‘Georgina, she – oh, dear, this is so difficult to say, to face, but she is getting very old, I’m afraid.’
‘So?’ Georgina stared at him.
‘Darling, when I got to the pram, I’m afraid – very much afraid – the brake was off. Nanny had failed to make it safe. She really is not to be trusted any more.’
Chapter 56
Alexander, July 1987
It had been unlucky, that. So unlucky. If he had been a little longer reaching the pram, perhaps, a little slower – but no, the baby had been thrown out, thrown out onto the soft earth. He should have left him strapped in, perhaps. That might have been better.
Well, he had tried. And he had failed.
It had been such a clever plan. The biscuit under the pram, the dog, deprived of its breakfast, hungry, the brake off, the pram positioned so carefully, pointing towards the steps. Nanny, safely up in the nursery, Georgina asleep – asleep after her disgusting behaviour the night before, did she really think she had not been heard, those cries, those awful, raw cries; talking on the landing to Kendrick, waking him up, and then – then.
He had been very upset, very disturbed by the conversation with Mary Rose. The thought of that boy, living at Hartest, with Georgina, with the child: what did they all think Hartest was, some kind of hotel, to be broken up and shared out? He had been working for so long, all these years, struggling to keep it, keep it safe, keep it whole, keep it his, keep it for Max, and now that cretin calmly proposing it should be divided up, equating it in some crazed way to the bank. It was obscene, disgusting. It made him feel physically sick.
So much the worse that he had failed; if the child had been no more, then there would have been no question of a marriage. She could not possibly consider it. But could he, should he try again? Not for a long time, a long long time. And then it might be too late.
Chapter 57
Max, August–September 1987
Max looked into the policeman’s face. It was the worst sort: young, pale, supercilious, a suggestion of spotty.
‘Good morning, sir. Would you care to tell me how fast you thought you were driving just then, sir?’
‘Oh –’ said Max carefully. ‘Oh, I’m afraid a little too fast, Officer. I’m sorry.’
‘How much too fast, sir, would you say?’
‘Well – maybe twenty mph too fast?’
‘I think a little more than that, sir. We recorded it at between ninety-four and ninety-eight. Over quite a long distance, sir.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Max.
‘Yes, sir. Could I see your licence, sir?’
Well, that had done it, he thought, released finally and driving at a very sober sixty-nine on towards London. He’d get a huge fine. Certainly have to spend an inordinate amount of money on a solicitor. Maybe he should get rid of the Porsche. The police did look out for them. Bloody silly idea really, staying at Hartest overnight, and then trying to beat the rush into town. God knows why he’d done it. Well, God might know, but he didn’t. He just wasn’t thinking too straight at the moment. And he knew why that was. He was worried. Properly, seriously, sleep-disturbingly worried. About rather too many things.
There was Praegers. That was the least of his worries, he supposed. On a scale of one to ten, it only rated about a five. But it was difficult there, uncomfortable, the atmosphere increasingly unpleasant. It didn’t greatly affect the trading floor, but it was horrible for Charlotte. Her nice boss gone, her job increasingly difficult, and that little tick Freddy breathing down her neck as well. But none of that was a gut-eating, mind-warping worry. Not like the business about Georgina and Kendrick and this insane nonsense about Kendrick living at Hartest. Of course it was nothing more than a demonic gleam in that crazed woman’s eye; and Kendrick was still farting about in that dreamy, half-arsed way of his, saying he wasn’t sure if he did want to marry Georgina or not. God, if he’d been Georgina, he’d have kicked him hard where it hurt. There she was, poor kid, dying of love and misery in front of their eyes, coping with the baby all on her own, and Kendrick didn’t even have the decency to come to some kind of a decision about the whole thing. She kept on defending him too; she’d tried to explain to Max only last night, tears in those great eyes of hers. Max often wondered if Georgina had ever passed more than twenty-four hours without crying.
‘It’s so hard for him, Max. He can’t decide what’s right, you see. He can’t make up his mind if he loves me or – or her. And whether it would be dishonest to marry me, in that case. He’s such an honourable person, you see, that’s the trouble.’
Max took a very clear-sighted view of Kendrick’s honour; and from where he was sitting it took a pretty flexible form. He seemed to have the very best of both worlds, a girlfriend in New York (who was also standing patiently by, waiting for him to make up his mind: what did the guy have going for him, for fuck’s sake?) and another one in England, who was bringing up his baby, uncomplainingly asking for no more than a kind word whenever he condescended to come over and visit her. Max would have been very tempted to help Kendrick towards a decision with a few well-chosen words, had he not promised Georgina faithfully to keep out of it, and had he also not been afraid that pushing Kendrick in one direction might be counterproductive and propel him very fast in the other. And in the direction of Hartest, and his taking up residence there. Of course in fact that would never, could never happen; it was out of the question, anybody could see that, Kendrick kept on insisting that his home was in New York, that he would not dream of settling in England, and Max was quite sure that even if he changed his mind, even if (to please Georgina, who was more English than the Union Jack) he agreed to live in England, then they would not, they most definitely would not be living at Hartest with their baby. Hartest was not a commune, for Christ’s sake; it was a house, a family house, part of the estate, to be preserved against all costs, and it was his, as the future Earl of Caterham, to do as he liked with. There was no way a whole flotsam and jetsam of assorted relatives and their children were going to move in on it, and that was the end of the matter. He would not allow it, and in the short term Alexander would never allow it. Except that – and this was where the worry took on an edge, a painful, stomach-knotting edge – Alexander did adore Georgina, and he adored the baby these days, and he kept on and on about how wonderful it was to have a grandchild, and to feel immortal, and to see the continuation of the Caterham line. Every time he said that Max felt as if he was going to puke. Stupid, sentimental claptrap; the old fool was going gaga. It was a strange kind of immortality; if his wife hadn’t whored around, there would have been no continuation of any line. Thank Christ, thank Christ, Kendrick didn’t know about all that. Georgina might be naïve and unworldly, but at least she hadn’t been so stupid as to tell Kendrick. He’d asked her a few weeks ago, after they’d had a bit of a barney about the whole thing, and he had said what a crazy, totally unthinkable idea it was, that she should live at Hartest with Kendrick.
‘I don’t see what difference it would make to you, Max, you always said you didn’t care about Hartest, and you hardly ever come here.’
Max said that was quite untrue, that he cared very much about Hartest, and he came there a great deal these days, and Georgina said she didn’t call lunch once a month a great deal and as far as she could see it was just showing it off to Gemma and making sure she knew what a great prize she was getting.
That had upset Max; they hardly ever argued, he and Georgina. But he had been scared, and he had felt he had to ask her, and she had looked at him, her face very set and rather stern, and said that no, of course Kendrick didn’t know, it was family business and should be kept amongst themselves.
Nevertheless, it was a worry; and it wouldn’t quite go away.
Max’s other source of anxiety was Gemma. This was actually more of a gnawing unhappiness than a worry. He had known she was spoilt, vain, self-centred; he could match her on those qualities with ease. What he had not properly realized was that beneath
the slightly vapid charm of her personality was no real warmth, no kindness, no generosity. On a good day, he felt quite fond of her; on a bad one he actually disliked her.
‘Max? Good morning, my son.’ It was Jake, calling from Mortons. ‘Good weekend? How is the young lady?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Max shortly. ‘I haven’t seen her since Friday. She and Mummy went to Paris for the weekend, shopping.’
‘Lucky Mummy. There’s something going on in the futures market, by the way. Which is not why I called. Meet me for lunch? Or after work? I have a rather interesting little story for you.’
‘Oh really? Better make it after work. I’ll come up there.’
‘OK. Champagne bar Corney and Barrow?’
‘You’re on.’
John Fisher came down to his desk looking ghostly pale. ‘What’s up?’ said Max. ‘Hangover?’
Fisher smiled at him with an obvious effort, nodded his head. ‘Yup. Sure.’
It was clear he wasn’t telling the truth. ‘Shall we have lunch?’ said Max. ‘No. No I can’t,’ said Fisher. ‘Not today. Big issue on. Sorry.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Max. ‘What’s the issue?’
‘Oh – electricals,’ said Fisher.
Max idly flipped through the company reports, looking for news of an electrical issue. There was none. He stopped worrying about it. The dollar was up, the mark was down, the pound was flying, and someone had tossed him for the first trade of the day. His worries receded; he had more important things to think about.
Jake was sitting in the corner of the champagne bar looking smug, a bottle of house champagne in front of him, three quarters empty.
‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry. Got embroiled with the dollar. Good day?’
‘Yeah.’ Jake poured him a glass of champagne; Max drained it, and poured them both another.
‘I’ll get another bottle.’ He went to the bar and ordered house champagne; a Japanese next to him was paying for a bottle of Cristal Rose at £100.
He smiled at Max. ‘Good times!’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Max, ‘very good. Long may they last.’
The Japanese nodded enthusiastically, and Max grinned back. One of the most agreeable things about working in the City was the sense of heady optimism in everybody. It certainly beat the neurotic anxieties of the modelling business.
‘Now then,’ he said to Jake, settling down again in the comparative peace of their corner, ‘what’s this story?’
Jake looked even more smug.
‘There’s a couple of very interesting little real-estate companies started up.’
‘Oh really?’ Max felt bored; if this was just about a tip, he wasn’t interested.
‘Yeah. Shops and garages mainly. Outer London. And beyond, if my information is correct.’
‘So?’
‘Well, so they’re using cash. To buy sites, to build, to fit out.’
‘So?’
‘According to my informant, it’s Arab money.’
Max guessed Jake’s informant was one of his brothers. He had three: all in Special Branch. Jake said their job required much of the same qualities as his.
‘Oh Jake, for God’s sake. We all know about the Arabs and their cash. It pours into Praegers every day. And who’s your informant anyway? You read too many of those thrillers.’
‘Friend of the family. As you might say. Anyway, this money isn’t coming into Praegers. Or indeed any bank. It’s straight into the bricks and mortar.’
‘What, in petro dollars?’
‘No, you fool, someone’s changing it for them. But it’s not seeing the inside of any bank account.’
‘Uh-huh. You mean it’s dirty money?’
‘Could be. Very dirty. Or so my informant assumes.’
‘Who’s your informant, Jake?’
Jake tapped his nose. ‘Never inform on an informer. Let us say he’s in the employ of the government.’
‘You mean he’s a cop?’
‘I didn’t say that. Did I?’
‘No you didn’t say that, Jake. Well, it’s all very exciting, but what’s it got to do with me? Why are you telling me anyway?’
‘I’m telling you because I think you might recognize a tie-up here. And given the situation at Praegers, you might find it useful. Now as I understand it the money’s coming into the country in Swiss francs. Then being changed here again for sterling.’
‘Shit,’ said Max.
‘Precisely. What was that new account you announced on a few months ago? That electronics company?’
‘Shit,’ said Max again. Then he said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, Jake. There are zillions of Swiss companies.
‘I’d look at the board,’ said Jake. ‘I did. Lot of funny names on that board. Not all of them Swiss. Arab, quite a few of them. Including a Mr Al-Fabah. Now isn’t he a client of yours? Or rather of your Mr Drew’s? If I had to put my money on anything right now, I’d say Mr Al-Fabah was having some money laundered for him very nicely, washed and starched and ironed, and then bringing it in here and using it for buying his shops.’
‘Well someone’s got to be changing the francs,’ said Max.
‘Indeed they have. Look into it, my son. I would. And if you get anything that might interest me and my friend, let me know, there’s a good lad.’
After that they dropped the subject. They were pleasantly drunk; they went downstairs to the restaurant; there was a party of traders sitting extremely noisily over a bottle of 1939 Armagnac which had cost them £145.
‘They’re betting on the number of drops left in it,’ said the manager rather wearily. ‘I wish they’d just hurry up and finish it.’
Jake knew one of the traders; he and Max were invited to join in the game.
It ended at eleven; Max had lost £100, Jake had won £500. He said they should go to a club; they went to several. At five, it didn’t seem worth going home. Max and Jake went back to Mortons, crashed out on the floor for a couple of hours and then staggered down to the restaurant for breakfast.
‘I’ll have to get a shirt,’ said Max. ‘This one stinks.’
‘I’ve got a couple in my desk,’ said Jake. ‘Keep ’em there for emergencies. Let me have it back.’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ said Max. ‘I’ll get you a new one.’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Jake.
Max got to Praegers at eight. It was already buzzing. Shireen, Chuck’s very sexy new secretary, was whisking along the corridor, her arms full of files; Max reached out and patted her inviting little bottom. She turned round and frowned at him and dropped the files.
‘That was your fault,’ she said, trying to sound cross.
‘I’m sorry. Let me help you pick them up.’
He carried them along the corridor for her, put them on her desk. ‘There you are, darling. Any time you need me, just say the word. In fact, why don’t I buy you a drink tonight, just to show you how sorry I am?’
Shireen hesitated. Max knew what she was thinking: that he was not Chuck’s favourite person and that he was engaged to the girl who adorned the cover of her Cosmopolitan that month. But vanity and greed won.
‘That’d be nice. But I mustn’t be long, I have to meet my girlfriend.’
‘Tell her to join us.’
One thing led to another that evening. Shireen found herself plied with champagne, told she was a clever girl and ought to consider training as a dealer, and then taken out to supper at Langans. She did refuse to go back to Praegers with him, to pick up the shirts he had bought for himself and Jake that day; a week ago her friend had gone back to the bank she worked for late at night with one of the traders, she said, and they had finished up having sex on the floor.
‘Doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Max, grinning at her.
‘Well it was, actually,’ said Shireen, ‘the night porter watched them on the security video.’
Max finally drove her home to Bromley in his Porsche and fell exhaus
tedly into bed at two, not before eliciting from her the information that Chuck was away the following week for two days in Zurich, visiting the new electronics company. Max remarked casually that he thought he had been there last week as well and Shireen said yes, he was always going over, it was such an important new client, and Chuck was just about the most conscientious, as well as the kindest, most generous boss she had ever known. Every time he went to Zurich, she said, he brought her some really nice present back. Max said he had thought the electronics company was in Geneva, and Shireen said it was, but Chuck often visited a contact in Zurich at the same time.
It all seemed to be fitting together very neatly.
He told Jake, but he didn’t tell anyone else. Charlotte had enough to worry about.
Jake told him it was certainly interesting, but his friend would need something a little more tangible. ‘Like knowing there was a numbered bank account. He must be doing something with the money. The commission on laundering is at least twenty per cent.’
‘I’ll keep working on Shireen,’ said Max.
John Fisher was looking more terrible every day. He wouldn’t tell Max what the matter was, but one day in early September he said he couldn’t stand it any longer and resigned. That afternoon Chuck Drew sent for him, and he came out of the office looking even worse and said he had agreed to stay on, and that Chuck had given him a raise.
‘Are they blackmailing you or are they blackmailing you?’ said Max.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Fisher. He had lost a lot of weight.
It had seemed such a good idea, the party. It was Max’s idea, born out of a row he had been having with Gemma. He said it was time they had a party. Gemma said they’d had a party and Max said he didn’t call the middle-aged bash put on by her father a party and he wanted a proper one. It was he said (casting his mind about slightly wildly) to celebrate his twenty-first birthday; Gemma said that wasn’t until December and it was bad luck to do it early, and Max told her he would celebrate his birthday whenever he fucking well liked. Gemma told him she was sick of his filthy language, and Max took her home; next day he apologized, but the party still seemed a good idea. He wanted a real party, an epic party, he said, he wanted everyone there. He told Gemma it could be to celebrate their engagement again if she liked, that was fine by him, just so long as it happened. Appeased by the thought of yet another public confirmation of her future as the Countess of Caterham, Gemma agreed.
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