This Was a Man Read online

  “No, it’s not,” said Seb.

  “Then you’ll know about vouchers, should your friend want a cup of tea or a sandwich.” He’s not my friend, Seb wanted to say, as he handed over a pound note in exchange for ten vouchers.

  “We’ll refund the difference when you return.”

  Seb thanked him, closed the locker door, and pocketed the key along with his vouchers. When he entered the waiting room, another officer handed him a small disc with the number 18 etched on it.

  “Wait until your number is called,” said the officer.

  Seb sat on a plastic seat in a room full of people who looked as if this was just part of their daily routine. He glanced around to see wives, girlfriends, parents, even young children, who had their own play area, all with nothing in common except a relation, a friend, or a lover who was locked up. He suspected he was the only person visiting someone he didn’t even like.

  “Numbers one to five,” said a voice over the tannoy. Several of the regulars leapt up and hurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to waste a minute of their allocated hour. One of them left behind a copy of The Daily Mail, and Seb flicked through it to pass the time. Endless photographs of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer chatting at a garden party in Norfolk; Diana looked extremely happy, while the Prince looked as if he was opening a power station.

  “Numbers six to ten,” crackled the tannoy, and another group made their way quickly out of the waiting room. Seb turned the page. Margaret Thatcher was promising to bring in legislation to deal with wildcat strikes. Michael Foot described the measures as draconian, and pronounced her policy as jobs for the boys, but not for the lads.

  “Numbers eleven to fifteen.”

  Seb looked up at the clock on the wall: 2:12 p.m. At this rate, he’d be lucky to get more than forty minutes with Mellor, although he suspected the man would have his pitch well prepared and wouldn’t waste any time. He turned to the back page of The Mail to see an old photograph of Muhammad Ali jabbing his finger at reporters and saying, His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see. Seb wondered who came up with such brilliant lines—or was the ex-champ just brilliant?

  “Numbers sixteen to twenty.”

  Seb rose slowly from his place and joined a group of a dozen visitors who were already chasing after an officer as he headed into the bowels of the prison. They were stopped and searched before being allowed to enter the visitors’ area.

  Sebastian found himself in a large square room laid out with dozens of small tables, each surrounded by four chairs, one red, and three blue. He stared around the room but didn’t spot Mellor until he raised a hand. He’d put on so much weight Seb hardly recognized him. Even before Seb had sat down, Mellor gestured toward the canteen at the other end of the room and said, “Could you get me a cup of tea and a Kit Kat?”

  Seb joined a small queue at the counter, where he handed over most of his vouchers in exchange for two cups of tea and two Kit Kats. When he returned to the table, he placed one of the cups and both chocolate bars in front of his old adversary.

  “So, why did you want to see me?” Seb asked, not bothering with any small talk.

  “It’s a long story, but I don’t expect any of it will surprise you.” Mellor took a sip of tea and removed the wrapper from a Kit Kat while he was speaking. “After the police found out Sloane and I were responsible for having your friend Hakim Bishara arrested, Sloane turned Queen’s evidence and stitched me up. I was sentenced to two years for perverting the course of justice, while he got away scot-free. If that wasn’t enough, once I was inside, he managed to take control of Mellor Travel. Claimed he was the only man who could rescue the company while the chairman was in jail, and the shareholders bought it.”

  “But as the majority shareholder, you must still have overall control?”

  “Not of a public company, as you will have discovered when Bishara was banged up. They don’t even send me the minutes of the board meetings. But Sloane doesn’t realize I’ve got someone on the inside who keeps me well informed.”

  “Jim Knowles?”

  “No. That bastard dropped me the moment I was arrested, and even proposed Sloane for chairman. In exchange, Knowles became his deputy on an inflated salary.”

  “Cozy little arrangement,” said Seb. “But you must have taken legal advice.”

  “The best. But they’d been careful not to break the law, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. But you can.”

  Seb sipped his tea while Mellor tore the wrapper off the second Kit Kat.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Seb.

  “As you pointed out, Mr. Clifton, I am still the majority shareholder of Mellor Travel, but I suspect that by the time I get out, those shares won’t be worth the paper they’re written on. But if I were to sell them to you for one pound—”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch, although we’ve had our differences in the past. My sole interest is revenge—I want Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles removed from the board and the company to be run properly, and I can’t think of anyone better to do the job.”

  “And what would you expect in return?” Seb paused and, looking him straight in the eye, added, “When you get out of jail.”

  A buzzer sounded, warning them they had ten minutes left.

  “That might not be for some time,” said Mellor, snapping one of the chocolate fingers in half. “I’m now facing a further charge you don’t even know about.”

  Seb didn’t press him. Time was running out and he had several more questions that needed answering before he could consider Mellor’s proposition. “But you will get out eventually.”

  “And when I do, I will expect my fifty-one percent shareholding in Mellor Travel to be returned in full, also for one pound.”

  “Then what’s in it for Farthings?”

  “This time you can appoint the chairman, the board, and run the company. Farthings can also charge a handsome retainer for their services, while collecting twenty percent of Mellor Travel’s annual profits, which I think you’ll agree is more than fair. You’ll also have the added pleasure of removing Adrian Sloane from the chair for a second time. All I’d ask in return is to receive a copy of the minutes following every board meeting, and to have a face to face meeting with you once a quarter.”

  The buzzer sounded a second time. Five minutes.

  “I’ll give it some thought and when I’ve made up my mind, I’ll call you.”

  “You can’t call me, Mr. Clifton. Prisoners can’t receive incoming calls. I’ll ring you at the bank next Friday morning at ten, which should give you more than enough time to make up your mind.”

  The buzzer sounded a third time.

  * * *

  Jessica looked at the clock as her father walked into the hall and hung up his coat.

  “You only just made it in time,” she said, giving him a reluctant kiss on the cheek.

  Sebastian grinned. “So where do you want to have dinner, young lady?”

  “Harry’s Bar.”

  “In London or Venice?” he asked as they strolled into the drawing room.

  “London this time.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to get a table at such short notice.”

  “I’ve already booked.”

  “Of course you have. Anything else I should know about?” he asked, as he poured himself a stiff whisky.

  “It’s not what you should know,” scolded Jessica, “it’s what you’ve forgotten.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Like a magician, Seb produced a gift from an inside pocket.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Jessica asked, smiling for the first time.

  “Well, it’s certainly what you’ve been hinting about for the past few weeks.”

  Jessica threw her arms around her father. “Thanks, Pops,” she said, ripping off the wrapping paper and opening a small, slim box.

  “Am I back in favor?” asked Seb, as Jessica strapped the Warhol Swatch onto