Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Read online

  “Yes, I believe he does.”

  “Is he as wealthy as Martinez?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Does he have a reputation for honesty and probity?”

  “As far as I’m aware, yes.”

  “Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, do you think he’d be willing to take a serious risk?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “As you have answered all my questions satisfactorily, Sir Giles, perhaps you’d be kind enough to write the gentleman’s name down on the pad in front of you, without allowing anyone else around the table to see who it is.”

  Giles jotted down a name, tore a sheet off the pad, folded it and passed it to the lawyer, who in turn handed it to his father.

  Cedric Hardcastle unfolded the slip of paper, praying he’d never come across the man before.

  “Do you know this man, Father?”

  “Only by reputation,” said Cedric.

  “Excellent. Then if he agrees to go along with your plan, no one around this table will be breaking the law. But, Sir Giles,” he said, turning back to the Rt. Hon. Member for Bristol Docklands, “you must not make contact with this man at any time, and you cannot reveal his name to any member of the Barrington or Clifton families, particularly if they are shareholders in Barrington Shipping. Were you to do so, a court might consider that you were in collusion with a third party, and therefore breaking the law. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” said Giles.

  “Thank you, sir,” the lawyer said as he gathered up his papers. “Good luck, Pop,” he whispered, before closing his briefcase and leaving the room without another word.

  “How can you be so confident, Giles,” said Emma once the door had closed behind him, “that a man you’ve never even met will fall in with Mr. Hardcastle’s plans?”

  “After Jessica had been buried, I asked one of the pall bearers who the man was who had wept throughout the service as if he’d lost a daughter and then hurried away. That was the name he gave me.”

  * * *

  “There’s no proof Luis Martinez killed the girl,” said Sir Alan, “only that he desecrated her paintings.”

  “But his fingerprints were on the handle of the flick knife,” said the colonel. “And that’s quite enough proof for me.”

  “As are Jessica’s, so any half-decent lawyer would get him off.”

  “But we both know that Martinez was responsible for her death.”

  “Perhaps. But that’s not the same thing in a court of law.”

  “So are you telling me I can’t issue the order to kill him?”

  “Not yet,” said the cabinet secretary.

  The colonel took a swig from his half-pint and changed the subject. “I see that Martinez has sacked his chauffeur.”

  “You don’t sack Kevin Rafferty. He leaves when the job is finished, or if he hasn’t been paid.”

  “So which was it this time?”

  “The job must have been finished. Otherwise you wouldn’t have to bother about killing Martinez, because Rafferty would already have done the job for you.”

  “Could it be possible that Martinez has lost interest in destroying the Barringtons?”

  “No. As long as Fisher remains on the board, you can be sure Martinez will still want to get even with every member of that family, believe me.”

  “And where does Lady Virginia fit into all this?”

  “She still hasn’t forgiven Sir Giles for supporting his friend Harry Clifton at the time of the dispute over his mother’s will, when Lady Barrington compared her daughter-in-law with her Siamese cat, Cleopatra, describing her as a ‘beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predator.’ Memorable.”

  “Do you want me to keep an eye on her as well?”

  “No, Lady Virginia won’t break the law. She’ll get someone else to do it for her.”

  “So what you’re saying is that I can’t do anything at the moment, other than keep Martinez under close observation and report back to you.”

  “Patience, colonel. You can be sure he’ll make another mistake, and when he does I’ll be happy to take advantage of your colleagues’ particular skills.” Sir Alan downed his gin and tonic, rose from his place and slipped out of the pub without shaking hands or saying good-bye. He walked quickly across Whitehall into Downing Street and, five minutes later, was back behind his desk doing the day job.

  * * *

  Cedric Hardcastle checked the number before he dialed. He didn’t want his secretary to know who he was phoning. He heard a ringing tone and waited.

  “Bingham’s Fish Paste. How may I help you?”

  “Can I speak to Mr. Bingham?”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Cedric Hardcastle of Farthings Bank.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  He heard a click and a moment later a voice with an accent almost as broad as his said, “Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves.”

  “I’m flattered, Mr. Bingham,” said Cedric.

  “You shouldn’t be. You run a damn fine bank. Just a shame you’re on the other side of the Humber.”

  “Mr. Bingham, I need—”

  “Bob. No one calls me Mr. Bingham except the taxman and head waiters hoping for a larger tip.”

  “Bob, I need to see you on a private matter, and I’d be quite happy to travel up to Grimsby.”

  “It must be serious, because there aren’t many people who are quite happy to travel up to Grimsby,” said Bob. “As I assume you don’t want to open a fish paste account, can I ask what this is all about?”

  Dull, boring Cedric would have said that he’d prefer to discuss the matter in person rather than over the telephone, Mr. Bingham. Newly minted, risk-taking Cedric said, “Bob, what would you give to humiliate Lady Virginia Fenwick, and get away with it?”

  “Half my fortune.”

  MAJOR ALEX FISHER

  1964

  27

  Barclays Bank

  Halton Road

  Bristol

  June 16, 1964

  Dear Major Fisher,

  This morning we honored two checks and a standing order presented on your personal account. The first was from the West Country Building Society for £12 11s 6d, the second from Harvey’s wine merchants for £3 4s 4d and the third was by standing order for £1 to the St. Bede’s Old Boys’ Society.

  These payments take you just over your overdraft limit of £500, so we must advise you not to issue any further checks until sufficient funds are available.

  Fisher looked at the morning mail on his desk and sighed deeply. There were more brown envelopes than white, several from tradesmen reminding him Must be paid within 30 days, and one regretting that the matter had been placed in the hands of solicitors. And it didn’t help that Susan was refusing to return his precious Jaguar until he was up to date with her monthly maintenance, not least because he couldn’t survive without a car and had ended up having to buy a secondhand Hillman Minx, which was another expense.

  He placed the slim brown envelopes to one side and began to open the white ones: an invitation to join his fellow officers of the Royal Wessex for a black tie dinner in the regimental mess, guest speaker Field Marshal Sir Claude Auchinleck—he would accept by return of post; a letter from Peter Maynard, the chairman of the local Conservative Association, asking if he would consider standing as a candidate for the county council elections. Countless hours canvassing and listening to your colleagues make self-serving speeches, expenses that were always queried, and the only accolade was being addressed as “councillor.” No thanks. He would send a courteous reply explaining he had too many other commitments at the present time. He was slitting open the final envelope when the phone rang.

  “Major Fisher.”

  “Alex,” purred a voice he could never forget.

  “Lady Virginia, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Virginia,” she insisted, which he knew meant that she was