‘How can I help?’ she said.
‘It’s your son-in law I’m after. He phoned me, it seems.’
‘Oh, he did? Well, I’m afraid he’s not here. Tell me what it was about, perhaps I can help – ’
‘I don’t think you can, unfortunately,’ said Gray. ‘Perhaps you could just tell him I called. I’m at my office.’
‘Which is?’
‘The News on Sunday. He’ll have the number.’
‘Oh yes, of course, I’d forgotten for a moment you were a journalist, how stupid of me. Well, I have to say I’m a little surprised he called you, Mr Townsend, he’s rather hostile to the press at the moment. Understandably.’
‘Yes, quite,’ said Gray, ‘but I definitely did have a message that he’d called. Urgently, was the word.’
‘Well, then obviously he did,’ said Rachel. ‘Look, I’ll tell him you rang and I’m sure he’ll be in touch. Er – when was this message?’
‘On Tuesday. But I’ve been away.’
‘Right. Well, he won’t be much longer, and I’ll tell him the minute he comes in. Now tell me, have you been to Ceccone’s lately, because I thought it had become even better?’
‘No,’ said Gray, ‘but I tried to take your daughter there, to buy her lunch. She turned me down.’
‘How very silly of her,’ said Rachel, ‘on two counts.’
‘Well, thank you. Is she there? Francesca, I mean?’
‘No, she’s away for a few days. And I’m only passing through. Well, goodbye, Mr Townsend.’
She had just put the phone down when Bard came in. He had been back to see his solicitor; he looked slightly better.
‘Philip seemed a bit more – optimistic this morning. He’s been talking to a barrister, seems to think we’ve a chance.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Well, of course everyone actually says very little in these situations. It’s all done in a kind of code, as no doubt you know. You can’t sit down and say “This is what I did, now how are we going to cover it up”, it’s much more “This is what they seem to think I’ve done, but obviously I don’t know anything about it”. But the barrister was very bullish, apparently, said intent in these cases is almost impossible to prove. Which is the relevant thing. So I’m feeling a bit more chipper. Who was that on the phone?’
‘That very charming young man Mr Townsend. You remember him?’
‘I do, yes,’ said Bard, ‘and charming is not quite the adjective I’d apply to him. What did he want?’
‘He wanted you.’
‘He can take a running jump,’ said Bard. ‘I’m not speaking to him.’
‘Why did you ring him then?’ said Rachel.
‘I didn’t ring him, for Christ’s sake.’
‘He said you did. Said you wanted to speak to him urgently. He was quite clear about it.’
Bard looked at her. The vein throbbed suddenly on his forehead. ‘Did he say when I was supposed to have made this call?’
‘Yes. On Tuesday.’
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Christ,’ said Gray. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He had put the phone down, was sitting staring at it. ‘Tricia, what did you say about Channing’s number? What the exchange was?’
‘It was Islington something. I know it was, because it’s the same exchange as mine.’
Gray picked up the phone again, dialled Teresa Booth. ‘Graydon, hallo! How was Jersey?’
‘Hot. Tell you another time. Give me Liam Channing’s number, would you?’
‘Yes, of course. But – ’
‘I’ll explain later. Sorry.’
‘Francesca, darling, this is Mummy?’
‘Oh,’ said Francesca. ‘How very good of you to ring.’
‘What?’
‘Mummy, don’t give me that. I know you’re up there with Bard, comforting him, consoling him, letting him cry on your shoulder. Again. And I think it’s foul beyond belief. You’re making things worse, Mummy, not helping, it’s awful, horrible. Just – oh, just go away. Go away and leave me alone. Both of you.’
The line went dead. Rachel looked at Bard.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘She’s very upset.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh – I’ll tell you in a minute. I’m trying to think what to do.’
A hot panic gripped her; she tried to fight it down. Obviously Francesca had rung her flat, rung the dentist, and leapt rather predictably to her conclusion. As circumstantial evidence went it was fairly damning. It was clearly pointless trying to ring Francesca again; she thought for a moment, and then phoned Reverend Mother.
‘Mother, I’m very very sorry to bother you, but I need your help desperately. It is quite extraordinarily urgent.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best. What is it?’
‘I want you to go and find Francesca – she will be very upset – and tell her she is quite quite wrong about – about what I’m doing. That is the first thing. And the second is that she must ring me, immediately, at Hamilton Terrace. It’s about Liam Channing.’
‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do.’
Rachel looked at Bard across the interminable silence.
‘I don’t suppose,’ she eventually said, ‘you’d consider coming down there to see her? To try and talk to her? This is getting worse by the minute.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said heavily, ‘I really don’t know.’
After about ten minutes Francesca phoned. She sounded icy cold, distant.
‘Yes? What is it about Liam? Has he phoned?’
‘No. No he hasn’t. Francesca, listen to me. Did you tell Liam anything, anything at all, about – about your conversation with Bard?’
There was a very long silence. It told Rachel all she needed to know. Finally Francesca said, ‘Why? Why do you want to know?’
‘Because – well, because we think – we think he might have been talking to your friend Mr Townsend. At the News.’
‘Well, that is ridiculous!’ Francesca’s voice was low, shaky with anger. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Of course Liam wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t. You’re making it up, you’ve dreamed up some plot between you to discredit him, just to hurt me.’
‘Francesca darling, I cannot tell you how much I wish that was true. Unfortunately it isn’t. Now look, how much did you tell Liam, and – ’
But Francesca had put the phone down.
‘Mum! Mum, can we go now, go to the beach?’
‘What? Oh, no, no Jack, not yet. Sorry. Kitty’s still asleep.’
She was snuffling rather. Her nose was a bit runny. She must wipe it, Francesca thought absently. She rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief, could only find the ones they’d bought that morning for Mary. Well, Mary wouldn’t mind. She pulled one out, wiped Kitty’s small nose. Kitty twitched slightly in her sleep, then settled down again.
‘Jack darling, go and find Richard. Please. I’ll be with you very soon.’
‘OK.’
Very, very slowly, she punched out Liam’s number. A little girl answered the phone. Hattie.
‘Is your daddy there?’ said Francesca.
‘No, sorry, he’s gone out.’
‘Do you know how long he’ll be?’
‘No, sorry. I don’t. Quite a long time, he said. He’s gone to see someone and then he’s going to pick up our tickets.’ She sounded excited.
‘Your tickets?’ said Francesca. She struggled to sound normal, cheerfully friendly. ‘What are the tickets for?’
‘We’re going on holiday. All of us. To Spain. Tomorrow, really early. Do you want to talk to Mrs Hackett? Our daily? She’s here.’
‘Oh – no. No, it’s all right,’ said Francesca, ‘thank you. Goodbye.’
She felt absolutely numb, as if she were watching herself, watching some mildly interesting film. So it was quite easy then to find Gray Townsend’s number, ring him at the News, ask to speak to him. And when his assistant told
him he was out, that he’d gone to meet someone, but she’d get him to phone the minute he got back, asked for her number, she still didn’t feel anything at all. Anything.
Gray had arranged to meet Liam at the American Bar at the Connaught. It was quiet there, especially at twelve: the only other people likely to be there were tourists. He ordered one of the dry Martinis the Connaught were so rightly famous for, and sipped it very slowly. Silly, really. He should have had mineral water. He needed a clear head. But he had needed the drink; he was beginning to feel uneasy. There was something about all this that was disturbing him, that he didn’t quite like.
Liam walked in at about five-past twelve. Gray had never met him, but he had seen photographs of him. All rather old photographs, like the one illustrating the piece about Kirsten. He was much better looking than he’d expected, and rather well dressed. There was something that was Bard about him; the eyes were identical, the almost black eyes, and the dark hair, but it was also the set of the head, and the shape of the jaw. An aggressive jaw.
He stood up, held out his hand. Liam nodded, took it, eased himself into the chair opposite him.
‘Martini?’
‘Oh. Oh, yes they’re supposed to be rather good here, aren’t they? Not one of my stamping grounds of course. Can’t afford it.’
Gray ordered the Martini, and some mineral water for himself; Liam started munching his way through the olives. He seemed perfectly relaxed.
‘Well now,’ said Gray finally, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Well, first of all, I want your assurance that this is totally confidential. That you will not reveal your source. As they say.’
‘You have that assurance. Naturally.’
‘Good. Well now, I understand you’ve been investigating a story about my father.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘I trust your investigations have been fruitful.’
‘To a degree. Thank you.’
‘Are you intending to publish a story soon?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You are probably aware that my father’s business is not entirely – straightforward ?’
‘Few businesses are, Mr Channing.’ God, he didn’t like this man.
‘Were you aware of a charitable trust? Offshore? Out in the Dtuch Antilles?’
‘I had heard something about it, yes,’ said Gray.
‘The chief beneficiary is the World Farming Federation. A very worthy cause.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘I have it on very good authority that most of the shares held by that trust in the Channing Corporation have now been sold.’
‘Ah,’ said Gray.
Channing picked up the Martini, sipped at it. ‘This is excellent,’ he said. ‘It exceeds its reputation.’
‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’
‘Yes, the shares have been sold. On an instruction received five days before the company collapsed. An instruction sent out from my father’s office.’
‘Yes. Yes I see.’ This was new; this was really heady stuff.
‘You didn’t know this?’
‘Not all of it, no.’
Channing picked up his glass again. ‘Moreover, a person very close to my father – I don’t think we need go too closely into who, but I’m sure you can imagine – this person has been asked to lie about his whereabouts that day. At the time this instruction was given.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’
‘So I think that should add a few extra lines to your story, don’t you?’
‘Possibly,’ said Gray, ‘just possibly.’
‘Good. Well, I hope so, anyway, I wouldn’t want it wasted. And I should so enjoy reading it. Are there any other little details you’re having trouble with, Mr Townsend? That I might be able to help with?’
‘No. No, I don’t think so,’ said Gray. He wondered what the matter with him was; instead of feeling excited, instead of wanting to rush off and file his story, he felt rather sick.
‘Good. Fine. Well, I’m going away tomorrow, for a few weeks, so you won’t be able to contact me anyway. So this is our first and last meeting.’
‘Yes,’ said Gray. ‘Yes, indeed. Er – how did you come by this information exactly, Mr Channing? I do have to know, you see. You might have just made it up.’
‘Oh – oh no, I do assure you it’s absolutely genuine. I got it from – what shall we say – the horse’s mouth. Or rather the filly’s. Or to be really precise, the mare’s.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Gray.
After Liam had gone, he sat there for a long time; the Martini seemed not to have had the slightest effect on him, so he ordered another and listened to a middle-aged American couple dressed in identical Madras cotton shirts and navy trousers arguing about whether they should go to Oxford or Stratford-on-Avon the next day.
They asked Gray what he thought. ‘Oxford,’ he said, ‘much more civilised.’ The couple promptly settled on Stratford; Gray left them and took a taxi back to the office.
‘Hi,’ said Tricia, ‘interesting?’
‘Very,’ said Gray shortly.
‘Good. Now then, Dave wants to see you urgently. And can you ring Francesca Channing? She phoned.’
‘I bet she did,’ said Gray.
He phoned the number; it was a mobile, and the reception was terrible. There was a great clattering of what sounded like knives and forks and china in the background.
‘Francesca? This is Graydon Townsend.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes. Can you hold on a minute, I’ll have to move.’
A brief silence, then she said, ‘Sorry. Better now.’
‘You sound as if you’re in a school dining hall.’
‘I was. Well, a convent dining hall.’
‘What on earth are you doing at a convent?’
‘Oh – long story. Mr Townsend, I have to ask you something, and I have to know the answer. Please.’
‘Yes?’ he said, knowing what was coming.
‘Has – has Liam Channing been in touch with you? With a story? About my husband?’
‘I really can’t tell you that,’ he said carefully.
‘That answers it really. Doesn’t it?’
‘It – could.’
‘Yes, I see,’ she said. ‘I think perhaps I’d better come and see you.’
‘No, Mrs Channing, don’t. The least said about all this the better. Certainly by you.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh – yes. I see. But – ’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said. ‘Coming to see me, I mean.’
There was a long silence. Very long.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh – oh, yes. Yes, thank you, I’m fine.’
Another silence.
‘Well – ’ she said, finally, ‘thank you for calling me. I’m very grateful.’ She sounded almost eerily calm. Distracted, but calm.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Honestly. Thank you.’
‘Good. Er – ’ and he wouldn’t have asked her then, but he was genuinely concerned, worried about it, ‘I’m sorry to – well, to ask at such a moment, but is Kirsten all right? Is something the matter with her?’
‘Kirsten?’ She sounded puzzled, as if she didn’t know who he was talking about.
‘Yes. She’s been ill – for quite a while now, as far as I can make out. It’s nothing serious, is it?’
‘What? Oh – no.’ Another long silence, then she said, still in her strange distracted voice, ‘No, no nothing serious. She’s pregnant, that’s all. Look, I must go, Mr Townsend. I’m sorry. Goodbye.’
Bard and Rachel drove very fast down to Devon. Rachel comforted herself by thinking, as Bard sat in the outside lane of first the M4 and then the M5 with his foot pressed to the floor of the Aston Martin, that it was better than the last time they had travelled together to Devon, in the helicopter. Just.
He had suddenly said he would come; had stal
ked into the room, his face set, and told her they would leave at once, without further explanation. Rachel had not asked for any. He had spent most of the journey on the phone, which made the speed, which at times topped 120 mph, still more terrifying. Hearing him shouting at Marcia, who had failed to deliver some form or other to the accountants; at Gray Townsend, whom he had told to get off his fucking back, and then at Oliver, whom he was unable to see now until the next day – which hardly seemed to be Oliver’s fault – while overtaking various cars on the inside because they wouldn’t get out of his way, was hardly relaxing. She kept longing for a police car to appear, to stop them even, but the entire British force seemed to have their attention focused away from the south-west of England that day.
He was in a strange mood: brooding, intense, absolutely focused on the journey, on what he was going to do at the end of it, but his despair gone; once or twice he even smiled at her. She was puzzled by this, until he said something, just in passing, as they battled through the torments of the M4 extension. ‘At least now she knows,’ he said. ‘She knows what he really is.’
It was just after four when they arrived at the lane. ‘Now for God’s sake, Bard, it’s very, very narrow and steep. And tractors have right of way.’
He ground his teeth and braked violently; halfway up the first hill, a vast hay-wagon appeared from a field, began to come down towards them. Bard hooted loudly.
‘Bard, don’t,’ said Rachel, ‘please! He’ll mow us down.’
‘He can go back into the field. I’ve got to back half a mile.’
‘Yes, you have. I presume this car can go backwards.’
‘Well, of course it can go backwards, but I don’t see why it should – ’
‘It should,’ said Rachel, ‘because you’re not a farmer, you don’t live here, and he’s bigger than you are. Now reverse. Please.’
She sat beside him, observing Bard Channing giving in to someone else, and wondered how often it had happened in the past fifty-four years.
As they drove into the courtyard, Jack saw them; he was cradling some eggs in his hands.
The Dilemma Page 72