Be Careful What You Wish For

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Two pounds and eight shillings,” said Cohen. “Up a shilling on the day.”

  “Good, then I’ll be placing all three hundred and eighty thousand shares on the market, and I want you to sell them at the best possible price, remembering that I need to be rid of them by the time the London Stock Exchange opens on Monday morning.”

  “Understood, Mr. Hardcastle. How often would you like me to report to you over the weekend?”

  “Eight o’clock on Saturday morning and at the same time on Monday morning.”

  “It’s lucky I’m not an Orthodox Jew,” said Cohen.

  34

  Saturday

  IT WAS TO be a night of firsts.

  Sebastian took Sam to a Chinese restaurant in Soho, and paid the bill. After dinner they walked down to Leicester Square and joined a queue for the cinema. Samantha loved the film Sebastian had chosen, and as they left the Odeon, she confessed that until she came to England, she’d never heard of Ian Fleming, Sean Connery or even James Bond.

  “Where have you been all your life?” mocked Sebastian.

  “In America, with Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart and a young actor who’s taking Hollywood by storm, called Steve McQueen.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Sebastian as he took her hand. “Do we have anything in common?”

  “Jessica,” she said gently.

  Sebastian smiled as they walked back to her Pimlico flat, hand in hand, chatting.

  “Have you heard of The Beatles?”

  “Yes, of course. John, Paul, George and Ringo.”

  “The Goons?”

  “No.”

  “So you’ve never come across Bluebottle or Moriarty?”

  “I thought Moriarty was Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis?”

  “No, he’s Bluebottle’s foil.”

  “But have you heard of Little Richard?” she asked.

  “No, but I’ve heard of Cliff Richard.”

  Occasionally they stopped to share a kiss, and when they eventually arrived outside Sam’s apartment block, she took out her key and kissed him gently again; a good-night kiss.

  Sebastian would have liked to be invited in for a coffee, but all she said was, “See you tomorrow.” For the first time in his life, Seb wasn’t in a hurry.

  * * *

  Don Pedro and Luis were out on the moor shooting by the time Diego arrived at Glenleven Lodge. He didn’t notice an elderly gentleman in a kilt seated in a high-back leather chair reading The Scotsman and looking as if he might have been part of the furniture.

  An hour later, after he’d unpacked, taken a bath and changed, Diego came back downstairs dressed in plus-fours, brown leather boots and a deerstalker, clearly trying to look more English than the English. A Land Rover was waiting to whisk him up into the hills so he could join his father and his brother for the day’s shoot. As he left the lodge, Ross was still sitting in the high-backed chair. If Diego had been a little more observant, he would have noticed that he was still reading the same page of the same newspaper.

  “What was the price of Barrington’s when the Stock Exchange closed?” was the first thing Don Pedro asked as his son stepped out of the car to join them.

  “Two pounds and eight shillings.”

  “Up a shilling. So you could have come up yesterday after all.”

  “Shares don’t usually rise on a Friday,” was all Diego said before his loader handed him a gun.

  * * *

  Emma spent most of Saturday morning writing the first draft of a speech she still hoped to deliver at the AGM in nine days’ time. She had to leave several blank spaces that could only be filled in as the week progressed, and in one or two cases just hours before the meeting was called to order.

  She was grateful for everything Cedric was doing, but she didn’t enjoy not being able to play a more hands-on role in the drama that was unfolding in London and Scotland.

  Harry was out plotting that morning. While other men spent their Saturdays watching football in the winter and cricket in the summer, he went for long walks around the estate and plotted, so that by Monday morning, when he picked up his pen again, he would have worked out just how William Warwick could solve the crime. Harry and Emma had supper at the Manor House that evening, and went to bed soon after watching Dr. Finlay’s Casebook. Emma was still rehearsing her speech when she finally fell asleep.

  Giles conducted his weekly surgery on Saturday morning, and listened to the complaints of eighteen of his constituents, which included matters ranging from the council’s failure to empty a dustbin, to the question of how an Old Etonian toff like Sir Alec Douglas-Home could possibly begin to understand the problems of the working man.

  After the last constituent had departed, Giles’s agent took him to the Nova Scotia, this week’s pub, to share a pint of ale and a Cornish pasty, and to be seen by the voters. At least another twenty constituents felt it their bounden duty to air their views to the local member on a myriad different issues, before he and Griff were allowed to depart for Ashton Gate to watch a preseason friendly between Bristol City and Bristol Rovers, which ended in a nil-nil draw, and wasn’t all that friendly.

  Over six thousand supporters watched the match, and when the referee blew the final whistle, those leaving the ground weren’t in any doubt which team Sir Giles supported, as he was wearing his red-and-white striped woolen scarf for all to see, but then, Griff regularly reminded him that 90 percent of his constituents supported Bristol City.

  As they headed out of the ground, more opinions, not always complimentary, were shouted at him, before Griff said, “See you later.”

  Giles drove back to Barrington Hall and joined Gwyneth, who was now heavily pregnant, for supper. Neither of them discussed politics. Giles didn’t want to leave her, but just after nine, he heard a car coming down the drive. He kissed her, and went to the front door to find his agent standing on the doorstep.

  Griff whisked him off to the dockers’ club, where he played a couple of frames of snooker—one-all—and a round of darts, which he lost. He stood the lads several rounds of drinks, but as the date of the next general election had not yet been announced he couldn’t be accused of bribery.

  When Griff finally drove the member back to Barrington Hall that night, he reminded him that he had three church services to attend the following morning, at which he would sit among constituents who hadn’t attended the morning surgery, watched the local derby or been at the dockers’ club. He climbed into bed just before midnight, to find Gwyneth was fast asleep.

  Grace spent her Saturday reading essays written by undergraduates, some of whom had finally woken up to the fact that they would be facing the examiners in less than a year. One of her brightest students, Emily Gallier, who’d done just about enough to get by, was now panicking. She was hoping to cover the three-year syllabus in three terms. Grace had no sympathy for her. She moved on to an essay by Elizabeth Rutledge, another clever girl, who hadn’t stopped working from the day she’d arrived at Cambridge. Elizabeth was also in a panic, because she was anxious that she wouldn’t get the first-class honors degree that everyone expected. Grace had a great deal of sympathy for her. After all, she’d had the same misgivings during her final year.

  Grace climbed into bed soon after one, having marked the last essay. She slept soundly.

  * * *

  Cedric had been at his desk for over an hour when the phone rang. He picked it up, not surprised to find Abe Cohen on the other end of the line, as clocks all around the City began to chime eight times.

  “I managed to offload one hundred and eighty-six thousand shares in New York and Los Angeles, and the price has fallen from two pounds and eight shillings to one pound and eighteen shillings.”

  “Not a bad start, Mr. Cohen.”

  “Two down and two to go, Mr. Hardcastle. I’ll give you a call around eight on Monday morning to let you know how many the Australians picked up.”

  Cedric left his office just after midnight, and when he arrive
d home, he didn’t even make his nightly call to Beryl as she would already be asleep. She had accepted long ago that her husband’s only mistress was Miss Farthings Bank. He lay awake tossing and turning as he thought about the next thirty-six hours, and realized why, for the previous forty years, he’d never taken risks.

  * * *

  Ross and Jean Buchanan went on a long walk in the Highlands after lunch.

  They returned around five, when Ross once again reported for “guard duty.” The only difference being that this time he was reading an old copy of Country Life. He didn’t move from his spot until he’d seen Don Pedro and his two sons return. Two of them looked rather pleased with themselves, but Diego appeared to be brooding. They all went up to their father’s suite, and were not seen again that evening.

  Ross and Jean had supper in the dining room, before climbing the one flight of stairs to their bedroom at around 9:40 p.m., when, as they always did, they both read for half an hour: she, Georgette Heyer; he, Alistair MacLean. When he finally turned out the light with the usual, “Good night, my dear,” Ross fell into a deep sleep. After all, he had nothing more to do than make sure that the Martinez family didn’t leave for London before Monday morning.

  * * *

  When Don Pedro and his sons sat down for dinner in their suite that evening, Diego was singularly uncommunicative.

  “Are you sulking because you shot fewer birds than I did?” taunted his father.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, “but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Well, let’s hope you’ve worked it out by the morning, so we can all enjoy a good day’s shooting.”

  Once dinner had been cleared away just after 9:30, Diego left them, and retired to his room. He lay on the bed, and tried to replay his arrival at King’s Cross, frame by frame as if it was a black-and-white film. But he was so exhausted that he soon fell into a deep sleep.

  He woke with a start at 6:25 a.m., a single frame in his mind.

  35

  Sunday evening

  WHEN ROSS RETURNED from his walk with Jean on Sunday afternoon, he was looking forward to a hot bath, a cup of tea and a shortbread biscuit, before he went back on guard duty.

  As they strolled up the drive toward Glenleven, he was not surprised to see the lodge’s driver placing a suitcase in the boot of the car. After all, several guests would be checking out after a weekend’s shooting. Ross was only interested in one particular guest, and as he wouldn’t be leaving until Tuesday, he didn’t give it a second thought.

  They were climbing the staircase to their room on the first floor, when Diego Martinez came bounding past them, two steps at a time as if he was late for a meeting.

  “Oh, I’ve left my newspaper on the hall table,” said Ross. “You go on up, Jean, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Ross turned and walked back down the stairs, and tried not to stare as Diego chatted to the receptionist. He was heading slowly toward the tearoom when Diego marched out of the lodge and climbed into the back seat of the waiting car. Ross changed direction and speed as he swung around and headed straight for the front door, and was just in time to see them disappearing down the drive. He ran back inside and went straight to the reception desk. The young girl gave him a warm smile.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Buchanan, can I help you?”

  This was not a time for small talk. “I’ve just seen Mr. Diego Martinez leaving. I was thinking of inviting him to join my wife and me for supper this evening. Are you expecting him back later?”

  “No, sir. Bruce is driving him into Edinburgh to catch the overnight sleeper to London. But Don Pedro and Mr. Luis Martinez will be staying with us until Tuesday, so if you’d like to have dinner with them…”

  “I need to make an urgent phone call.”

  “I’m afraid the line’s down, Mr. Buchanan, and as I explained to Mr. Martinez, it probably won’t be back in service before tomorrow—”

  Ross, normally a courteous man, turned and bolted for the front door without another word. He ran out of the lodge, jumped into his car and set out on an unscheduled journey. He made no attempt to catch up with Diego as he didn’t want him to realize that he was being followed.

  His mind moved into top gear. First, he considered the practical problems. Should he stop and phone Cedric to let him know what had happened? He decided against the idea; after all, his top priority was to make sure he didn’t miss the train to London. If he had time when he reached Waverley, that’s when he’d call Cedric to warn him that Diego was returning to London a day early.

  His next thought was to take advantage of being on the board of British Railways, and get the booking office to refuse to issue Diego with a ticket. But that wouldn’t serve any purpose, because he would then book into a hotel in Edinburgh and phone his broker before the market opened in the morning, when he’d discover that Barrington’s share price had plummeted over the weekend, giving him more than enought time to cancel any plans to place his father’s shares on the market. No, better to let him get on the train and then work out what to do next, not that he had the slightest idea what that might be.

  Once he was on the main road to Edinburgh, Ross kept the speedometer at a steady sixty. There should be no problem getting a sleeping compartment on the train, as there was always one reserved for BR directors. He only hoped that none of his fellow board members were traveling down to London that night.

  He cursed as he took the long route around the Firth of Forth Road Bridge, which wouldn’t be open for another week. By the time he reached the outskirts of the city, he was no nearer to solving the problem of how to deal with Diego once they were on the train. He wished Harry Clifton was sitting next to him. By now he would have come up with a dozen scenarios. Mind you, if this was a novel, he would simply bump Diego off.

  His reverie was rudely interrupted when he felt the engine shudder. He glanced at the petrol gauge to see a red light flashing. He cursed, banged the steering wheel and began looking around for a petrol station. About a mile later, the shudder turned into a splutter and the car began to slow down, finally freewheeling to a halt by the side of the road. Ross checked his watch. There was still another forty minutes until the train was due to depart for London. He jumped out of the car and began running until he came to an out-of-breath halt by the side of a signpost that read, City Center 3 miles. His days of running three miles in under forty minutes had long gone.

  He stood by the side of the road and tried to thumb a lift. He must have cut an unlikely figure, dressed in his lovat green tweed jacket, a Buchanan clan kilt and long green stockings, doing something he hadn’t done since he was at St. Andrews University, and he hadn’t been much good at it back then.

  He changed tactics, and went in search of a taxi. This turned out to be another thankless task on a Sunday evening in that part of the city. And then he spotted his savior, a red bus heading toward him, boldly proclaiming City Center on the front. As it trundled past him, Ross turned and ran toward the bus stop as he’d never run before, hoping, praying that the driver would take pity on him and wait. His prayers were answered, and he climbed aboard and collapsed on to the front seat.

  “Which stop?” asked the conductor.

  “Waverley station,” puffed Ross.

  “That’ll be sixpence.”

  Ross took out his wallet and handed him a ten-shilling note.

  “Nae change for that.”

  Ross searched in his pockets for any loose change, but he’d left it all in his bedroom at Glenleven Lodge. That wasn’t the only thing he’d left there.

  “Keep the change,” he said.

  The astonished conductor pocketed the ten-bob note, and didn’t wait for the passenger to change his mind. After all, Christmas doesn’t usually come in August.

  The bus had only traveled a few hundred yards before Ross spotted a petrol station, Macphersons, open twenty-four hours. He cursed again. He cursed a third time because he’d forgotten that buses make regular stops
and don’t just take you straight to where you want to go. He glanced at his watch whenever they came to a stop and again at every red light, but his watch didn’t slow down and the bus didn’t speed up. When the station finally came into sight, he had eight minutes to spare. Not enough time to ring Cedric. As he stepped off the bus, the conductor stood to attention and saluted him as if he was a visiting general.

  Ross walked quickly into the station and headed for a train he had traveled on many times before. In fact, he had made the journey so often he could now have dinner, enjoy a leisurely drink and then sleep soundly throughout the entire 330 miles of clattering-over-points journey. But he had a feeling he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

  He received another, even smarter salute when he reached the barrier. Waverley ticket collectors pride themselves on recognizing every one of the company’s directors at thirty paces.

  “Good evening, Mr. Buchanan,” the ticket collector said. “I didn’t realize you were traveling with us tonight.” I hadn’t planned to, he wanted to say, but instead he simply returned the man’s salutation, walked to the far end of the platform and climbed on board the train, with only minutes to spare.

  As he headed down the corridor toward the directors’ compartment, he saw the chief steward coming toward him. “Good evening, Angus.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Buchanan. I didn’t see your name on the first-class guest list.”

  “No,” said Ross. “It was a last-minute decision.”

  “I’m afraid the director’s compartment—” Ross’s heart sank “—has not been made up, but if you’d like to have a drink in the dining car, I’ll have it prepared immediately.”

  “Thank you, Angus, I’ll do just that.”

  The first person Ross saw as he entered the dining car was an attractive young woman seated at the bar. She looked vaguely familiar. He ordered a whiskey and soda and climbed on to the stool beside her. He thought about Jean, and felt guilty about abandoning her. Now he had no way of letting her know where he was until tomorrow morning. Then he remembered something else he’d abandoned. Worse, he hadn’t made a note of the street where he’d left his car.