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

  “And what about Karl?” demanded Don Pedro. “Have they told you where he is and what he’s been charged with?”

  “They deny all knowledge of him.”

  “Keep looking,” demanded Don Pedro. “Someone must know where he is.”

  * * *

  At nine o’clock Alex Fisher put on a pinstriped, double-breasted suit, regimental tie and a brand new pair of black shoes. He went downstairs to his study and read through his resignation letter one more time before sealing the envelope and addressing it to Mrs. Harry Clifton, The Barrington Shipping Company, Bristol.

  He thought about what he needed to do over the next couple of days if he was going to fulfill his agreement with Don Pedro and make sure of receiving the other £3,000. First, he had to be at the office of Barrington’s Shipping at ten o’clock to hand the letter to Mrs. Clifton. Next, he would visit the two local newspapers, the Bristol Evening Post and the Bristol Evening World and give their editors copies of the letter. It wouldn’t be the first time a letter of his had made the front page.

  His next stop would be the post office, where he would send telegrams to the editors of all the national newspapers, with the simple message, Major Alex Fisher resigns from the board of Barrington Shipping and calls for the chairman’s resignation, as he fears the company is facing bankruptcy. He would then return home and wait by the phone, answers to all the likely questions already prepared.

  Alex left his flat just after 9:30 a.m. and drove down to the docks, making his way slowly through the rush-hour traffic. He wasn’t looking forward to handing the letter to Mrs. Clifton, but like a runner who had to deliver divorce papers, he would be non-committal and leave quickly.

  He’d already decided to be a few minutes late, and keep her waiting. As he drove through the gates of the yard, he suddenly realized how much he was going to miss the place. He turned on the Home Service of the BBC to catch the news headlines. The police had arrested thirty-seven mods and rockers in Brighton and charged them with disturbing the peace, Nelson Mandela had begun serving a life sentence in a South African prison, and two men had been arrested at 44 Eaton … He turned the radio off as he reached his parking space—44 Eaton…? He flicked it quickly back on again, but the item had passed, and he had to listen to more details about the running battles that had taken place on Brighton beach between the mods and the rockers. Alex blamed the government for abolishing national service. “Nelson Mandela, the ANC leader, has begun a life sentence for sabotage and conspiracy to overthrow the government of South Africa.”

  “That’s the last we’ll hear of that bastard,” said Alex with conviction.

  “The Metropolitan police raided a house in Eaton Square in the early hours of this morning, and arrested two men with Argentinian passports. They are due to appear at Chelsea Magistrates Court later today…”

  * * *

  When Don Pedro left 44 Eaton Square just after 9:30, he was greeted by a volley of flashbulbs that half blinded him as he sought the relative anonymity of a taxi.

  Fifteen minutes later, when the cab arrived at Chelsea Magistrates Court, he was met by even more cameras. He barged through a scrum of reporters to court number 4, not stopping to answer any of their questions.

  When he entered the courtroom, Mr. Everard walked quickly across to join him, and began to explain the procedure that was about to take place. He then went over the charges in detail, admitting that he wasn’t at all confident that either of the boys would be granted bail.

  “Any news about Karl?”

  “No,” whispered Everard. “No one has seen or heard from him since he left for Harrods yesterday morning.”

  Don Pedro frowned and took a seat in the front row, while Everard returned to defense counsel’s bench. At the other end of the bench sat a callow youth dressed in a short black gown who was checking through some papers. If that was the best the prosecution could do, Don Pedro felt a little more confident.

  Nervous and exhausted, he looked around the near-empty courtroom. To one side were perched half a dozen journalists, pads open, pens poised, like a pack of hounds waiting to feast on a wounded fox. Behind him, at the back of the court, sat four men, all of whom he knew by sight. He suspected they all knew exactly where Karl was.

  Don Pedro turned his gaze back to the front of the court as some minor officials bustled around making sure that everything was in place before the one person who could open proceedings made an entrance. As the clock struck ten, a tall, thin man wearing a long black gown entered the courtroom. The two lawyers rose immediately from their places on the bench and bowed respectfully. The magistrate returned the compliment before taking his seat at the center of the raised dais.

  Once he was settled, he took his time looking around the courtroom. If he was surprised by the unusual amount of press interest in this morning’s proceedings, he didn’t show it. He nodded to the clerk of the court, settled back in his chair and waited. Moments later, the first defendant appeared from below the courtroom and took his place in the dock. Don Pedro stared at Luis, having already decided what would need to be done if the boy was granted bail.

  “Read out the charge,” said the magistrate, looking down at the clerk of the court.

  The clerk bowed, turned to face the defendant and said in a stentorian voice, “The charge is that you, Luis Martinez, did break into and enter a private dwelling place, namely flat four, twelve Glebe Place, London SW3, on the night of June sixth, 1964, when you destroyed several items of property belonging to a Miss Jessica Clifton. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty,” mumbled the defendant.

  The magistrate scribbled the two words on his pad as defense counsel rose from his place.

  “Yes, Mr. Everard,” said the magistrate.

  “Your honor, my client is a man of unblemished character and reputation, and as this is a first offense, and as he has no previous convictions, we would naturally request bail.”

  “Mr. Duffield,” said the magistrate, turning his attention to the young man at the other end of the bench. “Do you have any objections to this request by defense counsel?”

  “No objection, your honor,” responded the prosecuting counsel, barely rising from his place.

  “Then I’ll set bail at a thousand pounds, Mr. Everard.” The magistrate made another note on his pad. “Your client will return to the court to face charges on October twenty-second at ten o’clock. Is that clear, Mr. Everard?”

  “Yes, your honor, and I am obliged,” said the lawyer, giving a slight bow.

  Luis stepped down from the dock, clearly unsure what to do next. Everard nodded in the direction of his father, and Luis went and sat next to him in the front row. Neither of them spoke. A moment later, Diego appeared from below, accompanied by a policeman. He took his place in the dock and waited for the charge to be read out.

  “The charge is that you, Diego Martinez, attempted to bribe a City stock broker and, in so doing, to pervert the course of justice. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty,” said Diego firmly.

  Mr. Everard was quickly back on his feet. “This, your honor, is another case of a first offense, with no prior criminal record, so once again, I have no hesitation in requesting bail.”

  Mr. Duffield rose from the other end of the bench and even before the magistrate could inquire, announced, “The Crown has no objections to bail on this occasion.”

  Everard was puzzled. Why wasn’t the Crown putting up a fight? It was all too easy—or had he missed something?

  “Then I shall set bail at two thousand pounds,” said the magistrate, “and will be transferring this case to be heard in the High Court. A date will be fixed for the trial when a suitable time can be found in the court’s calendar.”

  “I am obliged, your honor,” said Everard. Diego stepped out of the dock and walked across to join his father and brother. Without a word passing between the three of them, they quickly left the courtroom.