by J G Alva
“Good enough,” Alex grunted, and they left the room.
◆◆◆
Out on the pavement, the sun pierced Nick’s eyeballs like needles. This felt like another world, with the oblivious happy shoppers going about their business on the street, unaware of any underhand dealings by a certain Nicholas Mitchell and co. Were they to call him out then, he would meet their disgust with ease.
Alex smiled and said, “I had to change the plan a little when we were in there. I hope you don’t mind. I know you weren’t really keen on mentioning the takeover, but we were only going to be able to push Hammond so far. Stubborn old goat.”
“I liked him,” Yilmaz said, smiling.
“Well.” Alex turned his face up to the sun. “And I hope you didn’t mind about the little fabrication with your family. Which, I must say, you played along with beautifully. That was the only way we were going to get to him. Through his principals.”
They had decided not to be as forthcoming with Lovett as they had with Yilmaz’s nephew, the idea being the less people who knew what they were really really up to, the better.
“You did very well, Mr Lovett.”
“Thanks,” Alex said. “I thought so too. Though, in truth, I think fate more than helped. Had we had spun that tale without the charges currently against Mr Ross that meeting might have come out a little differently.” He examined his perfect nails then, and made a face when he saw something he didn’t like. He picked at it. “Although, in truth, I feel a little sorry for the guy. It seems like the whole worlds against him.”
“Sometimes the world has a way of doing this,” Yilmaz admitted.
“Yeah,” Alex said. “Did you hear, his accountant’s daughters in jail for possession? But this isn’t like the other times – she had a lot of drugs on her. I mean, a lot. She might go down for ten years or more. I hear old Arthur Keats has hit the bottle pretty hard. Used to be something of a hellraiser in his day, so I’ve been told. Had a little problem with the sauce, many, many years ago. And then, on top of all that, Ross’s woman getting attacked? Jesus.” Alex shook his head. “She was lucky all the guy did was scare her. But because of that attack, she went in to early labour. Shock, I suppose. They managed to get in her in to hospital, but she lost the baby. Hammond’s right: what the hell’s going on with the world? Oh well. I better get back. I’ll speak to you soon, Mr Karipidis. Nice to meet you, Mr Sommers. Goodbye.”
◆◆◆
Yilmaz was strangely silent on the journey back to the penthouse, but felt able to voice his thoughts clearly enough once the door behind them was closed on the outside world.
“The child is dead,” he said, leading against the kitchen counter.
“So it would seem,” Nick said mildly.
“The child is dead!” Yilmaz shouted, banging a fist on the counter top.
“Yilmaz?” Agathe called from down the hallway.
Yilmaz looked startled, as if he had forgotten they would be here, and then called back to her in Greek. Yilmaz then took Nick by the arm, opened the patio doors, and stepped out on to the garden roof, closing the door carefully behind him.
Here, the temperature was a couple of degrees below what it had been on the street, and the wind was that much harder.
“Do you want me to shed some tears over it?” Nick said. “You know I can’t.”
Yilmaz stared at Nick.
“I know that you were betrayed, that they were trying to kill you, but the child did nothing to you. He was an innocent person. This is not right.”
“Seems fair to me.”
Yilmaz seemed even more shocked, and studied Nick’s face.
“I do not believe this of you. I know you are a man that feels. You must know this is not right.”
“I asked you to help me with my revenge,” Nick said, an edge to his voice. “I never said it was going to be pretty.”
“Revenge, no,” Yilmaz said, shaking his head. “I wanted only for you to have justice. This is not justice. This is not equal.”
Nick strolled to the edge of the roof. “Yilmaz,” he said, his voice kinder. “It was not my intention to kill the child. You know that.”
Yilmaz muttered something angrily in Greek.
Nick felt his own temper flare in that moment.
“Have you forgotten, she had my child killed too! Have you forgotten that? I’m sorry this upsets you, truly I am, but I can’t feel anything about this except pleased. This is the way it should be. She killed my child, now hers is dead. Why shouldn’t she suffer as I have? What has she done to deserve your sympathy?”
“You misunderstand me, friend,” Yilmaz said, calmer. “I have only sympathy for the child.”
“Then show a little sympathy for mine as well, dammit,” Nick shouted. “Doesn’t he deserve a little justice too?”
Yilmaz thought about that, the wind attacking his bone white hair, his face grim, and then he nodded.
“Yes. You are right. But I am having a bad feeling about this. What we are doing was only to hurt those who hurt you. But it is going outward, and hurting others. This I do not like.”
“No, I don’t like it either,” Nick said, “but they should have thought about that before they tried to kill me. They brought this on themselves.”
Yilmaz stared at him and eventually nodded his assent.
◆◆◆
Two suitcases sat in the hall just before the front door.
Nick stared at them from his place by the patio doors. The cases were very much like their owners, one large and brown, the other smaller and slightly lighter in colour.
In moments, Agathe, Kate and Yilmaz strolled out of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, chatting quickly in Greek. Agathe was busily buttoning a beige raincoat, her eyes searching out every surface of the room for something she might have forgotten to pack, her handsome face creased with a frown. Eventually, her eyes found Nick, and she smiled.
She finished buttoning her coat and came to him, her arms slightly out at her sides.
They hugged.
“Nick,” she said. “It is my hope we will see each other again soon. You must come to stay with us in Preveza. A beautiful place, it is near the beginning of the Amvrakikós Gulf. We have a home there. Will you come sometime?”
Nick smiled.
“I’ll try to.”
“And this,” Agathe said, and her face clouded for a moment. “Yilmaz has told me some of what you are doing. I do not know that I agree with it, but I know that it has to be done. But one thing for me you must promise. Although I cannot ask of you promises.”
“No. Tell me. What is it?”
Agathe hesitated and then said, “there are things you must do, yes, but Yilmaz has a family. Please do not let him...forget this, no? I would not want him...hurt, or in danger. Yes?”
“No,” Nick said. “I understand. He won’t be in danger. I’ll look after him.”
Agathe nodded, and looked down as she felt a tug; Kate was there.
“I want to say goodbye to Nick too,” she protested.
Nick hugged her.
“You are one tough lady,” Nick said. “Like Angelie Jolie or something.”
Kate made a face.
“I prefer Jennifer Aniston.”
He laughed.
“Of course. Well, you look after yourself. I’ll see you soon.”
“Say hello to Rebekah for me.”
Nick smiled, but the sadness in him withered it somewhat.
“I will.”
As Kate joined her father, Agathe said, her eyes on Kate, “Rebekah reminds me of myself when I was younger. I was strong, you know? I did not want anyone to tell me what I was to be doing. But I should have been told. I was too young to know what I was doing.” She looked at Nick then. “Rebekah is the same as me then. Do not forget her, Nick. Yes?”
Nick nodded.
“I won’t.”
“Goodbye. I will see you soon.”
“You will. Have a good trip.”
/> ◆◆◆
“We’ve got a problem,” Harold Thomas said, scratching the back of his head.
“Oh?” Yilmaz said. “How so?”
Harold sighed tiredly.
“The stock market is a very delicate thing. Even insubstantial rumours can send the share price soaring. Or plummeting. The price of Mitchell Cole’s shares has jumped three points in the last week. Everybody believes there’s going to be a takeover attempt.”
“And how are people knowing this?” Yilmaz asked, an angry look on his face.
Harold looked flustered.
“It’s not coming out of this office. But there are some sharp men out there who can easily connect the dots. No matter how many subsidiaries we use to buy the stock, there’s still your name in there somewhere, for anybody who has an idea to look it up. They can see what’s coming. And this will make things harder for you. Those that still have Mitchell Cole shares, if they’re smart, will hang on to them in the run up to a takeover. The price will go up and up, and if they do eventually sell them, you’ll be paying through the nose for them.”
“Through the nose?” Yilmaz said. “What is this, through the nose?”
“Sorry,” Harold said. “I just mean, you’ll be buying them above their market value. It’ll be expensive for you.”
Yilmaz looked at Nick.
“I do not see this is a problem,” Yilmaz said.
“That isn’t my main concern,” Harold admitted. “My main concern is that these rumours have gotten Michael Ross nervous. He’s begun buying Mitchell Cole’s shares himself.”
“He can do that?” Nick asked.
“Of course he can. Anyone can do it. It’s foolish, seeing as the board of directors already have a controlling percentage, but I don’t think he wants to take any chances. As of this moment he has 24% of the shares. That’s his own personal stake. He has managed to acquire 7.6% in the last three days. This is our problem.”
Harold spread his hands: that was it.
“So what do we do?” Nick asked.
Harold made a rude noise.
“There is nothing you can do,” he said. “They hold a majority stake. You can propose a takeover bid, but with Michael Ross and his board of directors holding the controlling interest – and with his state of mind indicated by the purchasing of his own shares – there’s no way it will go through. They’ll just vote not to accept it.”
“Damn it,” Nick said, grinding his jaw.
“We knew he would do this,” Yilmaz said, smiling grimly. “He does not like to lose.”
“I thought they had him locked up,” he said.
“He’s out on bail,” Harold said. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. And from everything else I’ve heard, I don’t think the case will hold up. Apparently he’s had workmen traipsing through his house for the last month. Sure, it’s his computer, but any of them had access to it. And he’s a respected businessman. I don’t think the police are going to pursue the case.”
“He is going to win,” Nick said, with finality.
Harold cleared his throat, and stared resolutely at his desk.
“Not necessarily,” he said.
Yilmaz and Nick turned to him as one.
“He is good,” Yilmaz told Nick, nodding at Harold. “He has something. I told you he is good.”
“What is it?” Nick asked.
“Have you heard about Arthur Keats?” Harold asked, a wary look on his face.
Nick and Yilmaz exchanged a look.
“What about him?” Nick asked.
“He’s dead,” Harold said shortly.
“What?”
“Drove his car in to a tree last night. It killed him outright.”
Nick was stunned. In some way he couldn’t understand, he felt cheated, like Arthur had escaped him.
But it was done, one way or another.
“He’s dead?”
Harold was nodding.
“They say he was drunk, but not enough so that he couldn’t have avoided the tree, enough to have survived. And they found no reason why he should have gone off the road in the first place, unless of course he was dodging a badger or something.” Harold licked his lips. “The talk is he committed suicide. You see, the reason he died was, he didn’t have his seatbelt on. And with all the things that’s been happening to him recently, his wife kicking him out, his daughter facing a ten year jail sentence...”
“Jesus Christ,” Nick said, still so shocked that he felt weak in all his limbs. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy. But there it was: one down, two more to go.
“And how is this to be helping us?” Yilmaz asked.
“Well,” Harold said, looking uncomfortable for a moment. “In the case of a death, shares, like anything else, automatically passes to the next of kin. In this case, Arthur’s wife. I don’t see why an appeal couldn’t be made to her for the shares. If you worded it right of course. This might not be the best time, but I don’t think you can wait. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mr Ross hasn’t already paid her a visit.”
Nick and Yilmaz looked at each other.
“Shall we?” Nick asked, with a small, unpleasant smile.
◆◆◆
Nick had met Sandra Keats several times and was worried that she might recognise him, but when he arrived at their house just outside of Lympsham she saw only a stranger. Because he couldn’t possibly be there, people didn’t really see Nick Mitchell; instead, they saw only Stephen Sommers, thin, blonde, his face a little wrinkled from the sun, his two year tan beginning to fade in the British climate. He had caught himself in the mirror on the way out and had thought he did indeed look foreign, not German as his passport professed but maybe Scandinavian.
Sandra had always given him the impression of a contented housewife, and visually pretty much fit that description. Michael had told him quietly once that she had been something of a looker in her day, but that had all been replaced with short cut grey hair, glasses, wrinkles, and a layer of fat over her body, most of it concentrated mainly on her backside, thighs, and under her chin.
After the death of her husband, and the imminent threat of jail hanging over her only daughter, she still looked like a housewife, but overwrought rather than contented, like she had too many chores to do and not enough time to do them in.
Still, it was good to remember that she was an intelligent woman, if not academically. Nick had liked her, but now felt nothing more for her than a lingering sadness at how everything had turned out. They had all lost.
Or they all would, if Nick had his way.
She led them in to the kitchen.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said, looking around herself. “I haven’t gotten around to tidying.”
“Understandable,” Nick said, trying to sound kind. “Under the circumstances.”
The kitchen looked like the victim of a raucous party. Dirty glasses, cutlery and plates dotted almost every surface, and folded washing sat in piles on chairs and on the kitchen table, waiting to be put away. Some of the cupboards doors were open, and tins of beans and other things had been taken out and put on the side, as if they had caught Sandra in the act of taking stock of what she had. But the place felt like it had been like this for days.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” She asked, in the voice of a tired, overworked hostess.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Mrs Keats,” Nick said.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
“What?”
“Mrs Keats. Don’t call me that. It’s on paper, but I stopped being Mrs Keats about a week ago.”
“Okay.” Nick nodded.
“Call me Sandy. Everyone does.”
“Sandy. Put quite simply, Sandy, the reason we are here is business. We’re businessmen, and we’ve come with a proposition.”
“Oh?” She did not seem interested.
“We’re interested in acquiring your late husband’s shares in Mitchell Cole. At a handsome pri
ce, of course.”
Sandy sat wearily at the kitchen table.
“They must be pretty important shares,” she said. “Seems like everybody wants them.”
“Oh? Who else has been talking to you about them?”
“My husband’s boss, Michael Ross,” she said. “He came over this morning, fresh out of jail and still smelling of roses. I wonder if that man is actually part cat – that when he falls down, he always lands on his feet.”
Nick looked quickly at Yilmaz, who’s expression was a mask of polite interest.
“My husband was having an affair, did you know?” Sandy said tiredly, looking at Nick and then Yilmaz, but under the exhaustion Nick could hear the anger in her voice. “That’s why I kicked him out. Somebody sent pictures in the post, addressed to me. Oh, of course, he denied it, but what else was he going to do? And then he started drinking again, after twenty seven years of sobriety. Can’t blame him really, what with me throwing him out and our daughter in jail. Drugs. She always had a drug problem, right from when she was in her early teens, but we thought she was getting over it. Arthur used to tell me, that even after twenty seven years he still had drinking thoughts. He used to go to meetings all the time when we were first married. He stopped going to meetings about ten years ago. He wasn’t cured, he said you could never be cured, but he used to smile and say he had the perfect support system right here.” She indicated the kitchen, but she meant the family. “Even though my daughter looks like me, I think she is more like her father – well, she certainly inherited his addictive genes from him.” She paused, her eyes fixed on a place to the left of Nick’s elbow. “Michael Ross and my husband were friends for going on twenty years. They worked well together: he was the flamboyant salesman, while my husband kept his feet planted firmly on the ground. They balanced each other out. Mike used to joke that they were the A team, individually pretty good, but together able to bring down small unstable governments. And they were good. Things just got better and better. We had enough money to buy this house, and one in France, and another in Florida. I suppose they’re mine now. But sometimes...I think sometimes the things they did, Mike and my husband, were not always...above the board. He hardly ever talked about work, and to be quite honest with you, I couldn’t understand most of it anyway, but I wonder now if Mike wasn’t...influencing him. Mike is a pretty strong character, and my husband, for all his diplomas and awards, didn’t exactly have that much of a spine. I know you’re not meant to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t really care at this point. With Mike and Arthur being so close, I wonder if he didn’t know about the affair. Even though Arthur was Mike’s senior by about ten years, I think in a strange way he looked up to him. Arthur was never flamboyant or outgoing, and socially he was something of a misfit. That’s why he used to get drunk when he was younger, to have the courage to try and fit in. Maybe he had the affair because he saw Mike walking around with all these leggy blondes on his arm. Maybe he felt he was missing out. I’m not who I used to be, and what I used to be was never that great. But I bet Mike knew about it, maybe even encouraged him. I thought I knew my husband, and I never would have believed him capable of this, but...maybe you don’t really know anyone, do you?” Nick felt a jolt at this, but kept his face blank; he had thought the same thing only the other day. “Arthur was at that time of life, you know, when you start evaluating what you’ve done, what you’ve achieved. Maybe he thought this was his last chance to get a...to get a little wild before...before it was all over.”