The Sins of the Father Read online

‘Has she, be damned. Well, you can tell her that two hundred pounds is my final offer. That woman has never had a brass farthing to her name, so I don’t expect we’ll have to wait too much longer before she comes to her senses.’

  Prendergast gave a slight cough that Hugo remembered well.

  ‘If you succeed in purchasing every property in the street except Mrs Clifton’s, four hundred pounds might turn out to be quite reasonable.’

  ‘She’s bluffing. All we have to do is bide our time.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so. And in any case, I know exactly the right man to convince the Clifton woman that she’d be wise to settle for two hundred pounds.’

  Prendergast didn’t look convinced, but satisfied himself by asking, ‘Is there anything else I can do to assist you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugo, removing the lid from the shoebox. ‘You can deposit this money into my personal account and issue me with a new cheque book.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Hugo,’ said Prendergast, looking into the box. ‘I’ll count it and issue you with a receipt and a cheque book.’

  ‘But I’ll need to make an immediate withdrawal, as I have my eye on a Lagonda V12.’

  ‘Winner of Le Mans,’ said Prendergast, ‘but then, you’ve always been a pioneer in that particular field.’

  Hugo smiled as he rose from his chair.

  ‘Give me a call the moment Mrs Clifton realizes that two hundred pounds is all she’s going to get.’

  ‘Do we still employ Stan Tancock, Miss Potts?’ Hugo asked as he marched back into the office.

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugo,’ replied his secretary, following him into the room. ‘He works as a loader in the stock yard.’

  ‘I want to see him immediately,’ said the chairman, as he slumped down behind his desk.

  Miss Potts hurried out of the room.

  Hugo stared at the files piled on his desk which he was supposed to have read before the next board meeting. He flicked open the cover of the top one: a list of the union’s demands following their last meeting with management. He had reached number four on the list, two weeks’ paid holiday each year, when there was a tap on the door.

  ‘Tancock to see you, chairman.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Potts. Send him in.’

  Stan Tancock walked into the room, removed his cloth cap and stood in front of the chairman’s desk.

  ‘You wanted to see me, guv?’ he said, looking a little nervous.

  Hugo glanced up at the squat, unshaven docker, whose beer belly didn’t leave much doubt where most of his wage packet went on a Friday night.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you, Tancock.’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ said Stan looking more hopeful.

  ‘It concerns your sister, Maisie Clifton, and the plot of land she owns on Broad Street, where Tilly’s tea shop used to stand. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘Yes, guv, some geezer offered her two hundred quid for it.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Hugo, removing his wallet from an inside pocket. He extracted a crisp five-pound note and laid it on the desk. Hugo remembered the same licking of the lips and the same piggy eyes the last time he’d bribed the man. ‘I want you to make sure, Tancock, that your sister accepts the offer, without the suggestion that I’m in any way involved.’

  He slid the five-pound note across the desk.

  ‘No problem,’ said Stan, no longer looking at the chairman, only at the five-pound note.

  ‘There will be another of those,’ Hugo said, tapping his wallet, ‘the day she signs the contract.’

  ‘Consider it done, guv.’

  Hugo added casually, ‘I was sorry to hear about your nephew.’

  ‘Don’t make much odds to me,’ said Stan. ‘Got far too big for his boots, in my opinion.’

  ‘Buried at sea, I was told.’

  ‘Yeah, more’n two years back.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Ship’s doctor came to visit me sister, didn’t he.’

  ‘And was he able to confirm that young Clifton was buried at sea?’

  ‘Sure did. Even brought a letter from some mate who was on board the ship when Harry died.’

  ‘A letter?’ said Hugo leaning forward. ‘What did this letter say?’

  ‘No idea, guv. Maisie never opened it.’

  ‘So what did she do with the letter?’

  ‘Still on the mantelpiece isn’t it?’

  Hugo extracted another five-pound note.

  ‘I’d like to see that letter.’

  34

  HUGO THREW ON the brakes of his new Lagonda when he heard a paperboy shouting his name from a street corner.

  ‘Sir Hugo Barrington’s son decorated for gallantry at Tobruk. Read all about it!’

  Hugo leapt out of his car, handed the paperboy a halfpenny and looked at a photograph of his son when he was school captain of Bristol Grammar that dominated the front page. He climbed back into his car, turned off the ignition and read all about it.

  Second Lieutenant Giles Barrington of the 1st Battalion, the Wessex, son of Sir Hugo Barrington Bt, has been awarded the Military Cross following action in Tobruk. Lt Barrington led a platoon across eighty yards of open desert, killing a German officer and five other soldiers, before over-running an enemy dugout and capturing 63 German infantry men from Rommel’s crack Afrika Korps. Lt/Col. Robertson of the Wessex described Lt Barrington’s action as displaying remarkable leadership and selfless courage in the face of overwhelming odds.

  2/Lt Barrington’s platoon commander, Captain Alex Fisher, also an Old Bristolian, was involved in the same action, and mentioned in dispatches, as was Corporal Terry Bates, a local butcher from Broad Street. Lt Giles Barrington MC was later captured by the Germans when Rommel sacked Tobruk. Neither Barrington, nor Bates, is aware of their award for gallantry, because both of them are currently prisoners of war in Germany. Captain Fisher has been reported as missing in action. Full story pages 6 & 7.

  Hugo sped home to share the news with his mother.

  ‘How proud Walter would have been,’ she said once she’d finished reading the report. ‘I must call Elizabeth immediately, in case she hasn’t heard the news.’

  It was the first time anyone had mentioned his former wife’s name for a long while.

  ‘I thought you’d be interested to know,’ said Mitchell, ‘that Mrs Clifton is wearing an engagement ring.’

  ‘Who would want to marry that bitch?’

  ‘A Mr Arnold Holcombe, it seems.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A schoolmaster. Teaches English at Merrywood Elementary. In fact, he used to teach Harry Clifton before he went to St Bede’s.’

  ‘But that was years ago. Why haven’t you mentioned his name before?’

  ‘They’ve only recently met up again, when Mrs Clifton began attending evening classes.’

  ‘Evening classes?’ repeated Hugo.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mitchell. ‘She’s been learning to read and write. Seems she’s a chip off the young block.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ snapped Hugo.

  ‘When the class took their final exam at the end of the course, she came top.’

  ‘Did she now?’ said Hugo. ‘Perhaps I should visit Mr Holcombe and let him know exactly what his fiancée was up to during the years he lost touch with her.’

  ‘Perhaps I should mention that Holcombe boxed for Bristol University, as Stan Tancock found to his cost.’

  ‘I can handle myself,’ said Hugo. ‘Meanwhile I want you to keep an eye on another woman, who just might prove every bit as dangerous for my future as Maisie Clifton.’

  Mitchell removed a tiny notebook and pencil from an inside pocket.

  ‘Her name is Olga Piotrovska, and she lives in London, at number forty-two Lowndes Square. I need to know everyone she comes into contact with, particularly if she’s ever interviewed by any members of your former profession. Spare no details, however trivial or unpleasant you may consider them.’