Be Careful What You Wish For

by Jeffrey Archer

  “He’s in a wheelchair. But his surgeon assures me not for much longer, and they’re allowing him out for the first time next week.”

  “Bravo. Does that mean he’ll be going home?”

  “No, Matron won’t allow him to travel that far yet; perhaps a trip to Cambridge to visit his tutor, and have tea with his aunt.”

  “Sounds worse than school to me. Still, it can’t be too long before he finally escapes.”

  “Or is thrown out. I’m not sure which will come first.”

  “Why would they want to throw him out?”

  “One or two of the nurses have begun taking a greater interest in Seb as each bandage comes off, and I’m afraid he isn’t discouraging them.”

  “The dance of the seven veils,” said Harold. Harry laughed. “Is he still hoping to go up to Cambridge in September?”

  “As far as I can tell, yes. But he’s changed so much since the accident, nothing would surprise me.”

  “How has he changed?”

  “Nothing I can put a finger on. It’s just that he’s matured in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago. And I think I’ve discovered why.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  “It certainly is. I’ll fill you in on the details when I next come to New York.”

  “Do I have to wait that long?”

  “Yes, because it’s like my writing, I have no idea what will happen when I turn the page.”

  “So tell me about our one girl in a million.”

  “Not you as well,” said Harry.

  “Please tell Jessica that I’ve hung her drawing of the Manor House in autumn in my study, next to a Roy Lichtenstein.”

  “Who’s Roy Lichtenstein?”

  “He’s the latest fad in New York, but I can’t see him lasting too long. In my opinion Jessica’s a far better draftsman. Please tell her that if she’ll paint me a picture of New York in the fall, I’ll give her a Lichtenstein for Christmas.”

  “I wonder if she’s heard of him.”

  “Before I ring off, dare I ask how the latest William Warwick novel is progressing?”

  “It would be progressing a damn sight faster if I wasn’t continually interrupted.”

  “Sorry,” said Harold. “They didn’t tell me you were writing.”

  “Truth is, Warwick has come up against an insurmountable problem. Or to be more accurate, I have.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “No. That’s why you’re the publisher and I’m the author.”

  “What sort of problem?” persisted Harold.

  “Warwick’s found the ex-wife’s body at the bottom of a lake, but he’s fairly sure that she was killed before being dumped in the water.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Mine, or William Warwick’s?”

  “Warwick’s first.”

  “He’s being made to wait for at least twenty-four hours before he can get his hands on the pathologist’s report.”

  “And your problem?”

  “I’ve got twenty-four hours before I have to decide what needs to be in that report.”

  “Does Warwick know who killed the ex-wife?”

  “He can’t be sure. There are five suspects at the moment, and every one of them has a motive … and an alibi.”

  “But I presume you know who did it?”

  “No, I don’t,” Harry admitted. “Because if I don’t know, then neither can the reader.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a risk?”

  “Sure is. But it also makes it a damn sight more challenging, both for me and the reader.”

  “I can’t wait to read the first draft.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your ex-wife’s body in the lake. I’ll call again in a week’s time to see if you’ve worked out who dumped her there.”

  When Guinzburg hung up, Harry replaced the receiver and looked down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He tried to concentrate.

  So what’s your opinion, Percy?

  Too early to make an accurate assessment. I’ll need to get her back to the lab and carry out some more tests before I can give you a considered judgment.

  When can I expect to get your preliminary report? asked Warwick.

  You’re always so impatient, William …

  Harry looked up. He suddenly realized who’d committed the murder.

  * * *

  Although Emma hadn’t been willing to accept Sebastian’s suggestion that she should co-opt Giles and Grace on to the board to ensure she couldn’t lose the crucial vote, she still considered it her duty to keep her brother and sister up to date on what was going on. Emma was proud to represent the family on the board, although she knew only too well that neither of her siblings was particularly interested in what went on behind closed doors at Barrington’s, as long as they received their quarterly dividends.

  Giles was preoccupied with his responsibilities at the House of Commons, which had become even more demanding after Hugh Gaitskell had invited him to join the Shadow Cabinet, to cover the European portfolio. This meant that he was rarely seen in his constituency, despite being expected to nurse a marginal seat while at the same time regularly visiting those countries that had a vote on whether Britain should be allowed to join the EEC. However, Labor had been ahead in the opinion polls for several months, and it was looking increasingly likely that Giles would become a Cabinet minister after the next election. So the last thing he needed was to be distracted by “trouble at t’mill.”

  Harry and Emma were delighted when Giles had finally announced his engagement to Gwyneth Hughes, not in The Times’ social column, but at the Ostrich public house in the heart of his constituency.

  “I want to see you married before the next election,” declared Griff Haskins, his constituency agent. “And if Gwyneth could be pregnant by the first week of the campaign, that would be even better.”

  “How romantic,” Giles sighed.

  “I’m not interested in romance,” said Griff. “I’m here to make sure you’re still sitting in the House of Commons after the next election, because if you’re not, you sure as hell won’t be in the Cabinet.”

  Giles wanted to laugh, but he knew Griff was right.

  “Has a date been fixed?” asked Emma, who had strolled across to join them.

  “For the wedding, or the general election?”

  “For the wedding, idiot.”

  “May the seventeenth at Chelsea Register Office,” said Giles.

  “Bit of a contrast from St. Margaret’s, Westminster, but at least this time Harry and I can hope to receive an invitation.”

  “I’ve asked Harry to be my best man,” said Giles. “But I’m not so sure about you,” he added with a grin.

  * * *

  The timing could have been better, but the only chance Emma had to see her sister was on the evening before the crucial board meeting. She had already been in touch with those directors who she was confident supported her position, as well as one or two she felt might be wavering. But she wanted to let Grace know that she still couldn’t predict which way the vote would fall.

  Grace took even less interest in the company’s fortunes than Giles, and on one or two occasions had even forgotten to cash her quarterly dividend check. She had recently been appointed Senior Tutor at Newnham, so she rarely ventured beyond the outskirts of Cambridge. Emma was occasionally able to tempt her sister up to London for a visit to the Royal Opera House, but only for a matinee, with just enough time for supper before catching the train back to Cambridge. As Grace explained, she didn’t care to sleep in a strange bed. So sophisticated at one level, so parochial at another, their dear mother had once remarked.

  Luchino Visconti’s production of Verdi’s Don Carlo had proved irresistible, and Grace even lingered over supper, listening intently as Emma spelled out the consequences of investing such a large amount of the company’s capital reserve on a single project. Gr
ace nibbled away at her green salad in silence, only making the occasional comment, but not offering an opinion until Major Fisher’s name entered the conversation.

  “He’s also getting married in a few weeks’ time, I’m reliably informed,” said Grace, taking her sister by surprise.

  “Who in God’s name would want to marry that vile creature?”

  “Susie Lampton, it seems.”

  “Why do I know that name?”

  “She was at Red Maids’ when you were head girl, but she was two years below you, so it’s unlikely you’d remember her.”

  “Only the name,” said Emma. “So it’s your turn to brief me.”

  “Susie was already a beauty by the age of sixteen, and she knew it. Boys just stopped and stared as she passed by, their mouths open. After Red Maids’, she took the first available train to London and got herself on the books of a leading model agency. Once she’d stepped on to the catwalk, Susie made no secret of the fact that she was on the lookout for a rich husband.”

  “If that’s the case, Fisher isn’t much of a catch.”

  “Perhaps he wouldn’t have been back then, but now that she’s thirty-something, and her modeling days are over, a director of the Barrington Shipping Line, with an Argentinian millionaire as his backer, may well prove to be her last chance.”

  “Can she be that desperate?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Grace. “She’s been jilted twice, once at the altar, and I’m told she’s already spent the money that the court awarded her following a successful breach of promise suit. She even pawned the engagement ring. Mr. Micawber is not a name she’s familiar with.”

  “Poor woman,” said Emma quietly.

  “You needn’t lose any sleep over Susie,” Grace assured her. “That girl possesses a degree of native cunning that you won’t find on the curriculum of any university,” she added before finishing her coffee. “Mind you, I don’t know which one I feel more sorry for, because I can’t believe it will last that long.” Grace glanced at her watch. “Must dash. Can’t afford to miss the last train.” And without another word, she gave her sister a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks, left the restaurant and hailed a taxi.

  Emma smiled as she watched her sister disappear into the back of a black cab. The social graces may not have been among her greatest strengths, but there wasn’t a woman Emma admired more. Several past and present generations of Cambridge students could only have benefited from being taught by the Senior Tutor at Newnham.

  When Emma asked for the bill, she noticed that her sister had left a pound note on her side plate; not a woman who cared to be beholden to anyone.

  * * *

  The best man handed the bridegroom a simple gold band. Giles in turn placed the ring on the third finger of Miss Hughes’s left hand.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” declared the registrar. “You may kiss the bride.”

  A ripple of applause greeted Sir Giles and Lady Barrington. The reception that followed was held at the Cadogan Arms in King’s Road. Giles seemed determined to make the complete contrast to his first wedding obvious to everyone.

  When Emma entered the pub, she spotted Harry chatting to Giles’s agent, who had a broad grin on his face. “A married candidate gets far more votes than a divorced one,” Griff was explaining to Harry before he downed his third glass of champagne.

  Grace was chatting to the bride, who had, not so long ago, been one of her PhD students. Gwyneth reminded her that she had first met Giles at a party Grace had thrown to celebrate her birthday.

  “My birthday was only an excuse for that particular party,” said Grace without explanation.

  Emma turned her attention back to Harry, who had just been joined by Deakins, no doubt swapping stories about their different experiences of being Giles’s best man. Emma couldn’t remember if Algernon was now a professor at Oxford. He certainly looked like one, but then, he had since the age of sixteen, and even if he hadn’t sported that unkempt beard at the time, it would have been the same suit.

  Emma smiled when she spotted Jessica sitting cross-legged on the floor, drawing a picture on the back of the service sheet, of Sebastian—who had been allowed out of the hospital to attend the occasion, on the strict understanding that he would be back before 6 p.m.—talking to his uncle. Giles was bending down and listening attentively to what his nephew had to say. She didn’t have to guess what the subject must be.

  “But if Emma were to lose the vote,” said Giles.

  “Barrington’s is unlikely to declare a profit for the foreseeable future, so you can no longer assume that you’ll always be receiving a quarterly dividend.”

  “Is there any good news?”

  “Yes, if Ross Buchanan turns out to be right about the luxury liner business, and he’s a shrewd operator, then Barrington’s can look forward to a bright future. And you can take your place at the Cabinet table without having to worry about surviving on a minister’s salary.”

  “I must say, I’m delighted that you’re taking such a keen interest in the family business, and can only hope you’ll continue to do so once you’ve gone up to Cambridge.”

  “You can be sure of that,” said Sebastian, “because it’s the future of the company I’m most concerned about. I’m rather hoping there’ll still be a family business by the time I’m ready to take over as chairman.”

  “Do you really think it’s possible that Barrington’s could go under?” asked Giles, sounding anxious for the first time.

  “Seems unlikely, but it doesn’t help that Major Fisher has been reappointed to the board, because I’m convinced his interest in the company is diametrically opposed to ours. In fact, if Don Pedro Martinez does turn out to be his backer, I’m not actually sure that the survival of Barrington’s is part of their long-term plan.”

  “I’m confident that Ross Buchanan and Emma will prove more than a match for Fisher, and even for Martinez.”

  “Possibly. But remember that they don’t always sing in unison, and Fisher will be sure to take advantage of that. And even if they do foil Fisher in the short term, all he has to do is wait a couple of years for everything to fall into his lap.”

  “What are you getting at?” asked Giles.

  “It’s no secret that Ross Buchanan plans to retire in the not-too-distant future, and I’m told he’s recently bought an estate in Perthshire that’s conveniently situated near three golf courses and two rivers, which will allow him to indulge in his favorite pastimes. So it won’t be too long before the company will be looking for a new chairman.”

  “But if Buchanan were to retire, surely your mother would be the obvious choice to take his place? After all, she’s a member of the family, and we still control twenty-two percent of the stock.”

  “But by then, Martinez might also have acquired twenty-two percent, or possibly even more, because we know for a fact that he’s still purchasing Barrington’s shares as and when they come on the market. And I think we can assume, when it comes to chairman, he’ll have another candidate in mind.”

  6

  WHEN EMMA WALKED into the boardroom that Friday morning, she was not surprised to find the majority of her fellow directors were already present. Only death would have been an acceptable excuse for non-attendance at this particular meeting; what Giles would have called a three-line whip.

  The chairman was chatting to Rear Admiral Summers. Clive Anscott, no surprise, was deep in conversation with his golfing partner, Jim Knowles, who had already informed Emma that they would both be supporting the chairman when it came to the vote. Emma joined Andy Dobbs and David Dixon, both of whom had made it clear that they would be backing her.

  Philip Webster, the company secretary, and Michael Carrick, the finance director, were studying the naval architect’s plans for the proposed luxury liner, which had been laid out on the boardroom table alongside something Emma had never seen before, a scale model of the MV Buckingham. She had to admit, it looked very seductive, and boys do like toys
.

  “It’s going to be a close-run thing,” Andy Dobbs was saying to Emma when the boardroom door opened and the tenth director made his entrance.

  Alex Fisher remained by the door. He looked a little nervous, like a new bug on his first day of term who wonders if any of the other boys will talk to him. The chairman immediately broke away from his group and crossed the room to greet him. Emma watched as Ross shook hands with the major formally, and not as if he was greeting a respected colleague. When it came to Fisher, they shared the same opinion of the man.

  When the grandfather clock in the corner of the room began to chime ten, conversations immediately ceased, and the directors took their allocated places around the boardroom table. Fisher, like a wallflower at a church dance, remained standing until there was only one empty seat left, as if they were playing Musical Chairs. He slipped into the vacant chair opposite Emma, but didn’t look in her direction.

  “Good morning,” said the chairman once everyone had settled. “Can I open this meeting by welcoming back Major Fisher to our ranks as a director?”

  Only one person managed a muffled, “Hear, hear,” but then, he hadn’t been on the board when Fisher had first served as a director.

  “This will of course be the major’s second stint on the board, so he will be accustomed to our ways, and to the loyalty we all expect from any board member when representing this great company.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” responded Fisher. “And I’d like to say how delighted I am to be back on the board. Let me assure you that I will always do what I consider to be in Barrington’s best interests.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said the chairman. “However, it is my duty to remind you, as I do every new board member, that it is against the law for a director to buy or sell any of the company’s shares without first informing the Stock Exchange, as well as the company secretary.”

  If Fisher felt this barbed arrow had been aimed at him, it failed to hit the target, because he simply nodded and smiled, even though Mr. Webster assiduously recorded the chairman’s words in the minutes. Emma was, at least, glad it was on the record this time.