Crimson (49 page)

And as always, although she clearly recognized Miranda, Elinor seemed almost too tired to speak.

“How’s Buzz?” “She’s fine, absolutely fine,” Miranda said. She hadn’t told her grand mi other about Buzz’s accident; she did not want to further distress Elinor.

“Then why doesn’t she visit meT Elinor asked.

“She’s … back at Saracen,” Miranda lied.

“I wish they’d let me have my telephone,” Elinor whispered.

“No, darling, not while you’re on medication,” Miranda said sadly.

She then drove to Eastbourne General Hospital. Buzz lay on a high, black-barred hospital bed, in a pale green room as small as a shoe box. Pale green pipes writhed around the top and bottom of the walls and in a complicated pattern over the ceiling.

Buzz took off her radio earphones.

“You’re a good girl, coming to visit your old Buzz. I been looking forward to this all day. A pink azalea! Wicked extravagance, you naughty girl!”

“And I’ve brought this bed jacket from Annabel.”

“Pink marabou! I’ll feel like a blooming film star!”

“Can’t they give you a prettier room?” Miranda asked as she contrasted Elinor’s luxury to this austere little cubicle, the best that Eastbourne General could offer.

“Now don’t you make a fuss, Miranda,” Buzz admonished. She added carefully, “Have you visited your gran? Why can’t I phone her?” “They still want her to rest. They took away the telephone after Gran tried to telephone Buckingham Palace to complain to the Queen.”

“They’re pumping so much rubbish into her! Half the time, Nell don’t know what she’s doing! You should take her away from that place, my girl! Get her to the London Clinic and see what another doctor says.” Miranda looked away. If she mentioned paranoia, Buzz would insist that Elinor was the victim of a lot of quacks. Buzz’s views on psychiatry were well known: psychiatrists were ‘trick-cyclists’, not to be taken seriously, people who said that grown men were in love with their mothers: disgusting.

Gently Miranda said, “I’m sure Gran’s in the best place, for the time being. We mustn’t interfere with her treatment.”

“Treatment!” Buzz snorted. She wondered why strongwilled Miranda was going along with what Adam wanted. Because she was, Buzz couldn’t confide in her. So she

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touldn’t rescue Elinor until she left Eastbourne General.

c couldn’t even write to her, lest her letters be opened by that two-faced ugly bitch of a matron.

In the thirties-style luxury of the Savoy Grill, Adam chose expensive wines to accompany the meal Colchester oysters, foie gras, and porterhouse steak chosen by his guest, Alistair Stacey-Cripps, a former schoolfriend, now a stockbroker.

When the wine steward. left Adam’s guest continued, “At midday, the share price was forty-six shillings, which makes the value of SUPPLY KITS three million pounds.”

Adam nodded.

“We’re offering the new one-for-threes to existing shareholders at a discount of eight per cent.”

“You’re sure that Miranda won’t want to take up her rights is sueT “Positive.” Recently the trust had refused Miranda’s request for a new plane and an extension to her house. Thinking of that, Adam added, “In fact, she’ll be delighted to sell them.”

“And you’re sure that this Bermuda company controlled by you will lend me the half-million pounds in cash to buy these shares, at no interest?” “Absolutely certain. Later, you’ll sell them to me at sixpence profit to yourself.”

“After you’ve notified,” Alistair reminded Adam. Although not a legal obligation, the director of a public company was supposed to notify the chairman before he dealt in company shares.

“I must get this absolutely clear,” he went on.

“Miranda currently holds sixty per cent of the shares, you hold fifteen per cent, and twenty-five per cent are held by the public. But if we go ahead as planned, then Miranda will own forty-five per cent a minority holding and after acquiring her shares, and taking up your rights issue, you will own thirty per cent.”

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Adam tasted the wine and nodded. The waiter carefully poured the‘45 Chiteau Margaux.

Alistair said, “And then you want me quickly to buy as many publicly held shares as possible.”

Adam nodded again.

“Funds will be made available as you require them.”

“By this same Bermuda company?” Alistair asked.

Adam nodded a third time.

“You realize, Adam, that I’m legally obliged to inform SUPPLY KITS of my acquired shareholding?”

“If anyone asks at some later date, you can claim some oversight in your office administration. If you produce a copy letter from your files, then it will look as if you did inform the company. Letters are often lost in the post.”

“A wonderful claret,” Alistair said. He lifted his glass.

“Here’s to your controlling interest.”

TUESDAY, 7 MAY 1968

In the library of his apartment, Adam sipped a pure Highland malt whisky as he waited.

Eventually Alistair telephoned.

“I’ve bought a further sixteen per cent of SUPPLY KITS So you now control forty-six per cent, which is one per cent more than Miranda holds. I couldn’t buy more because the price is shooting up too much buying. Closing price was sixty shillings, which values the company at five point one million pounds.”

“Good. How much did the shares cost?” “One million four hundred and sixty-one thousand one hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Then you made a decent profit, Alistair,” Adam reminded him.

Alistair couldn’t resist asking, “Didn’t Miranda smell a rat?” “Alistair, Miranda is extremely happy: her shares have

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up in value and are now worth well over two million r ds. In fact, that afternoon, Miranda had been worried by the swift rise in share price; she had asked Adam whether he thought anyone might be buying with a view to a takeover bid.

Adam had laughed and told her not to be dramatic. They could expect takeover bids when the company was more firmly established, but not when it was still learning to walk.

As Adam replaced the telephone, his guest was announced a small, mild-looking, bald man who looked at least fifteen years older than his actual age of thirty-five.

“Hello, Paul,” Adam said.

“Have a good trip?”

“Not bad. Weak whisky, please.” Paul Littlejohn settled kim self carefully on the sofa.

“How is Mrs. O’Dare?” “I’m sorry to say she’s still alive,” Adam said.

“But not for much longer. I’ve made it clear to Craig-Dunlop that the family doesn’t want her life prolonged, for religious -reasons. He got the message: an enormous bonus when she dies, removal to some other nursing home if she doesn’t.”

“Her death no longer matters. I’m virtually in control of the trust now. You’re legally responsible for nothing, Adam.” Littlejohn shrugged his shoulders.

“And our actions can’t be legally queried under Bermuda law, British law, or any other law.”

Adam smiled.

“What’s the income situation?” “All book royalties have been received; two per cent has been deducted by my firm the agreed management fee. The remainder was immediately sent on to the appropriate numbered Swiss account.”

“And the transfer of the capital how’s that proceeding.” The capital was the bulk of the fortune. I “Ah, that has to be done more slowly, and cautiously.” Paul Littlejohn sipped his whisky.

“The shares have all been sold and cash lodged in various banks, according to your instructions. However, I can’t just ship it all in one huge transfer to Switzerland. If I did that, there would be nasty questions from the Bermuda authorities when the sisters discover that the money’s gone.”

“Leave the authorities to me.” Littlejohn lifted a hand of caution.

“As I’m going to be blamed, I must be cautious.”

“You’re being paid a bloody fortune for being blamed. Is everything else going according to planT Littlejohn nodded.

“The funds are currently being invested in our bogus companies; their value will fall dramatically over the next six months.”

“Good!”

“But I’m warning you, Adam, I’ll have to leave something in the Dove Trust a bit over fifteen per cent or I can’t justify what I’ve done.”

“I don’t see why you can’t empty the account.”

“There’s nothing wrong with choosing the wrong investments,” said Paul Littlejohn carefully.

“Nobody can see into the future, and all stock exchange investment is a gamble. But if we don’t leave something in the till, it will be spotted as a cheeky scam, and bribery or not, I won’t get away with it.”

Adam thought briefly.

“If they’re going to keep fifteen per cent, then I’m going to stop showering money on those bitches in fact, I’ve already started to cut back. And I’ll sell that bloody great chdteau as fast as possible.”

“Don’t be too greedy,” Littlejohn cautioned.

“We can’t afford an official inquiry during the next year. It’s the only thing that worries me. During that time, we just can’t risk having our moves queried. You will have to keep the sisters quiet I don’t care how you do it.”

“Leave them to me too,” Adam said confidently.

“I’ll keep them quiet. You move the money into those Swiss accounts the faster, the better.” Paul Littlejohn nodded. Without being told, he knew that as fast as the payments were made into five Swiss bank accounts, the money was transferred into five different accounts the numbers of which were known only to Adam.

THURSDAY, 23 MAY 1968

Adam sat at his usual lunchtime table in the Savoy Grin the one discreetly opposite the main entrance, so that without seeming to do so, he saw everyone who entered the restaurant. Eating quail’s eggs, he frowned as he reread the letter from Lloyd’s: it warned him of the amount that he would shortly be expected to produce in settlement.

He looked up as the lean figure of his guest approached. Then he shoved the letter in his jacket pocket and stood.

“Good to see you, Scott.” Scott Svenson Wore blue jeans and jacket over a navy Tshirt and a wide, striped kipper tie, which looked ridiculous. The tie had been loaned by the headwaiter; unless male guests wore a tie, they were not allowed in the Grill.

Scott sat down.

“Hi, Adam!” He noticed that Adam’s appearance was unchanged. While all around him, men wore their hair at shoulder length and sported gold chain necklaces, frilled pink shirts, flared-leg hipster trousers, and coloured boots with platform soles, Adam had remained carefully traditional. Scott would bet that he had never worn the snakeskin overcoat Annabel had given him the Christmas before.

Spurning the menu, Scott said, “I’ll eat whatever you’re eating, Adam, plus a glass of milk. I’ve a heavy afternoon ahead, and I’m off to Paris tomorrow by parachute if they can’t get me in by any other method. I’m covering the riots.”

“You lead a more exciting life than I, I’m glad to say.”

“It isn’t so easy.” Scott’s network job was taking up more time and concentration than he’d expected.

“Nothing ever is.”

“I really wanted to see you on behalf of Annabel,” Scott said.

“Has something come up?” I saw her briefly only two weeks ago. She was on her way to visit Buzz.” Just before Buzz was due to leave the hospital, the pin in her hip had worked loose, and a total hip replacement had been necessary.

Scott’s speckled green and gold eyes looked speculatively at Adam. He said, “Annabel doesn’t understand why the trustees originally allowed her large sums of money but are now refusing relatively small sums.”

Adam sipped his wine.

“Initially the money on deposit was distributed between Annabel and Miranda. Having emptied the honey-pot, I understand that the trustees are now allowing the income to build up again before further distributions.” As steak-and-kidney pie was placed before them, Adam added, “In addition, the trust has to pay Elinor’s very heavy medical expenses.” He sniffed the dish of peas.

“Good, cooked in fresh mint. As you know, Scott, I don’t control the Dove Trust, but if Annabel needs extra funds, then I would be happy to suggest further payments.”

“Annabel would prefer a modest regular income to occasional lump sums,” Scott said.

“And if you don’t control the trust, Adam, then it’s time we knew who does. We want to know everything about the Dove Trust and its officers. We want to understand the structure, the aims, the obligations. We want to know precisely what funds the trust handles, where those funds are, and what regular income might be expected from the capital sum.”

Adam helped himself to peas.

“I thought Annabel already had that information although, of course, there’s no legal reason why she should. The trust is run like any other ness, with annual accounts prepared by qualified acuntants although, again, that isn’t legally necessary. I understand the final accounts for 1967 were signed last week. I’ll see that a copy is sent to Annabel.”

“Are accounts produced only once a ye arT “That’s the usual procedure.” Adam decided to stall for time. He didn’t want this newsman poking his nose into the trust.

“If you like, Scott, I could suggest quarterly accounts, although that’s an “pensive business.”

“That’s what I intended to ask you.”

“Then I shall arrange it, “said Adam, who had no intention of producing quarterly accounts for this inquisitive journalist. He decided to arrange that a large monthly income be paid to Annabel until next May: that should shut her up. Smular sums would also have to be paid to Miranda, blast it, for very quickly she would learn of Annabel’s new income. Still, lose a lure to catch a mackerel or, in this case, a whale. But Scott could stir up a lot of trouble before next May. Something would have to be done about Scott.

That evening, having explained that the best place to enjoy a peach was in the bath, Adam fed one slowly to Miranda.

The mirrored walls and ceiling of her large bathroom reflected the room to infinity. In spite of a complicated lighting system, only one candle flickered in an antique silver candlestick.

In the warm water of the square, sunken marble tub, Adam lay beside Miranda; he soaped her body as though she were a royal baby. Dreamy and passive, she lay in the scented water and gave in to Adam’s sensual massage. They listened to the Beatles on Miranda’s new stereo; the magical mystery of “Strawberry Fields Forever” reminded her of her grandmother, so lonely, isolated, and unreachable in the prison of her own head. Sharply Miranda diverted her thoughts: she did not want to plunge again into pointless depression.