‘It’s Jack Proctor.’
Klein beamed knowingly. ‘Ah, the pit bull. What’s he up to now?’
Tring prevaricated. ‘I don’t know how to put this, Abe.’
‘Say it straight, Jon. That’s always the best way.’
The Englishman shrugged. ‘He wants you, Abe.’
Klein pursed his lips and tilted his head. He removed his horn-rims and sucked on one of the sides. Tring recognised the ritual his friend used when contemplating any serious issue. ‘How much does he reckon I’m worth?’ he said at length.
‘No figures yet, Abe. It’s just a tentative inquiry at present.’
‘Tell him I’m willing to sell.’
Tring’s square jaw dropped.
‘Yeah, Jon, tell him to think of a number between one and ten, multiply by a billion and take away the number he first thought of.’ With this, the American burst into a guffaw.
‘I told him you wouldn’t be interested, but he’s used to getting his own way.’ ‘
And will you help him, Jon?’
Klein’s question cut the professor to the quick. ‘I would resign before he could make me compromise our friendship,’ he said firmly. ‘You know that.’
The American blushed. It was true. If there was one man in the world he could trust, it was Jonathan Tring. ‘I’m sorry, man,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just that the Proctors of this world have a habit of corrupting those around them.’
Tring looked solidly at his friend. ‘I don’t believe Jack Proctor is evil, Abe. Ruthless, yes, but not evil.’
‘You can tell him from me that he hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance.’
‘He might approach Kinloss,’ Tring suggested. ‘Nearly everybody is rich in somebody else’s eyes and poor in his own.’
‘That sounds Talmudic,’ said Klein. The American then frowned and shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Jack Proctor can promise Kevin Kinloss the crown jewels of the Queen of England, but as long as I’m majority shareholder, the jewel in my crown will remain safely under lock and key.’
Tring nodded. He could see that this would be a case of an unstoppable force hitting an immovable object. He was just about to comment when the matronly figure of Rachel Klein appeared at the dining room doorway.
‘Shop talk again, boys? Now who wants black coffee?’
When Jonathan Tring relayed Klein’s unambiguous message to the chairman of Parados Pharmaceuticals the following day, Jack Proctor had simply smiled knowingly and muttered something about other ways to skin a cat. The glint in Proctor’s eye had made the professor uncomfortable, but Tring believed his boss was mistaken if he thought he could manipulate the American. Abe was nobody’s fool.
The scientist returned to his laboratory troubled both by Proctor’s comment and the vision of the globetrotting Fiona. He knew it was a waste of energy to concern himself with a woman who had simply used him for sex. And yet he couldn’t get the pretty, fresh-faced farm girl out of his mind. Perhaps it was simply the memory of the sex, coming as it did after such prolonged abstinence. One thing was for sure: Hong Kong was too far away to conduct a meaningful relationship.
As he plunged into his work, Professor Jonathan Tring began to feel more and more like one of his laboratory rats. Others had used him for experimental purposes, one in business and the other in sex.
In a Cambridgeshire boardroom, another man was seeing himself portrayed as a victim, albeit potential rather than actual.
‘Who told you?’ Abe Klein seethed.
‘Proctor himself,’ came the calm reply.
‘First he sends an intermediary, and then he goes behind my back. No deal, man. No deal.’
‘Let’s at least hear what his offer is, Abe,’ the Scotsman said sternly. ‘We canna lose anything by it.’
‘There’s no point, Kevin. I wouldn’t sell out to anyone, let alone that ugly leech.’
If Kevin Kinloss was disappointed by Klein’s reaction, he was not surprised. While the American saw the company through the pink spectacles of altruism, the Scotsman was more sanguine about approaches from predators. He was first and foremost a businessman. He looked for return on investment. ‘Proctor intimated that it could be in the tens of millions,’ he said with raised eyebrows that almost demanded acceptance of an offer.
‘Money,’ said Klein through gritted teeth. ‘It’s always money. Doesn’t this company mean more to you than that?’
The Scotsman’s steely eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not the only one who helped build this company, my friend.’
Abe Klein scratched his bald pate defensively. It was true. While he may have formulated a winning product, it took sales and marketing skills to fully realise its potential. Kinloss had every right to have his say. ‘Look, Kevin,’ the American said in more conciliatory tone, ‘our potential is enormous. One day we could be a Parados. We might even build an empire.’
The Scotsman’s angular features betrayed little emotion. ‘We are basically a one-product company. I think we at least ought to hear what Proctor has to say. If word gets out, we’ll have the other shareholders on our necks anyway.’
‘If word gets out, our share price will rise and Proctor will be looking at a bigger bill. I’ll issue an immediate denial and the price will probably drop lower than originally. Then some other sharks might move in to screw Proctor. Speculation is in no-one’s interest.’
‘You have ultimate control, Abe,’ said Kinloss calmly. ‘I’m just asking you to think about it.’
‘There’s really nothing to think about. Jack Proctor may think he can screw anyone he likes, but I’m one helluva tight end.’
It was just after noon on a sparklingly crisp Sunday. The Old Chigs clubhouse was resounding to the robust singing of ditties, their bawdiness designed to instil in friend and foe alike a comradeship that could only be found in those who had just spent eighty minutes battering one another in the pursuit of an oval ball.
For Jonathan Tring, a prop forward of no meagre skill, the game was a welcome release from the scheming of Jack Proctor. Rugby was the most physical of team sports, and yet there tended to be little gratuitous violence involved. Foul play was not cricket, so to speak, and part of the mystique of the Union code of play was that it was a game invented by gentlemen for gentlemen. Not that Tring was surrounded by a bevy of squires and aristos. Many of his team mates were brokers in the financial markets. Rough and ready Cockneys, they were just as well suited to flogging cutlery down Petticoat Lane. Buying and selling was their game and the venue didn’t matter one jot. As he raised his glass along with theirs, Tring couldn’t help thinking that Proctor would be well suited to this melange of machismo, although his boss would no doubt have felt more at home among practitioners of the game’s Northern code.
Tring downed his glass of lager and bade farewell to the pink faces and glassy eyes. Expletives abounded among those who possessed limited vocabulary, and he desperately felt the need for more cerebral company. He’d pop home, rustle up an omelette, have a nap and then settle down to the current biography and a little Bach. The only thing missing was someone warm and soft tucked close to him. Someone like Fiona Harrington.
The big man sighed as he brushed past a collection of desirable Cabriolets and stepped into his silver-grey Mercedes. He had never felt more alone. Work had become the dominant theme of his life and he was becoming a little too long in the tooth to remain ‘one of the lads.’ He needed a woman. Period.
As the professor eased his car into Chigwell High Road, he was forced to brake sharply as a black Audi Cabriolet appeared from nowhere. The scientist cursed as the driver of the Audi screeched almost to a halt and then swung wildly to the other side of the road. In the split second that the other car was stationary, Tring could make out the features of its driver. ‘Fiona!’ he gasped.
The fresh-faced driver of the Audi had grimaced, but otherwise had shown no hint of recognition. The next thing Tring saw was a flash of her blonde hair as the car raced away.
Tring never fully understood why he did it. Instinct took over. Fiona Harrington was supposed to be in Hong Kong and Fiona Harrington was driving along a country road in Essex. He also happened to have made love to the girl and he wanted to do so again, dammit! In a rush of testosterone, he slammed his foot to the floor. With a screech of tyres and a protesting roar, the Mercedes spun into the main road. The black Audi disappeared around a bend, and then once more came into view as he steadily gained. It was heading towards Abridge at a fast but not entirely hectic pace. Within a few seconds Tring had made up the distance. He gave a couple of toots on his horn and flashed his lights, at the same time raising his left hand in a semi-wave.
Instead of slowing down, the driver of the Audi dropped a gear, and the two-point-eight-litre engine smoothly thrust the car forward. Tring’s square jaw dropped open. He couldn’t understand why she was trying to avoid him. ‘Maybe I’m wearing the wrong aftershave,’ he half-joked to himself, pressing his foot to the floor. He wasn’t about to give up the chase. The automatic smoothly slipped a gear and within seconds the Audi was once again in view. Thankfully, traffic was light, although both drivers were forced into manoeuvres that required no little skill. Her driving ability surprised him, as the black Audi sleekly meandered along the country road.
The pursuit continued for a further three miles, during which Tring twice came within scraping distance of the Audi’s bumper. Further flashing of lights and tooting of horn seemed only to spur his quarry to greater effort. In the end, it was a mundane circumstance that brought an end to the pursuit. A motorised hay wagon had broken down and was blocking the narrow lane. The driver of the tractor, bent over the engine and busily engaged in repairs, launched himself backwards in a defensive manoeuvre as the Audi and the Mercedes screeched to a halt almost simultaneously. Cursing, he picked himself up and moved threateningly towards the two vehicles.
‘Here, what d’yer think you two are doing,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll kill someone.’
Both drivers remained sitting in their cars, seemingly oblivious of the farm worker’s ranting. The sudden release from the tension of the chase had left them drained, physically and mentally.
Tring was the first to react, although his exit from the Mercedes was laboured. He felt as if he had just spent some minutes at the bottom of a collapsed scrum. Ignoring the tractor driver, a weedy middle-aged man, he walked a little unsteadily towards the Audi. Resting his left arm on the cloth roof, he stooped to peer at its driver.
The expression on Fiona Harrington’s face was a mixture of surprise, relief and apprehension. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she mouthed.
Tring half-smiled and tapped on the window. As it lowered, the farm worker once again made his bellicose presence felt. ‘Here, are you listening to me?’
The professor straightened to stand face to face, or rather face to chest with the man. ‘Piss off,’ hissed Tring uncharacteristically. He may have been a gentle giant, but his protagonist was not to know that. All the farm worker saw was a younger man of muscle and sinew who seemed almost twice his size. It was a no-contest. Grumbling, the tractor driver returned to his stricken vehicle.
Tring stooped once again to face his quarry. ‘What do you mean, “Oh, it’s you,” Fiona? Surely you recognised me?’
‘No, I didn’t actually,’ she replied coolly. ‘Your car windows are tinted. All I thought was that some maniac was overcome by road rage and was chasing me. You’re lucky my mobile phone is out of order or I’d have called the police.’
Tring glanced back his car. She was right, of course. The tinted glass had been an extra. ‘I’m sorry, Fiona,’ he said sheepishly. ‘It’s just that I thought you were avoiding me and I couldn’t understand why. Anyway, I thought you were supposed to be in Hong Kong.’
‘Who told you that?’ she asked defensively.
‘Jack Proctor.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
Tring stared at her. God, she was pretty. The hazel eyes were bright with inquisitiveness. Her cheeks were high and slightly flushed, the pert nose flaring like that of a Newmarket thoroughbred. This was one filly he desperately wanted to ride again. ‘He said your company was sending you to Hong Kong on an assignment.’
Fiona Harrington remained silent, her fresh face showing no emotion.
‘Listen,’ said Tring, ‘I’m getting a crick in my neck.’ He moved swiftly around the front of her car and eased himself into the passenger seat. There was silence for a few seconds, then, ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Are you going to Hong Kong?’
Fiona gave a shuffle of indignation. ‘I don’t see what business that is of yours,’ she said testily.
Tring rubbed his square jaw in exasperation. ‘Look, why are you being so damn touchy? I’ll say it straight. I can’t forget that night at the party. I want to see you again. Dammit I want to make love to you again.’
Fiona looked at him with eyes that betrayed a confusion of emotions. ‘I like you Jonathan,’ she said almost demurely, her voice suddenly soft and warm. She then sighed, deeply and with Job-like sadness. ‘It’s just that I can’t see you again.’
‘Can’t or won’t.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Then it’s not because you don’t want to.’
‘No…I mean, yes.’
‘Fiona,’ he said sternly, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I can’t explain,’ she said with a pained expression.
‘It’s that other man, isn’t it?’ said Tring with a kind of finality. ‘The one you’ve been trying to avoid.’
‘No…I mean, yes. Please, Jonathan, don’t press me any further.’
Tring was nothing if not a stubborn character when it came to something he truly desired. ‘Look,’ he cajoled, ‘I promise I won’t ask questions. I just want to see you again.’
Fiona Harrington’s pretty face contorted into a mixture of longing and apprehension. She tore off a strip from a notepad attached to the dashboard and scribbled a telephone number. ‘Here,’ she said handing it to him, ‘you can contact me on this number. Just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Call me only from a phone box.’
As Tring took the slip of paper, the throaty noise of a tractor engine broke the quiet of the country lane and the hay wagon began to creep forward. The driver almost immediately turned left onto a muddy track that led across open fields.
‘I have to go now, Jonathan. Give me a call.’ With that, she depressed the clutch, thrust the gearshift into first and revved the engine.
Tring yearned to kiss her, but thought better of it. He was not the type to force himself physically on a woman. She had been the one who had made love to him with such unbridled passion. Yet now her manner was full of contradictions. There were so many unanswered questions, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place to seek answers. The scientist, feeling slightly giddy from her perfume, nodded his head and hauled himself from the car. She slipped the clutch and roared away.
The scientist stood rooted for a good half minute, long after the object of his desire had disappeared from view. He then looked at the note she had given him. He recognised the number. She lived in Chigwell, a stone’s throw from his own home. The whole thing had been bizarre, but now at least he had something to look forward to.
CHAPTER 9
‘How much will it take?’ Sharon Proctor’s Southern drawl was tinged with trepidation. Money for others meant less for her. Less only became more if there was a payoff later along the line. And for Sharon Proctor there always had to be a payoff.
‘He’s no fool, my dear,’ her husband cautioned. ‘It’ll probably take ten million to buy him out.’ She whistled through her pursed ruby-red lips.
‘Ten million, why I could buy whole towns in Georgia for that kinda money.’
Jack Proctor prodded the juicy Scotch fillet she had cooked him. ‘You see this piece of steak, Sharon. If you tried to eat it all
at once you would choke. But slice by slice, it’s a different proposition.’
Sharon Proctor needed convincing. She was street smart, having survived a white trash childhood that had led her peers into crime, prostitution and drugs. She eschewed their twisted values through dint of hard labour, spending unearthly hours as a waitress or cleaner to pay her way through college. She saw education as the key to a brighter future, a future that would be as far removed from the milieu of Poortown, Savannah. Not for her the solace of the bottle or a few bucks for selling her body, either up against a wall or on a greasy bed, while the kids slept in the next room. Early deaths had been her parents’ reward for dissolute lives that took no account of their effect on her and her twin sister.
Undernourished and abused, Tracy-Lee Baker had succumbed to meningitis at the age of ten, leaving her sister to bear the brunt of the family’s excesses. By the age of seventeen, Sharon Baker was alone, a family of one. Through force of circumstance, she became the great survivor. The vicissitudes of life had hardened her, with the only true feeling of affection being reserved for the memory of her little sister. Since her marriage to Jack Proctor, she had revelled in the trappings of affluence and corporate power. The choice between staying with an ugly older man and giving up her lifestyle was no choice. Look at me now, Tracy-Lee, she thought. I did it all for you.
‘Well, Sharon,’ said Proctor, chewing vigorously on his steak, ‘what do you think?’
Sharon Proctor remained glassy-eyed for a few more seconds as she bathed in bittersweet memories.
‘Well?’
‘I’m still thinking that’s a helluva lotta dough,’ she said at last, lapsing into white-trash-speak and giving a flick of her newly-coiffured blonde hair. The steel-blue eyes, too, seemed to flicker whenever the subject turned to money. ‘How are we going to bankroll this guy?’
‘Look, Sharon, KleinKinloss has a hundred million turnover and a price-earnings ratio of thirty. Put into perspective, ten million is about right.’
‘So?’
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