Be Careful What You Wish For

by Jeffrey Archer

  There wasn’t a lot she wanted in the kitchen, other than the Wedgwood dinner service, a wedding present from Alex’s mother. She wrapped each piece carefully in pages from the Daily Telegraph, and placed them in two shopping bags she found under the sink.

  She left the plain green tea set that she’d never really liked, not least because it had so many chips, and there was no room left in the second case. “Help,” she said out loud, once she realized there was still a lot more she intended to remove but both suitcases were already full.

  Susan walked back into the bedroom, stood on a chair and pulled down Alex’s old school trunk from the top of the wardrobe. She dragged it out into the corridor, undid its straps and continued with her mission. The drawing room mantelpiece yielded a carriage clock, which Alex claimed was a family heirloom and three photographs in silver frames. She removed the photographs and tore them up, only packing the frames. She would have liked to take the television, but it was far too large and, in any case, her mother wouldn’t have approved.

  * * *

  Once the company secretary had closed the meeting, Alex didn’t join his fellow directors for lunch. He quickly left the boardroom without speaking to anyone, Peter Maynard following in his wake. Alex had been given two envelopes by Don Pedro, each containing £1,000. His wife certainly wouldn’t be getting the five hundred he’d promised her. Once they were in the lift, Alex took one of the envelopes out of his pocket.

  “At least you kept your side of the bargain,” he said, handing it across to Peter.

  “Thank you,” said Maynard gratefully, pocketing the money. “But what came over Susan?” he added as the lift door opened on the ground floor. Alex didn’t reply.

  As the two men left Barrington House, Alex wasn’t surprised to see that his car was no longer in its usual place, but he was puzzled to find another car he didn’t recognize occupying his parking space.

  A young man carrying a Gladstone bag was standing by the front door of the car. The moment he spotted Alex, he began walking toward him.

  * * *

  Finally, exhausted by her efforts, Susan entered Alex’s study without knocking, not expecting to find anything worthwhile to add to her spoils: two more picture frames, one silver, one leather, and a silver letter opener she’d given him for Christmas. But as it was only silver plated, she decided he could keep it.

  Time was running out and she didn’t think it would be long before Alex returned, but just as she was about to leave, she spotted a thick envelope with her name scribbled across it. She ripped it open and couldn’t believe her eyes. It contained the £500 Alex had promised her if she attended the board meeting and voted for him. She’d kept her side of the bargain, well, half of it, so she slipped the money into her handbag, and smiled for the first time that day.

  Susan closed the study door and quickly checked through the flat one more time. She’d forgotten something, but what was it? Oh yes, of course. She rushed back to the bedroom, opened the smaller cupboard and smiled a second time when she saw the rows and rows of shoes left over from her modeling days. She took her time placing them all in the trunk. Just as she was about to close the cupboard door, her eyes settled on a neat row of black leather shoes and brown brogues, all polished as if they were about to go on parade. She knew they were Alex’s pride and joy. All handmade by Lobb of St. James’s and, as he so often reminded her, they would last a lifetime.

  Susan took the left shoe of each pair and dropped them into Alex’s old school trunk. She also took one right slipper, one right Wellington boot and one right gym shoe, before sitting on the lid of the trunk and fastening the straps.

  Finally she dragged the trunk, two suitcases and two shopping bags out on to the landing, and closed the door of a home she would never return to.

  * * *

  “Major Alex Fisher?”

  “Yes.”

  The young man handed him a long, buff-colored envelope and said, “I’ve been instructed to give you this, sir.” Without another word, he turned, walked back to his car and drove off. The whole encounter was over in less than a minute.

  A bemused Alex nervously ripped open the envelope and extracted a document of several pages. When he saw the words on the cover sheet, Petition for divorce: Mrs. Susan Fisher v. Major Alex Fisher, he felt his legs give way, and grasped Maynard’s arm for support.

  “What’s the problem, old chap?”

  CEDRIC HARDCASTLE

  1959

  13

  ON THE TRAIN journey back to London, Cedric Hardcastle thought once again about how he’d ended up attending the board meeting of a shipping company in Bristol. It had all begun when he’d broken his leg.

  For nearly forty-five years, Cedric had led what even his local vicar would have described as a blameless life. During that time, he’d built a reputation for probity, integrity and sound judgment.

  After leaving Huddersfield Grammar School at the age of fifteen, Cedric had joined his father at Farthings Bank, on the corner of the high street, where you couldn’t open an account unless you were a Yorkshire man, born and bred. Every employee had drilled into them from their first day as a trainee the bank’s overriding philosophy: Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves.

  At the age of thirty-two, Cedric was appointed the youngest branch manager in the bank’s history, and his father, still a counter clerk, retired only just in time not to have to call his son “sir.”

  Cedric was invited to join the board of Farthings a few weeks before his fortieth birthday, and everyone assumed it would not be long before he would outgrow the little county bank and, like Dick Whittington, head for the City of London; but not Cedric. He was, after all, first and foremost a Yorkshireman. He’d married Beryl, a lass from Batley, and their son, Arnold, was conceived on holiday in Scarborough and born in Keighley. Being born in the county was a necessity if you wanted your son to join the bank.

  When Bert Entwistle, the chairman of Farthings, died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-three, a vote wasn’t required to decide who should replace him.

  After the war, Farthings became one of those banks that were often referred to in the financial pages of national newspapers as “ripe for takeover.” However, Cedric had other plans, and despite several approaches from larger institutions, all of which were rebuffed without discussion, the new chairman set about building up the bank and opening new branches, so that within a few years it was Farthings that was making the takeovers. For three decades, Cedric had spent any spare cash, bonuses or dividends, purchasing shares in the bank, so that by his sixtieth birthday, he was not only chairman, but the majority shareholder with 51 percent of Farthings.

  At the age of sixty, when most men start thinking about retirement, Cedric was in charge of eleven branches in Yorkshire and a presence in the City of London, and certainly wasn’t looking for anyone to replace him as chairman.

  If he had one disappointment in life, it was his son, Arnold. The lad had done well at Leeds Grammar School, but had then rebelled, accepting a place at Oxford rather than the scholarship he’d been offered at Leeds University. And worse, the boy didn’t want to join his father at Farthings, preferring to train as a barrister—in London. This meant Cedric had no one to hand the bank on to.

  For the first time in his life, he considered a takeover bid, from the Midland. They offered him a sum of money that would have allowed him to spend the rest of his life playing golf on the Costa del Sol, donning slippers, drinking Horlicks and being tucked up in bed by ten. But what no one except Beryl seemed to understand about Cedric Hardcastle was that banking was not only his job, it was his hobby, and as long as he had a majority shareholding in Farthings, the golf, the slippers and the Horlicks could wait for a few more years. He told his wife he’d prefer to pop his clogs sitting at his desk rather than on the eighteenth tee.

  As it turned out, he nearly popped his clogs on the way back to Yorkshire one evening. But even Cedric could not have ant
icipated just how much his life would change when he became involved in a car accident on the A1 late on a Friday night. He was exhausted following a series of lengthy meetings at the bank’s head office in the City and should have stayed at his flat in London overnight. But he always preferred to travel up to Huddersfield and spend the weekend with Beryl. He fell asleep at the wheel, and the next thing he remembered was waking up in hospital with both his legs in plaster; the only thing he had in common with the young man in the next bed.

  Sebastian Clifton was everything Cedric disapproved of. He was a stuck-up southerner, disrespectful, lacked discipline, had opinions on everything and, worse, seemed to assume that the world owed him a living. Cedric immediately asked Matron if he could be moved to another ward. Miss Puddicombe refused his request, but pointed out that there were two private rooms available. Cedric stayed put; he didn’t waste brass.

  During the weeks that followed his imprisonment, Cedric couldn’t be sure which of them became the greater influence on the other. To begin with, the boy’s endless questions about banking got on his nerves, until he eventually gave in and reluctantly became his surrogate tutor. When Matron asked, he was forced to admit that not only was the boy extremely bright, but you never had to tell him anything twice.

  “Aren’t you glad I didn’t move you?” she teased.

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Cedric.

  There were two added bonuses to being Sebastian’s tutor. Cedric much enjoyed the weekly visits of his mother and sister; two formidable ladies, both with problems of their own. It didn’t take him long to work out that Jessica couldn’t possibly be Mrs. Clifton’s daughter, and when Sebastian eventually told him the whole story, all he said was, “It’s time someone told her.”

  It also became clear to Cedric that Mrs. Clifton was facing some sort of crisis in her family business. Every time she visited her son in hospital, Cedric would turn over and pretend to be asleep, while, with Sebastian’s blessing, he listened to every word that passed between them.

  Jessica would often come around to his side of the bed so she could sketch her new model, which meant that Cedric had to keep his eyes closed.

  Occasional visits from Sebastian’s father, Harry Clifton, his uncle Giles and his aunt Grace helped Cedric to put more pieces into a colorful jigsaw that was slowly coming together. It wasn’t difficult to work out what Martinez and Fisher were up to, even if he wasn’t sure what motivated them, partly because even Sebastian didn’t seem to know the answer to that question. However, when it came to the vote on whether they should go ahead and build the Buckingham, Cedric felt that Mrs. Clifton’s gut instinct, or what women call intuition, might well turn out to be right. So after checking the company’s by-laws, he advised Sebastian that as his mother controlled 22 percent of the company’s stock, she was entitled to have three representatives on the board, which should be more than enough to stop the proposal going ahead. Mrs. Clifton didn’t take his advice, and lost the motion by one vote.

  The following day, Cedric purchased ten shares in Barrington Shipping, so they could follow the regular deliberations of the board. It only took Cedric a few weeks to work out that Fisher was setting himself up to be the next chairman. If Ross Buchanan and Mrs. Clifton shared a common weakness, it was their naïve belief that everyone would abide by their own moral standards. It was just a pity that Major Fisher had no standards, and Don Pedro Martinez no morals.

  Cedric regularly scoured the Financial Times and the Economist in search of any information on why Barrington’s shares were in free-fall. If, as one article in the Daily Express suggested, the IRA was involved, then Martinez had to be the link. What Cedric couldn’t understand was why Fisher was so willing to fall in line. Did he need the money that badly? He prepared a list of questions for Sebastian to ask his mother on her weekly visits, and it wasn’t long before he was as well informed about the daily workings of Barrington’s Shipping Company as any member of the board.

  By the time Cedric had fully recovered, and was fit enough to be discharged from hospital and return to work, he had made two decisions. The bank would purchase 7.5 percent of Barrington Shipping, the minimum shareholding that would allow him to take a place on the board and vote to decide who should be the next chairman of the company. When he called his broker the following day, he was surprised to discover how many other people were also buying Barrington’s shares, clearly with the same purpose in mind. This meant that Cedric ended up having to pay a little more than he’d bargained for, and although this was contrary to his usual practice, he had to agree with Beryl, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  After several months as an onlooker, he couldn’t wait to be introduced to Ross Buchanan, Mrs. Clifton, Major Fisher, Admiral Summers et al. However, a second decision he made turned out to be more far-reaching.

  Just before Cedric was discharged from hospital, Sebastian had a visit from his supervisor at Cambridge. Mr. Padgett made it clear that if he wished to, he could take up his place at Peterhouse the following September.

  One of the first letters Cedric wrote on returning to his desk in the City was to offer Sebastian a holiday job at Farthings Bank before he went up to Cambridge.

  * * *

  Ross Buchanan stepped out of the cab a few minutes before his appointment with the chairman of Farthings. Waiting for him in the front hall of 127 Threadneedle Street was Mr. Hardcastle’s personal assistant, who escorted him to the chairman’s office on the fifth floor.

  Cedric rose from behind his desk as Buchanan entered the room. He shook his guest warmly by the hand, and ushered him to one of the two comfortable chairs by the fireplace. The Yorkshireman and the Scotsman quickly discovered that they shared many common interests, not least their mutual concern for the future of Barrington Shipping.

  “I see the share price has picked up a little recently,” said Cedric. “So perhaps things are beginning to settle down.”

  “Certainly the IRA seems to have lost interest in harassing the company at every possible turn, which must be a great relief to Emma.”

  “Could it simply be that their payments have dried up? After all, Martinez must have invested a considerable sum of money purchasing twenty-two point five percent of the company’s stock, only to fail in his attempt to elect the next chairman.”

  “If that’s the case, why doesn’t he cash in his chips and call it a day?”

  “Because Martinez is clearly an obstinate man who refuses to admit when he’s beaten, and I certainly don’t think he’s the type to curl up in a corner and lick his wounds. We have to accept that he must be simply biding his time. But biding his time to do what?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ross. “The man’s an enigma, and almost impossible to fathom. All I do know is that when it comes to the Barringtons and the Cliftons, it’s personal.”

  “That doesn’t come as a surprise, but it might prove to be his downfall in the end. He should remember the mafia’s dictum: when it comes to killing a rival, it must only ever be business, never personal.”

  “I hadn’t thought of you as a mafia man.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Ross, Yorkshire was operating a mafia long before the Italians sailed for New York. We don’t kill our rivals, we just don’t allow them to cross the county border.” Ross smiled. “Whenever I come across someone as slippery as Martinez,” continued Cedric, sounding serious again, “I try to put myself in their shoes and work out exactly what they’re trying to achieve. But in Martinez’s case, I’m still missing something. I’d hoped you might be able to fill in the missing pieces.”

  “I don’t know the full story myself,” admitted Ross, “but what Emma Clifton told me is worthy of a Harry Clifton novel.”

  “That many twists?” said Cedric, who sat back in his chair and didn’t interrupt again until Ross had told him everything he knew about an auction at Sotheby’s, a Rodin statue that had contained £8 million of counterfeit money and a car crash on the A1 that had never been sati
sfactorily explained. “Martinez may well have beaten a tactical retreat,” Ross concluded, “but I’m not convinced he’s left the battlefield.”

  “Perhaps if you and I were to work together,” suggested Cedric, “we might be able to cover Mrs. Clifton’s back and allow her to get on with restoring the company’s fortunes as well as its reputation.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Buchanan.

  “Well, to start with, I was hoping you might agree to join the board of Farthings as a non-executive director.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You’d bring the bank considerable experience and expertise in many fields, not least shipping, and there’s certainly no one better qualified to keep an eye on our investment in Barrington’s. Why don’t you give it some thought, and let me know when you’ve come to a decision?”

  “I don’t have to think about it,” said Buchanan. “I’d be honored to join your board. I’ve always had a great deal of respect for Farthings. ‘Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves’ is a philosophy several other establishments I won’t name could benefit from.” Cedric smiled. “And in any case,” added Buchanan, “I consider Barrington’s unfinished business.”

  “So do I,” said Cedric as he stood up, walked across the room and pressed a button under his desk. “Would you care to join me for lunch at Rules? Then you can explain why you changed your mind at the last moment and gave Mrs. Clifton your casting vote, when you had clearly originally intended to back Fisher.”

  Buchanan was stunned into a silence that was interrupted by a knock on the door. He looked up to see the young man who had met him in the front hall.