documented.

  Just as Alex was leaving the office, Edward strode in, unshaven and obviously very worried. ‘I can’t find bloody Harriet, have you any idea where she is?’

  Alex slapped himself on the head and apologized for forgetting to mention her call.

  ‘What urgent business, for Chrissake? Did she tell you where she’d gone?’

  Alex shook his head, picked up his briefcase. Edward sighed, then suggested Alex take him back to see the new house. He was in need of a decent meal. But Alex covered fast, saying he would prefer to leave it to another time, he wanted to have the place finished before anyone saw it. Edward didn’t seem to mind, and sat down in Alex’s swivel chair.

  ‘She’s doing this on purpose, you know, and the place is a tip. Kitchen looks like a bomb hit it.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t marry her for her culinary expertise, why not get a housekeeper?’

  Edward fiddled with Alex’s neat row of pens and began to doodle on the immaculate blotter.

  Alex asked, ‘Nothing wrong between you, is there?’

  Shaking his head, Edward tossed the pen down. ‘Maybe you’re right, I’ll get a housekeeper – maybe she can make an appointment
for me to come over to your place.’

  Alex took the sarcasm without comment, and waited for Edward to pass by him before he locked his office door.

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into his new house in Mayfair. He walked into the lounge and fixed himself a cocktail, then sat down and surveyed his creation; the semi-gloss, Peking-yellow walls, the ceiling painted in three subtle tones of beige, the cornices and high, trompe-l’oeil skirting boards simulating Siena marble. The curtains were in two shades of golden-yellow pleated taffeta with heavy beige fringing, hanging from pale wooden rods. The sofas and armchairs were covered in a wonderful deep citrus-yellow shantung with scattered marigold-yellow cushions. Several of the chairs were covered with a special chintz copied from an early nineteenth-century design. Alex’s use of colour was so tasteful, and he sat admiring it. The house made him feel content.

  The front door opened again, and Alex turned. Ming entered, went straight to him and kissed him. He fixed her a drink. ‘Edward is back, you’ll have to leave.’

  Ming shrugged and began to flick through one of the magazines from the orderly pile on the glass-topped coffee table. ‘That’s okay, I have a meeting in New York, I’ve got to do decor for the new shop . . . Oh my God, have you seen this, it’s in the Tatler, look . . . “London’s most eligible bachelor, Alex Barkley”.’

  Alex handed Ming her drink and leaned over her shoulder to read the article. ‘He was right, that donation did the trick – we’ve been handing out thousands to every charity you can think of. I’ve been in “Jennifer’s Diary” three times . . .’

  As Ming skimmed through the magazine, her own fabrics featured prominently. There were also spreads in three new interior design magazines. She picked up her drink and sat down, crossing her perfect legs. ‘I met a possible client today, Barbara Hunter Hardyman – Texan woman, she came into a fortune. She’s bought a penthouse in New York . . . I’d like to get into Texas, good property there . . . Oh yes, can you get a few days off? Just that her father’s ranch is being auctioned off, and I may be wrong, but he was a collector of seventeenth-century furniture . . . Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone, I get a new client and you add to your collection.’