‘How nice to see you again, baron,’ said Danny.
De Coubertin bowed low. ‘We are touched that you invited us to your beautiful home, Sir Nicholas. May I introduce Monsieur Bresson, the bank’s chief executive, and Monsieur Segat, who handles our major accounts.’ Danny shook hands with all three men as Molly reappeared carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Danny as he sat down. ‘Perhaps I could begin by asking you to bring me up to date on the current state of my account.’
‘Certainly,’ said Monsieur Bresson, opening an unmarked brown file. ‘Your number-one account is showing a balance of just over fifty-seven million dollars, which is currently accumulating interest at the rate of 2.75 per cent per annum. Your number-two account,’ he continued, ‘has a balance of just over one million dollars. This was known at the bank as your grandfather’s stamp account, which he used whenever he wanted to add to his collection at short notice.’
‘You can combine the two accounts,’ said Danny, ‘as I won’t be buying any stamps.’ Bresson nodded. ‘And I have to say, Monsieur Bresson, that I find a 2.75 per cent return on my capital unacceptable, and that I shall in future be putting my money to better use.’
‘Can you tell us what you have in mind?’ asked Segat.
‘Yes,’ said Danny. ‘I shall be investing in three areas – property, stocks and shares, and possibly bonds, which incidentally are showing a current return of 7.12 per cent across the board. I will also set aside a small amount, never more than ten per cent of my total worth, for speculative ventures.’
‘Then may I suggest in the circumstances,’ said Segat, ‘that we move your money into three separate accounts that cannot be traced back to you, while appointing nominee directors as your representatives.’
‘In the circumstances?’ repeated Danny.
‘Since 9/11, the Americans and the British are taking far more interest in anyone who moves large sums of money around. It would not be wise for your name to keep popping up on their radar.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Danny.
‘Assuming that you agree to our setting up these accounts,’ added Bresson, ‘may I ask whether you will wish to make additional use of the bank’s expertise in managing your investments? I mention this, because our property department, for example, employs over forty specialists in the field – seven of them in London – who currently manage a portfolio of just under one hundred billion dollars, and our investment department is considerably larger.’
‘I shall take advantage of everything you have to offer,’ said Danny, ‘and do not hesitate to let me know if you think I am making a wrong decision. However, over the past couple of years I have spent a considerable amount of time following the fortunes of twenty-eight particular companies and I have decided to invest some of my capital in eleven of them.’
‘What will be your policy when it comes to purchasing shares in those companies?’ asked Segat.
‘I would want you to buy in small tranches whenever they come on the market – never aggressively, as I do not wish to be responsible for influencing the market either way. Also, I never want to hold more than two per cent of any one company.’ Danny handed Bresson a list of the companies whose progress he had been monitoring long before he had escaped from prison.
Bresson ran his finger down the names, and smiled. ‘We have been keeping an eye on several of these companies ourselves, but I am fascinated to see that you have identified one or two that we have not yet considered.’
‘Then please double-check them, and if you have any doubts, tell me.’ Danny picked up one of his files. ‘When it comes to property, I intend to act aggressively,’ he said. ‘And I will expect you to move quickly if immediate payment will secure a more realistic price.’
Bresson handed over a card. It had no name on it, no address, just a phone number embossed in black. ‘That is my private line. We can wire any amount of money you require to any country on earth at the touch of a button. And when you call, you need never give your name, as the line is voice-activated.
‘Thank you,’ said Danny, placing the card in an inside pocket. ‘I also require your advice on a more pressing matter, namely my day-to-day living expenses. I have no desire for the taxman to be prying into my affairs, and as I live in this house and employ a housekeeper and driver, while apparently subsisting on nothing more than a student grant, it may be the Inland Revenue’s radar that I keep popping up on.’
‘If I might make a suggestion?’ said de Coubertin. ‘We used to transfer one hundred thousand pounds a month to an account in London for your grandfather. It came from a trust we set up on his behalf. He paid tax on this income in full, and even carried out some of his smaller transactions through a company registered in London.’
‘I should like you to continue that arrangement,’ said Danny. ‘How do I go about it?’
De Coubertin extracted a slim file from his briefcase, removed a single sheet of paper and said, pointing to a dotted line, ‘If you sign here, Sir Nicholas, I can assure you that everything will be set up and administered to your satisfaction. All I will need to know is to which bank we should make the monthly transfer.’
‘Coutts and Co in the Strand,’ said Danny.
‘Just like your grandfather,’ said the chairman.
‘How long will it take to get to Cambridge?’ Danny asked Big Al moments after the three Swiss bankers had disappeared into thin air.
‘Aboot an hour and a half. So we ought tae be leaving fairly soon, boss.’
‘Fine,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll go and change and pack an overnight bag.’
‘Molly’s already done that,’ said Big Al. ‘I put it in the boot of the car.’
The Friday evening traffic was heavy, and it wasn’t until they joined the M11 that Big Al managed to push the speedometer above thirty miles an hour. He drove into King’s Parade only minutes before the curtain was due to rise.
Danny had been so preoccupied during the past few weeks that this was going to be his first visit to the theatre since seeing Lawrence Davenport in The Importance of Being Earnest.
Lawrence Davenport. Although Danny had begun to form plans for all three of his antagonists, every time he thought about Davenport, Sarah came into his mind. He was aware that he might well have been back in Belmarsh had it not been for her, and also that he would need to see her again, as she could open doors to which he didn’t have a key.
Big Al brought the car to a halt outside the theatre. ‘What time will ye be gon’ back tae London, boss?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ said Danny, ‘but not before midnight.’
He picked up his ticket from the box office, handed over three pounds in exchange for a programme, and followed a group of fellow latecomers into the stalls. Once he’d found his seat, he began to turn the pages of the programme. He’d meant to read the play before this evening, but it had remained on his desk unopened while he tried to keep up with Milton Friedman.
Danny stopped at a page that displayed a large, glamorous headshot of Katie Benson. Unlike so many actresses, it was not a photograph that had been taken some years before. He read the brief résumé of her credits. A Woman of No Importance was clearly the most significant role she had played in her short career.
When the curtain rose, Danny became lost in another world, and resolved that in future he would go to the theatre on a regular basis. How he wished that Beth was sitting next to him and sharing in his enjoyment. Katie was standing on stage arranging some flowers in a vase, but all he could think about was Beth. But as the play unfolded, he had to admit that Katie was giving a polished performance, and he soon became engrossed in the story of a woman who suspected her husband of being unfaithful.
During the interval, Danny made a decision, and by the time the curtain came down, Mr Wilde had even shown him how to go about it. He waited for the theatre to empty before he made his way to the stage door. The doorman gave him a suspicious look when he asked i
f he could see Miss Benson.
‘What’s your name?’ he demanded, checking his clipboard.
‘Nicholas Moncrieff.’
‘Ah, yes. She’s expecting you. Dressing room seven, first floor.’
Danny walked slowly up the stairs and when he reached the door marked 7, he waited for a moment before knocking.
‘Come in,’ said a voice he remembered.
He opened the door to find Katie sitting in front of a mirror wearing only a black bra and panties. She was removing her stage make-up.
‘Shall I wait outside?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be silly, darling, I’ve got nothing new to show you, and in any case, I was hoping to arouse a few memories,’ she added, turning to face him.
She stood up and stepped into a black dress, which strangely made her look even more desirable. ‘You were wonderful,’ he said lamely.
‘Are you sure, darling?’ she asked, looking at him more closely. ‘You don’t sound altogether convinced.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Danny said. ‘I really enjoyed the play.’
Katie stared at him. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘I have to get back to London. I have some urgent business.’
‘On a Friday night? Oh, come on, Nick, you can do better than that.’
‘It’s just that—’
‘It’s another woman, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Danny.
‘Then why did you bother to come in the first place?’ she said angrily, turning her back on him.
‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.’
‘Don’t bother to apologize, Nick. You couldn’t have made it more obvious that I’m a woman of no importance.’
53
‘SORRY, BOSS, but I thought ye said no before midnight,’ said Big Al, quickly finishing his hamburger.
‘I changed my mind.’
‘I thought that was a lady’s prerogative?’
‘So did she,’ said Danny.
By the time they reached the M11 fifteen minutes later, Danny was already fast asleep. He didn’t wake until the car came to a halt at a traffic light on Mile End Road. If Danny had woken a few moments earlier he would have asked Big Al to take a different route.
The light changed, and they sped through green light after green light, as if someone else knew that Danny shouldn’t be there. He leant back and closed his eyes, though he knew there were some familiar landmarks he wouldn’t be able to pass without at least a fleeting glance: Clement Attlee comprehensive, St Mary’s church, and of course Wilson’s garage.
He opened his eyes, and wished he’d kept them closed. ‘It can’t be possible,’ he said. ‘Pull over, Al.’
Big Al brought the car to a halt, and looked around to make sure the boss was all right. Danny was staring across the road in disbelief. Big Al tried to work out what he was looking at, but couldn’t see anything unusual.
‘Wait here,’ said Danny, opening the back door. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’
Danny walked across the road, stood on the pavement and stared up at a sign that was attached to the wall. He took a pen and a piece of paper out of an inside pocket and wrote down the number below the words FOR SALE. When he saw some locals spilling out of a nearby pub, he ran quickly back across the road and joined Big Al in the front of the car.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said without explanation.
Danny thought of asking Big Al to drive him back to the East End on Saturday morning so he could have a second look, but he knew he couldn’t take the risk of someone even thinking they recognized him.
A plan began to form in his mind, and by Sunday evening it was nearly in place. Every detail would have to be followed to the letter. One mistake and all three of them would work out exactly what he was up to. But the bit-part players, the understudies, had to be in their positions long before the three lead actors could be allowed to walk on to the stage.
When Danny woke on Monday morning and went down to breakfast, he left The Times unopened on the kitchen table. He played over in his mind what needed to be done, because he couldn’t afford to commit anything to paper. If Arnold Pearson QC had asked him as he left the kitchen what Molly had given him for breakfast that morning, he wouldn’t have been able to tell him. He retreated to his study, locked the door and sat at his desk. He picked up the phone and dialled the number on the card.
‘I will need to move a small amount of money some time today, and very quickly,’ he said.
‘Understood.’
‘I will also require someone to advise me on a property transaction.’
‘They will be in touch with you later today.’
Danny replaced the phone and checked his watch. No one would be at their desks before nine. He paced around the room, using the time to rehearse his questions, questions that mustn’t sound prepared. At one minute past nine, he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and dialled the number.
‘Douglas Allen Spiro,’ said a morning voice.
‘You have a for-sale sign outside a property on Mile End Road,’ said Danny.
‘I’ll put you through to Mr Parker, he deals with properties in that area.’
Danny heard a click. ‘Roger Parker.’
‘You have a property for sale on Mile End Road,’ repeated Danny.
‘We have several properties in that area, sir. Can you be more specific?’
‘Wilson’s garage.’
‘Oh yes, first-class property, freehold. It’s been in the same family for over a hundred years.’
‘How long has it been on the market?’
‘Not long, and we’ve already had a lot of interest.’
‘How long?’ repeated Danny.
‘Five, perhaps six months,’ admitted Parker.
Danny cursed to himself as he thought about the anxiety Beth’s family must have been going through, and he’d done nothing to help. He wanted to ask so many questions that he knew Mr Parker couldn’t answer. ‘What’s the asking price?’
‘Two hundred thousand,’ said Parker, ‘or near offer, which of course includes the fixtures and fittings. Can I take your name, sir?’
Danny replaced the receiver. He stood up and walked across to a shelf that had three files on it marked Craig, Davenport and Payne. He took down Gerald Payne’s file and checked the phone number of the youngest partner in Baker, Tremlett and Smythe’s history, as Mr Arnold Pearson QC had been so keen to inform the jury. But Danny had no plans to speak to Payne today. Payne had to come to him, desperate to be part of the deal. Today was saved for the messenger. He dialled the number.
‘Baker, Tremlett and Smythe.’
‘I’m thinking of buying a property on Mile End Road.’
‘I’ll put you through to the department that handles East London.’
There was a click on the end of the line. Would whoever picked up the phone ever discover they had been randomly selected to be the messenger and shouldn’t later be blamed when the earthquake erupted? ‘Gary Hall. How can I help you?’
‘Mr Hall, my name is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff and I wonder – ’ slowly, very slowly, ‘ – if I’ve got the right man.’
‘Tell me what it is you need, sir, and I’ll see if I can help.’
‘There’s a property for sale in Mile End Road that I’d like to buy, but I don’t want to deal directly with the vendor’s estate agent.’
‘I understand, sir. You can be assured of my discretion.’ I hope not, thought Danny. ‘What number in Mile End Road is it?’
‘One four three,’ Danny replied. ‘It’s a garage – Wilson’s garage.’
‘Who are the vendor’s agents?’
‘Douglas Allen Spiro.’
‘I’ll have a word with my opposite number there and find out all the details,’ said Hall, ‘then give you a bell back.’
‘I’ll be in your area later today,’ said Danny. ‘Perhaps you could join me for a coffee?’
‘Of course, Sir Nicholas. Where would you li
ke to meet?’
Danny could only think of one place he’d ever been to that was anywhere near Baker, Tremlett and Smythe’s offices. ‘The Dorchester,’ he said. ‘Shall we say twelve o’clock?’
‘I’ll see you there at twelve, Sir Nicholas.’
Danny remained seated at his desk. He put three ticks on a long list in front of him, but he still needed several other players to be in place before midday if he was going to be ready for Mr Hall. The phone on his desk began to ring. Danny picked it up.
‘Good morning, Sir Nicholas,’ said a voice. ‘I manage the bank’s property desk in London.’
Big Al drove Danny to Park Lane, and drew up outside the terrace entrance of the Dorchester just after eleven thirty. A doorman walked down the steps and opened the back door of the car. Danny stepped out.
‘My name is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff,’ he said as he walked up the steps. ‘I’m expecting a guest to join me around twelve – a Mr Hall. Could you tell him I’ll be in the lounge?’ He took out his wallet and handed the doorman a ten-pound note.
‘I certainly will, sir,’ said the doorman, raising his top hat.
‘And your name is?’ asked Danny.
‘George.’
‘Thank you, George,’ said Danny, and walked through the revolving doors and into the hotel.
He paused in the lobby, and introduced himself to the head concierge. After a short conversation with Walter, he parted with another ten-pound note.
On Walter’s advice, Danny made his way to the lounge and waited for the maitre d’ to return to his post. This time Danny took a ten-pound note out of his wallet before he’d made his request.
‘Why don’t I put you in one of our more private alcoves, Sir Nicholas? I’ll see that Mr Hall is brought across to you the moment he arrives. Would you care for anything while you’re waiting?’
A Prisoner of Birth Page 34