The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘The chief beneficiary being the World Farming Federation.’

  ‘Yes. I have a great interest in these matters.’

  ‘I too. There lies the salvation of our planet. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would, yes,’ said Bard.

  ‘Now this trust holds – or rather held – a large number of shares in the Channing Corporation. Is that correct?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But you see, Mr Channing, those shares, as you no doubt know, have been sold. And what we are – interested – in is the date of that sale. Now, I wonder if – ’

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ said Bard, as they walked up Elm Street, looking back over his shoulder at the SFO’s rather sinister-looking, mirrored front, ‘how have they got all this stuff so quickly? How have they done it? I just don’t understand it. I thought you said they weren’t terribly bright.’

  ‘Obviously I was wrong,’ said Drew. ‘Look – let’s go back to my office. We need to talk urgently. They seem to have rather more of a case against you than I originally imagined. Obviously a load of baloney, but we do need to do some thinking.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Bard, ‘not now. I’ve got this journalist coming to see me at twelve. Well, I had this journalist coming to see me at twelve, Christ look at the time. ‘He’ll probably have gone long since.’

  ‘Well, I told you not to see him anyway,’ said Drew, ‘it’s madness. Call me later, Bard, will you. I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you might have got a bit of a problem.’

  He flagged down a taxi; Bard got into his car. It had a parking ticket on it: it seemed very sinister. He wrenched it off the windscreen, pulled it out of its plastic cover and ripped it into pieces.

  Gray sat in his car outside Bard’s house, reading his story. It was very good. It was fucking brilliant. It read like a thriller, he could hardly believe he’d done it. It had everything: sex, money, crime, bribery, beautiful women, wronged wives, exotic locations, double dealings – and a twist in the tale that John Grisham would have been proud of. Shit.

  It was always an extraordinary moment, this, when everything had worked, woven into the final whole, all the research, the hunches, the patient trawling through endless documents: all translated into a few thousand words of densely packed prose. You could never quite believe it, that it had worked; more odd still was the point when the story was set in type, had gone to bed, when you knew the machines were running it, that there was nothing more you could do to it, nothing to stop it. You felt powerless then, out of control, nervous, edgy, it was a bit like stage fright. After that, reading it in the paper, seeing it there on the page, was an anti-climax, it seemed to have little to do with you.

  He saw, in his mirror, the Mercedes coming up the street: saw Channing get out of it, slam the door, run up the steps. Gray put the sheets of paper in an envelope, got out, called to him; Channing looked down, scowled at him, said nothing.

  Gray followed him up the steps, stood right by him, studying him, seeing the wretchedness, the exhaustion, the fear in his face, thinking how closely, how extraordinarily closely and in what extraordinary ways their lives had become intertwined. It was one of the things that never failed to amaze him about his profession; that for a few days, weeks, you became part of someone’s life, their present, their past, their work, their family, and then it was over, the knot was loosened, the bond undone. It could be a relief, it could be an anti-climax: occasionally, very occasionally, it seemed sad. At this moment, it seemed sad.

  Without saying anything at all, he handed over the envelope to Channing.

  Friday was shopping day for the convent; consequently Reverend Mother needed her car, and one of the sisters had taken the only other vehicle, a big pick-up truck, to a market garden twenty miles away to pick up some boxes of fruit. Which in turn meant Francesca was unable to pick up the hire car which would take them back to London. By mid-morning Kitty’s cough had worsened: nothing dramatic still, of course, just a sneezy, tickly cough, but just the same to be heard more and more frequently. Francesca was edgy, clearly as much worried about her as she was about her own situation, impatient to get away.

  ‘Perhaps you should take her to the doctor,’ said Rachel, looking at Kitty as she sat on Francesca’s knee. Her small nose was red now, her dark eyes liquid, but she still appeared perfectly cheerful.

  ‘I can’t take her to the doctor because I haven’t got a car,’ said Francesca irritably, ‘and I’m sure there’s no need, it’s only a cold. And besides I want her to see our doctor, or Mr Lauder, not some idiot down here.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be an idiot, darling, and anyway, you just said it was only a cold, so – ’

  ‘Yes, well, it is. And Mr Lauder said specifically last time that I wasn’t to fuss over a cold, that they weren’t serious, so there’s no point doing anything. But I do want to get home. As soon as Reverend Mother gets back I want to go and collect this thing. What time is that normally, because – ’

  ‘Darling, I don’t know. I’m not that regular a visitor.’

  ‘No. Surely she can’t be that much longer, I just don’t see how on earth a bit of shopping can take over two hours.’

  It’s a while since you did any real shopping, Rachel thought, realising in that moment how spoilt, how removed from reality Francesca had become. ‘Well,’ she said carefully, ‘it’s a way away, the town.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. What do you think I should do about that house then? I can’t leave it indefinitely.’

  ‘Francesca, I don’t think you have to decide that now. We only saw it a little over twelve hours ago, it’s not even on the market. I wouldn’t call that an indefinite delay.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean. Oh, God. Do you think Kitty’s hot, Mummy? Does she seem feverish to you?’

  Rachel felt Kitty’s forehead, her small hands, and shook her head. ‘No, I really don’t. I think she’s fine. It is just a cold, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Francesca fretfully. ‘Maybe I should see the doctor here, just have her checked. I’ll phone, I think, do you know the number?’

  ‘I don’t, but any of the Sisters would. I’ll go and find out.’

  But the local doctor, whose name was Richard Paget, was about to go out on his rounds, and his receptionist informed Francesca she had no appointments until six that evening. ‘And then it’s emergencies only.’

  ‘Well, this might be one,’ said Francesca, her voice rising just a little, ‘if I don’t see him before then. Or rather if my baby doesn’t, she has a heart condition, you see, and she’s got a bad cold and – ’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the receptionist, and there was a whispered conversation; she came back on the line.

  ‘Could you bring baby down right away, and Doctor will have a look at her.’

  ‘No I can’t,’ said Francesca, ‘because I haven’t got a car, I’m stuck here at the convent, at Bresholme, you know, could he come here, do you think?’

  ‘Well, possibly later this afternoon. But I can’t say when it would be. Really if you could get her down here for six, that might be better, more satisfactory for you – ’

  ‘It doesn’t sound satisfactory at all,’ said Francesca irritably. Kitty coughed again. ‘Oh, look, don’t bother, I’ll just get her back to London, to my own doctor.’

  ‘Very well, my dear. If you prefer that.’

  Francesca slammed the phone down, looked at her mother. ‘Stupid bloody woman,’ she said. ‘Oh for God’s sake, where is Reverend Mother?’

  Gray finally reached the office after two. Tricia looked at him in a mixture of rage and relief.

  ‘Gray. Where the fuck have you been? And I quote our esteemed editor.’

  ‘Sorry. I had to – finish something.’

  ‘What, the story? Well, thank God for that. He’s going mad, Gray, absolutely barmy. And I’m not surprised, quite honestly. He’s been holding three pages for you for twenty-four hours, and – Gray, are you all right? You
look terrible.’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ said Gray with a sigh. ‘Just. I’m sorry you’ve had to field all the shit, Tricia. Very sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all part of the job, I guess,’ said Tricia cheerfully. ‘Anyway, go straight down there for God’s sake. Want me to do anything for you?’

  ‘No, no, it’s all done.’

  ‘Great. Did you see Channing?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘I see. Is that the story? Doesn’t look very long.’

  ‘It’s long enough,’ said Gray. ‘Could you get me some tea, Tricia, please?’

  ‘Sure. Oh and Gray, by the way, Liam Channing phoned. From Spain. He’s going to ring back. He wanted to know whether you’d been able to use that information he gave you.’

  Gray thought for a minute. Then he said, ‘Ah, yes. Could you tell him it was of enormous help to me and that I’ll certainly be making very full use of it.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ said Tricia, ‘yeah, I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gray. He walked rather heavily out of the office and along the corridor in the direction of David Guthrie’s office.

  Barnaby was not normally much given to doing what he thought he should; most of his actions were directed entirely by what he knew he wanted. He’d gone to stay with Tom in Wiltshire for a few days because he’d wanted to get away from it all, the emotional chaos, but now he found himself thinking, greatly to his surprise, that he ought to go back to London. Back to Hamilton Terrace. The recent events had shaken him: he had been upset by Morag, had genuinely shocked himself by his behaviour in the wine bar with Oliver, he had been very distressed by Kirsten’s anguish, and he was horrified by the prospect of Francesca leaving his father. He liked Francesca enormously ; she wasn’t just pretty and good natured and fun, she had a bit of a brain on her as well. And she’d made the house much nicer to live in. OK, Kirsten hated her, but it had actually been foul before she’d arrived, with first Nanny fussing over them, and then just Sandie looking after them, or rather not looking after them; there’d been no warmth, no affection, no heart to the place. And he could remember life with their mother and that had been absolutely horrible. The five years since Francesca had married his father had actually been the best of his life, Barnaby thought. OK, his father had still been filthy tempered a great deal and the feuding between Kirsten and Francesca, until Kirsten had moved out, or been moved out, hadn’t been too good, but on the whole things had been pretty fair. And now Francesca was going. Or threatening to go. He couldn’t actually blame her, but still.

  Anyway, that morning he’d decided he ought to go home for a bit. His father must be at rock bottom, poor old sod; Kirsten might need his moral support; and if Francesca did come back, even breifly, he could pull out all the stops, really try and make her change her mind. She was very fond of him, he knew she was, in fact he had a pretty good hunch she quite fancied him, and he could be very persuasive if he put his mind ot it.

  He phoned Kirsten from Tom’s house to tell her he was coming; she was touchingly pleased.

  ‘Barney, I’m so glad. I really really want you to come with me tomorrow. Will you?’

  ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m having the – the thing done. You know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Barnaby was appalled, his good resolutions caving on him fast. ‘Oh. Couldn’t – I mean, wouldn’t you rather Tory went with you?’

  ‘No. Tory’s so bloody earnest. She’d keep asking me if I was sure I was doing the right thing, and if I’d seen a priest and everything. I want you, Barney, I really do.’

  Her voice wobbled; Barnaby felt instantly guilty. ‘Oh. OK, but I won’t have to – well, do anything, will I?’

  ‘Of course not, you half-brain. Only hold my hand.’

  ‘What, not while they’re – ’

  ‘Barnaby, of course not. Beforehand, that’s all. And afterwards, maybe.’

  ‘Oh. OK. You feeling all right, then? About it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine thanks. Come to the flat about nine, can you? We can go in my car. And you can take it and then collect me next day.’

  ‘Yes, fine. Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. I’ll be at the house if you need me. Or shall I come round this evening? We could have a Chinky, get a video out.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kirsten, ‘I’d really like that, Barney. Thanks.’

  Reverend Mother finally reached the convent after one. ‘I’m so sorry, Francesca, to have kept you. I had to go and see Father Brownlow at the church on my way back. If you like I’ll take you straight into Bideford now, so you can go on to London, don’t have to come back here.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Francesca, trying not to sound short, ‘Kitty’s asleep now, there’s no point waking her. We’ll have lunch and then go, perhaps. If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Of course. Come along and we’ll go straight in.’

  Francesca couldn’t eat any lunch; her stomach felt like tangled string. Jack had spent the morning in the bakery and had made her a very grey-looking roll; she did her best to swallow that at least, but it was impossible.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, it’s delicious, but I’ve got a bit of a tummyache. I think I might go and see if Kitty’s all right. She’s been asleep for ages.’

  ‘I’ve made her some bread as well,’ said Jack. ‘A fly got in the dough, look, you can see it there, but it’ll be cooked, it’ll probably taste nice.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack. That’s very kind. I’ll see you in a minute.’

  She went up to her room. She felt worse every minute, sore, aching, exhausted, as if she was developing some very virulent form of flu. Perhaps she was developing flu, she thought, perhaps something more serious. Perhaps she was going to be really ill, and have to be rushed to hospital. That seemed oddly welcome; it would remove her from being brave, from trying, from living with herself and her decision, with working out whatever she was going to do next; she could just lie in bed and life would go on around her and everyone else would see to things and nothing at all would be asked of her. She felt so dizzy as she walked up the stairs that she had to sit down, put her head in her arms. Sister Maria, the sweet-faced old nun who did much of the cleaning in the convent, saw her, asked her if she was all right, if she could get her anything, if she could get her mother for her.

  ‘No, the last thing I want is a fuss,’ said Francesca sharply. ‘We’ll have half the convent up here in a minute … I just felt a bit dizzy, that’s all.’

  Sister Maria patted her head very gently, and moved quietly away. God, I’m a bitch, she thought, and opened her mouth to call an apology, but then found she didn’t have the strength or the emotional resources even for that. She wished she could stop thinking about Liam, and wondered how it could be that she was more upset about him and the way he had behaved towards her, his cruelty, his duplicity, than about the ending of her marriage. She supposed it was because her pride, as well as her heart, had been hurt; she had been totally deceived, made a fool of by him, like some gullible teenager, had listened to him talking endlessly in that bloody beautiful voice of his, playing on her sympathies, preying on her loneliness, and never recognised any of it. Bard was right: she was a fool. God, how could she have been so stupid. So totally, horribly, pathetically stupid. She wondered if she would ever have to see him again; she hoped not. Well, she supposed she hoped not. Actually, Francesca, go on, admit it, if he walked through that door now, with his bloody sensitive face looking at you all tenderly, and gave you some half credible story, some explanation about what had happened, you’d swallow it, eagerly, gratefully, and still want to go off into the sunset with him. It was grotesque, humiliating to realise, but it was true. Mercifully it was extremely unlikely. For the hundredth, the thousandth time, she thought fearfully of what he might have told Graydon, what Graydon might be going to do with the information. Probably it would be all over t
he papers on Sunday: headlines, progressively more nightmarish, drifted into her head: ‘Adulterous wife betrays ruined husband.’ ‘Wife cheats on husband with stepson.’ ‘Incestuous pillowtalk sends husband to jail.’

  Well, she’d probably read all of that and worse. She thought of how angry and shocked she had been with Kirsten at her indiscretion with the newspapers, and felt ashamed as well as everything else. She suddenly wondered if, wise or not, she should talk to Graydon Townsend. Find out what he was going to do, find out exactly what Liam had told him. Maybe, maybe she could still persuade him; anyway, she thought, she ought to try. It was too important not to. She owed that to Bard, at least.

  She looked in on Kitty; she was still asleep. She didn’t look too bad; she was lying on her back, her face rather sternly composed, her dark eyebrows, surprisingly heavy for a baby, creased in a near-frown. She looked a bit like Bard. A lot like Bard.

  And then she coughed a different cough from the spluttering, wheezy ones earlier, a deeper, more rasping sound. Francesca put her hand down into the cot, felt Kitty’s face, her legs. She was warm. Very warm indeed.

  Francesca promptly forgot about Gray Townsend.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘What do you mean, there’s no fucking story?’ said David Guthrie. ‘What’s happened to it, of course there’s a story.’

  ‘No,’ said Gray, ‘there isn’t.’

  ‘But Gray, there was a story yesterday. There was a story this morning even, I understood from Tricia.’

  ‘She thought there was,’ said Gray.

  ‘And did you think there was yesterday? Christ Almighty, Gray, have you had some kind of a breakdown or something? I don’t understand this. All these weeks, months it feels like, you’ve been leading me on, telling me it was coming, it was the biggest thing in years, that it was going to blow my balls off, and now you tell me there’s nothing there. Are you suffering from some kind of mental impotence, can’t you get your head up any more?’