Sweet Talking Money

by Harry Bingham

  ‘It’s not exactly –’ Cameron began, but even she could tell that Mervyn wasn’t going to have much interest in the finer points of her treatment programme.

  ‘You’ve got her a drink, I hope?’ Even by his own fireside, Mervyn used the voice he used with Rhys and his other dogs, high on the slopes of the windy Beacons above. The sound roared around inside the room, a multiple echo giving him the voice of Jehovah. Gwyneth’s one minute of pyromaniac frenzy had already produced a blaze that pressed the two new arrivals back into their seats, while Mervyn came over with tumblers and a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Just a little,’ said Cameron faintly, as Mervyn complied by leaving a couple of fingers’ breadth of air at the top of the glass.

  ‘Water?’ he roared.

  If he added water like he poured the whisky, Cameron would have ended up with a lapful of Famous Grouse. ‘That’s fine,’ she said bravely.

  ‘Just how she likes it, Dad,’ said Bryn, smiling, feeling at home.

  ‘Bloody miracle worker –’

  ‘Language, dear.’

  ‘You know what?’ he roared on. ‘I’ve come to a bloody decision and all. Go organic. Forty pound a head, that’s what they’re selling the organics for. Forty pound a lamb, instead of ten pound if I’m lucky for the ordinaries. By God, that’s a profit. And best of all, you just wait till I tell Jones the Poison.’ Jones the Poison was the local distributor of agricultural chemicals. ‘None of your bloody muck, I’ll tell him. Enzyme P450s, that’s me, and my bloody sheep, too. Eh? Forty pound a head.’

  The blaze blazed, Mervyn roared, Gwyneth remonstrated, her voice like a seagull’s protesting against the tide, the whisky disappeared and came again, even in Cameron’s glass, and when the time eventually came to go to bed, and Bryn took Cameron to her room, she said, ‘Real nice people, your parents.’ Then she belched like a donkey and slipped happily into sleep.

  5

  The next day, Bryn took Cameron off to see the farm, but really to talk, free of Gwyneth’s over-solicitous hospitality.

  ‘I’m sorry if the food isn’t quite what you’re used to,’ said Bryn, sitting on a sandstone block fallen from the steep mountain slopes above. His mother, awed by having a doctor in the house, and a female and American one at that, had felt obliged to press a new sort of cake on Cameron at least every hour. Despite Bryn’s staunch defensive work, Cameron had already swallowed more refined carbohydrate and animal fat than she usually got through in a fortnight.

  ‘That’s OK. She wants to be welcoming.’

  ‘Yeah, she does.’

  Silence, as the grey cloud swirled over the summits above, and brown bracken plunged steeply down to the roaring brook.

  ‘Cameron, I wanted to say sorry again for … for lying to you about that contract. It was totally selfish of me. I was thinking of the money, not you. I’m truly sorry.’

  She bit her lip. The wound had been keenly felt, had not yet healed. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, it’s not OK, really. We just have to hope for a good outcome. That still isn’t impossible.’

  ‘No, not impossible.’

  The day before, Cameron had finished her work and handed it over to a bunch of well-paid lawyers who knew what to do with it. Whether it would be enough, time alone would tell.

  ‘We’re all set?’ she asked.

  ‘All set. We’re meeting Altmeyer on his yacht. Just you and me, no lawyers. Portsmouth, this time, not Cannes, alas.’

  ‘He was OK about meeting on the boat?’

  ‘I told him we knew his tricks there, didn’t want to meet in a whole new place. He didn’t care, really. Too vain about his yacht.’

  He let go into silence, looking down the valley to the land rolling away to the east. In this landscape, his shape and size made sense. He looked like a boulder tumbled from the same mountain he was sitting on.

  Cameron let the silence run for a while before speaking again. ‘I don’t know what to say about that contract business. I feel so … Oh, hell, you know what I feel. But I also know that at the same time you’ve done a lot of really big things for me. Getting me out of Boston, persuading me about Corinth, getting the whole business set up and funded. It’s too obvious to say I couldn’t have done it without you, but I couldn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, well, likewise.’

  Bryn glanced across at his companion. Dressed in jeans and an Aran wool sweater, beads of rain sitting in her windswept hair, she looked like a CD-cover for Celtic music. He wanted her more than ever, and had to force himself to approach gently. ‘You and Allen,’ he said. ‘How are you two getting along these days?’

  ‘Good.’ The question made Cameron defensive, and her tone came out sharper than she’d intended. She was defensive because, deep down, she worried about involving Allen in the last, most dangerous, stage of the clinic’s fight for survival. She hadn’t told Bryn about his involvement, and she’d sworn Kati and Meg to absolute secrecy. But there was a bigger reason for her sharpness. She was defensive because she hated to seem incompetent in matters of the heart in front of the man who’d once described her as the last thing on earth he needed. To Meg or Kati, she might give a more complex story. In front of Bryn, she was only ever going to present the truth at its most rosy. ‘My relationship with Allen is absolutely fantastic. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Bryn was almost too crushed to speak. Had he been nuts? Recently, he’d started to wonder if Cameron was as deeply in love with Allen as she made out. He’d started to wonder, to hope whether … But here was the blunt truth. She loved Allen, just as she should, just as her hands had typed. He turned his head away, pain replacing blood in his veins. They both sat silent, and the world filled with the bleating of sheep and the cry of birds.

  ‘You and he … I guess you must be thinking of … You know, making yourself a permanent fixture,’ said Bryn after a pause.

  ‘Huh? Getting married, you mean? Uh, I don’t know if marriage is my thing … But we might move back to the States. We’ve talked about New York, maybe, or Chicago.’

  ‘Back to the States? What about the clinic? What about your work?’

  ‘We’re pretty much done, aren’t we? In another few months, we’ll have got all the peptides we were after – assuming we’re still in business, that is.’

  ‘I thought you said your work would never be done? I thought –’

  ‘That’s true, but it doesn’t have to be done in England.’

  ‘But what about the clinic? My God, we’ll be lost without you.’

  ‘I thought you said the clinic would soon be ready to turn into a market-led organisation, instead of a research-led one.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean … You’re really thinking of going?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’

  Bryn nodded. Even the best relationships break up. Until Cameron was actually married to Allen, he wouldn’t have to give up hope, but if she was thinking of leaving England, she couldn’t possibly care for him, not at all. Bryn looked out over the wind sobbing through the wet grass. If Cameron was going, then there would be nothing left for him in London. Once again, he would be rootless, on the move.

  ‘How about you?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘If the business succeeds, you’ll be rich.’

  ‘In one way, yes.’

  Cameron raised her raindrop-threaded eyebrows. ‘What do you mean in one way? Like having a lot of money, that way?’

  ‘Yes, in that way.’

  ‘Which is the only way that matters to you, right?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What will you do with it?’

  For a long time now, Bryn hadn’t thought of the money. His aim was to defeat Corinth, preserve Cameron’s work, bring it to the broadest possible public. His long-term ambition had been to work alongside Cameron, building the clinic into the best possible platform for her research. If he couldn’t be her lover, he could at least be her champion, doing what no one else could do
. But if she was gone, would he really stay with the clinic and all its memories? More likely he’d sell up, move on. ‘I guess I might move back here,’ he said. ‘My dad’s farm has always been tough to manage, high up on the hill as it is. If we bought some land lower down, in the valley, we could really get a decent operation going.’

  ‘You’d go back to farming sheep?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘I thought multi-millionaires were meant to have helicopters, and big houses in the sun?’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I’ll get a big house in the sun and bring in sheep, rain, grass and beer from Wales.’

  Now it was Cameron’s turn to feel upset. Despite everything, despite Bryn’s betrayal, despite her conviction that Bryn cared nothing for her – despite all this, part of her still minded about what he thought of her. And, though she knew he was joking, she realised she’d been hoping he would say something else, something about the clinic, about medicine, about her.

  She kicked herself for being a fool. The two of them had nothing in common, she reminded herself. He liked money, she liked medicine, and there was an end to the matter. There and then, she made up her mind that, come what may, she would return to the States, with or without Allen. She’d start her life anew, get Bryn out of her life for good.

  They continued to talk, but to all intents and purposes, the weekend ended there, on the rainswept hillside between the tumbled boulders. Bryn’s dreams were in ruins, Cameron’s feelings settled beyond doubt.

  THIRTY

  1

  The English Channel is not the Mediterranean, and Portsmouth is more than a film festival short of Cannes. It’s a grey, choppy morning and a grey mid-winter rain slants down over the sea. Smaller boats nose down the waves till their bows smash into the trough ahead of them, then lift abruptly as the stern wallows. But Altmeyer’s yacht is big enough to carve right through the waves, and the rain doesn’t pierce the gilt-and-mahogany vulgarity down below.

  As a host, Altmeyer is as obnoxious as ever – no, an understatement. This is his hour of victory. He’s more obnoxious than ever. He’s told Bryn, three times already, that the Sally Jane is to be sold off following this deal, and a new, larger yacht purchased in its stead. The new boat is to be christened the Bryn Hughes. Bryn bears the goading in silence. There’s one difference, though, from previous occasions. There’s not been one crack about Cameron – not one – since she came on board. The memory of black Mediterranean waves and a spine bent miles too far over the boat’s rail holds Altmeyer back.

  It’s thirty days since the GMC announced its investigation; thirty days since Altmeyer sent his gloating fax to Bryn, asking him to repay the ten million pounds. It’s thirty days on, Christmas has come and gone, and Bryn hasn’t paid a penny. Today, if Altmeyer wants to, he can convert his loan to shares and take control of the clinic. As early as tomorrow morning, the entire operation could be in Corinth’s hands.

  They head out of the harbour. It’s still early – barely eight fifteen – but the harbour entrance is busy enough that it requires the captain’s careful attention. Bryn has a preference for empty waters, and Altmeyer is happy to oblige. They head for a spot three miles out beyond Selsey Bill, the southernmost point on this stretch of coast. In the radio room, the captain’s gloomy assistant radios a short message stating the co-ordinates of their intended position. Bryn hears the message, certain that Altmeyer is keeping Corinth closely informed.

  Meanwhile, a smaller boat pursues a parallel track, holding to the shore. On deck in the needling rain, Bryn doesn’t notice it. He has his eyes glued to the furrow unfolding at their stern, a long chain of white bubbles, a temporary necklace for the gloomy sea. Boats come and go, but nothing appears to be following them with purpose. After a short cruise, the distant shore of Selsey Bill comes into view on the port side, occasionally blotted from sight by a sudden hard drumming of rain. They drop anchor. Bryn relaxes, Cameron too.

  They’re alone in the world, ready to fight for their clinic, win or lose, stand or fall, live or die.

  2

  As they turned to go below, they stepped down into the seating area they knew so well. Gone were the white canvas awnings, the deep-blue cushions, the hot salt smell of the Mediterranean. Instead, everything was bare, wet and cold. Bringing up the rear, Bryn lingered briefly. He looked closely at the speakers, and with a thick finger prised back their weather-proof covers. Along with the woofers and tweeters and all that hi-fi malarkey, there was something else, something that shouldn’t be there: a microphone. He snapped back the cover and walked on.

  The passage to the stateroom passed the tiny communications booth.

  ‘May I look?’ asked Bryn.

  Altmeyer hesitated, then nodded, shooing the glum-faced radio man out of the way. ‘Everything top of the range. Canadian-built. Good enough for the Bryn Hughes.’

  ‘This is the radio?’

  ‘Solid mahogany. Not a veneer.’

  The casing and dials were sham 1930s, but the steel box inside was up to date and tough, screwed to the worktop to avoid movement in heavy seas. From the back, cabling ran upwards to the mast.

  Squeezed into the tiny room along with Bryn and Altmeyer, Cameron looked at the equipment incuriously. There was nothing here to interest her. Dressed in sand-coloured jeans and a chunky woollen sweater, she looked every inch the hardy sailor. For whatever reason, possibly excitement, she felt not the slightest tremor of seasickness, despite the rolling of the boat. She rooted in her bag for something, ignoring the men.

  The only other item in the room was a steel cupboard, green-painted, with no markings. Bryn considered it carefully, took a screwdriver from his pocket.

  ‘And this would be your bug collection?’

  Jamming the blade of the screwdriver in between the cupboard doors, he prised away. Although the lock held, Bryn was able to bend one of the doors back like a flap. He put his hand inside and pulled hard, causing both doors to burst open in a snarl of metal. Inside was a set of labelled switches: deck, stateroom (port), stateroom (starboard), bedroom, dining room, bar, bathroom. A set of headphones hung from a clip, and there was a rack of blank tapes as well as a row of three built-in recorders.

  Altmeyer looked first pained, then delighted.

  ‘You’ve spoiled my cupboard! You know what, though? I won’t send you the bill. Just my little way of thanking you for the company you’re about to hand over.’

  ‘Don’t count on it, Max.’

  Before Altmeyer could answer, there was a sound, a metallic snip. Altmeyer whirled around as fast as he could in the tiny space. Using a pair of pliers, Cameron was cutting all the wires running between the masthead and the radio below.

  ‘Are you mad?’

  Altmeyer would have stopped her, but Bryn’s hand on his arm was enough to restrain him. Cameron finished her work with care. She hadn’t just cut each wire. She’d cut a metre-long segment out of each cable and tucked each one into her bag. The damage would take hours to replace, hours and hours.

  ‘Privacy?’ said Bryn. ‘Ain’t it great?’ He took a grip of the cables running into and out of Altmeyer’s eavesdropping equipment and ripped. The wires twanged and surrendered. ‘So important, don’t you find?’

  Altmeyer’s pudgy face was lost in calculation. Should he head back to shore where his communications would be unimpeded? Or should he stay out here and ride things out? But as he thought about it, his offensive grin began to reappear. If the boat had no communication, then Bryn had lost his ability to conjure money from nowhere. Altmeyer chuckled. ‘If you wanted privacy, Bryn, you only had to ask.’

  ‘Don’t even try to fix that, Max. Just for today, we thought we’d like it if it was you, me and Cameron, and none of your heavy-footed friends from Corinth.’

  ‘Corinth? Corinth Laboratories? I don’t –’

  ‘Don’t even bother. I know all about it.’

  Altmeyer opened his mouth to deny the connection, but then dro
pped the pretence. ‘It’s not a boat anyway, Bryn. It’s a yacht. Racehorse’s arse, remember.’

  ‘Your tub. Your slab-sided, foul-bottomed, bitch-rigged mud-creeper.’

  Chuckling at the insult, Altmeyer led on into the stateroom. There, on the heavily carved table between the ugly black leather sofas, was a pair of identical documents, entitled ‘Notice of Loan Conversion’. Bryn’s signature on those documents would put the new shares into Altmeyer’s name, and the clinic into his control. If Bryn refused to sign, then Altmeyer would go to court and force Bryn to hand over the shares. For Max Altmeyer, a signature today would be nice, but ultimately unnecessary. His pudgy face was already gloating in triumph.

  Down the corridor, the captain’s mate re-entered the radio room, his gloomy face for once alive with a smile as he looked at the blank section of wall where a string of wires ought to be. He twiddled the dials and heard the sound of silence. The thought of fixing the wires hadn’t even entered his mind.

  Three miles to the north, on the restless waters a hundred yards out from Selsey Bill, a fishing boat bobbed at anchor. The boatman cast glances between the white yacht standing out on the horizon and the bare pebbles of the shore. He didn’t seem concerned by anything much. His nets were idle.

  3

  Modem ship-to-shore communications technology is a complex business, and Bryn couldn’t be blamed for not knowing more about it.

  When Cameron cut the wires and disabled the radio, a smart chip inside the casing registered that transmission had been cut. Instantly and automatically, the chip ran a self-test program which revealed the extent of the crisis. Again, instantly and automatically, a distress signal was sent, using a different frequency and relying on a transmitter housed inside the radio itself. The only sign that the distress program had been activated was a tiny red lamp, winking on and off, on and off, on and off.

  4