 
______________________

Goodbye Morality

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John Eidemak
GOODBYE MORALITY

by John Eidemak

Smashwords Edition

Copyright John Eidemak 2014

The right of John Eidemak to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1998.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or any similar event is purely coincidental.

By the same author:

SINCERE DECEIT

GEMMA'S GAME (To be published August 2014)

To Vibeke

#  CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE – May The Changing Wind Be Gentle

PART TWO – Restless Ambition, Never At An End

PART THREE – Don't Tread On Our Dreams

PART FOUR – Sea Of Trouble

PART FIVE – Peace Called Solitude

PART SIX – Fate, A Rat In The Night

PART SEVEN – Secrets Are Edged Tools

PART EIGHT – Nemesis

EPILOGUE

THE CAST, THE COMPANIES, THE INSTITUTIONS

#  PROLOGUE  
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Palma de Mallorca, Tuesday, 8th September 1987

She did not even dare consider the consequences of not recognizing him.

It was a simple enough task, but her future and that of her husband depended on her carrying it out.

She had carefully placed the small photo into the exact middle of page 250 in her paperback copy of Anita Brookner's 'A Misalliance'.

She looked at it again. Taken in an anonymous suburban street, it showed a tall, slim man wearing a single breasted grey suit and gold rimmed glasses which gave him a serious air. He looked to be in his forties. She had studied every detail so often, she felt she knew him.

Now she had positioned herself so that she could see everyone coming out of the customs area into the arrival hall. On the chair to her right she had placed a light blue scarf, and her handbag was on the left hand chair, so that it was impossible for anyone to sit next to her and catch a glimpse of the photograph. Her reading glasses were in her handbag but she managed without them, not wanting to put them on every time she looked at the photo. She hoped that anyone noticing her would think she was waiting for someone to join her. The way she was clenching her hands was the only sign of mounting tension.

She had dressed to look presentable but anonymous; deciding, after several changes, on a white pleated skirt and sleeveless jacket. A single strand of cultured pearls with matching earrings added to the classic understated look she wanted to create. Plain white shoes emphasised her slim, tanned legs. Her long blonde hair, hanging loose, framed an oval face free from make up save for pale lipstick and mascara. Large eyes of a clear cornflower, blue, held a hint of sadness.

From the screen in front of her she learned that the flight from London was due.

Tourists began spilling through the doors. She saw from their baggage slips that they had flown in on the plane she was awaiting and concentrated intently.

After fifteen minutes she could feel sweat begin to trickle down her back. Perhaps she had missed him? He should have been through by now....

Then she saw him.

She was in no doubt. He was wearing the same grey suit as in the photograph; carried a small suitcase and a large briefcase.

She picked up the scarf and handbag when he'd passed by and walked twenty yards behind him.

Then he turned round.

It was as if he had suddenly been reminded of something. He looked towards her for a moment, then turned away and continued walking quickly towards the swing doors leading to the taxi rank. Once outside, he approached the first free cab in line.

She followed at a discreet distance. She could see the large powerful Suzuki on the other side of the road; its rider, wearing a black helmet and leathers, leaning against it. She waved the scarf discreetly after the departing taxi, then tied it round her head. The headlights on the motorbike flashed for a second in acknowledgement. When the man's taxi left the rank, the bike followed it.

The watching women went limp with relief. She had not messed up. She, Ann Dockett, had done exactly what was expected of her. She did not have to be involved any more. That he had turned round after passing her she regarded as a coincidence, it could not possibly be related to her. She was sure she had never seen him before.

Slowly, Ann walked to the airport car park. Her hands were trembling as she unlocked her car and sat in the driving seat waiting for her heart to stop racing. Finally she wiped her hands and face with a moist tissue, turned on the ignition and drove out on the motorway towards the centre of Palma. She arrived at Cala Vinas Bay about an hour later.

* * *

Ann Dockett could still be surprised, even after four months, by her own spacious top floor apartment. It had an L shaped living room, two bedrooms, compact kitchen, white marble bathroom. The furniture was all white too, giving an impression of light and spaciousness. From the elegant balcony stretching the length of the apartment she had a clear view of the bay and secluded beach, the open sea and, to the left, the impressive Cala Vinas Hotel.

She had made the right decision by coming to Mallorca. In a completely new environment, away from Virginia Water, she might stand a better chance of coming to terms with what had happened. Still, she felt lonely and missed having someone close to her.

Elizabeth and Andrew had visited her for one week. Her daughter and son in law were the only people she could talk to frankly, except those involved in her work. And before she'd told Elizabeth they could come and stay, Ann had asked Sam O'Sullivan if the visit was a good idea. He'd told her he would check, but that it should not create any problems.

Elizabeth had asked endless questions about her mother's finances, how she coped with her new life, her many trips to London. But Ann had told her nothing other than that the move to Mallorca was Paul's express wish, and she herself had no regrets about having done it. In reality she still had no clear idea why she was paid £250 a week, given the use of this apartment, a car and as many visits to Paul as she wanted, for just eight or ten days' work a month.

Now she opened the doors to the balcony and felt damp heat flood into the air conditioned room. Studying the deserted bay, Ann felt sad and lonely. Looking at the scene below her she sat down, wishing Paul could be here to share it with her.

* * *

Four days later, early in the morning, the door bell rang.

'Hello, Ann.' Sam O'Sullivan gave her his customary twinkling smile. He was wearing his black leathers, holding the visored black helmet under his arm.

'Everything went well Tuesday. Thanks, you're a star.'

'Come in, Sam. For a second I thought something was wrong. You usually phone me with instructions.'

'I won't stay,' he said, bending down casually to pick up the post and the local English language newspaper. 'But everything's fine,' he added as he handed her the letters. 'You are needed to do an urgent trip to London.' Without waiting for a reply he continued, 'Here's the air ticket and some money. Take this envelope to the address in London, have a day off, visit your husband and daughter. Come back Sunday. I understand you're going on the yacht Monday?'

'Yes, I'm looking forward to that. I could make us some coffee?'

'Sorry, have to get on. Have a good weekend. I'll see myself out.'

Ann did not notice that he had taken the local newspaper with him. In the lift he glanced at the front page story:

ENGLISH POLICE OFFICER DROWNED

IN SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

DID YOU SEE HIM?

Underneath, in his chain store grey suit and gold rimmed glasses, was a photograph of the man from the airport.

With Sam gone, Ann was left in her empty flat for the umpteenth time trying not to think how different life would be if her husband were here. At least she was going to see him tomorrow. Why didn't she feel more pleased at the thought?

If she'd been asked not so long ago, Ann would have said her life was boringly mundane.

Then, suddenly, it was as if a trap door had fallen open beneath her feet and she was precipitated into an uncertain world, plummeting between poverty and wealth, sex and power, fear and unimaginable rewards.

* * *

Ann arrived at Ford Open Prison in a taxi.

She handed in the visiting order and went into the waiting room overlooking the road and the parking lot. It was Sunday, a few minutes to 2 o'clock. Many expensively dressed and well groomed women were waiting, some with children. The women's eyes never met and they hardly talked. Ann thought what a contrast it made to the long queue outside Brixton Prison, where despite the rain and cold most of the women had worn short skirts and high heeled shoes and chatted endlessly among themselves as they waited to visit their men.

As soon as she entered the visiting room Paul came eagerly towards her. He had put on more weight, she noted automatically, and the silver that had discreetly peppered his hair now streaked it liberally. But the light in his grey eyes as he took in every detail of her appearance was still the same. He was pleased to see her, proud of her trim figure in the designer dress. Ann was, as ever, a credit to him.

'Lovely to see you, darling. Come on, let's sit over here.'

He ushered her over to a low table with four comfortable chairs set around it.

'You look great,' he said, eyes fixed on her face. 'You've got a real tan by now. How's everything working out? I haven't had a letter from you in ten days. If you hadn't come this weekend, I would have asked to phone you.

Ann gave what she hoped was a carefree laugh. 'Everything's fine, Paul. Honestly.'

He studied her closely. 'If there's anything worrying you about this situation, for God's sake tell me,' he murmured in a low voice, squeezing her hand painfully tight. 'I don't want you putting yourself in danger.'

Gently she disengaged her hand. 'I'm fine, Paul, honestly. I just wish you were there with me – I miss you so much that sometimes it hurts.'

She meant every word. He was her husband and being separated like this was hard for her. And yet, now that they were together, it was not easy for her to keep the conversation going. They lived in such different worlds these days. Paul talked inconsequentially for a while of his job as entertainment orderly, he'd taken up cricket, had just been elected chairman of the Gavel Club where the better educated among the prisoners met every Friday evening and made ten minute speeches.

'Paul,' she suddenly interrupted him, 'there are two men sitting behind you who keep staring at us. One was thickset and short, and his hair thinning on top. The other was tall and thin and very straight backed looking like an Army officer.

'Go and get us a cup of coffee and on the way have a look at them. Maybe it's nothing to worry about and I'm just being paranoid.'

But when the men smiled broadly at her after Paul had left, and the podgy small one man fluttered his fingers at her in oddly affected wave, she knew she was not.

'Just two of the chaps,' Paul said when he got back. 'They're no problem, honestly. Friends in fact.' But she noted that the smile he directed at them over his shoulder was ingratiating rather than warm.

Ann drank her coffee, glad of the distraction. These days their visits always ended the same way – in exhausted silence. When Paul and she had lived together in Virginia Water there had always been so much for them to talk about: his progress at the bank, the properties she was handling in her part time job at a local estate agent's, their daughter Elizabeth, improvements to the house, their flat in Spain... But those were the days when Paul was a respected bank manager of the BCCI bank's large branch in Regent Street, close to Oxford Street, a prominent Rotarian and stalwart of the local golf club. Those were the days when he was free to go wherever he wished, not confined to living in a converted Air Force building and walking endlessly round a prison cricket green.

These days only she was free to go when the officer shouted 'visit's over'. They would hug and kiss, just like the forty other couples in the room, and then, wistfully, he would stand and watch her leave before making for the door at the back of the room. She always tried to go with a last smile for him over her shoulder. He needed her to stay in control, depended on her calm and strength to bolster his.

Waiting for the taxi to take her to the station, she felt confused. She knew that she had slightly over acted the role of dutiful wife. Oh, she still loved Paul, but since the day just a year ago when they had come to take him away, she no longer felt she knew him. It seemed to her that one day she was Mrs Ann Dockett, bank manager's wife and pillar of the local community, and the next she was a different woman, living alone and precariously in a foreign country, not quite able to believe that the world she had once thought so predictable and safe was now barred to her forever.
PART ONE

MAY THE CHANGING WIND

BE GENTLE

# CHAPTER ONE  
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It was 5.30 in the morning of the 11th of October 1985 when the peace of Paul and Ann Dockett's home in prim and proper Virginia Water was rudely shattered by the shrill ringing of the door bell, followed by a hammering on the front door, the French doors to the lounge and the kitchen simultaneously.

Ann looked at the clock in disbelief. Her first thought was that there had been an accident, possibly involving their daughter. She raced to the front door before Paul even reached the top of the stairs. A man in an impeccable Burberry raincoat pushed past her. Three others followed, one of whom flashed a warrant card and an official looking document.

'I have here a warrant to search this house.' He looked up at Paul, who had stopped halfway down the stairs. 'Paul Dockett? I'm Detective Inspector Frank Robinson, Fraud Squad, Metropolitan Police.'

Paul's face drained of colour. For a moment it seemed he would run back upstairs, but he obviously thought better of it and came down slowly to stand beside his wife and briefly put his arm around her.

'Do you understand?' The policeman sounded impatient.

'Yes,' Paul answered mechanically.

Seeing the woman's bewilderment as she shivered beneath her flimsy housecoat, Inspector Robinson said more kindly, 'Perhaps we could have a cup of tea? The search is going to take several hours, but we will go about it as considerately as possible.'

Methodically the police started to comb the living room. They delved into every drawer, dumping those contents which might possibly be of interest into clear plastic evidence bags. Paul's briefcase was similarly emptied into a bag. Books were held upside down and shaken to see if anything fell out. Pictures were taken down, carpets rolled up and floorboards tested for hiding places. Cushions were flung from chairs which were then turned upside down and searched. When they'd finished, they started on the dining room and kitchen. By then the living room looked as if it had been vandalised.

Seeing his wife's bewilderment turn to shock and distress at this violation of her home, Paul felt such shame he stood rooted to the spot. When she stretched out her hand to him, instead of reassuring her, he looked grimly ahead, his own hands clenched on his sides.

The police officers had now reached the bathroom. Paul felt as if he were going to vomit.

'Boss!' came a voice from upstairs.

Robinson walked into the hall. 'Found anything?'

'Come and have a look at this...'

Inspector Robinson disappeared upstairs but swiftly returned. The apologetic expression had faded from his face as he looked at them hard.

'I'll have to ask you both to accompany us to Holborn police station. Your names are on a foreign joint bank account which I have reason to believe contains money fraudulently obtained from the BCCI bank in Regent Street.'

When he started to read them their rights, black spots danced at the edges of Ann's vision.

Half an hour later she and Paul were placed in separate cars and driven to Holborn for questioning. Robinson was astute enough to recognise from the outset that Ann's shock and confusion were genuine and swiftly released her on police bail, indicating that it was unlikely that any further action would be taken against her.

Paul answered all the questions put to him, fully and frankly. It was no surprise to him when he was the same evening formally charged with defrauding his employers of £7 million, and at a hearing later the next day in Bow Street Magistrate Court, refused bail and remanded to Brixton prison.

Ann was allowed to visit him there, and despite his own debilitating depression at the situation he found himself in, Paul's heart twisted with self pity and remorse as he saw the timid way she came into the visiting room. She could barely raise her eyes and take in the details of the squalid visiting area. It was thick with cigarette smoke and closely packed with other prisoners on remand and their laughing, joking or sobbing visitors and the vigilant warders.

'Just tell me one thing, Paul,' Ann said when she had sat down opposite him at a scratched and grubby table. 'And please respect me enough not to lie.'

'What is it?' He forced himself to look her straight in the eye.

'I can only cope with this if I know the truth.' She took a deep breath. 'Are you guilty?'

He opened his mouth, hesitated. Then he lifted his chin and said in a calm, low voice, 'Yes, I am.'

* * *

For Paul Dockett, Nemesis arrived in the short, dapper, constantly smiling form of a man called Aaron Nicholstein. Coming into the bank, to open a deposit account, he was referred direct to the manager as the sum he wished to place with them was a substantial one.

Paul welcomed this promising new customer and made the usual enquiries about his background and current ventures, learning that Aaron was a Polish Jew who for the last thirty years had made his home in Paris, Rome and London. His firm, Nicholstein's Developments, was a property company with considerable experience in green field sites and redevelopment work.

'I have just two associates Steve Chaplin and Robert Crane – young, keen, hungry, with good practical backgrounds. I take care of the money end, Steve's background is quantity surveying, and Robert's our marketing genius.

'For the time being I will just leave the money in your good hands. Place it in a holding account with good interest. It's up to you.' Nicholstein was evidently not in any hurry.

'We have found a fantastic new site in Camden: an old brewery with water frontage, close to the High Street,' he told Paul with obvious excitement two months later. 'We envisage a fashionable warehouse conversion, thirty units, all shells – apart from the show flat to pull the customers in.

All the light and space of a Thameside conversion with none of that endless schlepping through the East End. Can't fail!'

A loan application followed for the warehouse development. As security Aaron proposed both his own house in St. George's Hill, Weybridge, which the bank's surveyor estimated to be worth £2 million with only a small mortgage outstanding, plus the warehouse site in Camden. The loan was approved and the development went like clockwork, all units being sold within three weeks of the opening of the show flat.

After a few months Paul was approached again by Nicholstein's for help financing a development near Marbella, and the bank's Spanish branch was brought in to oversee the legal work and securities though the kudos for the new business remained Paul's.

This time Nicholstein's was handling the construction of a residential marina development. Paul took several trips over to check on the project, usually managing to spend an enjoyable afternoon at a local golf club afterwards. It was after one of these rounds, as he and his client relaxed over drinks and the dinner menu, that Aaron made his next proposal.

'I've got something in mind, Paulie. I just hope you won't be offended... The show flat at the Marina – in a couple of months it'll have served its purpose and the boys and I were wondering whether you'd like to take it off our hands? I mean, strictly kosher of course. Wouldn't want to put you in schtuck with the bank, would we? But the company's made a killing on this development, as you very well know, and we can afford to be obliging to our friends. If we can continue to have the use of the flat for the next couple of months, or until the last one is sold, we thought thirty thou' – no deposit, ten years' repayment, easy terms.'

'But that's not enough! The cheapest flat at the development's going for fifty thousand,' Paul protested.

Aaron puffed his cheroot and for a moment thick blue smoke obscured his smiling face and keen black eyes. He said nothing.

It was a decisive moment for Paul. Until then it had been strictly a banker client relationship between them, but he realised that if he accepted this inducement, then somewhere along the line a favour would be asked. Could he grant it and still come up smelling of roses with the bank?

As if he could read Paul's mind, Aaron hastened to reassure him: 'This is strictly a private arrangement, naturally. No need for BCCI to hear of it. Use a company to buy it in. And speaking of the bank, I've a new proposal that your loan's committee will jump at. A golf course in Surrey...'

So far as BCCI went, Nicholstein's Developments never put a foot wrong. For each proposal they submitted, they always provided a detailed financial forecast from top notch accountants, supported by a legal assessment from a reputable City solicitor. The golf course was rubber stamped and shortly afterwards Aaron told Paul that someone important desperately wanted to buy a two bedroom marina flat, and was willing to offer £80,000 for one just like Paul's... Maybe he could help them out? The sale was speedily concluded with Aaron acting as intermediary. When he handed over the cheque, drawn on a Gibraltar bank, he suggested that Paul might like to invest in Nicholstein's for a short period.

It was strictly outside the bank's code of practice for Paul to invest his own money with a client – but the company was doing so well, and no one was in a better position to appreciate that than Paul himself, who was one of the few people allowed to see the company's internal monthly management accounts. With an inward qualm, he invested £40,000 with Nicholstein's and banked the remaining £10,000 in a Spanish company account. His investment doubled in value in six months, whereupon he agreed to sink £90,000 into a shopping mall that the company was developing in Birmingham. The proceeds from that were such that his Spanish bank account was swiftly joined by others in Switzerland, America and the Cayman Islands, and when asked, Paul obligingly helped Aaron, Steve and Robert bank some of their profits out of the country too.

By now Nicholstein's borrowing amounted to £6 million. For helping to arrange the latest tranche, Paul personally received a sweetener of £150,000. He bought another flat in Spain, installed a pool and expensive conservatory in his otherwise modest suburban Virginia Water home – he couldn't move, it would be too obvious – and banked the rest abroad.

It seemed to him that the good times would just roll and roll...

And then, over lunch one day, Aaron asked him to help push through a top up of £1 million on the latest Spanish hotel development. There was some legal hold up on the site; a charge registered on it had turned up out of the blue despite BCCI's Spanish branch supposedly checking it out. It had to be paid off right away, before construction could continue. The loan was sanctioned the same on a full guarantee from Nicholstein's. Aaron's house was mortgage free and valued at £3.5 million. No problem.

Three days later Aaron called Paul and asked him to come to Nicholstein's office that afternoon.

Paul had visited the exclusive offices in Mill Street, Mayfair, on several occasions, but this time they seemed strangely quiet. At just gone five the place had a deserted air. There was no receptionist behind the desk in the anteroom; the flower arrangement on the pedestal table was wilted and dead. Aaron sat on the edge of a leather covered sofa, impatiently drumming his fingers on its arm. He jumped to his feet on seeing Paul.

'Listen,' he said, in a voice quite unlike his usual amiable tones. 'You've helped us considerably over the last few years and we've looked after you financially. I thought you might appreciate a warning. Everything is going to blow up in the next few days.'

'Wh what do you mean?' asked Paul in a shaky voice.

'The guarantee for one million we gave for the land in Spain isn't worth the paper it's written on. I sold the St. George's Hill house privately some days previously, which you will discover when you try to register the guarantee. The company is now empty, only a shell. The shares aren't worth the paper they are written on. None of the loans secured on other assets will be repaid either. All the documents you were given within the last two weeks were forged: solicitors' letters, architect's declaration, share certificates, land registry forms... everything.'

With a sinking lurch of his stomach Paul realised that the bank was down £7 million, and that every ounce of blame for it would land back at his door. The bastards had set him up for this right from the start.

Aaron seemed to be changing shape before his eyes. The once round and ruddy face with a habitual genial expression looked pale and severe now, though there was a glimmer of something that could almost be pity in those dark, deceptive eyes.

'You – you filthy bastards! You and your crooked friends have ruined me... How could you?'

'If so we regret that,' Aaron said smoothly. 'Steven, Robert and I are civilised men, and on a personal level we liked you, Paul. But we are part of a very powerful organisation which has financed this enterprise. If we don't repay their investment in us... let's just say, our credit would be terminated. With utmost prejudice.'

'I'll go to the police,' Paul blustered, though even as he said it he knew he could never bring himself voluntarily to confess his own criminal actions.

Aaron shook his head sorrowfully. 'No, Paul, that would be a mistake. You know the way the system works. Banks will do anything... cover up anything...to avoid upsetting their investors. It would be much smarter for you to tell your bosses what I have just told you – that Nicholstein's has defaulted and vanished without trace. With any luck everything will be quickly hushed up without the police even being involved. And if they are, how were you to know the whole thing was a sham from day one? It was, after all, very skilfully done.'

'Because I took your money!'

Aaron raised his eyebrows. 'And how will anyone find out about that?' He began to sound irritated. 'We're the only ones who know, and none of us is likely to say anything.'

He stepped closer. He was only a small man but suddenly he looked distinctly menacing.

'Unless you are stupid enough to go to them, you could come out of this relatively unscathed.'

Paul was silent. Aaron was right, damn him. If Paul claimed he had made an error of judgment in trusting Nicholstein's then the worst that could happen would be his dismissal for incompetence. And he had getting on for £200,000 banked offshore to say nothing of the Spanish flat...

The other man continued: 'If it blows up in your face, do what you can to make it easy on yourself. We'll be long gone and they'll never trace us under these or any other names. If you need our help, we won't forget our debt to you. We'll monitor your situation, and if we can, we'll help, you'll see. Trust me on that.'

Paul laughed bitterly. He was still laughing, bent double and with tears running down his face, when Aaron stepped lightly round him and left the building, bound for Heathrow.

Paul wanted desperately to confess but two things kept him back: shame at revealing his own pitiful gullibility, and fear that his shady financial dealings would be uncovered.

A few days later Head Office rang to make the announcement that his branch had been chosen for a random audit. He could expect the bank's investigative control team sometime later that day. Paul did not believe it was random and went straight home after receiving the call, claiming he had a cold. It was just bad luck. There was no time for him to take the initiative and explain. On Monday morning, the police raided his house. The notebook with the foreign bank accounts details, found by the police in spite of being carefully taped under the bathtub, made any defence impossible.

Far worse than the shame of this was realising for the first time the terrible price his beloved wife would have to pay for his own deceit and wrongdoing.

Paul came to trial on February 21st 1986, and despite the practised pleadings of his QC, was sentenced to seven years in prison for conspiracy to defraud.

Two hours later he arrived at Wandsworth Prison from the Old Bailey. The inmates working on reception treated all new arrivals badly on principle. All had to learn the prison hierarchy, and the sooner the better for everyone. Paul's regulation uniform was two sizes too large, he had no socks and his shoes no laces.

The door to his cell was slammed behind him. The 8' by 6' space he found himself in was painted dark blue but, incongruously, there were white stars painted on the ceiling.

Someone was lying on the bottom bunk. The huddled figure gave no indication that he was even aware of another presence. Paul dumped his few things on the top bunk and hauled himself up after them.

That night was the worst he had ever spent – worse even than his first night on remand in Brixton. Then at least there had been the faint hope that his brief would get him off lightly.

Next morning he received a post card, unstamped, unsigned but correctly addressed, even down to his prison and cell numbers. It had obviously escaped the censoring process, and contained only the cryptic message:

'WILL IMPROVE YOUR ACCOMMODATION'.

A week later, at seven, his cell door was unlocked by a warder. 'You're a lucky bleeder, Dockett. Start packing your gear. You're off to the Hilton of Her Majesty's Prison Service, Ford Open Prison in West Sussex.'

* * *

Paul stepped out of the 'meat wagon' into bright sunlight. He had to blink to convince himself that what he was seeing was real: neat wooden huts to the right of a large cricket green, red brick buildings to the left, and a sign over reception which read 'Welcome'.

A man in a blue prison overalls rode up to the group of new arrivals on an old bike. 'Hi there! The reception officer will see you when he's had his lunch. I'll get you some sandwiches.' He pedalled off, whistling.

An hour later Paul and his companions were dressed in uniforms which fitted and then taken to the induction hut where they would stay for the first week, before being allocated permanent places. By four o'clock they had been told the prison rules and shown around.

The dining hall buzzed with conversation and laughter, a far cry from Wandsworth where Paul had picked up his food on the ground floor and taken it to his cell on the third landing, eating with the cell door locked, in utter silence, except for his cell mates' endless belching and farting. Here the prisoners waited patiently, chatting amiably, before selecting what they wanted to eat, taking their food on a tray to a table in the large dining hall, and sitting with friends.

Afterwards Paul and a man called Tom, who had also come from Wandsworth, took a walk round the cricket pitch, unable to believe their good fortune. They sat on a bench and watched other inmates strolling leisurely past as if it were a Sunday afternoon in the park.

'Are you Paul Dockett?'

He looked up in surprise to see two men in front of him, one tall and lantern jawed, the other short and overweight. For a moment he was reminded of Laurel and Hardy. 'We'd like a word with you. In private.'

Tom got up straight away, threw Paul a quizzical look and walked off quickly.

'Do I know you?' Paul asked nervously.

'I'm Harold and this is Jeffrey.' The tall man spoke in an upper class accent. His uniform fitted him perfectly, as if it had been exclusively tailored. By contrast, the smaller man's trousers were loose, flapping round his ankles. He had a well trimmed moustache and rather protuberant eyes which stared at Paul without blinking, making him feel uneasy.

'It's a bit of a change, isn't it?' Harold went on. 'However, when you've been here a while you'll find the novelty wears off and it becomes just another prison. I'm going to tell you what you can do to make things easier for yourself.' He sat himself down next to Paul, smiling at him.

'I'm not sure I understand?'

'You don't need to understand. Just do as we say and you can live quite comfortably here.' Harold beamed at Paul while Jeffrey continued staring at him. 'Let me put you in the picture. There's nothing that goes on in this place we don't know about. Both Jeffrey and myself are old hands here. If you do as I suggest, you'll have no problems with the screws. Most of them are just whiling away the time until they can draw their pensions. As long as we don't interfere with them, they don't interfere with us. We run the whole show. You're one of the lucky ones, Paul. You've been singled out for special treatment.'

'Why?'

'Has no one told you by now not to ask questions?' Even though Harold was still smiling, Paul sensed a threat under the words. He noticed that no one passed by without making some form of acknowledgement to his companions, who were obviously held in high regard.

'Let me put your mind at rest.' Jeffrey spoke at last, sitting down on the other side of Paul. His voice was soft but unexpectedly deep. He put his hand on Paul's thigh; it was small and perfectly manicured. There was something mannered, almost feminine in his movements.

As if reading Paul's mind, he said, 'Harold doesn't share my interest in young men. He's married with two daughters and a house three miles from here, which is handy, as Ford is a second home to us. We're guests here every twelve years, on average. Specialists in long firm operations all over the world. That's when a company is built up – or, more usually, taken over – which has a good trading history. It pays its bills slowly but regularly. Then suddenly it increases its buying of all kinds of products and soon afterwards goes into liquidation, leaving a string of unpaid suppliers. We've sold off its assets the week before, naturally.'

Paul sat unmoving, conscious of Jeffrey's hand on his leg, while Harold explained about the various prison jobs Paul could apply for, and which of these carried extra benefits. There were also activities such as poker, backgammon, gambling on horses.

'The best job is that of cinema and entertainment orderly. You get to see as many films as you want and the screw in charge of entertainment is a regular bloke. Sounds good, eh? You aren't usually offered that job until you've been here at least a year. It's yours if you want it.'

Paul nodded, bemused. Jeffrey squeezed his knee then removed his hand.

'Right. So that's settled.' All the while Harold chatted, he was still graciously acknowledging the deferential greetings of passers by. 'Now, the next thing is your accommodation. We've arranged for you to get a single room when you come out of induction on the VIP side. If we can help you in any other way, just let us know.'

Paul hesitated. Now the time had come, he was not sure if he was up to the task of clearing the air. He moved a few inches away from Jeffrey and took a deep breath.

'What is it you want in return?' There was silence. He tried again. 'You must want something from me. What?'

'We have a proposition,' Harold said calmly.

'What kind of proposition?'

'A business proposition.'

'I think I'd better hear it before I accept any favours.'

'We need loads of information about BCCI's and other large accounts. We need your help to find a way to get these large companies send us a cheque so we can see how the cheque is printed and the exact signatures. Maybe you can have a think about how we do that. Names of payees. Dates when statements are sent. Cheque clearing routines. Detailed information about the bank's daily routine. Also, some gen on staff and computers would be of interest.'

'I see.' Paul had foreseen something along these lines. This information would be vital for some form of bank fraud, but on a more massive scale than anything he'd been involved in.

Jeffrey said, 'None of this will be traced back to you. It might be years before any of this information is put to use. And in the meantime we take care of the lovely Ann, your wife. The bank's foreclosing on your house and she wouldn't like bed and breakfast, would she? We'd offer her a flat in Majorca and two hundred fifty pounds a week in return for a little light work – nothing strenuous. And not illegal.'

'Who's behind all this?' Paul was gaining confidence now he knew he had something they wanted. 'How do you know so much about me? Who do you work for?'

'We are mere intermediaries, self employed entrepreneurs, who are financed by our masters,' Jeffrey put in. 'Believe me, you don't need to know any more.'

Paul felt a sudden tension in the air as Harold and Jeffrey awaited his reply. For a moment he had completely forgotten that he was in prison here and not at a business meeting. But did he have any option but to agree? Could he walk away from this proposition, as they had said, and still keep a cushy job and an easy life? Looking at the way Jeffrey clasped and unclasped his meaty hands, and the wide berth which the other inmates gave Harold, despite his charming manners and patrician looks, Paul sensed that to go against these men would only lead to more trouble.

What real choice was left to him?

His course was already decided.

'How do I know,' he said slowly, 'that if I do as you say, your people – whoever they are – will keep their side of the bargain?'

'Because you've already seen them in action,' Harold assured him benevolently. 'Like our good friend Aaron Nicholstein, we wouldn't work for them if they didn't keep their promises. You have a good think.'

* * *

A week later, Ann arrived for a visit. Paul had to broach the Mallorca proposal soon, but didn't know how to begin.

'You must have gone stark raving mad!' she said, in disbelief when he'd finished. 'After what we've both been through? No, Paul, I'm not getting involved. Keep me out of your sordid business deals!' She pushed back her chair and walked off.

It was only at the end of the third visit that Ann, reduced to tears as she told him of her imminent homelessness after being forced to sell the house and forfeit the proceeds, reluctantly agreed to go to Mallorca and see the promised apartment. The next day her air ticket, hotel booking and £300 in cash arrived by courier.

Seeing his wife's face on her next visit, some of Paul's worries lifted. She had enjoyed the trip and was full of enthusiasm for the apartment, and appreciative of the kindness and courtesy shown by her guide in Mallorca, Sam O'Sullivan. Her attitude had altered so much that they were able to talk more freely.

'I'm still worried about what they want you to tell them,' she said. 'It'll obviously be used for illegal purposes...'

'But no one will know I had anything to do with it. We're already caught up in this, Ann. And we've lost so much... I can't bear to think of you moving into some scruffy bedsit – not when there's all this on offer.' He smiled sardonically. 'And what else can they do to me, after all – put me in prison?'

'I'm scared, though,' Ann said bleakly. 'But – the flat was gorgeous and I loved Mallorca... Sam said I'd only need to do a few days work a week for his boss. I could cope so much better out there. Paul...'

And so he had swallowed the bait. His wife moved to Mallorca in April and Paul agreed to work for them – whoever they were. He was doing it for Ann, he told himself.

Maybe, one day, it would lead to his finding out who lay behind his downfall. That weighed more and more heavily on his mind and he'd made himself a solemn promise: they might have pulled him down but he was not completely out, not by a long chalk. He was going to make them sorry they had ever picked on him to be their fall guy. Sooner or later, he'd have his day with them.

# CHAPTER TWO  
_________________________

Mallorca, Thursday, 7th of May 1987

Only two police officers, one from Scotland Yard, the other in Denmark, knew more about Erick Elgberg than Sam O'Sullivan.

Sam had worked for Elgberg for ten years, the last few of them on Mallorca. This was surprising for a man who had never previously had a proper job.

Sam had been born on a small farm in Tipperary. He had never known his father and his mother died when he was sixteen. His two elder brothers wanted to make a living on the farm, which left Sam with no prospects in Ireland. He decided to try his luck in London.

After a few months of hand to mouth living, it became clear to him that his options were limited. He knew he had to take a permanent job, either as a mini cab or van driver or possibly a labourer, while trying to get an education of some sort. Or he could do favours for the characters he was regularly introduced to by his landlord.

He started doing odd jobs for small time villains. The income was good and the work suited him perfectly. He never asked what was in the various parcels he had to deliver and never opened any to find out. He was regarded by his employers as trustworthy and able to handle himself in a tight spot.

One day he was told to drive to Amsterdam to deliver a small parcel. He regarded it as a routine trip. After entering the port in Dover, he was asked by the police to park the car and go to a small office on the first floor inside the departure building.

A few minutes later he was arrested for handling stolen goods. The parcel contained jewellery. He did not tell the police the names of his employers or the destination of the parcel, guessing that a rival gang had informed the police.

He was advised by the duty solicitor in Dover to plead guilty, which he did. The magistrate, who understood that the case was not worth wasting time over, sentenced him a month later to six months imprisonment.

On the day of his release from Wormwood Scrubs, Sam was approached outside the prison by a bearded man wearing a flamboyant bow tie, who said someone wanted to offer him a permanent job.

The same afternoon he met his new employer in The Loose Box wine bar in Brompton Road, Knightsbridge. Sam liked Erick Elgberg right away and took the job, which he was told was a combination of chauffeur, minder and general handyman. Sam had never heard of Elgberg before they met and knew better than to ask who the bearded man was who had introduced them.

Erick was always courteous. When they were alone, they were on first name terms and Sam appreciated the fact that his employer always had time for him, listened to him and sometimes even took his advice. Erick gave him various books to read, from business textbooks to the latest best seller, and when Sam had finished they discussed the contents. Sam understood that this was his boss's way of shaping him to fit into the organisation. Far from resenting this Sam was now Erick's man and totally loyal to him.

Today he was on his way to pick up the new member of staff, Ann Dockett, and take her to Erick's house. They had not as yet met and Ann's mind was buzzing with questions about her new employment but when Sam did not say anything she felt she should do the same. He obviously preferred to avoid the topic of the coming interview, so they spoke about the island, the weather, London.

When they reached the small village of Punta Verger, he turned off the main road. A mile further on he turned again and drove along a dusty track. Ann felt increasingly nervous and wished she could arrive in a presentable state and not covered in dust.

'It's not your usual sort of house,' Sam explained at last. 'It started life as a cave. It was built into the cliffs by some wealthy Germans who wanted to make it into a club, but they couldn't get planning permission in the end. The place was up for sale for a long time before Mr Elgberg bought it and made it into what it is today. He spent millions on it.' It's quite unique.'

Gradually he lessened speed. 'You can only properly see it from the sea, and even then you wouldn't really notice it if it weren't for the harbour and the yacht.' He changed down into a lower gear and drove very slowly. The track had disappeared completely.

They had stopped at a barrier, beside which was a small wooden hut. A man waiting outside walked towards them.

Sam hung out of the window. 'Hi there. How are you today?'

'No better for seeing you, you Irish git,' the man growled, peering into the car. Ann shrank back from the battered face thrust close to her. 'Open the briefcase,' he ordered. Ann obeyed.

'I've got to deliver her to Mr Elgberg as fresh as a daisy,' Sam warned.

The man grunted and raised the barrier while Sam revved the car and pulled away in a cloud of dust. He drove on until they reached a large carport, underneath which stood several cars.

'We have to take a lift down to the house.' He helped Ann out. She saw a small concrete building at the end of the carport. As they approached, a heavy metal door opened automatically and a uniformed security guard stepped out. They followed him inside the building which contained a desk and a bank of television screens.

The guard ordered Ann to open her briefcase. Fumbling with the locks, she again obeyed. It was empty except for a few pens, a writing pad and spare sunglasses. After a brief glance, the guard shrugged and went back behind the desk.

Placing a card the size of a credit card into a slot beside a door, Sam pressed his hand against a stainless steel plate above the slot. A light above the door flashed from red to green and the door to the lift slid open.

'This place is worse than Fort Knox,' he said, allowing Ann to go first. 'Anything new in the security line and before you can blink it's installed here. Now hold tight. It's a fast ride.'

For a few seconds, Ann felt her stomach rise. Then the door slid silently open and she was completely blinded. Adjusting her sunglasses, she surveyed the scene.

In front of her was a large swimming pool surrounded by sun loungers and straw parasols. At one end was a well stocked bar and next to that a changing room and sauna. A barbecue area filled with plants in terracotta pots was to her right. On the horizon she could see the bobbing shapes of boats anchored in a harbour, and beyond them rose the majestic white shape of an ocean going yacht.

She became aware of pressure in the small of her back as Sam propelled her gently forwards. Turning her head she saw the facade of the house behind them, rising three floors and built into the cliff. Sliding windows stood open on the ground floor, revealing a sequence of rooms: a sitting room, a dining room to seat dozens, an open kitchen, a large conference room, a computer room where hazy figures worked at computer screens. The two floors above had long balconies and looked more private. She only dimly became aware of Sam asking if she wanted a drink.

'Iced water would be lovely,' she murmured. The cold glass pressed into her hand made her jump. 'Oh, Sam, what a beautiful place!'

He grinned. 'What did I tell you? Now wait here while I find Mr Elgberg.'

The name brought Ann back to reality. It was as if she had been building up to this meeting in the weeks she had been in Majorca, and now, when she should have been prepared, she was likely to make a fool of herself. This was when she would find out the price to be exacted for the support she and Paul had been promised.

In the conference room, a man in a white tracksuit rose from the table and exchanged a few words with Sam. He was tall and heavily built, but his movements were graceful. As he walked towards her, Ann could see he was very tanned and his fair hair bleached almost white by the sun. The jacket of his tracksuit was unzipped and he was not wearing any shoes.

'Welcome,' he said, holding out his hand, 'I am Erick Elgberg. Please sit over here, in the shade, where you will be more comfortable. Sam, fetch Mrs Dockett something more interesting to drink. What would you like, Ann – if I may call you that? A cognac? A pina colada? Don't be afraid to ask.'

Erick Elgberg spoke with a slight accent, possibly German or Dutch, which she found attractive, but his voice had an edge to it which commanded attention. Close up, Ann could see he was older than Paul, balding slightly, but distinguished and attractive.

'Orange juice, please.' Although she felt more like having a stiff whisky!

After bringing her the drink, and a small brandy for Erick Elgberg, Sam discreetly returned to the house. Ann watched him go with another pang of panic.

'Is the flat to your liking?' Elgberg seated himself opposite her.

'Yes, it's wonderful. I'm very grateful.'

'The right surroundings are very important.' He smiled. 'This place is beautiful now, but my wife spent a lot of time and money getting it right. Perhaps it is a bit like a film set for a James Bond movie, but we like it. We work here, but it's also home for many people, as you can see. We receive visitors from all over the world. In our business, clients do not always like staying in hotels.' He stopped and sipped his drink. 'By the way, I am Danish. Danes often live their lives with a gap between commonsense and their actions.'

Behind his friendly blue eyes Ann sensed a keen mind systematically registering everything about her. He was looking at her now, eyebrows raised, as if to force her to say something.

'This is the most fantastic place I've ever seen,' she said impulsively.

'Glad you like it. Andrea – my wife – has a good eye for architecture and interior design.'

'Will I be working here?' Ann asked.

'No. I have another suggestion, which I will explain later, when you have met my wife and got to know a bit more about what we do here.'

'Sorry,' Ann said hastily. 'I'm quite willing to work anywhere you want me to.'

'I will briefly explain what we are doing, so you can get an idea what it is all about.' He took another leisurely sip of his drink, then leaned back in his chair. 'This is the centre of an investment business which has developed over the last three years. We have twenty four hour computer links to Britain, Europe, Canada, Russia, Australia, Japan and the US. If you are wondering what is different about this business from any other bank or broking house, the answer is we invest only to obtain ultimate control of companies, thereby amalgamating them into our own group.'

All this went over Ann's head, although she tried to look knowledgeable.

'I'll do my best to be useful,' she said, wondering what help she could possibly give. 'And speaking of help, I must thank you for everything you've done for Paul – my husband.'

'We're only too pleased to have been of some assistance.' Erick had a calm, comforting manner and Ann felt more reassured that she would get on with him. 'Your husband has been of great help to us also. However, it would be best if you don't mention my name to anyone outside the organisation, or anything about this place. Your husband will know better than to ask you about it.'

Ann nodded.

'It is a terrible experience you have been through.'

She nodded again.

'Being in prison,' he said slowly, 'is sometimes not as bad as being the one left on the outside, having to survive. You must speak to Andrea about survival. She went through a similar experience some years ago which changed our lives very dramatically.'

Ann stared at him. Was he saying this to put her at her ease? Or had he himself been in prison – this distinguished looking man, exuding an air of power and authority? She felt a blush creep across her face as Erick sat back watching her, a faint smile on his lips.

Suddenly he leapt up. 'Ah, here she is! Andrea, come and meet Mrs Ann Dockett.'

A slim woman was striding towards them wearing a red bikini, a matching tracksuit jacket hanging loosely over her shoulders, red clogs and dark sunglasses. Her hair was biscuit coloured, straight and loose, and her teeth, when she smiled, were small and white, like well matched pearls. As she held out one hand, she pushed her sunglasses up on the top of her head with the other.

'How can you let our guest sit here and drink orange juice?' she said to Erick, her accent similar to his but more pronounced. 'I'll get you a whisky, Ann. That is what you need when you are faced with a dragon like my husband.' She fetched a large tumbler from the bar and gave it to Ann. 'In a moment I will take you on a tour of the house and you can change into a swimsuit. We will swim together then have lunch.'

'Fine by me,' Erick said easily, leaning back in his chair. Either the whisky, or his remarks about prison, had made Ann feel totally relaxed.

She followed Andrea towards the house, thinking that here was a couple who would not let her or Paul down. If they did as they were instructed.

'If you have any problems, do not hesitate to let me know and I will get Erick to sort them out,' Andrea told her. 'You can get hold of us any time through Sam.'

'Thank you,' Ann said gratefully. 'Just knowing there's someone I can turn to is a big help.'

'From what I understand, the worst is over and it's now just a question of letting the time pass.' Andrea smiled. 'Do you have a swimsuit with you?' Ann shook her head. 'Then we'd better find one for you.'

Inside, they walked through the dining and kitchen area which were decorated in Mallorcan style with white walls, wrought iron chairs around a glass topped table and bold coloured textiles. From a bright, spacious hall Andrea led the way up a wide staircase to the top floor where, outside a solid mahogany door, she pressed some figures into a keypad and put her hand on a steel plate, as Sam had done.

'This floor is our private home,' she said, walking into a hall which reflected light off white marble walls and floor. A gold framed mirror and a table containing a huge vase of red flowers were the only objects in the room.

She opened another door into an enormous living room furnished with modern cedarwood furniture of Scandinavian design. Persian carpets were scattered over the polished wood floor. Along its outside wall, beyond plate glass windows, ran a terrace, its blue canopy pulled down to keep the room cool.

Beckoning to Ann, her hostess opened a door at the far end, which led into a bedroom. It was decorated in dark blue. She pulled open a mirrored wardrobe and indicated a drawer.

'Here are some swimsuits to choose from.' Her gaze took in Ann from head to toe and she was suddenly conscious of her larger hips and breasts. 'We must be nearly the same size,' Andrea said kindly. 'Take this one. You'll look divine.'

Ann took the minuscule garment in silence. Andrea went on, 'You can change here. Come, let's see how you look in it.' She sat back in a suede covered chair and gazed into the full length mirror at Ann's dumbfounded reflection. 'Come,' she said again, and Ann sensed the same edge to her voice that Erick's had held when issuing an order to Sam.

She turned from the mirror and took off her shoes. She unfastened her skirt and let it drop to the floor, then took off her top. Now she was down to her underwear, she was conscious of the eyes of the other woman watching her in the mirror; but strangely she felt calmer, more at ease than she would have expected. She slipped off her bra and pants, then pulled on the bikini. It fitted her perfectly.

'Let me see you,' Andrea commanded. 'Turn round. Yes, as I thought. You look gorgeous.'

Trailing her hand over the clothing on the bed, she rose languidly and slipped her arm round Ann's waist.

'You are certainly very attractive. But I had to check you had no microphones hidden.'

She gave Ann a wide smile, then calmly led the way out.

They spent the next couple of hours alternately swimming and talking. As Erick had promised, Andrea explained his earlier remark about his own imprisonment in Denmark.

'I had several years of pure hell when Erick went away, but my worst problem was that it was such a public disgrace. Was it different for you? Tell me about it.'

'It was the shock more than anything. I was so unprepared for it,' Ann said. 'It's taken me all this time to get used to the consequences of what Paul did. I was very pampered, I now realise. I thought I had married a conventional bank manager, reliable and trustworthy, and I was his totally respectable wife. I lived in Virginia Water, where I fitted in perfectly. I expected us to grow old peacefully, tending the roses together.'

Andrea threw back her head and laughed. 'Erick is hardly the bank manager type! I knew exactly what he was like when I married him. I was prepared for ups and downs, but never in my wildest dreams expected him to be labelled a criminal. It was only because that label stuck like glue, even after he had finished his sentence, that our lives changed. Denmark is the most hierarchical society in the world. Erick could not just get on with his life as if nothing had happened so, of course, neither could I.'

'But people do forget, given time,' Ann said. 'I hope so, anyway, or life will be impossible for Paul and me.'

'Denmark is a small country, which makes a difference,' Andrea said soothingly, 'but knowing someone has been to prison is like having one up on them. It doesn't worry Erick in the slightest now, but I was damned if I'd be labelled in the same way.' Her pale turquoise eyes narrowed angrily at the memory.

'At least you've got this place,' Ann said. 'That must make up for a lot, having somewhere like this to call home.'

'For me this is like living on a beautiful desert island. I hardly think about the outside world, unless it's to wonder what our children are doing. I go to Palma a couple of times a week and I fly to London or Paris once a month, but I always look forward to coming back here.'

'It could easily be the same for me. But I'll have to go back when Paul's released. I can't see him living abroad.'

'You have plenty of time before you need to worry about that. And who knows? You'll be a different woman by then. You'll be independent, used to looking after yourself.' Andrea patted her thigh. 'There are a few basic things to learn about working for Erick, but once you are used to them you will fit in perfectly, I'm sure. Someone made an excellent choice when they offered you the job.'

A little while later they were served a tuna and tomato salad and a bottle of ice cold Chablis on the covered terrace. Ann looked towards the sea, drinking in the view, and became aware of Erick seating himself between her and Andrea. He helped himself to pieces of tuna from Andrea's plate, and she slapped his hand in reproof. Erick, laughing, told Ann that they had a visitor whom they were taking back to Palma on the yacht. As they had to pass Cala Vinas, they would drop her off on the way.

'We will be leaving in an hour's time,' he said.

After coffee Andrea took Ann upstairs to change. She peeled off her bikini with no sign of embarrassment and stepped naked into the shower, leaving the door open. 'You come too, Ann,' she called. 'There is another shower.'

Ann was surprised how uninhibited she felt. She undressed and joined Andrea. They dried themselves in the bedroom, laughing together, then joined Erick downstairs.

A speed boat took them out to the yacht, L'Acquisition, where Erick and his guest were talking on the sun deck. He rose at their approach and introduced Ann to the large man in the deckchair. 'May I present Mr Randolph Purcell?'

Ann shook hands, overwhelmed. The exploits of the British tycoon were usually splashed over the front pages of the newspapers. He owned his own paper, a football club and a vast industrial conglomerate.

'Glad to meet you, Ann. And how long have you lived on this beautiful island?'

'Not long,' she managed to stammer, feeling totally out of her league. As if sensing this, Erick took her elbow and steered her away, telling her he would take her on a tour of the yacht.

'There are four cabins, allowing us to accommodate eight guests and a full time staff of six, including a chef.' As he spoke, he opened doors into the spacious, well furnished cabins. 'As you can see, it's fully air conditioned and equipped for water sports. One of these days, Ann, Andrea and I would like it very much if you would be our guest here for a night or two.'

She was overcome. 'Thank you. I look very much forward to that.'

Erick led her along the lower deck and opened a door into a cabin which was furnished as an office, with dark mahogany panelling and a desk with a computer.

'This is my favourite office. It's not big, but very cosy. And wherever we are, we are in contact with the Cave.' He indicated a chair for Ann and sat down behind the desk, swivelling his chair round to look out of the porthole.

Ann studied the back of his head. She found him more attractive than any man she had ever met. His calm, relaxed manner was such a contrast to what she had expected. Even on the yacht he wore his white tracksuit and went barefoot. But by the manner in which the crew deferred to him, and especially the way Andrea spoke about him, it was clear to Ann that he had their respect. He had hers too. She felt suddenly guilty. How could she even think like that only weeks after having left Paul to serve his sentence?

'I wanted a few words with you in private. About the job,' he began. 'It's not a nine to five thing, but it will occupy you pleasantly, giving you an opportunity to travel abroad. Sam O'Sullivan's the only person you will deal with. He will ask you to fly to various places, picking up or delivering certain documents. Sometimes you will come straight back here, other times you will go on to other destinations. You will often go to London, so you can visit your husband then. Have you any objections? If you do not want to do this, please say so. Rest assured that your life on Mallorca will not be jeopardised.'

'No, I – I'd like work.'

'You will never be asked to carry anything illegal. You have my word on that.'

She hesitated. 'What documents are we talking about?'

'Share certificates, authorizations for transfers, bank drafts, contracts, business papers – even money. Things we don't want interfered with.'

There was a knock on the door and Andrea popped her head round. 'Excuse me, but we are getting close to Cala Vinas. I do not want you to forget to drop Ann off.' She pulled a face at her guest. 'Several times he has forgotten to set people ashore at the right places.'

Erick rose and wagged a finger in Andrea's face. As Ann went to follow him out, Andrea drew her back into the room and closed the door.

'I want to tell you something.' Her easy going attitude had been replaced by a sudden air of seriousness. 'It is very, very important that you understand this fully.'

Ann nodded.

'Whatever you see, whatever you hear, whoever you see or hear about, directly or indirectly, do not mention it to anyone at all. I mean absolutely no one.' She put her face closer engulfing Ann in the light citrus perfume she wore.

'Your husband's early release depends on this. He is in the best possible prison, but should you say anything about your work to him or to anyone else, even about people who work for Erick, his situation could change. You understand what I am saying?'

'Yes.'

Andrea's gaze was still fixed upon her. 'I have strong reasons to be paranoid about this. My husband is responsible to an even higher authority. The slightest indiscretion on your part would make him vulnerable.' She took Ann's face in both hands.

'I promise I won't let you down.' Ann gazed unflinchingly into Andrea's clear eyes. She knew she was being asked for a more personal commitment and to her astonishment found she would give it gladly.

Slowly Andrea bent her head and kissed her lightly on the lips. 'I knew you would say that. Welcome, Ann.'

At Cala Vinas they berthed in front of the hotel. Ann said her goodbyes and walked quickly along the sandy road towards her apartment block.

She still found it difficult being alone. In company she felt fine but back in her apartment loneliness descended. She bolted the front door. Pulling out a mattress, she laid it out on the balcony in the sun. Then she poured herself a large gin with a splash of vermouth and plenty of ice.

The drink made her feel a little light headed. She thought back over the events of the day; about Erick in his white tracksuit, and Andrea's kiss in the intimacy of the small cabin. She could still feel the softness of those lips. It was confusing, with Paul so far away and wanting her to make a life for herself. Now she found to her surprise that she wanted that new life too, with all the dangers and the pleasures it promised.

In the bedroom she stood in front of the full length mirror. Holding the glass in her left hand, she took out an ice cube and pressed it between her breasts. Slowly she loosened her belt, holding it for a moment stretched out over her head.

Button by button she opened her skirt, looking down at her tanned body. The skirt fell to the floor, followed by her bra and pants.

'Not bad for a woman of forty six,' she said aloud.

Her hands moved down from her breasts. One finger started stroking rhythmically. Meeting her reflection in the mirror, she closed her eyes. In the darkness she saw the imprint of Erick, his jacket unzipped, his bronzed chest, his bare feet. She saw Andrea, naked, in the shower. Her legs started to tremble. She slid down on her knees. Her finger continued the rhythmic movement. She came with a short low moan.

Ann did not move for several minutes. Then, walking naked to the balcony, she lay down on the mattress under the hot, caressing sun.

* * *

Sam phoned early the following week.

'I'll pop round to see you later this morning.' His soft Irish accent was music to her ears

Erick wanted her to go to Zurich that night and deliver a briefcase to a bank, Sam told. her when they met. Then she could fly via Heathrow to visit Paul and their daughter being back in Mallorca by Monday.

'The envelopes in the case contain cash, so be careful,' he instructed her. 'Keep the case with you always and don't let it out of your sight. Don't worry – there's nothing fishy about these transactions, but if Customs should ask you about the money, just give them this. 'He handed her a sealed envelope. 'It contains the telephone number of a lawyer in Zurich who will explain everything on your behalf. Remember, you must say absolutely nothing.'

'Can I ask you one thing?' Ann had made up her mind to be bold. 'What exactly is the name of Mr Elgberg's company?'

'We just call it the Company, with a capital C. But you won't find it registered anywhere.' Sam's tone made it clear that the subject was closed. The Zurich trip had been uneventful. Sam had new orders for her. He went on, 'This time you'll fly to Rome. You'll be met in the airport and taken to where you need to go. From there you'll visit the same bank in Zurich. Then come back to Mallorca and I'll have some tickets to London. This time you can't go direct.'

At Fiumicino airport she was met by a large, elderly, grey Mercedes 600. An hour later the car stopped at a rusty gate which the driver opened, then continued on to a villa with an imposing columned facade, shabby and in need of repair though it was palatial.

The driver told her to ring the bell. A huge man, at least twice her size, opened the door. 'You are the lady to see Signor Grattini,' he said, allowing her in. 'Walk up the stairs, signora. It is the last door on your left.'

She mounted a wide, sweeping staircase, flanked by ornately framed oil paintings of the type more usually seen in art galleries. She arrived at the last door and knocked.

'Si?' a voice called. She entered. Inside the room, a large elderly man was leaning against a writing desk.

'Welcome, signora. Please, sit down.'

She had never seen a man with such an abundance of silver grey hair. It gave him an air of wisdom and distinction.

He laughed, noticing the direction of her glance. 'It has gone grey because most of my years have been spent in the pursuit of women. And when at last I meet someone as lovely as you...' He shrugged with Italian eloquence and gave her his large hand. 'Rudi Grattini. Enchanted to meet you, my dear.'

'Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, just to be sure?' He then asked for details about Paul and Elisabeth that only she would know. Finally he nodded, satisfied. 'Enough of these games! But I have to be sure who you are for very good reasons, as you will see in a moment.' He picked up the phone and spoke in rapid Italian.

A few minutes later the giant entered, carrying a grey Samsonite suitcase which he put on the table.

'Open it, Ann,' Signor Grattini said, after the giant had left the room. 'The code number is the year of your daughter's birth.'

She dialled the figures, pressed the lock and the suitcase opened. There were several long thin envelopes on top which Signor Grattini removed.

Ann gasped. Underneath, the case was full of cash in large denomination US dollar bills.

'Take the case to wherever you have been told to go. My chauffeur will take you back to the airport. Goodbye, my dear – I have a feeling we will meet again soon.' He kissed her hand, releasing it with a reluctant sigh.

She got through Customs in Zurich without having to open the case. The bank was on the first floor of an anonymous building in a side street in the centre of the city. The last time she was here, she had merely handed some envelopes to the girl on reception, but now she was asked to wait.

A man with a pointed white beard and moustache invited her to step into his office.

'My name is Count George von Fritzenberg. I am one of the owners of the bank,' he said, handing her a business card. There was a smell of fine cologne about him.

'Thank you.' She pushed the suitcase towards him. He tried to open it but Ann, remembering that only she knew the code, had to help him.

'That looks fine to me,' he said, looking into one of the envelopes but not touching the money. 'Thank you, Mrs Dockett. I trust you'll have a pleasant trip home. Perhaps next time we meet, you might care to have some lunch with me?'

On the plane back to Mallorca Ann thought how strange it was that two such different people as the gentlemanly Count George von Fritzenberg and the unashamedly lecherous Rudi Grattini were involved in the same business. She settled back in her seat, a slight smile curving her mouth. What would Paul think if he could see her now – a fully fledged femme fatale!

* * *

Her next trip was to London a week later. She was to go to Browns Hotel in Mayfair. Ann knew it quite well, having met Paul there sometimes. Sam had told her that a man called Arthur Black would contact her in the St. George's Bar.

She arrived early for the appointment and sat down on one of the leather sofas drinking a Martini, thinking how quickly she was becoming used to travelling and meeting the challenges of this way of life.

Erick and Andrea Elgberg had changed her whole outlook. For almost the first time she felt important, indispensable even. She couldn't let them down.

She also couldn't stop thinking about them. Although she had met the Elgbergs only that once, Sam had mentioned the possibility of a week's holiday on the yacht and asked if she would be interested in accompanying them. She had accepted without hesitation, but no date had been given as yet.

The first thing she noticed about the bearded man who entered the bar was his green bow tie with white spots. Very few people, she thought, could wear bow ties with such elan. He also wore a dark red corduroy suit with matching waistcoat and a light blue shirt. The whole ensemble gave him a dandified appearance, but one of singular style.

'Good evening, Mrs Dockett,' he said, sitting down next to her. 'So sorry I'm late, but I had an important client. One cannot be brusque with one's important clients, can one? And as it was such a lovely evening, I walked here. I try to walk everywhere in London. I adore this town, don't you? Its mixture of tawdriness and beauty quite fascinates me. I discover something new about it every day.' He inclined his head towards her. 'Arthur Black, at your service. Allow me to order you another drink. Would a glass of champagne suit you?'

He called the waiter and ordered the drinks.

Lowering his voice, he said, 'I have an envelope in my pocket. Open your handbag and I'll drop it in.' His well modulated accent contrasted strangely with his face which Ann now saw was pitted with scars. His clipped black beard was striped with grey. She guessed he was in his fifties and gave her the impression that he was someone who accepted only the finest things in life.

'I understand you live on Mallorca?' he continued. 'Are my friends Erick and Andrea all right?'

'Oh, yes. Although I've only met them once.'

'My wife and I have known them for a long time,' he said, 'they are among our closest friends. And now, Mrs Dockett, you may close your handbag. Inside is an envelope that you must deliver to our friend Sam O'Sullivan, the sooner the better. No, don't look down – we don't want to bring attention to ourselves, do we?'

At that moment the drinks arrived. Ann, taking her hand quickly away from the bag, took a grateful sip of her drink. She noticed how Arthur Black's eyes darted round the interior of the bar, scrutinising every person in the place.

'You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time,' he murmured. 'Usually that's good enough. Can't be too careful in this world, though, as I think you'll agree?' He brought his eyes down to her hand, which was clasped round her glass. 'What a delightful bracelet. An original 'Lava' Medallion set in silver. Made around 1850, if I am not mistaken. May I ask where you got it?'

'It was left to me by my grandmother,' she said, impressed. 'You must know a lot about jewellery, Mr Black.'

'I own an antiques shop in Mount Street, just opposite Scott's Restaurant,' he explained. 'I flatter myself that I'm a connoisseur of jewellery and much else besides. I concentrate on the art of Ancient Greece, but also work from Mesopotamia and Egypt, mostly sculpture. Much of what survives from antiquity is fragmentary and many of the finest works of art are small in size. My base is broad, but the common factor is quality. I have a passion for collecting which does not sit well with being a dealer, as sometimes I can't bear to part with a particular treasure. When next we meet, I'll show you the shop. I can tell you are a woman who appreciates beauty.'

Ann smiled though something about him made her uneasy.

'I would like that,' she said, hoping their next meeting would be long time coming.

On the following Thursday Sam gave her instructions to fly to Rome and go through the same procedure as before. The trip went without incident, until in Customs at Zurich she was asked to open the suitcase. The money caused no comment, but the official asked her where she was taking it.

This was the situation Sam had warned her about. She kept calm and gave him the letter. He read it and disappeared into an office where she could see he was making a telephone call. After this he handed the envelope back to her.

'Welcome to Switzerland, Frau Dockett,' was all he said.

* * *

Gradually her trips became routine. She regularly delivered documents to a young London solicitor in Cutlers Garden, Devonshire Square. Often she picked up other documents from a company called Alexander Higginson Investments in Sun Court in the City, and from Hamlet Accountancy in Old Queen Street, Victoria.

In California she had business with a company called Silverdale. Then there were various banks in Bermuda, Gibraltar and the Cayman Islands. All these trips involved picking up and delivering documents or large amounts of cash.

# CHAPTER THREE  
_________________________

Cannes, France, Friday, 28th August 1987

On a Thursday, two weeks before Ann's planned holiday on L'Acqusition with Erick and Andrea, she was told by Sam to go to Paris by plane and from there to catch a train to Nice. At the station she was to make a phone call.

She did so and was instructed to take a bus to Cannes where a car would meet her at the terminal and take her to a hotel.

It was beautiful, the garden full of exotic flowers and palm trees. A cooling breeze blew from the sea.

She walked everywhere, from the small markets behind her hotel to the international film festival building. Sipping coffee in pavement cafes, she enjoyed watching the crowds who strolled the boulevards, impossibly attractive couples dressed in expensive, casual clothes, as if they had walked out of the fashion pages of a glossy magazine.

She gazed at the facade of the Carlton Hotel, near her own more modest establishment, where even the biggest film stars competed to get rooms during the festival. A film lover herself, she had watched on the television the stars assemble at this very spot.

As she came back from her walk, the hotel receptionist told her, 'There is a message for you, Mrs Dockett. You are expected for dinner at the Carlton InterContinental at nine thirty in La Belle Otero.'

Ann gasped. 'Me?'

'Bien sur. Ann Dockett, room 201.'

She went up to her room, her brain whirling. Why hadn't Sam warned her that this was no ordinary trip? She had nothing remotely suitable to wear.

She looked at her watch. Two hours until the shops closed! One hour and several hundred pounds later, she had bought the most elegant Ted Lapidus black dress she had ever set eyes on. It would give her confidence, she told herself.

The La Belle Otero restaurant was situated on the seventh floor of the Carlton Hotel, overlooking the sea, its French windows opening to an elegant terrace. It was the most opulent restaurant Ann had ever seen. Her heels sank into the deep pile carpet as she was escorted by the maitre d' out on to the terrace towards a table which commanded the best view, where a man was seated with his back towards her.

At her approach he rose to his feet, extending his hand.

'Hello, Ann,' he smiled. 'What a beautiful dress.'

He was slight and dark, fine featured and not as tall as her, she observed. The maitre d' drew out her chair and the man seated himself opposite. He wore a pink cashmere sweater over an open necked white shirt. Ann guessed he was around the same age as herself.

'Thank you,' she said, and before she could stop herself, 'I only bought it this afternoon.'

'You certainly chose the right one,' he said, still smiling, 'no one could wear it better. There's no wind tonight, so I thought we should eat outside, but if you find it too cold we'll go indoors.'

'No, please. This is wonderful.' She gazed out over the promenade towards the calm blue sea. From here she could not be intimidated by her surroundings. She was sitting at the best table in the restaurant. The relaxed manner of her host made her feel at ease.

'I understand from Erick,' said her host, 'that everything is working out well. I hope the travelling is not a problem?'

'No, not at all. I really like my job.'

A waiter arrived wheeling a telephone on a small wooden trolley.

'Do excuse me.' Her host picked up the receiver and listened. A frown passed momentarily across his face.

'No. We have an agreement. Our lawyers worked out the exact details weeks ago. Any variation at this stage is unacceptable.'

He waved the phone away, a frown still creasing his forehead; then he looked at Ann and smiled. 'What would you like to drink? Krug?'

'Lovely. I've only had that before when there was something special to celebrate.'

'Then let's celebrate our meeting.'

He nodded to the waiter, who came right away to his side. Her host spoke in fluent, rapid French, placing orders for both of them. He glanced at Ann again, smiled and murmured in English, 'Trust me. It'll be the best meal you've ever tasted. This place is living proof of the supremacy of French cooking.' He snapped the menu shut and handed it back to the waiter.

A few of the dishes were prepared with great aplomb at the table and Ann had to keep herself from applauding. After she had finished her tarte aux fruits and drunk the last of a succession of fine wines, she leant back with a sigh of sheer bliss. Then she remembered with a shock that she was not here merely to enjoy herself.

Throughout the meal, messages had been passed to her host by the waiter. Another one arrived; he read it and seemed to relax. He waved to the waiter and asked for the telephone again, settling back in his chair and fixing his eyes on Ann as he did so.

Before picking up the telephone, he suggested coffee and liqueurs, which Ann accepted. He listened to someone speak on the phone for a while before saying tersely, 'Give me five minutes, then phone me back.'

They talked about the things he knew she was comfortable with. The Elgbergs, Mallorca, Sam, London.

'I'm impressed you haven't asked me any questions,' he said. She was relieved to see he was smiling.

Then another call came through. 'I'm sorry about this, but there's been a complication which has to be resolved tonight. Normally I wouldn't let business interfere with dinner here.'

He spoke briefly into the receiver before saying: 'Accept.'

He waited until the waiter had wheeled the trolley away, then straightened his back. His voice assumed a businesslike tone. 'You'll have to fly to Gibraltar via Paris later tonight. The travel details will be inside the briefcase they will bring here in a short while.'

Ann nodded.

'After this, some time next week, there will be a different assignment for you. Nothing too difficult, but I must ask you to be extremely careful. Sam will give you a photograph. You will go to the airport in Palma and identify the man when he arrives. That's all.' He looked closely at her. 'As I said, nothing difficult, but your spotting him is vital. If he passes unrecognised there, he could go to ground anywhere on the island.'

Ann nodded again, becoming tense. His tone of voice and stern expressions were in direct contrast to his earlier easy manner.

'So,' he said, lifting his glass, 'I'm pleased you've joined the Invisible Company. I believe women are the ideal recruits. They're psychologically tougher than men and more discreet. I'm glad we met.'

The wines and the liqueur made Ann reckless. He looked so calm and controlled, she thought. As if nothing would ever worry him. He hadn't told her his name, probably on purpose, but she was suddenly curious about this attractive stranger.

'So what do you do in the Company? Who are you?'

The moment she spoke the words she knew she had made a bad mistake.

Without speaking he rolled the fine crystal glass between his hands for what felt like minutes. It was as if the glamorous room behind them and the bustling esplanade below had fallen completely silent.

Ann felt cut off from the world, hanging on an answer which she sensed she would not like.

A party of eight, six well dressed men in their fifties and two elegant businesswomen entered the restaurant. Noisily they went to the table reserved for them with the maitre d' leading the way.

An imposing man in the party had noticed their table. He stopped and walked towards them.

Ann recognised him right away. It was the prominent industrialist Randolph Purcell, to whom she had been introduced on the yacht four months ago, the day she had first met the Elgbergs.

If he was coming to their table to talk to her, she would simply die, she thought.

When the man reached their table, he put out his hand, but not to her. Ann felt relieved.

'Nice to see you Mr Forbes,' Purcell said respectfully.

'Please excuse me,' her host said politely to Ann

He took Purcell's outstretched hand and used it to lever himself out of his chair.

To Ann's astonishment, he did not let the hand go but pulled the larger man, Purcell, closer towards him.

She could see him whisper something into the tycoon's ear.

Purcell's colour changed suddenly and shockingly to a deep red.

I'm deeply sorry, Mr Forbes,' Ann could hear him mumble, obviously realising he had made a bad error.

'Everyone's allowed one indiscretion,' said Forbes and sat down. 'Goodbye, Purcell.'

Ann looked at the man with whom she had just dined so pleasantly. He seemed sad and disappointed. All the warmth had gone out of his dark eyes, which were now flat and expressionless.

Ann found she could not hold his gaze and instead looked down at her hands, twisting nervously in her lap.

'As you heard my name is Forbes, John Forbes,' he said at last.

'I'm the one in charge. You really shouldn't know this.'

A moment later he got up, politely said goodbye and left her shivering on the deserted terrace, awaiting the arrival of the briefcase she was to take to Gibraltar.

Ann thought about the slight but unmistakable emphasis her host had placed on the word 'one'.

It was subtly, even elegantly, delivered but she was in no doubt that her affable charming host had just delivered a threat.
PART TWO

RESTLESS AMBITION

NEVER AT AN END

# CHAPTER FOUR  
_________________________

England, June 1955

John Forbes arrived at Waterloo Station at nine o'clock in the morning with a gun in his pocket.

It was only weeks before he was due to leave school. He had been to London a few times previously, but always travelling out of the rush hour. Now he realised he had never seen so many people pouring out of one place, dressed in business suits or smart office clothes and carrying briefcases and umbrellas. He knew that his mother wanted him to be just the same: conventionally dressed, with the correct paper under his arm, on his way to a safe office job.

On the station steps he stood still and let the throng push past him. For several minutes he was like an island in a river, buffeted by a strong current.

He was jostled and once even sworn at but refused to give ground. Other people were forced out of his way, he noticed with satisfaction. Why should he do as his mother wanted and meekly join the herd?

John Forbes believed he was born to follow his own dream.

'I'm different, I don't care about your rules and so called values, I want to live my own life,' he muttered to himself.

He walked over Waterloo Bridge to the Strand and into Covent Garden where fruit, vegetables and flower traders were busy loading their vans.

There he noticed the newspaper headlines blazing: 'Ruth Ellis wants to die'.

He felt pity, but a kind of scorn too for the poor doomed woman who had thrown away her life for love. He knew with all the certainty of youth that he would never throw his life away, and certainly not for love!

From Regent Street he turned into Mayfair. In Berkeley Square he sat down and, with the aid of a pocket map, familiarised himself with the West End of London. From the copies of Country Life which Lady Carven always passed on to his mother after she had finished with them, he had jotted down the addresses of several antique shops and marked their locations.

For an hour he walked round the area of South Audley Street, studying the shop windows. They seemed to sell far bigger and more expensive items than the one he had to offer.

He passed a slightly shabbier shop in Aldford Street several times. There was an alleyway next to the shop where he could make good his escape, if he had to.

Having made up his mind, he felt less nervous. He pressed a brass bell push and an assistant opened the door. He was a pale young man in a balding rust coloured corduroy suit worn with a toning bow tie and green shirt. His face was pitted with small white scars, probably from teenage acne, John thought. The effect was oddly sinister.

Before John could open his mouth, the assistant commented in a high, slightly effeminate voice: 'About time too. I've seen you pass the shop a dozen times. What can I do for you?'

John hovered on the coconut matting just inside the door. In the gloom of the shop's panelled interior, relieved here and there by the flash of a gilded picture frame or the liquid gleam of crystal and silver, he felt tongue tied and out of place.

'I I've got something I want to sell.'

'Let's have a little look then. Come on, I shan't bite you.'

Stepping forward, John took the gun from his pocket and laid it on the well polished surface of a rosewood secretaire. The pale young man winced at the clatter of metal on wood then his eyes kindled with excitement. He picked up the little pistol and cradled it in his hands, turning it over several times. When he glanced back at John, his gaze had the strange, almost blind look of pure covetousness.

'Well, you don't mess about, do you? This is original. Must be sixteenth century if it's a day?'

John nodded. 'Yes, I believe so.'

'Will you answer me one question, absolutely truthfully?'

The assistant looked at him from sharp eyes.

'Yes.' With a shrinking heart, John guessed what the question would be.

'Have you tried to sell it to anyone else?' the assistant asked.

John unconsciously let out the breath he had been holding.

'No,' he answered with relief. 'It's taken me long enough to get up the courage to come in here.'

The assistant smiled. 'Then I'll give you two hundred and fifty pounds. Cash. If you have anything else to sell in the future, don't bring it here. Come in and describe it to me. If I'm interested, I'll have a look somewhere else. Then, if I'm still interested, you'll deliver it to an address I'll give you where you'll be paid.'

John nodded and smiled.

'I'm not offering market value, you understand?' the young man told him waspishly. 'But then, you're hardly in a position to offer this at Sotheby's, are you?'

He looked meaningfully at the gun and then at the shabbily dressed fifteen year old, with his frayed collar and bitten finger nails.

John was so amazed at the huge sum of money that was being counted into his hand he could only nod silently.

It was several years before he fully appreciated just how lucky that chance encounter with Arthur Black had been.

* * *

The Cerne Abbas bus dropped him at the top of the beech avenue in the early hours of a golden summer evening. Filtered through the fresh lime green of the trees arching overhead, the light had a cool subaqueous quality, but when he emerged on to the gravel carriage circle the sun was still warm upon his back and turned the mellow ragstone of the Jacobean manor house the colour of molten honey. This was Cerne House, the place he liked to think of as his home.

Strictly speaking the Forbeses inhabited a draughty first floor flat in a converted corner of the stable block, but at a very early age young John, the housekeeper's son, would say: 'Can you deliver? The name's Forbes, Cerne Estate,' he would say imperiously as his mother parted with her labouriously acquired savings for a new winter coat or length of serge or tweed from which she would sew a two piece for herself. May Forbes prided herself on her sewing and John had too much affection for her to tell her that next to Lady Carven's understated couture or her daughter's smocked, pintucked and immaculately laundered Liberty print dresses, May's own looked dowdy and provincial.

There were a lot of things he could not bring himself to tell his mother. Such as that he knew she was lying when she stoutly maintained to him that his father was working abroad 'to make enough money to buy us all a lovely new house, darling'.

The only child of elderly and indulgent parents, who lived quietly on a fixed income in nearby Cerne Abbas, Stanley Forbes had run through most of their savings by the time he met and seduced May, then a student teacher. With a child on the way he was forced to marry her but sent her off to his parents' to live, rather than have her set up house near the barracks as other, wealthier wives did. The war was good to Stanley. He served with distinction, returning a hero with a DFC and a voice he could never quite learn to lower from its habitual tone of command.

The Earl of Cerne Abbas, Archibald Carven, who had been in the same regiment and had known Stanley all his life, gave him a position in the Cerne Estate Office. It was a well intentioned but ultimately disastrous offer. Unable to adjust to peacetime living, where instead of being Lord Carven's comrade in arms he was his paid employee, living in tied accommodation, Stanley turned to gambling and drink. There were even rumours about discrepancies in the Estate accounts. The truth of this was kept from John, but after his father had 'gone to Rhodesia to make our fortune', which was his mother's version of events, or 'run off with that there Doris Dunn from the Cat and Fiddle', according to the servants of the big house, he and his mother were left in dire straits. Stanley's parents had died virtually penniless and her own had long since disowned May. Lord Carven took pity on her and offered her a position as housekeeper to his family.

It cut John to the quick to see the way his mother struggled to make light of her aching feet and legs after the Carvens failed to engage enough temporary staff to help out at a weekend house party, leaving May to play house maid as well as housekeeper. She seemed genuinely delighted, though, with the tips that some of the guests left in their rooms.

'You'll be able to have those new school shoes now, Johnny,' she exulted. 'Wasn't it kind of them?'

He felt he would rather die of shame than wear shoes bought at such a price but, once again, kept his thoughts to himself.

The only matter on which he had ever spoken up was when he asked his mother if there might be enough money for him to have piano lessons.

When John was twelve Lady Catherine, Archibald and Gwen Carven's only child, began taking lessons every Tuesday and Thursday evening and John usually found some excuse to hang around in the hall of the big house close to the music room while these were going on.

Catherine, a shy roly poly girl of about eight at that time, hated every moment of her lessons and was painfully slow to learn, but Gwen Carven insisted that music was one of the social graces she simply must acquire.

One evening, after her teacher had left, John peered into the music room and found Catherine sitting frozen faced before the big black Broadwood piano, tears sliding slowly down her round pink cheeks.

'What's the matter?' he asked, stepping into the room though strictly speaking he was not supposed to do so unless directly invited by one of the family.

'It's beastly Miss Agnew,' Catherine sobbed. 'I c can't play this piece, and she p promised Mummy I'd be note perfect when she has her next At Home. That's t tomorrow, John, and I'm still absolutely hopeless! Miss Agnew says I'm just being stubborn. She's shown me how and now it's jolly well up to me to practise – if it takes all night.'

She looked at him plaintively, her dark plaits swinging and tears trembling on her long lashes.

'I have tried, honestly. But my fingers don't seem to listen to my brain, if you know what I mean. Oh, I'm so clumsy and stupid, and Mummy's going to be so cross!'

'You're not clumsy or stupid,' John said firmly. 'Budge up a bit and I'll see what I can make of this. Hmm, 'Fur Elise'. I think I know how it's supposed to go...'

Although he had barely touched a keyboard before apart from hammering out 'Chopsticks' on the battered school piano while waiting for the music master to arrive, John had a natural gift for sight reading and after acquainting himself with the piano he managed to pick out the simple melody and accompaniment in two or three attempts, haltingly at first but then with increasing fluency and expression. Catherine was lost in admiration then laughed delightedly when he got her to place her hands over his, guiding her slowly through the piece a few times until she was confident enough for him to slide his hands away.

'I'm playing it!' she cried, smiling widely and displaying the gap between her two front teeth.

'I knew you'd be able to,' he told her. 'It's just a matter of confidence.'

She was smiling at him when the door was thrust open and her mother strode in. A thin, hard faced woman, she had married late in life and treated Catherine with slightly less affection than she displayed to her horses and dogs.

'Was that you playing just now, Catherine? If so I can't think what that fool of a teacher is wittering on about. It sounded perfectly all right to me.'

'Oh, it is,' Catherine assured her. 'Now that John's shown me how.'

Gwendolen narrowed her eyes slightly. She always seemed to John to look down her nose at him.

'Didn't know you were musical, John. I suppose they teach you at Grammar School, do they?' She sounded bored, not really interested in receiving a reply.

'No, piano lessons cost extra and Mum's got enough to pay for with my uniform and the bus fares,' he said quietly.

'Pity,' she said offhandedly. 'Now then, Catherine, time for bed.'

But Catherine had an idea. She took her time over gathering together her music then looked earnestly up at her mother.

'Mummy, couldn't John share my lessons? He's so clever he could soon pick up the scales and theory, and it wouldn't make much difference to Miss Agnew, would it?'

Gwendolen was not pleased to find herself put on the spot like this. Yes, the housekeeper's brat was clever, too bloody clever like his light fingered father, she sometimes suspected. She didn't like the way he was constantly insinuating himself into her house.

'I really don't think it would work out, darling,' she told her daughter firmly.

'Oh, but Mummy...'

'No, Catherine. That's quite enough. Can't you see you're embarrassing John?'

In fact Catherine's thwarted generosity didn't offend him. Her mother's meanness did. They both knew it would have been a drop in the ocean to Gwen to have subsidised her lessons. She simply didn't choose to.

When Catherine had been led away to bed John returned to the stables flat to find his mother painstakingly turning the collar of one of the second hand shirts she had bought for him from the school uniform exchange.

'There you are, John. Where've you been for so long?'

'Playing the piano with Catherine.'

'Oh, John, what am I always telling you about hanging around the Hall? You know Lady Carven doesn't like it.'

'No, but Catherine does. Besides, I helped her out. Old lady C wants to show her off at the next big do'

'Cocktail party, dear. Or 'At Home'. 'Do' sounds a little bit common. And please don't refer to Her Ladyship like that!'

' and Catherine was having a terrible struggle so I put her right,' he finished.

May looked surprised. 'But you don't play the piano, dear.'

He flushed and looked at her hard from deep set dark eyes that were so like his father's.

'I think I could learn, Mum. I managed to pick out Catherine's piece for her and I seem to have a flair for it – if we could afford some lessons?'

May breathed in deeply and could no longer meet his pleading eyes. She didn't say anything. It was obvious from the way they lived – his second hand uniform, her hand sewn clothes – that there was absolutely no money to spare.

'It's okay,' John said quickly. 'Just one of my daft ideas. Forget it.'

But May couldn't do that. It hurt her to have to say no to her son when he was such a good boy, rarely asking her for anything. Though she kept up a brave front about enjoying her job, she secretly chafed at her poor pay and the long hours Lady Carven demanded of her. But His Lordship had a better side and May knew how to appeal to it. A few weeks later she told her son, 'I'm sorry I can't afford to pay for piano lessons but I've had a word with Lord Carven and he's agreed to let you use the piano in the music room, provided you don't disturb them. I can run to a Teach Yourself book, and you're a clever boy, John. Look how you managed to help Lady Catherine...'

And so every evening between eight and nine, while the Carvens were at dinner, he was given the freedom of the music room and the magnificent Broadwood piano with its rich mellow tone. Even without the benefit of lessons he became a much better pianist than Catherine could ever hope to be and finally she persuaded her father to buy her a show jumper, after which schooling and stable duties left her with no time for music and John in sole possession of the piano.

Archibald Carven was pleased but slightly mystified by John's musical progress. It seemed an odd choice of hobby to him for a boy with the run of the Cerne Estate, and the grooms could always have done with some help exercising and grooming the family horses. He approved of the lad's obvious interest in his own private collection of old handguns though. Archie had not only taken the trouble to explain where they came from, but also lent him books on the subject. After that, John visited the library in Dorchester and taught himself as much as he could about guns so that he would be able to talk knowledgeably with His Lordship.

* * *

In his last term at the Grammar School his class visited Tearborne Castle. John usually hated visiting stately homes and museums because of the essays he had to write afterwards, but this time it was different. Among the exhibits was a collection of antique handguns in two glass cases along with timepieces from the same period. He noticed in particular a tiny muzzle loaded Snap Hance pistol from the sixteenth century, only five inches long.

He was so fascinated that he was still looking at it after the rest of his class had left the room. Glancing around, he saw he was quite alone. He lifted the glass cover and took out the gun. It fitted his hand perfectly. It was exquisite.

'Hurry along, Forbes!'

John jumped guiltily. A teacher stood at the end of the room.

'Coming, Sir!'

Startled he buried his hands in his blazer pockets. When the teacher turned away impatiently, John followed him, still clutching the smooth stock of the little pistol.

He hid it away in a strong box under the roots of a three hundred year old oak in the home park. At half term, he used his carefully saved pocket money to buy a day excursion ticket to London where he'd decided it should be safe to sell the gun.

Now, returning with Arthur Black's £250 in his pocket, he decided his newfound wealth would be safest in his old hiding place until he worked out how best to invest it. He already knew there was more money to be made this way.

John Forbes selected his new occupation through a long process of assessment and elimination. He was well aware that he had special qualities. By nature he preferred to keep in the background, to blend in with the crowd and not be noticed. He was average at school work and sports but in some peculiar way always commanded his school mates' respect. Whenever a difficult or daring project was to be undertaken, John would find himself looked to as leader without having to put himself forward.

He naturally manipulated others. He observed small signs: a change of expression, nervous tension, body language. He analysed how each person he met talked and dressed, how they reacted to each others. In the end, he knew what a person would say before they even said it, and recognised that this gave him a subtle kind of advantage.

Most of the fifteen and sixteen year olds at the nearby girls' grammar had, a crush on him. He had an extraordinary, unconscious charm and a ready smile. He was a dreamer who would stop speaking in mid sentence, totally preoccupied with his own thoughts. At these times his eyes would be focussed on something that existed only in his own mind.

His final list of possible future careers was very different from that of his school friends.

The army was one possibility. A life of discipline and order seemed strangely attractive to John. He read books about Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and the First and Second World Wars. His father had been a soldier, of course, so it obviously ran in the blood. But, decorated hero though he was, Stanley Forbes's example was not ultimately one John felt he could follow.

Becoming a barrister was something else he'd considered. John liked reading legal dramas and had gone to see every film where courts of law featured. But the long and expensive qualifying period did not appeal to him. He would have to depend on his mother for too long, and her means were small.

To join the Cerne Estate Office was another possibility. A place would certainly be found for him there if he expressed an interest. But then, like his mother, he would be at the beck and call of the Carvens twenty four hours a day, and as much as he loved the estate, John wanted to see the world beyond it.

Besides, he wasn't cut out to be anyone's servant.

His final option was to devote his life to becoming rich.

It did not really matter to John what he did, so long as he could become at least as wealthy as the Carvens. Wealth made all the difference between the quality of life they enjoyed and the narrow, penny pinching existence endured by his mother.

He couldn't do anything about his breeding but he could use his education and intelligence as tools towards the founding of a fortune.

And he realized the first step was taken when he slid that valuable antique pistol into his pocket instead of replacing it in the case.

The army, the law and the Estate Office paled beside the thrill of handling money so easily earned.

John Forbes's course in life was set: he was going to be wealthy, that was what all that mattered.

For the foreseeable future he intended to make his fortune as a professional thief.

# CHAPTER FIVE  
_________________________

Copenhagen, Denmark, June 1955

Erick Elgberg jumped from the jetty into the small sailing boat Cristina at 6 am one Friday morning.

Quickly he got the sails up and a minute later sailed out of Skovshoved Harbour, five miles north of Copenhagen, hanging out over the side, his back almost touching the water. There was no ballast in the little craft, only his own weight to balance it, which meant constantly shifting position, hanging half out of the boat and not being able to relax for one moment. Erick did not mind. He was blissfully happy in fact.

He had over a week in front of him, to be spent absolutely alone, before he had to reach the town of Hornbaek, where his parents' summer house was. His mother had insisted he must be back for his eighteenth birthday.

It had been a surprise to her, to his brothers, friends and everyone who heard about it, that yesterday his usually strict and authoritarian father had given him permission to sail alone in his small hand built dinghy.

Erick would cross to Landskrona in Sweden, then to the island of Ven. Following the Oresund coast northwards, he would enter into the more rugged Kattegat at Elsinore, aiming for the Swedish tennis town of Baastad where the annual Swedish Open was about to take place, before finally returning to the sandy beaches on the North Coast of Zealand in Denmark.

In previous years his boat had been put on a trailer behind his parents' car, on the way to the summer house, and sailed under strict supervision only. Erick would not even have bothered to ask permission to make such a trip in the twelve foot 'Ideal' dinghy he had lovingly constructed himself three years ago.

This year only he and his father knew why he had been allowed to sail so far and alone.

Yesterday morning at eleven o'clock Erick had gone on his motor bike directly from the Copenhagen Business College to his father's factory in the centre of Copenhagen.

Far's office was furnished with heavy, dark mahogany 19th Century furniture, which his father had refused to change. On the wall hung a huge gilt framed portrait of Erick's grandfather, looking gloomily down.

'Yes?' his father said, surprised to see him when he came into the office.

With his blond hair and blue eyes Erick was a handsome boy with an air of vulnerability. But his father would respond badly to any show of weakness. Best to be straightforward about this, Erick knew from experience.

'I've failed the first year exam. I was told this morning,' he announced.

Axel Elgberg closed the door and sat down heavily in his large leather chair.

'Failed! And after all the extra help you got?'

'It came too late.' Erick did not know where to look.

Axel sat back without saying anything.

'I'm not sure I know what to do now,' Erick said finally after several minutes' oppressive silence.

'Well, I do,' his father said calmly. 'Go back to the College today and ask to retake the exam as soon as possible.'

'I can't try again! I'd have to redo the whole year and I hate that place.'

'But there's no other option, is there? Enrol for next year and try again,' his father instructed him firmly. Then, seeing the stricken expression on Erick's face, he added more gently, 'You have seven weeks' holiday in front of you. Do what you want. Travel abroad, sail wherever you like. Get over it. But promise me that in the autumn you will go back to Business College?'

It was a relief to find his fierce father had selected to allow him his summer. In business, and often at home, he was a man most people feared. Erick looked at him and nodded wordlessly. Another whole year of slogging his guts out to keep up with pupils who thrived on bookkeeping, found business law exciting, enjoyed spending whole days in libraries, clearly fascinated by statistics, export initiatives and management theory. He could hardly bear to contemplate it. But at least the old man was giving him the summer to run wild. There'd be the dinghy to sail, and the other lady in his life, as free and fast and capricious as Christina.

He smiled as he thought of Andrea. Her family owned the house next to his parents' summer place in Hornbaek. They each had other partners for the rest of the year but for Erick the summer meant sea, sand and passionate reunions with the one girl who had ever dared to behave as though she could take him or leave him. At least he had that to look forward to before settling down to his studies again.

* * *

Hornbaek, a town with less than a thousand inhabitants, expanded in the summer months to a population of ten thousand while still managing to maintain the charm of an old fishing village, even if the fishing craft amounted to only a few peeling relics, returning each dawn with their thrashing silver cargo of live cod and plaice. The combination of golden beaches of fine sand, pine scented air, clear water and endless summer days attracted many families who fled houses, flats and jobs in Copenhagen for a few weeks each year to experience the magic.

The circular high street began and ended at the harbour, around which the life of the village was conducted. Erick and Andrea would meet there every morning queueing for bread, the delicious smell filling the street and tantalising their nostrils as they walked hand in hand. The shop selling the local Brostraede Is, home made ice cream, had bikes parked around it all day and lines of people waiting patiently to be served.

In the evening, they liked to dress up and walk with their friends on the harbour piers, nodding or saying hello to everyone they knew. At a beach soda fountain called SunSpot nearby, there was a New Orleans style jazz band playing on the beach and the teenagers listened to it while drinking Coke from bottles with illicit alcohol added. At ten o'clock they would go back to the harbour and pick up Erick's motor bike, then drive to Bondegaarden at the other end of town, where there was another band. Here it was beer which was drunk in vast quantities, helped down by sandwiches of steak tartare, complete with raw eggs and onions.

When the restaurant closed about one o'clock, Andrea would jump on to Erick's motor bike again, and they would zigzag down the middle of the quiet town's streets, then through the scented pine forest to the empty beach, where they would find a secluded cove and make love.

'We are going to marry one day, aren't we?' she said suddenly to him one night on the beach.

'Why? You're not pregnant, are you?' Erick sat up with a jolt, sending sand flying everywhere.

She tossed her sun streaked brown hair and stared at him levelly from eyes the colour of a shallow sea, so clear that sometimes he thought he could see through them to the madcap, contradictory thoughts that constantly filled her head.

'I might be. I might not.' Andrea shrugged her shoulders, quite unconcerned. 'What would you do about it if I was?'

'Don't joke about it, Andrea!'

'I'm serious about us getting married. We're good together, Erick.'

'I know!'

'Oh, I don't just mean like this.' She pouted. 'I mean, I like the way you're always coming up with new schemes and ideas, and I'm always telling you which will work and which never could. You need me, Erick. Go on, admit it?'

'All right,' he grudgingly conceded. 'And we probably will get married. Say ten years' time, when we've lived a little.'

She slid her arms around him from behind and wound her greedy, sun soaked body around his like a cat. 'Five years and no longer. Say yes now or I'll have to start persuading you...'

'Give me a break, Andrea. God, you're insatiable.' Erick turned round, pushing her down, while holding her firm breasts in his hands.

Pleasant, uncomplicated summer days sped past.

They were well off, young and in love. Ambitions and dreams were for tomorrow as life seemed to stretch ahead of them like the calm sunlit sea.

What could possibly go wrong?

# CHAPTER SIX  
_________________________

Cerne Estate, Dorset 1955

From the box buried in the park, John took out £25.. A few weeks before it would have seemed like a fortune. Now he knew there was a great deal more to be made. But it would pay him to take things slowly, to acquire some skills before he made his next move.

Over the next few weeks he visited many locksmiths in the area, buying different makes of lock and several sets of fine tools. In his room, with the door bolted against his mother, he spent hours figuring out how the locks worked. He also bought a device which glaziers used to cut and lift glass, and hid all these things safely away in the loft of the stable flat.

He practised and practised, timing himself with a stopwatch until he could open any lock in less than thirty seconds.

At the end of the summer, Archie Carven surprised him by offering to introduce him to a business associate in the City.

'Clever sort of chap – advises me on where to put my money. When there is any, of course!' Archie's chuckle was slightly hollow but John barely noticed, too busy considering this surprising proposal which was not at all what he had planned.

He hadn't bargained on taking up another occupation but saw now that he would have to get work in order to satisfy other people's curiosity about how he lived. And there was something rather appealing about learning how money could be gained by reputable means. One day he too would have a fortune to invest.

He realised at his first meeting with his future employer, however, that he himself would never do business with Alexander Higginson, investment advisor.

'So you're the young toerag Carven wants me to employ,' Higginson greeted him, not getting up from behind his large mahogany desk. He waved a fat cigar in the direction of John's face. 'I agreed to see you as Archie is one of our oldest clients, but I'd like you to tell me, young man, why I should give you this job?'

John had his answer well prepared. 'I want to find out what goes on in a large financial establishment,' he said humbly, though in fact Higginson's was anything but large.

Alexander Higginson subjected him to close scrutiny.

'Something tells me,' he said, 'that though you can behave like a perfect gentleman, with you it's only skin deep. Nevertheless, I owe it to Carven to give you a month's trial. You can start first of October.'

From the first day he hated working at Alexander Higginson Investments. As office junior he was asked to do only menial jobs and errands for six long months. The only bright spot was that the actual work took up a mere hour or so a day. For the rest of the time John was free to ask questions of the more kindly of Higginson's employees. He soon realised that the company was neither important nor well managed and had little but scorn for investors too ill informed or lazy to find their own investments. But Higginson's was still a known and respected City name and John was astute enough to realise that while he spent his days blamelessly, no one would ever suspect how he spent his evenings, nights and weekends.

Before using these skills in a real situation, however, he decided to check if Arthur Black still worked in the Mayfair shop.

* * *

'Hello, stranger!' Arthur recognised him immediately. 'What brings you here?'

'Are you still looking to buy antiques?' John asked. 'I'll probably have a few more items for you within a month.'

Arthur nodded. 'Always interested to look at anything you've got,' he said. 'I've to subsidise my studies any way I can.'

'What are you studying?' John asked, not sure Arthur was serious.

'History of Art, of course! What else? I'm doing an external degree. I love the subject, which is more than most people can say for their work.'

Since his employer was out of the shop Arthur talked for an hour with a passionate enthusiasm about antiques that inspired John and made him realise how little he himself knew. Before he left, Arthur had given him a list of books to borrow from the library.

'And don't bring me any old rubbish,' he warned with a wide voracious smile. 'Remember.' I have a very exacting eye. I only take the best.'

John decided to revisit Tearborne Castle.

Later that night he placed a Tiffany vase, a French St. Louis paperweight, a piece of Staffordshire porcelain, a silver coffee pot by Simon Pantin, a Mohr figurine and six silver watches in several strong boxes which he buried in different locations in the home park at Cerne.

The burglary made headlines in the local papers.

John waited for three weeks before visiting Arthur Black one evening after work before returning to his lodgings in Islington. Arthur listened carefully to John's description of each item and rang up figures on the cash register.

When John had finished he asked, 'How much did you have in mind?'

'Four hundred?' he guessed. It was the figure he'd hoped for. Offered less, he'd have to take it.

Arthur chortled. 'Have you ever heard the saying, 'Honour among thieves'? It's a con, of course, but maybe today is the exception.' He pressed the total key on the cash register and showed John the total of £1,325.

'Bring the paperweight to me on Sunday,' he instructed while John gaped, 'so I can have a look at it. We'll meet next to the refreshment pavilion by the Serpentine in Hyde Park at exactly one o'clock. If it's right, then I'll take the other things on trust. Next day, take them all to this address.' Arthur passed him a piece of paper. 'Memorise it, OK?' A few seconds later he set the paper alight with a match and watched it blaze. 'Be there at nine o'clock sharp. Make sure no one sees. Don't ask for anyone. In fact, don't say anything. A man will give you an envelope with the money. Take it and leave.'

'Thanks for being so fair,' John said.

'Call it an investment,' said Arthur. 'This way, you'll be back.'

* * *

On his eighteenth birthday, after two years at Alexander Higginson Investments, John decided he was wasting his time. He had learned the daily routine of the company and understood the basics of investment in shares and government bonds. The work was boring, and he spent his time poring over client accounts, without ever meeting the clients themselves. Any decisions of importance were taken by Higginson himself who used to boast about the 'tight ship' he ran.

In school holidays he sometimes brought his son into the office. Philip was ten years old. John played the occasional game of chess with the boy, which pretty well marked the highlight of his time at Higginson's.

He finally gave in his notice at the office and went down to Cerne to see his mother, telling her he intended to start up his own business importing toys. He had already written to Hong Kong for samples and told her he had an order from Hamley's in Regent Street that would give him a profit of £400. May was bemused by his announcement and worried that Lord Carven would be cross with John for finishing his job at Higginson's.

'Don't worry, Ma,' he told her, 'so long as I don't ask him for another introduction, Archie will let sleeping dogs lie.'

As soon as John passed his driving test he bought a second hand Anglia van. He hired a lock up in South London and referred to it as his office, filling it with samples of toys from Hong Kong and Japan. He quickly had several orders for teddy bears, simply because he undersold every other supplier.

In the meantime his burglaries went on as planned. Now he targeted wealthy private houses, leaving nothing to chance. There was sometimes only a week between each burglary and he always followed the same procedure.

The strong box under the oak tree now contained £9,000.

John decided to learn about alarm systems. Archie was propositioned for a place in which John could store his stock of toys He gave him the use of an old barn and there John tried out every type of alarm system. He worked out how to avoid inertia sensors and how to block out infra red sensors. He experimented for weeks with various soft and slow setting cements, and bought a cannula, used for cleaning drains. By carefully making a hole with a battery operated drill, he could insert the tip of the cannula, making it possible to pour cement into the alarm box. When the cement set after twenty four hours the alarm was silent for ever. John soon learned which systems were linked to the police and which to the security companies direct, giving him the exact time it would take for anyone to come to the scene of his forced entry.

He had enough experience by now to realise that only the very best and rarest antiques brought the highest prices. John wished he could target his robberies better.

One day Arthur Black told him of a house which had been photographed in House and Garden. In one of the photographs he had spotted four porcelain horses. After enlarging the picture, Arthur believed these were original Tang dynasty figures.

He was right. The black market value of the Tang horses netted John over £10,000.

* * *

By the time he was twenty, John Forbes was well on his way to being wealthy.

He rented offices in Esher for his 'toy' company and employed an elderly woman to answer the phone, reply to what little post there was and do the accounts. With part of the money he had saved, he bought a job lot of toys from a Hong Kong factory and set up as a wholesaler and agent. The business lost money, but as he was only interested in establishing a legitimate front, he did not worry.

It was now too risky to keep hiding money in boxes around the park at Cerne Estate. As he moved into his new office, he opened a bank account in Kingston and an account in Gibraltar in which he placed most of the proceeds.

By this time the total had swelled to £50,000.

To avoid the number plates on his van being recognised, John went to car auctions all over England every month. Using various fake company names, he bought and sold the vehicles that he used for his burglaries and stored them in rented private garages. He used the Anglia strictly for the toy business and his own private use.

He and Arthur had now settled into a routine. Arthur supplied information about marketable antiques and the addresses at which they could be found. Using his expertise with locks and security systems, John usually managed to obtain the items and Arthur used his contacts to get the best prices.

One night John was in a house where he noticed a safe built into a small escritoire. Usually he would leave safes alone, not wanting to spend time trying to crack their codes, but this time he decided to try to lift the desk out to the van, which was parked at the back of the house. It was heavy, but using all his strength he managed to heave it into the back before quickly grabbing the items Arthur had asked for and driving off.

In the park at Cerne he worked on the safe for an hour before it opened finally. Inside was a metal box. When John opened it, he found six sealed plastic bags containing a yellow powder.

For a while he sat looking at them.

He knew nothing about drugs, but realised instinctively that this find was valuable. It was also possible that, if these drugs reached the market from an unexpected source, they could be traced back to him or Arthur.

John smashed the desk and dumped it, together with the safe, on a tip twenty miles away. Then he arranged to meet Arthur at the Serpentine.

'I don't think this is something we should tangle with,' Arthur warned. 'It's against my principles, believe it or not, and besides you have to deal with a very unpleasant class of person. It's out of our league.' Then he hesitated, looking tempted. 'Of course, I could always find someone without my delicate sensibilities who'd soon have this off our hands... Oh, well. Just this once, then. Give me a small sample and I'll find out what it is.'

'I've brought some with me.' John handed him a tiny stamp collector's plastic envelope with some yellow powder inside.

A few days later he was instructed by Arthur to send the drugs by motor bike courier to an address he had never heard before.

'So how much will we get?' John asked. 'Was it worth the effort?'

'Your share is eighty grand,' Arthur said.

'Eighty thousand!' gasped John.

'It's pure morphine powder. When diluted and repacked it'll be worth fifty times as much, so don't think they're doing us any favours.'

The next day John was on his way to Gibraltar to bank the money. His statement now showed the sum of £300,000.

* * *

With so much money in the bank, John was determined to rescue his mother from service with the Carvens, but to his great surprise May refused to give up her job.

'No, John, it wouldn't be right, not now,' she insisted. 'Not when Her Ladyship needs me.'

Gwen Carven had suffered a mild stroke and was making a slow – John suspected self indulgently so – recovery. He couldn't understand why his mother felt such devotion to her, bad tempered and increasingly fond of her gin as she was, but May remained adamant, even when he tried to force her hand by buying for a song a beautiful eighteenth century house in Salisbury close to the cathedral.

Arthur had tipped him off that the repossessed property was coming on the market and one glance at its plum coloured bricks, graceful casement windows and the wisteria drooping over the front door convinced John that this place would change his mother's mind. But, stubbornly, she maintained she was happy in her little stable flat. The sole concession he could win from her was that she'd enjoy visiting the house on her Sundays off, so whenever John's extracurricular activities permitted, he would pick her up from Cerne and whisk her off to Salisbury. He furnished the house very simply at first, hoping his mother would step in and add the finishing touches and afterwards change her mind about living there.

But all she said on the subject, in a wistful tone of voice, was: 'It's a lovely house. The sort of place I used to dream of living in with Stanley and you. You've done so well for yourself, Johnny. Though sometimes I wonder where all this money can possibly be coming from...'

He gave her the usual story about his business booming, favourable exchange rates, a small property deal with a friend. It was true in a way. Arthur and he did specialise in property – other people's.

Catherine had left boarding school by now and persuaded her parents to pay for a year's estate management course. In return her mother made her promise that she would attend a top Swiss finishing school for a year afterwards: 'To polish up your social graces, darling. God knows there's room for improvement.'

According to May, the girl was loving the course and barely came home, but from time to time on John's visits to pick up his mother he'd bump into Archie, pruning the roses or meandering round ineffectually on an old petrol mower, leaving the grass flattened rather than cut into the neat two tone stripes favoured by old Betterton, the gardener when John had lived here.

'Didn't know His Lordship was so keen on gardening,' he commented to his mother as they drove off together on their days in Salisbury.

'Well, he isn't really, dear,' she replied. 'But Betterton's retired and His Lordship said he needed the exercise so might as well do the work himself. Save him from getting fat.' She frowned. 'Not that he's ever shown the slightest tendency to do that.'

Visualising Archie's wiry horseman's physique and the hollow cheeked look shared by a certain section of the British aristocracy, John had to agree with her. He remembered Higginson's lackadaisical handling of his clients' money and began to wonder. Maybe exercise was the last thing on Archie Carven's mind when he struggled to keep the garden under control? Maybe he simply couldn't afford to replace old Betterton? Now there was a thought with which to conjure.

John's suspicions were confirmed a few months later. He arrived at Cerne House one fresh Sunday morning in May. After parking his red MG GT round the back of the house in the stable yard, he glanced at his watch. He was quarter of an hour early and knew that May would not yet have finished dancing attendance on Her Ladyship, who liked to keep her hanging on till the last minute before her day off. He decided to kill the time by looking at the horses in the yard. The Carvens had always had an eye for a good horse and in his childhood years the yard echoed to the ringing of steel shoes against the cobbles, the guttural coughing sounds emitted by highly strung stallions and the lively cursing of the grooms.

Now, as he paced the silent yard, he realised that another great change had come over Cerne. Where once a dozen or more stalls would have housed hunters, hacks or Catherine's eventing horses, this morning only two seemed to be occupied. He recognised the narrow intelligent head and jaundiced eyes of Archie's favourite bay hunter Hannibal, retired long since, poking out over the half door of one stall. From the adjacent one he could hear softly spoken words of encouragement and the occasional whicker of protest. There was obviously grooming underway.

John walked over and peered into the stall to find Catherine, flushed and dishevelled, struggling to calm a nervy little chestnut mare which he did not recognise. He could almost have said the same of the girl herself, he realised with a shock. Instead of the plump shy teenager he was used to encountering, he saw a fresh faced young woman, with waist length hair of the same glossy conker colour as the horse she was struggling to restrain.

He stepped silently forward and tugged on the horse's bridle. 'I'll hold her,' he said. 'You carry on. I've got a few minutes.'

'Oh, thanks, John.'

Catherine flashed him a grateful glance over her shoulder then ducked under the horse's head and busied herself with an offside hoof.

'This is very kind of you, but I don't want to hold you up. I know it's May's day off.'

'A few minutes won't hurt. Anyway, it's good to see you again, Catherine. How are you? And how's the course going?'

She sighed heavily and straightened up. He studied her over the gentle dip in the horse's back and thought she seemed troubled.

'It's terrific!' she enthused. But he'd heard that tone of voice before. She never had been able to hide her true feeling, from him.

'Something's wrong,' he reproved. 'Come on, what's up?'

Her already high colour mounted and her periwinkle blue eyes could no longer hold his.

'It's nothing, John, really,' she murmured, and started nimbly plaiting the coarse hair of the hose's mane without looking at him.

'Can't keep up with the work – going to fail your exams or something?' he pressed.

That did the trick. Catherine's temper flared and she glowered at him fiercely, looking surprisingly like her mother for a moment.

'Of course I can damn' well keep up! I was set to do really well in my examens before Daddy told me...' she began, then bit her lip and stared at him, widening her eyes in an effort to stem the tears.

'John, if I tell you, will you promise – on your honour – not to pass it on? Not even to May?'

He smiled inwardly at the schoolgirlish choice of words. There was a certain piquancy in giving his promise, the word of a thief, not to divulge what she was about to tell him. Though he thought he'd already guessed what that was.

'I promise,' he said gently. 'Go on.'

'It's really, really awful, John,' she faltered. 'The worst thing possible. Daddy told me last night – he's lost an awful lot of money and can't afford to keep Cerne going any longer. He says the farms don't pay, the house simply eats money, and the village tenants are demanding all sorts of expensive improvements...'

Like slates on their roofs instead of tarpaulin and new plaster that isn't crawling with bugs, thought John harshly, familiar from childhood with conditions in the rundown village properties rented by the estate workers. But this was none of Catherine's doing and he wouldn't reproach her with it.

'Daddy just can't keep his head above water,' she continued. 'So to safeguard the future for me and Mummy, he thinks the best thing to do is to sell up and move somewhere smaller. But I don't want to go, John. I love this place. It's my home. The only one I ever want. I've told Daddy I don't mind how poor we are. I'll gladly give up my horses, my studies, my clothes... so long as we don't have to move. But he says economising just isn't enough. He's lost a lot of money – something about investments not paying off.'

Now why wasn't that a surprise? John wondered cynically, remembering Higginson's fat self satisfied face as he sat smoking endless cigars and having three hour lunches, instead of watching over the failing fortunes of his clients.

John patted the mare's quivering neck. The animal had picked up on her mistress's distress and was ready to bolt at the first opportunity. He studied the girl opposite him, taking in the innocent frankness of her gaze and the ripe curves of her body beneath the jodhpurs and white short sleeved shirt, hinting at voluptuousness to come.

Catherine's face lacked the spark of arrogance or individuality that would have made it beautiful, but it was open and honest and the contrast of those deep blue eyes with her chestnut hair was suddenly very pleasing to him.

He had never thought of her in this way, preferring casual encounters with girls he met in South London clubs and pubs. Tough streetwise girls who knew their worth down to the last gin and orange, followed by a steak house dinner, before he drove them to his lodgings or back to Salisbury for a Friday night – Saturday morning event. If they proved to be a worthwhile investment, he would drive them home in style the next day. If not, he gave them their fare and let them make their own way home.

But Lady Catherine Carven was a different sort of girl entirely. Gentle, unworldly, accustomed all her life to the gracious surroundings of Cerne House and its estate. Now she was bravely holding back the tears, too old to cry in front of him as she had when he'd rescued her from the ordeal of the piano lesson, but there was something about the way she looked at him, something tender and trusting, that he suddenly wanted to preserve at all costs.

And, in doing so, satisfy his own lifetime's ambition.

'Cathy, I know this sounds crazy but I don't want you to worry anymore,' he told her. 'You probably haven't heard but I've done well with my business. Very well, in fact. I'm confident that I can help your father sort things out. We'll keep it between ourselves, a private arrangement. I'll do my utmost to save the house and estate, and I also guarantee there'll be enough money available for you to finish your course as well.'

Catherine looked momentarily reassured, then frowned. ' Does that mean I'll have to go to finishing school as well?' she asked sounding annoyed.

John did some rapid calculations.

She was four years younger than him – nineteen or so. A term to finish her agriculture studies – which he would ensure were put to good use later – then another year abroad, learning how to dress and plan dinner parties and give the servants hell or whatever it was they taught them in finishing school. Yes, it all fitted very well. She'd be coming up to twenty one then and able to do as she pleased should Archie and Gwen drag their feet.

But, remembering the potholed drive and the lead peeling away from the crumbling chimney stacks, he doubted that very much.

'Finishing school won't be so bad,' he reassured her. 'You'll get to travel, see new places, meet eligible young men.'

'But it's such a waste of time,' she protested. 'I like it here at Cerne. And why should I want to meet anyone else when I already...' She stopped talking and blushed.

It was all the confirmation he needed. Cerne House and Estate were up for grabs and Lady Catherine was ripe for the picking, any time he cared to stretch out his hand.

John promised himself that she would never lose out, he would be good to her and assure her lifestyle.

But reading all her love and trust in him in her flushed face and shining eyes, he felt a moment's shame.

He knew, even if Catherine did not, that this was hardly the beginning of a heartfelt romance. It was simply one more in the long chain of deals, marking the irresistible rise of John Forbes.

* * *

John took his mother out for the day as they had planned. On their return he surprised her by asking if he could step inside Cerne House and talk to Archie for a moment.

Well, I'll just have to see if His Lordship's at home...' faltered May.

'Come off it, Ma. Where else is he going to be at seven o'clock on a Sunday? Don't fuss. I can show myself in.'

He tracked Archie down to his study, walls and ceiling nicotine stained from the Park Drive he chain smoked. The only evidence of any activity was the racing papers spread out on his desk and strewn on the floor around his comfortable club armchair. Archie himself was as ramrod straight and smartly turned out as ever, but John could see the lines of strain etched around his protuberant blue eyes and when he hospitably invited his guests to join him in a Scotch, it was obvious from the whisky on his breath and the tremor in his hands that this was not Archie's first of the evening.

'So, young Forbes, how's the toy business?' he enquired jovially. 'May tells us you're doing all right for yourself. A lot of money in teddies and tin whistles apparently. Good show.'

John smiled deprecatingly. 'I can't complain. But if you'll forgive my bluntness, I hear you're selling the house and the estate?'

Archie winced at his directness and seemed momentarily angry, before his shoulders sagged and he admitted, 'Afraid so. Can't keep up with the costs. Overdraft's spinning out of control and the bank's getting rather tight lipped about it. Seems best to bale out while we can still salvage something from the wreckage. Of course we'll do our best to find your mother another position and she'll have the best references... Heard anything from your father?'

John waved one hand dismissively. 'My mother knows very well that I will look after her. Please don't concern yourself about her. No, there has been ano contact with my father for many years.'

John looked at Archie. In a way he liked him and at this moment felt rather sorry for him.

'Now, if I may be so bold, how much are you hoping to raise from the sale?'

'Hoping for half a mill, but whether I'll get it's another thing. The place is falling to pieces as you've probably noticed.'

'I'd like to buy it.'

The words hung in the air for a long time. John's brain was performing rapid calculations though he kept his face calm, serious and at ease.

'Eh? What did you say?' Archie looked as though the ground had given way beneath his feet. 'I'd no idea you had that sort of money.' He looked shocked, his conception of the natural order of things quite overturned by this proposal – from the son of his housekeeper of all people.

Unperturbed John continued, 'I can pay a substantial part of the purchase price from my assets and will seek a mortgage for the rest. In the short term I do not propose to occupy the property and would ask that you and Lady Carven continue to regard it as your home. I would also prefer it not to be known that I have bought it.'

Archie was beginning to look at him suspiciously. 'But... I don't understand. Why are you being so generous to us?'

'Because,' John went on smoothly, 'I hope you and Lady Carven will give me your blessing when I marry your daughter. I consider Catherine a little too young at present, but in a year or two I intend to propose.'

Archie shook his head in bewilderment. 'You're full of surprises today, young Forbes. Marry Catherine...whatever next?'

John had not expected this conversation to go well. Archie's genial exterior hid a class consciousness as least as acute as his wife's. In their view, the daughter of an Earl should marry among her own kind or not at all.

Archie saw now that he had been right to question John's seeming benevolence, but there was no point in being openly insulting.

'But, see here, this isn't the Victorian era, you know. No matter how grateful I or her mother may be to you' – an unlikely scenario in Gwen's case as they both tacitly acknowledged – 'I couldn't force Catherine to accept you, d'you see?'

John did and that Archie, reluctant to pass up the chance of saving Cerne, was pinning all his hopes on a very proper refusal by his daughter of this rich interloper.

'And if she were to refuse, would that effect your kind offer to allow us to stay on at Cerne?' he probed with elephantine tact.

John kept a straight face. He could afford to sound generous, so sure of Catherine was he.

'Not at all,' he declared. 'Your future here is assured as long as you want.'

John did not have a moment's doubt of Catherine's love for him. But he still had a considerable amount of money to raise. Archie reluctantly agreed to a short delay in advertising the sale of Cerne, giving him one month in which to raise the remaining two hundred thousand pounds.

The bank turned him down.

He already had a modest mortgage on his Salisbury house – for form's sake – and the bank manager advised him weightily that a young man, just starting out in business, should not take on such a huge commitment as a crumbling historic house and large estate

John expected most banks and building societies would look at it the same way. He would have to finance the missing part of the purchase from an outside source.

He phoned Arthur and arranged a meeting in the bar of Fleming's Hotel in Half Moon Street. When they met, John got straight down to business.

'I need to raise two hundred thousand within four weeks. Any ideas?'

'It's a lot of money. But...' Arthur seemed unperturbed, 'let me have a think about it and we'll meet again in a couple of days. I'll suss out what the most sought after pieces are. I've got some associates in the interior design line, as you know. Their clients will pay literally anything they recommend – so long as we remember to cut my pals in on the action. Together with a loan – or should we call it an advance, it might just be possible.'

'Really? Even that amount's no problem?'.

'It's not my money.'

'I know that.' John took a sip of his gin. 'May I ask what you get out of it?'

'Ten per cent of everything you make, as usual,' Arthur answered readily. 'Thanks to you I've acquired many beautiful objects and financed my degree. You, on the other hand, are paid around twenty five per cent of the real value of the objects you acquire.'

'So who's been doing the paying?' John asked. He had wanted to know this since their earliest days, but had never found the right time to ask.

'The insurance companies or the fences' customers,' said Arthur. 'The insurers are prepared to pay my associates well to regain anything they have insured. Obviously that's cheaper for them than having to pay out the full amount insured.'

'Insurance companies!' John leaned back in his chair and laughed. He had believed he worked for a group of rich private collectors. He would never have guessed that was where the funds really came from.

When he and Arthur next met, his friend gave him an address in France and a glossy black covered magazine called FMR. It was printed in Italy, with English text.

'Look at page 88. That's what some interior designers want for one Arab client.'

'I'll study it and tell you if it's on.'

'There's another matter you ought to consider,' Arthur said seriously. 'If something goes wrong and you're caught, your close contact with Lord and Lady Carven would be an embarrassment to them and could create a lot of bad publicity for you. And you'd be facing a seven year stretch at least.'

'I'm well aware of that.'

Arthur sighed. 'Have you considered something less risky than thieving? Or, if you must, seeing as how I'd lose my ten per cent, how about getting a new identity? Then, if you're apprehended by the law, it'll be under another name. Could make life a lot less complicated afterwards.'

John smiled. 'Who do I see to arrange that?'

'You're looking at him. It'd cost about three grand.'

'How soon?'

'Right away.' Arthur took a deep breath. 'You should retain a solicitor who can deal with things if you're ever pinched. Ernest Rubinstein is your man. He takes eight hundred and fifty a month, even if he does nothing.'

'And I'm supposed to be the thief! Just tell me when and where I can meet him. If I'm doing this special job, I'd better be prepared for the worst.

When he was back at his office in Esher, John studied every detail of the magazine article Arthur had pointed out. It was about a private collector in Tours, France, who owned several Monets.

John was wary of the set up. With such a valuable collection there had to be a complicated alarm system. Any insurance company would surely have insisted on that.

He bought another van at auction and drove to Paris, then caught a train to Tours. He spent a week observing the house daily, making notes of visible alarms, locks, exits and entrances. By the time he returned to London his plan of action was worked out in the smallest detail.

It was the first time John used a gun, terrorising the elderly housekeeper into letting him into the house – he'd calculated that overcoming the external security, as well as whatever he encountered inside, would be too much for one man to handle. And John Forbes always worked alone. It was the best way of ensuring total security.

In the event he regretted his decision to use a firearm. Once he'd won entry, security within the house was pitiful. He tied the trembling housekeeper's skinny wrists and ankles as loosely as he dared. He had planned to gag her too, but one glance at her blue edged lips and popping eyes as he gestured with the gun and he changed his mind. A grey haired woman, hands rough from hard work, legs knotted with veins, she reminded him strongly of his mother. No, he wouldn't gag her either. Better to bluff this one out. Thank God he'd paid attention in French classes.

'Soyez calme, Madame. Je veux pas tirer mais si je dois...'

She believed him and sat in abject terror while he deftly removed the four canvasses from their gold edged frames – an orchard scene, a charming portrait of a small boy in a sailor suit and two studies of the artist's garden at Giverny – rolled them gently and slid them into the cylindrical artist's carrying cases which he had brought with him.

John drove sedately away in his rented Peugeot. When he was fifty kilometres away he phoned the police and tipped them off about the housekeeper's plight.

The operation had gone like clockwork and Cerne's future was assured, but John promised himself he would never again use a gun.

Not personally at least. There were some things it paid to delegate.

# CHAPTER SEVEN  
_________________________

Vevey, Switzerland 1963

Catherine put down the phone and ran excitedly to the mirror to study herself. In less than an hour John was coming to see her on a flying visit and she wanted to be looking her very best.

Despite her reservations about leaving her beloved Cerne House, the seven months she had spent so far at the exclusive Les Alpilles Academy for Young Ladies had flown past. Her father had explained before she left that he and John had reached a private arrangement about Cerne. Quite what this entailed she wasn't sure but at least she could leave with a clear conscience, happy that her father seemed less harried than before.

To her great surprise she found she loved Switzerland. John had teased her, saying she would find herself sharing a dormitory with a dozen other well bred girls, all intent on learning everything there was to know about table placements, conversational French and petit point.

Instead she found herself and two others allocated a small but cheerful shared flat in the centre of Vevey. They were expected to attend classes at the school five days a week, but only until two in the afternoon, after which they were free to ski, or hang around the many crowded café bars in the upmarket resort. Catherine made friends with her classmates and joined them on noisy nights out with a group of handsome, confident young men. French, German, Italian or Swiss. The shy English girl, with her long flowing hair and sweetly cast down blue eyes, was hotly pursued, but made it plain that she was interested only in the man she had left behind in England.

Before she left John had taken her out on a deliciously grown up date. They dined in a smart country hotel and then he'd asked if she would like a nightcap in his house in Salisbury. Catherine was so nervous she could hardly speak, convinced that when they reached the house he would make a move on her. Not that the thought was unwelcome. Far from it. To date he had held her hand and kissed her gently at the end of the few dates they'd had together, but with no more passion than he would have shown a sister. And Catherine's feelings for him were far from sisterly. Some of her dreams about him made her blush to remember them in the morning. But, inexperienced with men, she did not know how to show this.

When they reached the house she was bowled over by its tranquil setting in the Cathedral close and impressed by the tastefully furnished drawing room complete with baby grand piano. On a low table before the sofa John had left two glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver cooler. So he had been planning this, she thought. It was not a spontaneous invitation.

He opened the bottle and filled their glasses. Then, without speaking, walked over to her and took her face between his hands, kissing her until she felt weak and breathless. At first she did not know how to respond, show him how much she wanted him. Then John startled her by sliding the tip of his tongue into her mouth. She opened her mouth wider and her tongue instinctively met his. He groaned and gently pushed her down on the sofa, opening her blouse and schoolgirl white bra and freeing her round rosy tipped breasts.

'My bust is too heavy,' she found herself stammering, barely able to believe this was her, half naked on a sofa with the man she adored.

'You have beautiful breasts, Catherine. I knew you would.'

She buried her head in his shoulder as he gently caressed them. She was not a kid any more and this was all she had dreamed of since she was sixteen. Still she panicked when his hand stole up her skirt.

'My thighs are too fat,' she apologised, unable to stop herself.

'They're perfect.'

His hand continued slowly on its way. She knew she ought to stop him. Nice girls didn't do this. But not yet... She felt his fingertips brush her through her lacy white pants and tensed with embarrassment. She was so moist, liquid even, and her breathing was harsh and urgent. For a moment his hand stayed still, pressing against her slightly, then slid under the elastic and pulled it aside. Catherine gasped as one of his fingers entered her a tiny bit, feeling gently, then started to go deeper inside her.

She tensed and pushed him away. 'No! We mustn't. I ... I can't. I've always loved you, there's never been anyone else. But I can't. Not like this.'

John took his hand away immediately and sat up, courteously turning his back while she fumbled with clasps and buttons, her fingers clumsy and shaking. When she had dressed herself he turned to face her and calmly pressed a glass of champagne into her hand.

'It's all right, Catherine. I'm not angry with you for saying no. In fact, I respect you for it. And some things are worth waiting for after all.'

A week later Catherine was in Vevey, unable to forget him, willing him to stay in touch.

To her delight John proved very attentive, phoning regularly and sending a bouquet of spring flowers on Valentine's Day. She would have preferred an armful of roses so crimson they were almost black, but was pleased to be marked out from the other girls in this way.

He had visited her twice before, each time at very short notice. John explained that business had unexpectedly brought him to Switzerland but she preferred to believe that this was merely an excuse. He could not go on any longer without seeing her. Her flatmates were impressed.

'Mmmmm, he's dishy. Those deep black eyes!' said her best friend Monique. 'But watch out, Catherine. You know what they say about men with black eyes.'

'That they're insatiable, exciting, passionate lovers?'

'Well, maybe. But my mother always told me: 'Black eyes, good disguise,' warned her friend.

'Oh, you're just jealous,' Catherine had said, laughing. 'Besides John's been around all my life. There's nothing about him I don't know.'

He arrived at the flat just over an hour after his phone call. Catherine was flushed and breathless from hurrying to wash her hair and track down a favourite pink angora sweater that she finally found buried beneath a heap of Monique's clothes on the bedroom floor.

'John!' she cried, opening the door to him. 'It's great to see you. Why are you in Switzerland – business or pleasure?'

'Pleasure, of course. And what greater pleasure is there than seeing you.'

He found it was true. He was pleased to see her – even if had fitted in this visit after a profitable delivery to a Lichtenstein banker known to Arthur who paid good money for new additions to his very private collection of stolen artwork. Catherine looked tanned and healthy, he saw, but seemed to have put on a little weight since the last time he'd visited.

She took hold of his hand and pulled him into the flat. On seeing him after time spent apart she was always surprised to notice how small he was – only five feet eight when she was two inches taller. But he was not vain and didn't seem to notice the difference in their height, nor that she was built on a bigger scale than him.

She offered to make him some coffee or hot chocolate but he grinned and said, 'No time for that.'

'Oh, John, what do you mean? You can't be going yet, you've only just got here!'

'Catherine, calm down. I'm not going anywhere. Or not without you anyway. Get your things packed, I've booked us into a little hotel I know in Venice.'

'But I can't!' she said in dismay. 'I mean school ... we're not supposed to leave town without letting the headmistress know.'

'Taken care of,' he said, eyes twinkling. 'I phoned her and Madame Chavot has agreed to let your godfather take you on an educational trip to Italy.'

'My godfather! Oh, John, how could you lie like that?'

'Very easily, I'm afraid.' He pulled her into his arms and said, very close to her mouth, 'What's the matter? Don't you want to come with me?'

Her doubt melted away instantly. 'You know I do.'

He looked at her, an oddly intent expression in those dark eyes.

'And this trip will certainly be educational, I can promise you that.'

A shiver ran through her. She returned his kisses before he gently disengaged himself and sent her off to pack. The last thing she put into her case was a wisp of a nightdress in coffee coloured chiffon and dark shadow lace. It was worldly and sophisticated, she thought. As perhaps, by the time she returned from Venice, she would be too.

* * *

To her dismay John had booked separate rooms in the pretty Hotel d'Piscinia overlooking the tiny Rio del Fuseri canal. Catherine swallowed her disappointment. He was just being a gentleman. She should be grateful he respected her enough to do this for her. And Venice was a dream: mist hazed in the mornings; unbelievably splendid in the diamond sharp light reflecting off the canals and lagoon at midday. In the day they walked until her legs ached, seeing the sights or shopping for expensive little presents all for her – a silk scarf, a glass horse, a tooled leather jewellery case and delicate gold filigree bracelet to put inside it.

They ate dinner on the flower edged terrace of a nearby restaurant and afterwards sat on the balcony to John's room, she sipping coffee and he a Grappa, watching the spring evening fade into soft velvet darkness.

On the last night he was unusually quiet and reflective. Her heart ached at the thought that tomorrow she would be back at school among the shrill laughter and constant chatter of her friends, not knowing when she would see him again.

He took her hand and studied her face for a long time. She found she was afraid of what he would say next. Was he tiring of her, perhaps? Annoyed by having to be a gentleman and observe the proprieties, when secretly she longed for him to ignore them and make her his? When he spoke, he took her completely by surprise.

'Will you marry me?'

For a moment Catherine could not speak, and then it was as if someone had switched on a big burning light inside her. Full of love and tenderness and relief she threw her arms around him.

'Of course I will, John. Oh, I thought you'd never ask.'

He kissed her for a long time and she could feel her heart beating even faster than his. She smiled to herself. John was always so cool and in control, but proposing to her had obviously been an ordeal for him.

He pushed her away, got up from the chair and said seriously, 'I think you'd better keep sitting down. There's something I have to tell you and there's no easy way of putting it.'

She sat obediently, raising her puzzled, still smiling face to his.

'What is it?' Although aware that he was deadly serious, she decided to handle this lightly. 'Are you going to tell me you've got five children?'

'No. Try again.'

'You've got three months to live?'

'I hope not!' He sighed. 'No, I'm not ill. There's something you have a right to know.' He took a deep breath. 'It's my job.'

'What's wrong with importing toys? It sounds like something done by a nice, respectable man who likes children.'

'Good. That's why I chose it. But I don't do it. Or not for a living anyway.'

Catherine frowned. 'I know. You're a spy!'

'No. I'm no spy.'

'An undercover policeman?'

He laughed. 'Nearly.'

'Tell me.' She was suddenly cold, shivering.

'I'm twenty four,' he said slowly. 'I own a house in one of the best locations in England and a nice car. I have a lot of money in the bank. Do you think all that comes from importing children's toys?'

'Then how...' She was suddenly afraid of what she was going to hear.

He kept his voice light but spoke clearly so that there was no possibility she could misunderstand.

'Everything I own has come from the proceeds of crime.'

It was a shock to hear him say it, but Catherine realised that somehow she had always known that there was something odd about his meteoric rise to riches.

'I work by myself, although I have a few associates.' He was still looking steadily at her. 'There, I've been totally honest with you. I'm sorry if I've ruined my proposal.'

She returned his gaze. 'I've always known you were different. Will you ever change? Could I change you?'

'Probably not.' He shrugged his shoulders and smiled disarmingly. 'Think about it for a week or two before you decide.'

'Could you go to prison?' she asked, hardly able to believe she could discuss this so calmly.

'I'll try not to.' He smiled his lazy smile.

'I'm glad you told me.' Catherine got up and moved about the room. 'I still want you. I will marry you. I want your children. Let's decide a date.'

'There's another matter.' He came in behind her and now his hands were on her shoulders.

'I don't think I can cope with any more just now,' she said faintly.

'I've bought the Cerne Estate.'

'What?' She spun round to face him. 'But I don't understand. I thought you were loaning Daddy money. I never thought he'd keep something like that from me. Does my father know where your money comes from?'

'Of course not.'

Catherine sat down abruptly on the bed, then looked up at him. 'I shan't tell him. It would break his heart. And I'll still marry you, John. So long as we need never discuss the way you make your money.'

'Catherine.' He knelt beside her and took her hands in his. 'You're amazing. I knew I'd made the right choice.'

'But have I?' She smiled and kissed him. 'I suppose we shall see, one day.'

'Our wedding will be on the last Saturday in July,' he said. 'I've already booked the church. Your parents have insisted that the reception be held on the Estate. I consulted them of course before proposing.'

Well, he'd told them he intended to, John reflected. But consulted sounded better. Catherine shook her head still trying to take it all in. He was assuming control, hurrying things along. Part of her was excited by her feeling of powerlessness.

As if reading the doubt she felt, John pulled her slowly down on the bed. 'That's enough talking,' he murmured against her throat as one by one undid the row of buttons on the front of her dress. 'I've been very patient, haven't I? Let's make tonight our honeymoon.'

Overcome with fear and longing, she gave in and let him undress her. He took his time, as if he was savouring every moment.

Laying naked, she saw him get up from the bed, undress and close the balcony doors. Unclothed he was standing for a short moment looking at her. She closed her eyes.

Back with her John was in no hurry but brought her to climax after climax using his hand, while not taking his eyes away from her flushed face. He made her rest and brought her Champagne. She held him tight, trying shyly to touch him, but he moved round and his tongue touched her sex, then fluttered around the sides of her clitoris. She gasped like she could not breath and almost fainted.

Then finally he pushed himself into her.

Afterwards she realised for the first time how little she knew about the man she adored.

# CHAPTER EIGHT  
_________________________

Copenhagen, Denmark, 1965

When Erick was twenty both his parents died in the same year.

His mother had a riding accident and his father, unable to come to terms with the loss of his gentle and deeply loved wife, succumbed soon after from a heart attack.

Erick was devastated and withdrew into himself for weeks, hardly speaking.

Three years later he married Andrea and quickly learned that his eye catching and sexually veracious wife was not easily persuaded to abandon her view on any subject. In March 1965 their son Christian was born.

The factory had been taken over by his uncle, who had the wit to see that Erick would never settle to an administrative job in the factory and selling would be the obvious choice.

After only a few months in the factory's retail shop in Copenhagen, selling everything from socks to expensive suits, the shop's turnover increased day by day. Erick was happy, having found something which came naturally and easily to him – and which he could do better than others. When the sales director retired Erick took over the handling of the company's most important clients in Copenhagen and a sales team of five representatives, all older than himself.

He knew, however, that the factory was making hardly any profit and that it would have to change its production methods to avoid pricing itself out of the market. To do that the old factory would have to be completely modernised and expensive new machinery installed.

Erick was ready to talk to the bank about that, but his idea of running the company didn't stop there. He was still very young and an unknown quantity in the clothing manufacturing business, but he was sure that his idea could turn the whole industry on its head. To promote it, though, he needed a figurehead, someone respected in the Danish business community. He chose to talk to the firm's chartered accountant, Jan Christensen, of 'Seagram and Collins', one of the most respected consultants and chartered accountants worldwide.

* * *

'Can we meet, Jan?' Erick's voice sounded more urgent than normal. He was phoning from home after having tried several times without being able to get hold of the company's shy, clever, diffident young chartered accountant.

Erick, Andrea and their son Christian had come back late the day before from a sailing holiday in Greece. Andrea was busily unpacking, whisky, vodka and gin bottles, putting them on the table in lines. Erick looked at her and frowned but carried on the phone conversation at the same time.

'I can come to your office any time this week,' he pressed.

'What's up, Erick? If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were excited,' Jan answered.

'Let's meet there, one o'clock, Thursday.'

'Thursday? Could be difficult? ...'

'I've got something to suggest that I know you will go for,' Erick enthused. From the moment he'd appointed Jan he'd felt that they shared a common outlook on business and respected his opinion more than anyone else's.

'Have you indeed?' Jan joked. 'Will it make us both powerful and famous?'

'It will change our lives,' Erick announced cryptically, and hung up.

Turning to Andrea, still busy unpacking her smuggled bottles, he said tetchily, 'How dare you bring all that with you? What if we had been searched in customs?'

'Don't worry. It's only alcohol, for God's sake. To hear you, you'd think it was hash or LSD. Don't be mad at me, Erick. It is a real bargain – half price.'

He shook his head. 'I don't understand why you take such risks. Imagine the scandal and embarrassment if you were caught?'

* * *

'This is pure luxury! Very nice,' said Erick. He was impressed by Jan's spacious modern office with its view of beautiful Amagertorv Square in the centre of Copenhagen.

'So what's this revolutionary new idea?' asked Jan.

Erick took the floor plan of the factory from his briefcase and spread it out on Jan's desk.

'You remember the factory layout? The cutting tables are along the windows here at the long side of the hall. The middle of the floor is taken up by the various machine sections, then the Hoffman presses. Here is quality control, packing, and at the end storage and despatch.'

'Yes, I know,' Jan said, waiting for what Erick was leading up to.

'In theory a garment is in continuous progress through the factory. The quicker it comes through, the faster it can be sold and the less capital is tied up in unfinished products.'

'Okay, I'm with you so far.'

'But in practice the process isn't nearly as streamlined. Because we must supply our customers with the complete line of men's wear, there are endless hold ups, specially in the different machine section on the factory floor. Certain orders have priority or cloth has come in late or machines have to be adjusted. Sometimes the machinists have to sit idly. Making relatively small numbers of a wide range of various trousers, suits, blazers, jackets and overcoats, leads to inefficiency of scale.'

Jan frowned. 'I see what you mean, Erick, but your factory has always been known for its comprehensive range of products. You could never keep your retailers happy if you only offered one product. Besides that your turnover would collapse, taking years to build up again based on one product line.'

'No, we want to sell the full line of products so stock has to come from other factories, of course.'

'Buy in?' Jan did not sound very enthusiastic. 'But you're the manufacturer. Even paying trade prices would push your cost sky high, surely? And you would at best just be selling other people's products, which are on the market anyway.'

Erick beamed. 'Yes, but not if we organised some kind of amalgamation between several factories. Each factory could then specialise in manufacturing only one article. Thus the production cost becomes lower and the garments more competitive in the marketplace. Instead of using different labels, we could market our goods under just one umbrella name for all products. There would be a centralised design department, so each product would conform to the brand image.'

Jan was quick to grasp the concept and improve on it.

'Giving the group central control would help financing cost too. At the moment all Denmark's factories, including yours, are coming into increasing competition with imports from Taiwan, Korea, Hong Kong, Yugoslavia, Poland and East Germany. If they realise that the competition is not so easy in Scandinavia, they might go elsewhere.'

Erick said slowly, 'Initially I'm suggesting an amalgamation of eight factories, that will span the complete range of men's wear, with a view to becoming one company.'

'It's a brilliant idea but the other owners will never go along with it,' Jan objected. 'They can't even combine and hold a yearly fashion show! Don't forget that these eight represent pretty well the whole industry.'

'Exactly,' Erick said impatiently and got to his feet, 'but as this new company would totally dominate the market, anyone who didn't choose to become part of it would be heavily outgunned. It is just a question of putting it to them in the best way, doing our homework so thoroughly we can counter any objection.

Jan raised one eyebrow. 'We, Erick?'

'Come on, Jan. Do you want to be a chartered accountant all your life? Come in on this with me and the sky's the limit. This is big enough for you, surely?'

They were total opposites: handsome, persuasive Erick and the gawky, slightly dishevelled accountant, cautiously assessing the world through his thick black framed glasses.

'I don't want to end up looking at what other people have created,' Jan answered slowly. 'I want to be part of the action and hopefully make my fortune on the way. If we go ahead and it works out, you should be the group Marketing Director but I want to be Managing Director. If you don't like that, let's call it a day and forget the whole thing.'

'You know what they say,' Erick said carefully. 'A Chartered Accountant is the last person who should run a company. Financial Director, perhaps. But then the shareholders will have the final say.' Not wanting to alienate Jan at this early stage, he added, 'Personally I don't have any objection. If that's what you want, I'll back it. Get the paperwork done, arrange the meeting and I will present it and close the deal one day, soon.'

* * *

Within a month Jan arranged their first meeting with the managing director of a factory which also represented a hundred independent menswear retailers who worked together as a buying group. Aage Madsen was well known to Jan and was the best target for the first presentation.

After a nerve wrecking hour, during which Erick did not deviate from his prepared script, Madsen looked at the two young men without speaking for a full minute.

Then he said thoughtfully and very slowly, 'This is such an important step for the whole industry that my company would not like to be left out of any possible group.'

Jan and Erick exchanged looks. It was in the bag! With Madsen on board the other factory owners were bound to listen carefully to their scheme for the new company which they had already christened GIANT of Scandinavia.

The directors and board members of the eight factories met at Steensgaard, a secluded fourteenth century castle at Faaborg on the Island of Fyn. It had acres of beautiful parkland with old trees, a lake and a game reserve. Jan and Erick had rented the whole place for the weekend.

The decision to amalgamate the eight companies into one meant each owner having to give up his personal control. Instead, he would receive shares in the new group and a place on the board.

It was the biggest and most difficult decision each of them had ever taken but Aage Madsen was vocal in urging them all to take this bold and imaginative step. When Erick mentioned that his family business had a few days before been approved by the Government for a large industrial grant if it moved to a small town called Bandbo, a hundred miles south of Copenhagen, he got a standing ovation.

At four o'clock the representatives gathered in the meeting room. Eight sealed envelopes were placed in the ballot box. While everyone watched, Aage Madsen opened them one by one.

And on every one was a 'Yes'.

Aage Madsen made a reassuringly senior chairman, Jan was named MD, and by popular consent Erick was named Marketing Director of the entire company.

Sixteen hundred jobs now depended on Erick's ability to combine eight different factories' product lines under one brand name and increase sales through inventive marketing.

Scandinavia's largest menswear group had been formed and at twenty nine he had the most powerful job in the Danish clothing industry.

# CHAPTER NINE  
_________________________

Holte, Denmark, Spring, 1968

'We employ nearly two thousand people. We can't run this company like a corner shop!' Aage Madsen said angrily.

'I don't understand why we have such a lousy relationship with the bank. Why haven't we any detailed financial planning? That's your responsibility, Jan. You're not a bean counter any more!'

Eight months ago GIANT of Scandinavia had moved into its new head office and warehouse in Holte, ten miles north of Copenhagen. All production from the group's factories, including Europe's most modern factory in Bandbo, was delivered to the warehouse and distributed from there to the retailers. An advanced stock movement system was installed too.

So far so good, but the company's working capital was strictly limited and cashflow was a constant problem. Several times Erick had been asked to sell a large a large quantity of stock at a cash discount to cover the wages. Twice Aage Madsen had been called on to give a personal guarantee to the bank and his patience was wearing thin.

Jan tried to defend himself. 'I'm handling it better than anyone else could. The first couple of years' trading will be financially tight. I've always said that...'

'It doesn't alter the fact,' Aage Madsen answered, 'that I am once more forced to write guarantees. For God's sake, man. You're the Managing Director. Can't you get the company's affairs in better order than this?'

But the truth was Jan could not. As Erick had foreseen, he couldn't rid himself of an accountant's way of thinking, clearing debits in the short term when what was needed was the courage and foresight to make the company into a real giant – in size as well as name.

Erick knew that someone must steer the company on to greater things, and that somebody was going to have to be him.

Andrea agreed; was always urging him to assert himself, let Jan see that things couldn't continue like this. So far Erick had held back from an out and out challenge. When he made his move, he wanted it to be one that really counted and would set the seal of authority over GIANT for good.

Until then he was content to sit back and watch Jan bury himself deeper every day that Erick allowed him to continue as MD.

With Madsen to bail them out GIANT would survive, and in the meantime the Swinging Sixties had reached Denmark and were providing the Elgbergs with many pleasant distractions.

* * *

Erick and Andrea had now got a daughter, Lisette, been married for six years and their friends considered them a good advertisement for marriage, just as it was starting to go out of fashion. Their closeness was often illustrated by the way one would start a sentence and the other finish it, as if even their thoughts were shared.

Andrea often took the sexual initiative and very little persuasion was needed to get Erick interested. Even if their sex life could not be bettered, it did not mean they were not aware of other people's sexual attractiveness and discussed this openly between them. They seldom had reason to become jealous of each other but if they did, both tried to forgive and forget as quickly as possible.

At one summer party in a house with a lawn going directly down to a tiny sandy beach at Oresund, the sea between Denmark and Sweden, Erick saw Andrea dancing with his schoolfriend Claus to Louis Armstrong's 'What a Wonderful World'. They looked as if they were having a good time, though he knew that Andrea would set limits as to how far she would allow Claus to go.

'They look pretty with the moon shining on them,' a woman's voice said close behind him. It was Valerie, his friend Claus Mikkelsen's wife. She was vivacious and attractive in a blue mini dress with cut outs over her navel and shoulders. Her blonde hair was cut short in the new style made popular by Twiggy. But she was thought of as more prudish than the other girls, although she tried hard to be part of the group.

'I think Claus enjoys being with Andrea more than with me,' she confessed.

'They're just having a good time,' Erick answered. 'I've never seen you looking so good as you do tonight,' he heard himself adding.

She kissed his cheek and put her arms round him, her soft body close against his. Erick moved his hand down from her waist and gently circled her buttocks.

She stood as if frozen. Slowly he lifted her dress and stroked her. She pressed her body hard against his, as if they were dancing intimately.

'Let's go inside,' he said huskily. They walked back into the lounge where other couples were engaged in heavy petting. Valerie held him back and made him dance with her for a while, before he took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. She let him lead her out into the hall and up the stairs.

Valerie walked in front of him, swaying slightly. They tried several doors which were locked, the rooms obviously occupied by other couples.

Finally they entered the main bedroom which was lit only by moonlight. They kissed while he freed her breasts from her bra and pushed down her panties.

His eyes had now grown used to the dark and he saw their reflection in the mirror behind her. He pushed her up against it, took her hands and lifted them high above her head. He stepped back. She looked like a goddess with her full breasts and neat triangle of blonde pubic hair, her eyes closed, head lolling against her arm. Erick slipped his hand between her legs. She breathed rapidly in small gasps. When his finger entered her, she uttered 'Oh, God!' in a surprised sounding voice.

He slid off his trousers. She pushed herself up on her toes.

'Oh! Oh, God!' she gasped, louder than before.

'I'd better take over, before you go too far,' a voice from the doorway said. And Erick saw his wife silhouetted in the mirror behind Valerie.

He froze. He was paralysed, close to panic.

'I don't think Valerie's ready for a menage `a trois, do you, Erick?' Andrea sounded amused rather than angry.

He quickly pulled up his trousers and made for the door. Andrea waved to him as he passed her.

'See you later,' she said. 'Close the door on your way out.'

Valerie's hands were still above her head.

Stunned, Erick saw Andrea slide down on her knees in front of Valerie. Open mouthed, Valerie stared at Erick. Silently he closed the door behind him.

An hour later Andrea entered the living room holding hands with a flushed Valerie. To his surprise, Erick felt not the slightest twinge of jealousy. He found he could not be jealous of a girl. The idea of the two women together turned him on.

Once again Andrea had surprised and enthralled him.

'Oh, there you are,' she said lightly. 'Let's all have a drink together. Where's Claus?'

# CHAPTER TEN  
_________________________

Cerne Estate, England, 1964

Lady Catherine Carven and John Forbes were married in the Estate Chapel. The villagers, who had realised that the Carvens were considering selling up, were happy when it became apparent with this marriage that nothing was going to change.

Although the newly weds lived in John's house in Salisbury, Catherine helped her parents with the running of the Estate, now an ever increasing burden. On John's advice they rented out the stables to a racing trainer, which delighted Archie. Soon they had to extend the stable block and Catherine took over the yard's management. Step by step the Estate came back to life.

They went abroad every month for glamorous weekends and stayed in the best hotels in Paris, Nice, Cannes, Rome, Madrid. Catherine enjoyed shopping and sightseeing, going to concerts and later dining out, before spending the night making love. During these 'holidays' John always went out on his own for a couple of hours, usually carrying a briefcase, excusing himself by saying that it was just business. True to their agreement, she never questioned him.

John made all the decisions without consulting her, but in return she was given a lifestyle which many women would envy as well as the reassurance that her parents could continue at their beloved Cerne House. Her husband was always calm, considerate, in control. Catherine had come to rely on him, and longed to please him. She wanted to lose weight so that she could be chic and soigne for him. It was a losing battle. John however did not seem to mind.

They made love nearly every day. Sometimes he enjoyed being slow and obliging, patiently bringing her to a pitch where she would shamelessly scream and beg him to finish. At other times he had no thought of foreplay. She never knew before they started.

One Monday morning they were in the kitchen, she cooking breakfast as a surprise. John usually had only toast and coffee. He was staring out of the window. He seldom bothered reading newspapers. Finally she put in front of him a plate piled with sausages, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs.

'Are you trying to tell me something?'

She laughed, remembering their strenuous lovemaking over the weekend. 'I thought you might need to build up your strength before a hard day's work.' She sat down opposite him and sipped her black coffee, watching him eat. A high calorie breakfast was not included in her latest diet.

'Give me a bite,' she said after a minute, resolve slipping.

He carefully put pieces of bacon, egg, sausage, and mushroom on the fork and held it out to her. She put out her tongue and slowly licked the fragrant, delicious mouthful.

'Stop that,' he said, 'or I'll never get out of the door.'

'Make me.'

He came over to her and kissed her, pulling her to her feet. They staggered against the draining board. He dragged up her dressing gown from behind, knowing she was naked underneath, thrust his knee between her legs, jerked them apart and bend her forward. Unzipping himself, he slapped her lightly once and quickly thrust into her. She reached out for something to hold on to, which proved to be the taps of the sink, all the time moving against him. Her long continuous high pitched cry was a powerful erotic stimulant for both of them. John came quickly. She gave a gasp, her body tensing from head to foot, coming at the same time.

He moved back, doing himself up. Catherine's head hung down in the sink, her ample pink curves bare to his view. She had neither the strength nor the will to move. He kissed the nape of her neck.

She pushed her long hair from her face, as finally she turned round to face him.

'You're a dangerous man to have around the house,' she said wearily

'Maybe I'll stay at home today. I could, if you wanted me to?'

'No,' she said, laughing, 'just go and do whatever it is you do, and leave me in peace.'

'All right.' He took up his car keys and walked down the hall. 'By the way, I won't be home tonight. Promise me you'll stay with your parents.' When she nodded, wordlessly, he opened the door, gave her a wink, and vanished.

* * *

'Here comes trouble,' the car dealer muttered. John looked round and saw two men walking towards them.

He had been talking to the dealer whom he had met at other car auctions. They were eating bacon sandwiches and had large mugs of hot soup in their hands. It was freezing cold and they were ankle deep in mud from the cattle sale the day before.

Harrogate Auctions took place in two old barns and dealt in cattle, sheep and horses for four days a week. On the other day secondhand cars, vans, tractors and farming equipment were offered for sale. It was small, with a friendly atmosphere. John had visited it several times. As otherwise he spent his time alone, he enjoyed the company of the traders.

He had driven to Yorkshire in the van he had entered for an auction and expected to buy another one to drive home in. He used different names to buy and sell his vehicles but, as he always made sure they were properly taxed and insured, did not regard this activity as a major risk.

'Anything we can do for you?' His companion regarded the two men with ill concealed suspicion.

'We'd like a word with the bloke who put the blue Ford van in the auction,' one said, looking directly at John.

'I did.' He shrugged. 'Anything wrong?'

The man flipped an identity card out of his pocket. 'Harrogate CID. Could we have a private word?'

John accompanied the men outside, where it had started to snow. His brain was working fast. He had bought the Ford Anglia at Camberley car auctions a month ago. As always, he had been given an undertaking that the vehicle was not, to the best of the auctioneer's knowledge, stolen or an insurance write off.

'We have reason to believe that this van was used in a burglary outside Cheltenham two weeks ago,' the detective said. 'We were informed this morning that it had turned up here. Did you arrive in that van today?'

It was impossible for him to deny it. 'Yes.'

'Then we would like you to accompany us to the station, to answer a few questions.'

'Fine.'

In the police car he decided he would refuse to answer any questions until he got hold of Ernest Rubinstein, the solicitor whose services Arthur had told him to retain for just such an eventuality.

* * *

John had only met Rubinstein once before but they had got on. The lawyer was a small man with greasy black hair and round gold rimmed glasses. His office had been a mess, bundles of papers tied with pink ribbons thrown carelessly on shelves, chairs and floor.

'The life of an ordinary lawyer is not a glamorous one,' his brief told John. 'It's a mundane round of wills, divorces, bankruptcies, company failures and petty disputes. But I have chosen a different path. I've made it my business to handle the careers of a few professional career criminals. I'm not saying I agree with their morals, but they usually say exactly what they mean, they keep their promises and, more to the point, always pay my fees on time without quibble. Usually in cash. And, of course, they need my services on a pretty regular basis.'

'Our problem,' Rubinstein now told John in the interview room at Harrogate Police station, 'is that although the van was bought perfectly legitimately, the police have a witness who took its registration number on the night of the burglary.'

'If that's all they've got,' John said, relieved, 'I can tell them the van wasn't there and get my own witness to give me an alibi.'

Rubinstein sighed.

'In my long experience, it's best never to tell an obvious lie. The police won't stop here. They have a long list of similar burglaries which the Met want to match up. They'll dig into your background in the hope that they can tie you in with them, and I get the feeling your assumed identity won't stand up to close scrutiny.'

'Then what do you suggest?'

'There's nothing worse than a long winded lawyer, so I'll get straight to the point. I take it you bought the van in a name other than Forbes or Spencer?' He looked pleased when John nodded. 'Spencer' being the name he had given when questioned by the police. 'The Camberley auctioneer has already told them that he wouldn't be able to identify the purchaser. That means, if the van had been stolen after some person unknown had bought it and used it to commit the burglary, then the police can only bring a charge of larceny against you as John Spencer.'

John was silent for a moment. He thought he knew what Rubinstein was trying to tell him. Better to admit that he stole the van than have the police probe further into the burglaries. 'John Spencer' would not be questioned in any depth if he pleaded guilty to car theft straight out.

'What will I get if I admit that?'

'It's a first offence,' Rubinstein said thoughtfully, 'and be dealt with at the local Quarter Session. The police will quietly make them all aware of their suspicions about the burglaries. Normally it would have been six months, but this is different. Let us not kid ourselves. At a guess we're looking at between a year to eighteen months.'

* * *

Next day, John was home before ten o'clock in the evening, having been bailed to appear before the magistrates in July. He'd travelled back by train.

He had told Catherine that he had been delayed in Harrogate for a couple of days, but as soon as he walked into the living room she sensed there was something wrong. 'Has anything happened? John, what is it?'

'Nothing serious.' He poured himself a whisky. 'Nothing for you to worry about, anyway.'

'That only makes me more worried!'

'I might be going away for a year or so, that's all.'

'Prison?' She forced herself to say the word casually, though it stuck in her throat. This was something he had warned her might happen, but she had never really believed it.

'It looks like it. But I've used another name. There won't be any scandal.'

'Imagine if they found out who you really are. Mummy and Daddy would be devastated.'

'They won't now.'

She turned away, not wanting him to see the panic and despair she felt. 'But a year! What shall I tell my parents? And your mother?'

He shrugged. 'That I'm going to the States on business. After a while you can say business is so fantastic I can't get away. After that we will dream something else up. They won't suspect anything.'

'You're taking it all very calmly.'

He tossed off his whisky at a gulp. 'When you fear the worst and get away this lightly, you count your blessings.'

She ran to him and buried her head against his shoulder.

'A year without you! I won't be able to bear it. Does this mean you'll give up your way of life afterwards?'

He cradled her in his arms. 'If I said yes, I'd be lying and I respect you too much to lie, but I'll make sure this won't happen again.'

She wanted to scream at him that he had to stop, he must. She couldn't bear this to happen again. But she knew better than to pressure him.

'Any other wife would shout and scream. I just go along with you like the stupid cow I am,' she said bitterly.

'Catherine.' He held her away from him and kissed the tip of her nose. 'If I'd thought you'd ever be the kind of wife who would shout and scream, I wouldn't have married you. We're good together, aren't we? And you can't say I didn't warn you what you might be letting yourself in for.'

He walked across the room and turned on the television. She stood where he had left her, drained of feeling. She knew she would never persuade him to do anything against his will. Either she continued to be his compliant wife or their marriage was over.

'Would you like something to eat?' she asked at last.

Without taking his eyes from the screen, he said, 'Sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes. And,' he added as an afterthought, 'a nice cold beer.'

In spite of herself, she smiled. 'Are you trying to tell me something?'

'Let's make the most of the next few days, Catherine. We'll have to live off them for the next year.'

* * *

Looking out of the narrow window of the police van on his way from court to prison, John wondered how he would survive in this world of concrete, used as he was to country living.

He had been sentenced to eighteen months, because the judge thought there was rather more to his case than the bare facts given.

Reading Prison was old and rundown. The paint was peeling, the walls damp. For the first hour he sat in a dark holding cell in reception, fighting claustrophobia. His two companions, obviously old lags who knew each other, ignored him completely. Their competitive farting made the air unbreathable.

At four o'clock he was taken to the main prison. The warders were affable, and said that they expected him to get along fine if he left them in peace and got on with 'doing his bird'. He was shown to a cramped cell which was spotlessly clean, full of small, rather strange looking plants on shelves put up on the walls.

John wondered about his cell mate. Would he be easy going or would the next few minutes be an exercise in asserting his own natural dominance?

'Welcome.' An athletic looking sandy haired man strode into the cell. 'I'm David Kennedy, your cell mate. Excuse the plants, but live with me, live with my bonsai.'

John picked up a pot which contained a miniature elm. 'Japanese, I take it?'

His cell mate grinned. 'I spent a couple of years in Tokyo while I was in the army.'

John was amazed by this. Handsome, clean cut David Kennedy with his straight back and clear direct gaze was hardly the sort of man he'd expected to meet here.

'What rank and regiment?'

'Captain, Prince of Wales Regiment, stationed at Royston in Hertfordshire. Spent a couple of years in Japan as a military attaché before I left the service.'

'Fascinating. You must tell me more about it. My father was an army man. I expect we'll have plenty of time to talk in here!'

'You can say that again.' David sat on his bunk and offered John a cigarette, which he declined. 'But first I should fill you in on a few things. Among the inmates here there's a bastard called Poulson who unfortunately controls the prison. I'm warning you now, don't get on the wrong side of him.'

* * *

John settled in. After the first few days he was confident he could tough it out. He found the thought of prison had been more daunting than the reality. He quickly learned the routine and what to look out for, which prisoners could be trusted and which couldn't. He was surprised that he didn't feel any sense of dishonour about being here, and came to the conclusion that if you had no morals, you had no shame either. That thought shed a different light on his situation. The boredom, the sense of isolation, the lack of privacy, even the loss of freedom he could cope with. The sense of being deprived of control over his own life was different, and he knew he would have to do something about that.

After a week, when his first favourable impression of David Kennedy had been confirmed, his cell mate told him how he had ended up in prison. In Tokyo he had become friendly with the Embassy's gardener, Makimoto Takamori. He and his two brothers were bonsai enthusiasts and created beautiful gardens displaying the perfect miniature trees.

Before he left Japan, although still in the army, David had gained a thorough knowledge of the principles of bonsai and decided to try to sell the trees in England. He received a shipment of fifty and sold them within days to his colleagues and friends, making a profit of £500. He promptly ordered a larger shipment from Makimoto. Soon his garage was full, and he built a new heated greenhouse to house hundreds of specimens. The income from his business was higher than his army salary and, after discussing it with his wife Fiona, he decided to leave the army and concentrate on the importing.

A year later, he received two containers with only a month's interval between shipments. The trees in both consignments were dead. He had no insurance, and the transportation of the trees was his responsibility. Knowing how much Makimoto relied on the his trade, David also felt morally obliged to pay him.

He arranged an overdraft, backed by a security on his new house and on the trees in transit and in stock. When the loan had been arranged, he paid Makimoto . But his working capital had been severely diminished and a couple of months later he was forced to close down his business. The liquidator discovered that he had technically traded while insolvent and not told the bank about the worthless consignment they had taken as security. A year later David found himself serving a two year sentence.

* * *

Two weeks after beginning his sentence, John received a postcard of the Champs-Elysées in Paris, with a hastily scrawled message: Missing you. Kind regards. Arthur and Diana. Underneath was written: PS. Surprise! Got 'married' today!

John smiled. Typically, Arthur had never mentioned a thing about anyone called Diana in their many conversations. In fact he rarely mentioned women except for his old mum and John had regarded him as a confirmed bachelor, maybe homosexual. Arthur was a man of many surprises, he mused, and looked forward to meeting the bride on his release.

* * *

After a month in Reading, John had established a circle of friends. To his surprise he found many to be well educated former students of Oxford. After being sentenced there, they were sent to Reading to serve their sentences. They had mostly been dealing drugs, usually cannabis, about which John knew little.

But besides the more intelligent prisoners he also included in his circle several whose only attribute was their physical strength.

He soon knew everything there was to know about Poulson, who was serving a life sentence for a contract killing and had been placed in Reading for some years, before he would as other dangerous prisoners were by the Home Office be moved on to another prison. A heavily built man in his forties, he had an ugly scar running down his left cheek to the corner of his mouth, the legacy of a prison brawl. He guarded against the possibility of its ever happening again by retaining three minders who were constantly by his side – except in his more intimate moments. John had heard that Poulson had sex regularly with a selected inmate, but as he professed to hate all homosexuals the chosen recipient of his favours had to dress in black stockings and high heeled shoes. He was made to kneel on the bed with his head and shoulders covered by a blanket and his penis strapped up so Poulson could imagine he was having sex with a woman.

When the prison baron started being friendly to him, John realised that he was being weighed up. Though John Spencer had said nothing against him, Poulson obviously saw him as a threat to his position and wanted to neutralise him. John felt he was a marked man.

One day Poulson beckoned him to the table where he held court in the association room.

'Jackson is leaving in a couple of weeks so I would like you to help me instead. This is my offer. You'll bring me up trays from the food trolleys three times a day. Of course I'll do you favours in return. Later on, you might like to take Jackson's place in breaking in my little 'ladies'. What do you say?'

To gain time John agreed. Jackson was being released in a few weeks, which gave him a chance to formulate a plan. He decided first to concentrate on the two minders and via David Kennedy arranged meetings with each of them in the gym, where he knew Paulson would not venture. He offered them substantial sums, paid to their wives or next of kin, if they would transfer their allegiance from Poulson to him.

A few days after each minder had talked in secret with John, they confirmed that their families had received an initial transfer of £1,000 for 'goodwill'. Only then did John tell them what he expected in return.

John's style was different. It was his manner, the polite way in which he talked to them and treated them with respect that ultimately won them over. Poulson respected no one, and won no one's respect. They merely feared and hated him. John never raised his voice and he was a good listener. He kept a low profile towards the prison officers, who regarded him as someone who would never cause them trouble.

Initially David tried to talk him out of challenging Poulson's supremacy. He was, John had swiftly realised, ideal second in command material. The army had taught David discipline, caution and pride in a job well done. But he was no initiator of daring plans. John, on the other hand, was.

'I want you to keep everyone calm after I've gone in, no matter what happens,' he instructed David before he went to the meet in Poulson's cell. The minders let him in.

'I'd like to talk to you in private,' he said to Poulson, who sat smoking in a smuggled in armchair.

'Sure.' He waved his hand and the minders left the cell, shutting the door behind them. 'Is this about Jackson's job?'

'No,' John said. 'I won't be taking it. In fact I think the time has come for you to ask for a transfer from Reading. I think you should say there has recently been a serious threat to your safety.'

Poulson looked at him, frowning. 'What are you on about? No one threatens me.' He obviously did not understand.

Unruffled John sat down opposite him. 'But they do. I am. Now do as I say and your family will receive two grand within a few days. If you don't, you'll have both your former minders and my men to deal with. You must understand, we all want you out of this prison. Now.'

John rose and opened the door. Outside were the three minders and four of John's own hand picked men. Behind them were many more prisoners assembled by David as a show of strength. John closed the door.

'So what's it going to be? Take my advice and go to the Governor now, this minute, and ask for a transfer or I swear you'll be carried out within the next twenty four hours. You can't survive here with all of us against you. Come on – decide. The screws will be here soon.'

Poulson's face was livid with rage. He lunged clumsily at John and got hold of his shirt, trying to get his hands round his throat. John didn't hesitate. He knew that standing up to Poulson in this encounter was crucial to his assuming prominence in the prison. This was no innocent victim for whom he need to feel pity but a hardened killer who would claim him as another victim given the chance.

He palmed the specially sharpened ten inch knitting needle he had concealed up his sleeve into Poulson's side, aiming for the liver.

Poulson screamed, let go of John and pressed both hands to his ribs. John calmly retrieved the needle, pulled the handmade handle off and threw both out of the window.

When the Governor arrived on the scene, ten minutes later, John was already back in his cell and order had been restored. Poulson was rushed to a civilian hospital, where he remained for two weeks before being transferred to Wandsworth.

John was henceforth undisputed boss of the prison. He was popular, respected and also feared.

The prison regime changed after John had taken over. There was seldom any trouble as a quiet word from one of his men would sort out the most hardened criminal. Occasionally they would have to use threats or force to back up John's authority, but this was part of prison life to ensure their own survival.

Three young robbers were the first to challenge John's position. They arrived wearing similar jeans, denim jackets and white sports shoes, and the noise they made was horrendous. They played their radios as loudly as possible and used constant bad language. Eventually, when polite requests to them to mend their ways had been ineffective, John called them to his cell. They swaggered in.

'I just wanted a quiet word with you.' He lay on his bed, looking up at them. 'Just to say I think you're obnoxious and loudmouthed. You're upsetting the smooth running of the whole place.'

'That's your problem, mate,' the ringleader sneered. 'Who are you, anyway? Just another old lag like the rest of them.'

'That's where you're wrong,' John said calmly. 'And remember, there are only three of you and there are hundreds of old lags, as you call us, who've had enough. Regard this as your last warning.'

The ringleader stood over him. 'You threatening us?'

John felt that the situation could get out of hand. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up.

'Yes. Next time there's the least problem, I can guarantee you'll have me to deal with. Look outside the door.'

One of them opened the cell door and saw six men standing glaring threateningly at them.

The youth who seemed to be in charge jumped, putting his shoulder to the door. It locked automatically.

'I think it's you who have us to deal with now, pop,' one of them said. 'We'll see who's in charge of this prison, you old fart.'

Getting up from the bed, John was hit hard in the stomach. Bending forward in pain, he was hit by a fist in his face. When he was on the floor they kicked him continuously. He tried to cover his face, only to be hurt by further kicks. Finally he tasted blood.

The door was flung open by a prison officer. 'What's going on here? Are you all right?' he asked John.

'Yes, I'm fine,' he said, holding one hand to his bruised face. 'I fell and my friends helped me.'

The officer understood that he wanted to deal with the situation himself and walked away.

'Don't touch them,' John said to the men outside his cell. 'Let them go.'

They troublemakers swaggered out of the cell and down the landing shouting abuse. They knew the news would spread like wild fire through the prison. If nothing else they would have gained respect. No one would dare boss them around now.

At six o'clock the next morning, music blasted out of their cell, louder than before.

John had instructed three of his men, whom he had picked for their complete loyalty to him, to do what he wanted.

He looked at his watch then lay back on his bunk and started to read a newspaper.

When the queue for breakfast was at its longest, the men in line heard a penetrating scream from the third floor landing. All heads turned upward. Something small and oozing blood plopped on to the floor at the front of the queue.

At first there was total silence in the whole wing, a commotion started as the men jostled forward to look; then they fell back, one vomiting , others near to fainting with disgust and fear.

Whistles blew. The siren was switched on. Warders from all the other wings came rushing in and locked the connecting doors. The officers started hurriedly ushering the prisoners back to their cells, slamming and locking every cell door.

The severed penis was scooped up with a dustpan and dropped into a white plastic bucket. Shortly afterwards an ambulance, sirens blaring, was speeding out of the prison gates.

* * *

Once he had established control again over the prison's inhabitants, John acquired lists of cons who could be useful to him. He also obtained as much information as he could on cannabis, the prices it fetched and its possible sources. In the library, where he had a coveted job, he copied maps of Scotland, Wales, Cornwall and south west England.

He learned what sort of building was suitable for the storage of unprocessed hemp; studied its legal importation when used for ropemaking, then realised this was not the same variety used in the manufacture of narcotics. For a while he considered growing a strain of Moroccan hemp in a remote area of Wales, but the climate wasn't right and the scope for expansion limited.

Working on another idea, he studied the strength, durability and buoyancy of various plastics and sent off for information about all sorts of electronic equipment. He found all this so fascinating that for months he did nothing but research.

When he had two months left to serve, he decided to start recruiting. His first task was to appoint an operation's man. He needed a person he could trust, who also had management skills and was used to handling a team.

Former Captain Kennedy was the obvious man. 'What's in it for me?' his cell mate asked.

A thirty grand tax free salary, a car and every reasonable expense paid, plus a share in the profits, in common with every other member of our team.'

David was shocked by the amount offered, but stayed straight backed and poker faced. 'Have you thought about the competition in this line of business?'

John nodded. 'Up till now the market has been totally dominated by drug users. Those who buy more than they use themselves turn into dealers. From these some larger organisations have evolved, but none run along the lines I've outlined. If we can ensure a regular supply at the right price, we should be able to operate without any problem. Organised crime in Britain hasn't shown any interest in drugs – yet. If we get in on the ground floor now, we'll clean up. The worst scenario would be the legalisation of soft drugs, but that isn't likely.'

David hesitated, torn between his scruples and the lure of easy money. 'How much say will I have in the daily running?'

'If you do something I don't agree with, I'll let you know and we'll discuss it. Otherwise, a free hand. We'll choose the rest of the team together.'

The two men looked at each other in silence. They had built up a mutual respect over the months they had shared a cell, although David still did not know John's real identity. John decided the time had come to reveal it and the source of his founding. David listened carefully.

'I understand,' David said slowly. 'But I have no job prospects. I crave responsibility and I need money. What more can I say? I accept your offer.'

* * *

A list of the names and addresses of likely candidates for the hemp smuggling scheme, selected by John and David, was delivered to Arthur Black. He checked them all out and reported back to John, via the ex prisoner, that everybody on the list was kosher. John and David then set up meetings with each of the candidates.

David requested William Webster for his personal assistant, to which John had no objection. Webster was twenty five years old and had a business management degree from the London School of Economics. The other prisoners called him 'Brains' because of his similarity to the Thunderbird puppet. His ambitious scheme for an investment fund had failed spectacularly. Webster had been declared criminally bankrupt and sentenced to four years.

John wanted Ray Immerman to join the team. Chairman of his own insurance company, he was in prison for having defrauded thousands of investors. He was a big man of fifty, who managed to weigh in at more than twenty two stone even on prison food. His huge frame, coupled with his white hair and neat beard, created the impression of a solid, trustworthy man.

The next man chosen was Shastri, an Indian who had turned to crime very young, specialising in forged passports for which there was a great demand among his and the Pakistani community. His three year sentence had shamed his parents, and his wife had divorced him. His sister Ramona, a few years older than him, was apparently an unusual and influential woman. She had been involved in the passport business but was never brought to court as Shastri had taken full responsibility. They worked as a team. Shastri agreed to join John if a place could also be found for Ramona.

Francis Morell was one of the most popular inmates at Reading, always first with a joke to break down any tension. He arranged concerts and shows with an enthusiasm which never flagged, even if these events never attracted a wide audience. He was tall, strongly built and good looking, advantages which should have ensured him a successful life. But he had been imprisoned three times for theft.

Six others younger men were also selected from among the ex student, drug using community. They would be familiar with the scene on the street and would speak the language.

All were up for release before Friday, 30th July, the day of John's own release. He told them they would be contacted soon after this. Until then each of them would receive £100 a week from their date of release. If they told anyone about this arrangement, there would be serious repercussions.

* * *

At last the day of release arrived for John. All in all he considered his prison term a worthwhile experience and a triumph of foresight and planning. He had done his time; the time had not done him.

Catherine was waiting in her yellow Sunbeam Alpine outside the prison. It had rained all night but now the sun was shining. John came out wearing a blue denim shirt and matching jeans and carrying his belongings in brown parcels like other prisoners being released at the same time.

She glanced in the rear view mirror. It was too late to do anything about her looks, she thought, but wished now she had not gained even more weight while she brooded endlessly over their separation. As he came up to her, she got swiftly out of the car. They kissed awkwardly, their first contact in months.

'Let me drive,' John said after a moment. 'See if I can remember how.' He climbed into the driver's seat and then took her hands. 'I'm glad you're here. It's wonderful to see you again.'

'For me too. I still love you so much. Despite everything.'

They talked very little on the drive home, although he never let go of her hand, trapping it beneath his on the leather covered steering wheel. Catherine cried quietly, so happy to be reunited with him.

When they entered Doles Wood, near Salisbury, he stopped the car. 'Let's go for a walk.'

The grass was still wet underfoot as they walked into the trees. In the green darkness, so fresh and sweet smelling after the stale prison air, John stopped, took her in his arms and kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. Catherine was confused; this was not what she had anticipated. She had made everything ready in the bedroom, vases of flowers and champagne waiting in the fridge. She wanted to tell him this, but he was past listening.

She felt his hands on her breasts then moving up and down her back, pressing her urgently against him. Then he gripped her hips harshly with both hands. She tried to relax but he was squeezing her so hard that it hurt. He sank to his knees and lifted her skirt, tucking it neatly into her belt. Slowly he peeled off her panties, rolling them lingeringly over her thighs as if he had all the time in the world. She stepped out of them, having no choice, but feeling tense and embarrassed at being exposed like this so close to the road. He kissed her inner thighs, stopping for a moment to smell her. Then she felt his tongue between her legs. Her belly and breasts became firm with tension. She grabbed handfuls of his hair, closed her eyes and started to tremble as an orgasm shuddered through her. John's tongue kept searching and several smaller climaxes were wrenched from her. Finally his hand touched her while he licked her wet inner thigh.

After what seemed an eternity, he rose and kissed her open mouth. She could feel how large and hard he was through his jeans.

Gently he pushed her down on the wet grass and rolled on top of her. She cried out when he entered her and threw back her head. His movements were slow but forceful. He came with a great shudder which slowly ceased.

They lay still for a long time. She didn't care any more if someone walked down the road and saw them, her with her skirt round her waist and John with his jeans round his ankles.

'You look incredibly beautiful, like a full blown rose after rain,' he said, raising himself on one elbow and looking down on her. 'I don't deserve you.'

'Then promise you'll become a normal respectable businessman?'

Slowly he rolled off her and lay on his back. He stretched his arms over his head.

'Funny you should say that,' he answered her lazily, 'that's exactly what I plan to do!'

# CHAPTER ELEVEN  
_________________________

Holte, Denmark, Monday, 30th September 1968

'Erick, I have an urgent message for you,' his secretary whispered in his ear one morning when he was in the middle of a sales debriefing with his area managers.

'Can't it wait?' he asked, irritated at being interrupted.

'No way!' his secretary hissed. 'Absolutely not.'

He excused himself and followed his secretary into the corridor.

'Whatever is it? Couldn't it have waited half an hour?'

'Per Densby wants to talk to you,' the secretary said triumphantly. 'He's actually sitting in your office right now.'

In his impatience, it took Erick a few seconds to realise exactly who she was talking about. Then it registered. Per Densby Chairman of the Danish Stock Exchange and also the owner of the largest stockbroking firm in Denmark.

'How long has he been waiting? Have you given him coffee?' Erick hotfooted it towards his office then stopped. 'But are you sure he wants me? Not Aage Madsen or Jan?'

'He was adamant. It had to be you.'

Per Densby, a small, portly man in his early sixties, was sitting in front of Erick's desk, drinking his coffee. He rose as Erick entered.

'I hope I haven't interrupted anything important,' he said courteously, 'but as I live fifteen minutes from here, I thought I might catch you before the start of business. I didn't know how early that was!'

Erick shook hands and indicated to Densby to resume his seat. 'You are most welcome.'

Per Densby clasped his hands and leaned forward, suddenly businesslike. 'Mr Elgberg, what I am going to tell you must remain our secret until we know if it can be taken further. I feel, after having investigated both you and your company, that you will give me an honest answer.'

Erick was silent, sensing that Densby knew exactly where he was steering this conversation.

'GIANT of Scandinavia was a brilliant idea, though in reality it is still a very young company and I am aware that you are underfinanced. You would do better with some real financial muscle behind you, something I think you deserve, but our banks don't support such risky ventures. Other Danish companies your size have secure capital bases and are seen as much safer investment propositions.'

Erick nodded thoughtfully, unwilling to confirm or deny anything his visitor said.

'An idea has occurred to me which perhaps may solve your problems,' Densby went on, 'and at the same time would be of financial benefit to my own company. But I wanted to sound you out personally. I thought it prudent to hear your opinion first. In other words, Mr Elgberg, if you do not like my idea, we will not take it further and I will not bother you again.'

'I'm intrigued. And, please call me Erick.'

Densby inclined his head. 'I felt GIANT was such a splendid idea that my firm invested a considerable sum of money in another company; not GIANT of Scandinavia, I hasten to add. In a minute I will know if I made a sound investment.'

Erick frowned. 'What has this to do with me?'

Densby laughed. 'I invested in Combined Danish Cotton Mills, and now I want to sell you fifty one per cent of its shares.' He sat back, beaming, eyes fixed on Erick's face, evidently enjoying the impression his words had on the younger man.

Erick's mind was in turmoil. CDCM, as the company was known, was a much larger company than GIANT. Two hundred and fifty years old, it was regarded almost as an institution, although no longer the force in the market that it once had been.

'Before you say anything, let me explain. The cotton products CDCM manufacture can only partly be used by GIANT of Scandinavia, but you could put life back into the sleeping lion and GIANT would be helped right away financially. CDCM is a very wealthy company. It owns valuable properties in Copenhagen and has substantial funds in its own right, as well as shares in several other public companies. Besides this, it is quoted on the Stock Exchange, which means you could raise capital for any future expansion of GIANT.'

Per Densby stopped to give Erick a chance to assimilate all this information.

'If you know so much about us,' Erick said slowly, 'how do you see us paying for the controlling interest in CDCM? It has to be worth far more than we can afford.'

Per Densby opened his briefcase. It contained two matchboxes of different sizes, two blank pieces of paper, and a coin. He spread them out on the desk.

'This large matchbox,' he said, pointing to it, 'is CDCM.' He wrote the initials on the box. 'As you can see, it is full. Each match representing a considerable sum of money.'

'I'm with you so far.'

'This smaller box,' Densbsy went on, 'does not contain so many matches, because it does not have so much capital. What it does have is vitality, youth, vision. So we will put a coin in, to symbolise these assets.' He wrote GIANT in capital letters on the small box and placed beside the one marked CDCM.

'There are two other parties involved, namely your board, which owns all the GIANT shares, and myself, who owns fifty one per cent of CDCM shares.' He took the two pieces of paper and wrote 'GIANT shareholders' on one and 'Densby' on the other and placed them beside the matchboxes.

'What we do now is sell GIANT of Scandinavia to CDCM for, let us say, nine matches. As GIANT was owned by its shareholders, these shareholders now own the nine matches instead.' He took nine matches out of the big box and placed them on the 'GIANT shareholders' paper. Then he put the small matchbox into the larger matchbox marked CDCM. 'Now GIANT is owned fully and irrevocably by CDCM.'

'I understand,' Erick told him.

'The shareholders of GIANT of Scandinavia, who now have nine matches in the bank, then decide to buy Per Densby's majority in CDCM for the nine matches.' He moved the nine matches from 'GIANT shareholders' on to the 'Densby' paper.' As GIANT's shareholders have now bought the majority of shares in CDCM, they control it.' He moved the big box over to the GIANT shareholders' paper. 'Everyone is happy.' He leaned back. 'Did you follow all that, Erick?'

'Yes. But there's one problem: who can say what GIANT is worth?'

'That's why I put the coin in the box. What is its true value? The answer is: what someone is willing to pay.'

'And what is that?'

'The CDCM board must decide if they want to buy GIANT at the nominated price. However, you just gained control of the CDCM board ten seconds ago!'

Erick gasped. The concept was brilliantly simple. Densby had explained his plan in less than half an hour. His proposal was a bigger venture by far even than the foundation of GIANT of Scandinavia. 'I must think about this,' Erick said cautiously, though his brain was teeming with ideas.

'Of course.' Densby got to his feet. 'But before I go, do you think my idea is good?'

'I think it's terrific!'

'We have a deal then?' Densby held out his hand.

'I have to get my board's approval.'

'Ah, but you and I know that's just a formality. I've heard that Erick Elgberg can sell anybody anything!'

* * *

At home he told the whole story to Andrea, illustrating the idea as Densby had done with the matchboxes. She was impressed, and urged him to push it through.

The next day, Erick explained to Jan what had transpired between him and Per Densby.

Jan was impressed in spite of himself. 'He's suggesting a reverse takeover. But why doesn't he want to keep control, even with us on board?'

'He's getting old, perhaps. Doesn't want all the hassle. And he's probably content just to make a tidy profit on the sale of his shares.'

With Jan's agreement, they decided to talk to Aage Madsen who quickly realised that, with CDCM's large resources behind them, GIANT's cash flow problems would be solved.

Next day Erick phoned Per Densby's office and a meeting was arranged for seven o'clock the same evening between Erick, Jan, Madsen and Densby. Two board meetings later, they met again in the company of Densby's lawyer and two senior partners of Faberson & Jeppesen, GIANT's legal advisers. All the documents creating the new merger were signed the same evening. It was agreed that Jan would become Financial Director, Erick Managing Director and Aage Madsen Group Chairman. The new company to be known as GIANT CDCM LTD.

The media were informed of the merger at a press conference held at Tre Falke. Interest was intense. There had never been anything on this scale in Denmark. Within two years, GIANT had come from nothing to being the tenth largest company in the country, employing over five thousand people in twenty factories. GIANT CDCM was now a public company, quoted on the Danish Stock Exchange.

Questions were fired at the four men who sat facing the journalists and television cameras. Near the end of the meeting the presenter of a respected business programme asked the one question on everyone's mind.

'How was this transaction financed? Through Danish banks or foreign institutions?'

Aage Madsen rose to his feet. He glanced at Densby, shuffled his papers and waited until the room was absolutely silent. Then he said, 'Can I quote a well known rhyme by Piet Hein?

'"Little cat on the road, whose are you?"' He paused, then said, '"I am bloody well my own!"'

The press roared with laughter and the rhyme made headlines next day in all the newspapers.

The next morning Jan and Erick arrived at the head office of CDCM in Aalborg, Jutland. They were introduced to the directors and shown round the huge factory.

CDCM's Managing Director, Knud Bechman, was seventy years old and had given notice of his retirement some months ago. The company was to pay him a considerable bonus and a generous pension. Neither Jan nor Erick were against this.

'I offered Densby my two thousand CDCM shares at a price of two hundred and fifty kroner each,' Bechman told Erick. 'I was rather disappointed not to have heard from him.'

Erick was puzzled. If Densby had not been willing to pay that price, it could only mean that he had bought shares at a lower figure or else had secretly controlled a majority for many years.

'I can't answer for Densby regarding your shares,' Erick replied, 'but I hope the agreed bonus and pension will be adequate for you and your family?'

'Oh, yes. I'm sorry to have mentioned my personal worries. I'll be here tomorrow to make my farewells, if that's OK with you?'

* * *

Early in December Jan hurried into Erick's office, his face more than usually sombre. 'I've just had a phone call from Faberson. He's saying that Knud Bechman has complained he wasn't offered the same price for his shares as the one Densby sold at to us. He seem to think we were obliged to buy his shares also. Do you know anything about this?'

Erick said carefully, 'If there's a problem, tell Bechman to take it up with Densby. It's nothing to do with us.'

'There's something else. Bechman's put his lawyer on to it. Guess who he is?' When Erick said nothing, Jan went on, 'Janus Kirk! Surely you've heard of Solicitor Kirk!'

'No,' Erick said. 'Never. Enlighten me.'

'He's a High Court solicitor, the most unpopular in the legal profession. Added to which, he's an ugly little sod with a lisp and showers you with spit every time he opens his mouth.'

'Charming.'

'He also owns Europe's most valuable collection of paintings and drawings by artists like Beardsley, Ballivet, Grevedon, von Bayros.'

'Never heard of them.'

'All masters of erotic art.'

'Really?'

'If he's involved,' Jan said anxiously, 'we could be in deep trouble. His office is called the Coffin in the legal profession because it is so dark and because his speciality is bankruptcy and liquidation. That's all he does. Day in and day out. Why would he have taken Bechman's case if everything were legally correct, as Densby and our solicitors assured us? I think he can smell a company with a serious problem.'

This was obviously worrying Jan, even though Erick could not see how the price Densby had paid for the shares had anything to do with them. Densby had bought them and sold them on to GIANT. What could be more straightforward?

In April 1969 Jan's secretary Kirsten asked Erick to take an important telephone call for her boss, whom she could not locate. The call was from GIANT's bank manager.

'We've got a problem. As I was unable to get hold of Mr Christensen, I thought I'd better inform you. My head office just asked me for an up to date balance on your overdraft. It's just under the agreed limit of two million kroner, but my superiors say we won't honour any more cheques until the overdraft is cleared completely.'

'You should really talk to our Financial Director about this...'

'But he's unavailable,' the bank manager said. 'And if your cheques aren't paid, you're in for some seriously damaging publicity.'

'This is completely ridiculous!' Erick suddenly realised the implications of what he was being told. 'You can't just phone us out of the blue and withdraw our overdraft! Give us a few days at least to arrange something.'

'It's not my decision, Mr Elgberg. It was decided by the bank's board this morning.'

Erick suddenly shivered. This sounded like a total disaster.

'Why? What possible reason could they have to pull the plug on us like this?'

The manager hesitated then said, 'We have some information about your company, but don't quote me on that.'

'What information?'

'I'm not at liberty to divulge,' the manager said, 'I'm sorry, Mr Elgberg.' He hung up.

Erick asked Kirsten to find Jan urgently.

'Where the hell have you been?' Erick demanded angrily, when he appeared. 'We've got a critical situation here.'

He recounted his conversation with the bank manager. 'Have you any idea what information he could have meant?'

Silently, Jan took a chequebook from his briefcase and showed it to Erick. It was CDCM's chequebook. He wrote a cheque to GIANT of Scandinavia for two million five hundred thousand kroner. Then he called in Kirsten.

'Please telephone the bank and tell them the cheque is on its way.'

'I'll write directly to the head office and arrange a meeting,' Jan said. 'We'll try a damage limitation exercise. It's all the fault of that blasted Knud Bechman!'

'Bechman? But I thought that was all settled?' Erick looked hard at his Financial Director. 'Is there something you haven't told me?'

Jan sighed. 'There's a possibility that Faberson & Jeppesen could have given us wrong advice. And Densby should have put us fully in the picture by informing us that by rights we should have offered the same price for which we bought his shares to each and every one of the remaining shareholders.'

Erick digested this information. 'Are you saying he led us into the deal, knowing we could face a second massive pay out to the minority shareholders?'

'It's my guess now that he badly needed to make a deal very quickly. Perhaps his own company was in trouble or something and he had to cover a massive hole somewhere in his accounts. Whatever, his first concern was selling his fifty one per cent.'

'Why didn't Faberson tell us we should have paid the same price for all the shares?' Erick demanded.

'He always insisted that legally we didn't have to make the same offer to every shareholder. We bought Densby's shares out of his own company. That was different from picking them up via the Stock Exchange. Faberson says there's a possibility of a legal dispute, although in practice there's never been a civil court case about anything like this before.'

'This is unbelievable.' Erick knew they could not go back on the CDCM deal without losing everything. They could not afford to buy the remaining forty nine percent at the same price they had paid for the majority. It would create a massive loss as the shares were quoted much lower on the Stock Exchange. They knew all that they had paid over the top because it was a majority. Densby had got what he wanted then left them to deal with the consequences.

The next morning, Erick was having breakfast with Andrea and the children. The radio was playing Mary Hopkins' hit 'Those Were The Days', when their daily newspaper, Berlingske Tidende, rattled through the door.

Andrea picked it up and handed it to him. 'You'd better sit down and read this.'

On the front page was the banner headline:

'DID GIANT OF SCANDINAVIA DECEIVE

THE MINORITY SHAREHOLDERS OF CDCM?'

* * *

'Deception!' Erick waved the newspaper under Jan's nose. 'It suggests we've done something criminal. How dare they write that? I don't think we can go on taking this nonsense without doing something about it.'

'It could blow over,' Jan suggested, sounding unconvinced.

'We must have a meeting with Faberson. Then we'll have to find the best legal specialist in this field and hit back as hard as we can.'

The Copenhagen offices of Faberson & Jeppesen were on a corner overlooking Kongens Nytorv. Erick, Jan and Aage Madsen were asked to go directly into a conference room where several people were gathered.

Faberson started the meeting. 'The main problem in this whole tangle is not the minority shareholders but one person, namely Janus Kirk. If he were not on the scene we could reach an agreement with the shareholders within a few days and that would be the end of it. But the situation is now much worse than it was before, as Kirk is claiming that the price CDCM paid for GIANT was fictitious. This elevates the whole matter from a mere legal dispute between shareholders to a potentially criminal one.'

Erick sprang up. 'A criminal matter? You're our legal adviser! Why didn't you warn us about this? No one ever raised the question of the minority shareholders.' He breathed heavily, gathering his thoughts. 'Can't we arrange a meeting with this Kirk?'

'No, he's flatly refused. He's now officially representing a large number of the forty nine per cent minority shareholders in CDCM and could go to the court for a ruling that the majority is not allowed to vote. He wants to press as hard as he can for a situation where GIANT is forced into collapse and he being appointed the liquidator.'

Faberson shook his head. 'This is what he is good at. He's a complicated and dangerous man.'

'So what do we do?' asked Madsen.

'The obvious solution is to get rid of Kirk.'

'And how do you suggest we do that?' Erick asked, trying to keep the heavy sarcasm out of his voice.

Faberson seemed to crumple under his steady gaze. 'To be frank, at this moment I don't see how we can do it.'

The atmosphere in the room was becoming claustrophobic. Erick had to get out. He had to think.

He walked over Kongens Nytorv and into Nyhavn where he sat in one of the small restaurants frequented by sailors and ordered a whisky.

A few minutes later he got up, leaving his drink unfinished, and walked quickly through the maze of narrow streets until he stood outside a door beside which a polished brass plate bore the words of 'JANUS KIRK, Solicitor for the High Court'.

He told an elderly secretary that he was prepared to wait until Mr Kirk could see him. She disappeared and came back almost immediately, showing him into an office.

The room was dark, with curtains drawn although it was still light outside. It was full of legal text books, sombre paintings and four large mahogany cabinets with numerous slim drawers. The smell of stale cigars pervaded the room. Erick now understood why Kirk's office was known as 'the Coffin'.

Kirk himself lived up to Jan's unflattering description. 'What can I do for you?' he said from behind his desk, a small, bald weasel of a man to whom Erick took an instant dislike.

He began in a businesslike tone. 'I've come here to put a proposition to you. Would you, on behalf of your clients, accept an offer to pay them the same price as GIANT paid Densby, spread over the next two years? We will, of course, also honour your costs.'

'No,' Kirk answered, showing his teeth in a mirthless smile. 'No, we would not accept that proposal. To do as you suggest would mean your using CDCM funds, which I regard as stolen money.'

Erick paused, trying to keep his temper. 'All right. So how long will you give us to find the money required from an outside source to satisfy your clients?'

Kirk plaited his yellow fingers together, his smile slowly fading. 'Are you a gambling man, Mr Elgberg?'

'No.'

'But you know that, in a game of poker, you can't ask the other players which cards they hold?'

Erick could hardly mask his impatience. 'Get to the point.'

'My point is this, Mr Elgberg. Not only do I not show my cards, but I deal from the bottom of the pack.' Kirk's small mean eyes glittered at Erick. He was obviously enjoying making him squirm.

'Thousands of jobs are at stake, damn you,' Erick said tightly. 'Given that we have only a short period to negotiate, what can be done?'

'Why don't you just admit defeat, Mr Elgberg? Yours is a Utopian plan, whereas I am a realist.'

'And that's your final word?' Erick looked down at the reptilian Kirk, poised like a snake on the edge of his heavy leather chair.

'Mr Elgberg.' Any vestige of a smile had disappeared from the solicitor's face. 'I believe that was a highly illegal deal you made with Densby, selling GIANT of Scandinavia for an inflated price. My business is liquidation. I get ten per cent of all GIANT's assets before any payment to creditors and a large fee from CDCM's minority shareholders for disentangling them from you. Do you really think I would let that slip through my fingers for the sake of a few paltry jobs? You think you are popular because the media have been on your side until now, but you will find you have made quite a few enemies as well. Envy is a universal human failing, Mr Elgberg, but in Denmark it is stronger than any other emotion. All your so called friends will turn against you when you fall. And I mean you, personally, because you created the monster. Mark my words. Strange as it may seem, even an unpopular person like myself will be more highly regarded than you, when all this comes to light.'

Erick clenched his fists. It was as much as he could do to keep himself from encircling Kirk's wizened throat with his hands and throttling the life out of him.

Kirk's voice followed him from the room.

'GIANT will be dead before midday tomorrow. I wish you a pleasant evening, Mr Elgberg.'

* * *

The phone rang at six thirty in the morning. Erick was half asleep.

'My name is Tim Larsen. I'm a police barrister,' said an unfamiliar voice. 'My department is investigating GIANT's affairs. Is it possible for us to meet at the Politigaarden this morning at nine o'clock? Just boring routine sorting out the solicitors' mess.'

Larsen entered the room with a uniformed police officer, after Erick had been waiting two hours.

'I'd like to ask you a few questions,' he said, sitting down and immediately lighting his pipe. It suited his school mastery looks and quiet contemplative manner. 'Your full name and date of birth, please?'

Erick told him.

'So it's your birthday today. Congratulations.' Larsen shook Erick's hand. 'But I'm afraid we've no time for celebrations. You will have to wait for a short time downstairs while we fill in the necessary papers, but from this moment on you may regard yourself as under arrest for conspiracy to defraud the minority shareholders in CDCM.'

Erick was dumbfounded. The thought that he might be arrested had never occurred to him.

'Can I phone my solicitor?'

'I'm afraid not. Give me his name and I'll phone him. Any solicitor in Copenhagen would like to get this call.'

'Faberson, of Faberson & Jeppesen.' Erick could not think of any other name.

Larsen puffed a cloud of smoke in Erick's direction. 'A very bad choice, if I may say so.'

'Why?'

'Mr Faberson himself has just been taken into custody.'

* * *

'Take off your clothes, fold them neatly and put them on that chair. You'll get them back later,' a young police officer told Erick.

Mechanically, he undressed, still in a state of shock. Why were they treating him like this, like a common criminal? He had done nothing illegal; everything had been done according to the best legal advice. He walked into a room full of steam and could not see more than a yard in front of him.

'This way,' a voice shouted, summoning him into a white tiled area with a cold stone floor. 'Stand still.'

A jet of hot water hit his face so hard that he coughed.

'Turn around,' the voice shouted again. 'Now bend forward. That's it.' The hose was turned on again. 'Right. Now dry yourself.' A coarse towel landed across his shoulders.

After that he waited alone in a white painted room for three hours. Eventually the door was unlocked and he was taken outside and handcuffed.

'Where are you taking me?' Erick asked the policeman who was pushing him along the corridor.

'You're off to court. You'll find yourself in good company.'

In the back of the police van were Jan, Aage Madsen, Per Densby, Faberson and Jeppesen.

Erick sat down on a wooden bench beside Jan. Before the van left they were handcuffed to their seats. They sped through the narrow, busy streets of Copenhagen, unable to talk because of the intolerable noise made by the police escort's sirens.

As soon as they had arrived at the court building and the back doors of the van were opened, hundreds of flashbulbs exploded simultaneously. They continued to pop as the men were led through the crowd of journalists, who bombarded them with questions, up some stairs and into the court room where the six men stood together in the dock.

The judge came in and shuffled his papers. Tim Larsen spoke a few words. The judge nodded, rose and went out. Erick and the others were pushed towards the side door of the court room, down the stairs and back into the van.

'What happened?' Bewildered, Erick turned to Faberson.

He said grimly, 'We were all remanded for three months.'

They were taken to Vestre Faengsel, a remand prison located in Valby opposite the Carlsberg Brewery. Once there, the six men were quickly separated.

Erick followed a prison officer to the second floor to Cell 211. On a blackboard next to the door his name was already written.

'Go in.' The officer held the door open.

Erick hesitated on the threshold. Once he entered this confined space, there was no way back.

'I'm sorry Life doesn't come with any guarantees,' the officer said philosophically, 'but I'm sure one day you'll be able to look back on this as something you've put behind you. My name is Rasmussen by the way. We'll be getting to know each other quite well.' The door slammed. The key turned twice and a shutter was pushed across.

Nothing could have prepared Erick for the sense of total isolation which flooded him at the metallic sound of the key. The cell was comfortless and filled with the odour of despair.

All his ambitions had come to this. He had achieved nothing.

From now on, he would have to live inside himself. He would have to keep the images of Andrea, Christian and Lisette at the forefront of his mind and blank out the ignominy of his prison cell.

Suddenly he was in a wide dark tunnel. Everything around him was vague and indistinct. He slid forward, hitting the walls, painfully he managed to twist himself round and turn towards the light. He reached towards it. The light .had two strong metal bars across and would not open. He used whatever left of his strength. Then he could not breathe.

He rushed towards the metal door. Blindly he hammered his fists on the scratched surface, screaming as loud as he could. The shutter in the door opened and one peering eye looked through the flap. It closed with a hard click. Footsteps receded along the echoing corridor.

Erick slid to the floor where he retched with fear and vomited with despair, before mercifully he fainted.

# CHAPTER TWELVE  
_________________________

London, 10th July 1965

'I'm curious to see who would marry someone like you. We must make a foursome one evening.' John had telephoned Arthur the day after being released from Reading. His friend had been his eyes and ears while he had been imprisoned. They had grown to trust each other completely.

John and Catherine arranged to meet the newly weds in a pub opposite San Lorenzo, in Beauchamp Place where they were going to eat. Arthur arrived alone, wearing green trousers, a camel coloured jacket, green bow tie and black velvet hat which he did not remove. He looked rakish but sophisticated. He apologised for Diana's absence, explaining that she didn't like pubs and would join them in the restaurant.

Shortly after they had taken their seats there a tall blonde approached their table. She wore a shiny pillar box red trouser suit and matching high heeled shoes. On her head was a jaunty red vinyl butcher's boy cap against which the bleached blonde mane looked almost white. Gold framed reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Every head turned to watch her approach, and she knew it.

'Meet Diana.' Arthur stood fondly and pulled out a chair for her. As he made the introductions, John had difficulty taking his eyes off her. He guessed that she was older than his friend. Not a natural beauty, there was something hard and contrived about her appearance, but for presentation and sheer physical presence he gave her top marks. Arthur sat smiling slightly, seeing his friend busily assessing the new arrival.

'So, you're the great John Forbes,' she said, fixing him with narrow eyes. She had a high girlish voice and a broad Cockney accent which she made no attempt to disguise.

'You have an advantage. Arthur told me precious little about you,' John joked back.

'At least you've married a normal man,' Catherine remarked to Diana.

'Nothing much to tell about how we met. I came, he saw, I conquered.' The answer was deliberately flip, as was the way she pursed her red painted lips and blew Arthur a kiss.

'I wouldn't say you conquered me exactly,' he demurred. 'But from the day we met I saw what a team we'd make. After that, it was just a matter of convincing you.'

'You're not kidding!' Diana lit a cigarette and fixed her eyes on Catherine. 'I was living very happily with someone else,' she confided. 'But Arthur pestered me every day with flowers, chocolates, a watch, holidays, furs – once he even had a new red Mini delivered with a huge red bow tied around it. Think of any seduction technique – he tried it.'

Catherine laughed. 'Well, it certainly paid off.'

'Don't believe everything she tells you,' Arthur cut in. 'My Di loves to exaggerate.'

And she also loves to examine people, John thought shrewdly, noting the way Diana directed all her attention to Catherine, repeatedly drawing her into the conversation, offering her a cigarette and even lighting it for her. When she wanted to emphasise a point, she was making, she would tap Catherine's hand, her long scarlet talons outlandish against his wife's smooth pale hands.

John saw the amused expression in Arthur's eyes as he caught his old friend studying Diana. It was a real puzzle, thought John. Okay, they'd never discussed it, but he'd have laid a pound to a penny that Arthur preferred men to girls. He'd certainly given that impression for as long as John had known him.

He registered the way Diana leaned in closer to Catherine, saw the covert glance she directed down the low cut neckline of her blue satin dress. Suddenly the penny dropped. With the girls still talking animatedly, John raised one eyebrow and said softly to Arthur, 'Is she on the level – your wife?'

He nodded. 'She is now. Took the pills, had three months of electrolysis and I paid for the final operation in Tangier six months ago. Now she's on at me for a new pair of Bristols – looks like she's studying Catherine's form. Apparently the hormones she's on have left her short changed in that department!'

He laughed at John's expression. 'Well, you did ask. It surprised me as well, if you really want to know. I never thought I would fancy a TS, but I certainly fancied Brian McPhee. Went to hell and back to turn himself into Diana St. Claire. Now she's Diana Black, my almost lawfully wedded wife, and I wouldn't have it any other way.'

John raised his glass in a silent toast. At that moment Diana finishing telling a particularly lurid story about the lengths Arthur had gone to court her.

Catherine laughed. 'Is that true?' she asked Arthur.

He shrugged his shoulders and kept his mouth tightly shut.

Diana turned towards John and lifted her glass. John smiled and held his glass forward. Who was he to judge Arthur's choice. If Brian or Diana made his friend happy, it was only for him to accept the fact.

'I've got used to the old sobersides now,' said Diana and pinched Arthur's cheek. 'Reminds me of my old dad, he does. My father has a junk shop in Canning Town – empties people's houses after they've kicked the bucket, so I know the second hand business. Arthur's is just a poncier version of that really, isn't it?'

He raised his eyebrows and changed the subject.

* * *

'I take it you intend to start a new venture, John?' he asked.

'Nothing lasts forever. I presume you found some new suppliers while I was away? Good. Well, now I'm setting up an organisation to import raw hemp and distribute it to wholesalers who will handle the processing themselves. Strictly speaking I shan't be dealing in drugs so the risk is comparatively low while the potential profit is enormous. Do you want to come in on it?'

Arthur pulled a face. 'What would I do? It's hardly up my alley. I'm strictly fine art even if some of it is a bit hot.'

'Why don't we buy a shop and you can help me that way? It could be an operational base for us which won't be directly linked to me or any criminal activity whatsoever.'

'Provide a respectable front?' Arthur nodded slowly. 'Sounds okay to me – so long as we agree that the shop part will be strictly legit. Yes, it'd do me no harm to have my name above a door. And I think I know just the place in Mount Street.'

John grinned. 'I thought you would.'

Tell me one thing, 'Arthur queried. 'Why do you want to start this new operation? You're already a wealthy man, happily married and still less than thirty. Why not just concentrate on the house and estate? It sounds a perfect life to me.'

John hesitated, searching for the right words. 'I've spent my working life up to now as a criminal. As a profession, though, crime is a meaningless pursuit if you're only in it for the money. But if your aim is power – ultimate power – and you're able to grasp it, that's an achievement that's second to none.'

His voice was calm and reasonable but with an underlying note of cold conviction that told Arthur how far he had come since that summer day when he'd first stepped nervously into the shop in Aldford Street. In the subsequent years Arthur had at first been something of a mentor to John, teaching him about art and antiques. While John was in prison, he had willingly done favours for his friend inside. Now it seemed John intended them to move on to a new phase in their relationship. It would as always be mutually beneficial but this time John would be in command. Arthur knew this talk of power was his way of making that perfectly plain.

Accept it and prosper. Disagree and he'd be out of the picture so far as John was concerned. Arthur shrugged his shoulders. For his own shop and the other benefits which he knew would follow, he could live with that. And now he could afford to buy Diana that new fur she'd been bending his ear about. Yes, every cloud was mink lined when you hitched your wagon to that of John Forbes's.

* * *

At the end of July, David summoned the whole team and told them to come to a pub on the corner of Richmond Bridge. They had been warned to use public transport and to arrive separately.

The meeting was timed for 1.30, when the pub was at its busiest. There was much excitement and laughter when the men met each other again. David, after checking that everyone had arrived, gave each of them the address of a house not far away, used by film and television companies for location shots. Comings and goings by different people would not cause any curiosity among the neighbours.

When the men and Ramona had arrived John stood up, holding a sheaf of notes. 'We've all read about Ronnie Biggs's escape from Wandsworth Prison. Good luck to him! But in my opinion, robbing trains and banks is out of date. We're not going to do anything like that. Our concept of crime is completely different. We'll be businessmen first and foremost. That our product might end up being converted into an illegal substance is not our concern. But,' he said, looking seriously at each face, 'if anything should go wrong, every one of you will undoubtedly end up back in prison.'

Their faces remained impassive. John went on, 'This organisation will import and market unprocessed hemp. We will never be associated with anyone other than the grower, who lives in Morocco, and our selected wholesalers. We will never deal in anything else, especially hard drugs. We will never carry, or even possess, guns. We will have our own intelligence unit, which will specialise in our sole product, raw hemp. Anything suspicious that any of you see or hear must be reported immediately to William Webster. We will retain someone who will attend court during all the major drug cases. We must know everything and everybody in our chosen field in order to be the market leaders in our specialised product.'

He paused, letting these points sink in before continuing. 'The organisation which we are setting up will be known as the Company.'

'The Invisible Company,' David interjected.

'Exactly,' John agreed, 'and with invisible staff. No high living or big spending will be allowed. No flashy cars. You will also be restricted in your circle of friends. The first time you're involved in a fight or attract police attention in any way will mean instant dismissal.'

The room was silent. Every eye was upon him.

'Our biggest risk,' John continued, 'unless the police or customs discover us bringing the hemp into the country or delivering it to our wholesalers, lies in our internal security. Every member of this team has a duty to safeguard the others. Disloyalty will not be tolerated. If any one of you is picked up by the police, you will not listen to deals, you will not say one single word, however innocent, about any of your colleagues or the Company itself. You will simply keep silent until our solicitor arrives. Do you understand?'

Again John waited. There was absolute silence. They all realised that they were on the verge of something even bigger than they had expected, and it demanded serious attention.

'I am not worried about the operation itself,' John went on at last. 'The funding is there. We can buy whatever is needed. But first we must plan every aspect thoroughly. We'll do dummy runs again and again until everything runs smoothly. In order to do this, we'll have rules which must be adhering to without question. We are no stronger than the weakest person in this room and we succeed – or fail – together. There is no safety net in this circus.'

There was a murmur of agreement in the room. He pressed home his advantage. 'Our number one rule is total discretion. If anyone talks and jeopardises our trust then I will have no hesitation in taking immediate action. If the betrayer puts himself beyond our grasp then we'll punish his – or her – closest relative.' John studied their faces. 'Is that fully understood?'

Everyone nodded. They remembered Poulson and the knitting needle, and the youth who had been foolish enough to defy John's supremacy. They knew this was not an idle threat.

* * *

'So we're in business.' As he had expected, no one had argued with John's ground rules. 'As you have shown your trust in me, it is only right I should do the same. Until now you have known me by the name of John Spencer. My real name is John Forbes. I'll be seeing you all from time to time, but our operations manager will be David Kennedy.

The rest of the meeting was given over to explaining what each team member's job would be in the Company. Then David took the floor.

'Your instructions will come from me, and I will be your point of contact. Your payment will go up to two hundred and fifty pounds a week from now on. Our supplier in Morocco is already in place. Bonuses will be paid on the successful sale of each shipment. I can promise they'll be generous.

'Do we know how big the market is?' Shastri's sister Ramona asked. She had proved to be a willowy sari clad woman who rarely smiled or met a man's eye directly.

He was ready with the answer. 'It's expected that this year there'll be five million regular users of hash in Britain. If they spend only two pounds ten a week that means twelve and a half million per week in total, or over six hundred and fifty million a year. Of course, I'm talking end user prices. The value of the raw materials will be twenty per cent, which still leaves one hundred and thirty five million a year for us.'

There was a loud murmur of approval and excitement.

John smiled at David who leaped enthusiastically to his feet.

'Okay, everyone. Let's go and do it!'

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN  
_________________________

Port Isaac, Cornwall, October 1965

From his research in the library at Reading, John had decided on Northern Cornwall as the ideal place for landing the hemp. Its rugged coastline provided a choice of concealed and deserted coves where their covert activity could be carried out.

David Kennedy spent a week on reconnaissance there, investigating accessibility by road as well as remoteness from civilisation.

A few miles northeast of Port Isaac he discovered a large Victorian house built on a hill overlooking a tiny horseshoe bay carved into the sheltering cliffs. There was a large barn adjacent to the house and a metalled road.

He made a generous offer for the property via a Padstow estate agent and told them he represented a religious order called the 'Comrades of God', who supported churches on the other side of the iron curtain, and wanted to use the house as a base and retreat. Local people would not then be surprised to see team members arriving and departing or take notice of lights, cars and movements.

The owner finally agreed to sell and signs were erected at the end of the driveway proclaiming the house the HQ of the Comrades of God. A leaflet was delivered to each house in Port Isaac explaining the 'religious order's' aim and stating they were not evangelical and would never disturb or approach anyone in the area.

As soon as David had completed the purchase of the property through solicitors in London, Francis Morell took over arrangements for the house and land.

John's plan was that their Moroccan contact, Muhammad Kazir, would arrange delivery of the hemp to a Spanish boat chartered for three month periods. A Company member would supervise the loading in Morocco and remain with the boat on its voyage to Cornwall and back again.

The bales would be packed first in heavy plastic, then in plastic foam, and finally a watertight black covering. Each bale, although weighing sixty pounds, could float. Fifteen bales were tied together, five feet apart, using black plastic coated wire. At one end of the plastic wire was a large orange buoy and at the other a weight heavy enough to hold the fifteen bales and the buoy underwater.

The boat would drop twelve consignments, each of fifteen bales, sailing as close to the shore as possible.

John had commissioned an engineering company in Denver to manufacture a mechanism that would trigger the release of the weight, leaving it at the bottom of the sea but allowing the buoys to surface. The rest of the team would then recover the bales with the aid of homing devices. Once recovered, they would be towed to land, stacked on a trolley and hauled to the loading area at the back of the house.

Each van in John's fleet of six could take thirty bales. Only complete van loads would be sold on to wholesalers. The ignition keys would be delivered by couriers to each wholesaler along with the registration papers of the vehicle. Details of the van's location would be given by telephone. The van was to be removed within one hour. Scrapping it would be left to the buyer.

The recovery boats were three five metre Zodiac rigid inflatables, as used by the American Coast Guards. They were powerful craft with 90 hp engines, nearly impossible to capsize and exceptionally secure due to their low centre of gravity. They had been tried out locally several times and every member of the landing team was thoroughly trained in their handling.

With the supplier in place, the HQ and boats bought, plans for landing and unloading worked out in detail, it only remained for Ray Immerman to report on the wholesalers.

'We've got a problem with the type of people working in this business,' he explained. 'They're not trustworthy. They don't see any further than the end of their noses and haven't the capital to invest in the quantities we want to sell.'

John frowned. 'What do you suggest we do then?'

'Find six people who already have some kind of business record and set them up ourselves. They must have clean noses but be eager to earn dodgy money. Then we'll leave them to trade direct with the dealers who'll process the hemp. If we don't press for payment until two weeks after delivery, that'll give them time to set the deals up and collect their dues. Can our cash flow carry that?'

John thought for a moment. 'It might work. Can you find six trustworthy people?'

'I've found them,' Ray replied promptly. 'They'll deal with me personally, won't even know about the Company. They don't know each other and I've put the frighteners on them about security. This way, we can cover the whole country.'

John nodded. 'Well done. I'm impressed. Tell them we must have payment in full for each shipment no later than two weeks after delivery. Give them the numbers of the special bank accounts abroad.'

At the end of September, John and David arranged a complete rehearsal of the operation from delivery of the bales to the Moroccan port, to the final destinations of the six vans. A week later the team met in the Post House conference room at Heathrow Airport where every detail of the rehearsal was discussed. It had gone well, and everyone was anxious to get down to the real action.

For the first real delivery John decided he would join the team.

* * *

In the late afternoon of Thursday, 26 October 1965, John Forbes's team arrived at the house in Port Isaac. They changed into diving suits and kept two hour watches for the signal from the fishing boat.

By one o'clock in the morning, when no signal had been spotted, John told David to walk down to the bay to see if anything was happening. He pulled a windcheater over his diving suit and left the farmhouse. The wind, merely a breeze a few hours ago, was becoming stronger.

He walked up the hill and had a chat with a team member called Eugene, who confirmed that no signal had come from the sea. The night was black; there was no moon, so any light would be easily seen. Leaving Eugene, David ran quickly down the path towards the bay and cursed at what he saw.

Close to the shore, he made out a small craft lit up like a Christmas tree. It was definitely not the Spaniard who couldn't get in that close.

'We've got a problem,' he told John back at the house. 'There's another boat in the bay. Fishermen, I think.'

'Shit,' said John and turned to Francis. 'You know the area best. Sneak down there and take a look around.'

He slipped out of the door. John and the rest of the team waited for twenty minutes hardly daring to breathe. To have come this far and have to abort the first mission would be a crushing disappointment.

Another ten minutes passed. Then, just as John was thinking all was lost, Francis appeared, breathless from the struggle up the cliff path.

'Sorry. Had to get close, and it's as black as your hat out there. Anyway, I think the problem's over. They were local fishermen using lights to bring the fish to the surface. They've sailed towards Port Isaac now.'

'Absolutely sure they were fishermen?' John asked.

'Certain. I could drive to Port Isaac and check but I don't think there's time. The tide will turn soon. Then we'd have to haul the bales over the sand.'

John looked at his watch. The Spaniard should have arrived by now. 'David, radio Peter and Eugene. We're back in business.'

Eugene's voice crackled over the walkie talkie. 'Sorry, too late. The boat was here a while ago but I was giving the warning sign.'

'OK,' David said wearily. 'Let's hope it'll be back within the hour.'

'There's another problem,' complained Eugene. 'This bloody wind... It's blowing me away, man!'

John opened the front door. The wind had mounted in the last hour and was now strong enough to bend the rowan by the house almost to the ground. 'That's all we need. If it gets any worse, we'll have to call the whole thing off. Let's hope the boat comes back soon. For the next assignment we'll arrange ship to shore radio contact and not rely on signals.'

After another tense hour, Eugene's excited voice cracked over the walkie talkie. 'It's back. It's back.'

A murmur of relief went round the room.

John stood up and opened the door. The wind had increased almost to gale force. A decision had to be taken now. Abort their first landing or carry on?

He saw the excited, expectant faces of his team waiting for him to give the go ahead.

'Let's go,' he said, unsure if he had made the right choice.

* * *

They waited in the bay for another fifteen minutes to give the boat time to drop its cargo. John helped to launch the three Zodiacs, warning the crew to be careful not to sail into each other's line of bales. Although they'd plenty of practice, this was the first time they had worked in such a rough sea. The wind was coming from the north, which meant that the first bale with the radio transmitter attached would be facing away from shore, increasing the risk of fouling the lines.

Ten minutes later the first boat was back. Shortly afterwards the two others arrived and unloaded their heavy cargo. They went out twice more, while the remaining men hauled up the slippery black bales, stacking them in the waiting vans.

Only two boats arrived back after the last run. The exhausted crew unloaded the bales and waited for the third crew to return. When the Zodiac failed to materialise after a quarter of an hour, John leapt into one of the boats, ordering a team member called Stuart to accompany him, and David and William Webster took the other. They kept close together and searched the area for an hour. When they returned to the beach, having failed to find any trace of the boat, dawn was breaking on the horizon.

John passed a weary hand over his face. 'Might it have beached the other side of Port Isaac?'

David understood about winds and currents. 'No way. With a north wind, even taking the tide into consideration, it couldn't have drifted that far.'

'Hang on!' Stuart said suddenly. 'Someone's coming.'

A hunched figure came stumbling around the headland. Seeing them it raised one hand weakly, then crumpled on to the sand at the waterline.

They raced to help him and discovered it was Shastri.

'Francis... Francis...' was all he could say for a minute or two.

John knelt beside him and gave him a mouthful of whisky from a hip flask. 'What about Francis?' he prompted.

'He – he drowned.' Shastri's eyes rolled in a face that was drained of colour and haggard with shock and cold.

'He's dead. A wave knocked him overboard. I tried to grab him and I fell in after him. Lost him in the water. I tried everything..... drowned.'

John sat back on his heels. A man had died on their first operation and it was his responsibility. He should never have allowed the landing to continue after all the bad omens. Now they faced discovery.

He got slowly to his feet. 'Peter, Haydon, Eugene – get the remaining vans loaded and get them out of here. The rest of you come with me. How far away?'

'About three miles in that direction. The damned bales are washed up on the beach. I didn't have the strength to do anything about them.'

An hour and a half later they had managed to transport the bales back to the house. John decided to leave Francis's body on the sand though there were murmurs of dissent at this. But when John gave a direct order no one tried to argue.

Afterwards they gathered in the house and sat without speaking. No one had expected the Company's long awaited debut to be anything less than a total triumph.

They were all shattered by Francis's death. Prison friendships were always either ephemeral or else lasted a lifetime. Francis had been liked and respected by everyone in the team. And what consequences would this have for the future of their undertaking?

John saw the vans off then returned to the house.

'I know you are unhappy about leaving Francis like that but it had to be done,' he told them. 'Disposing of him ourselves is too risky, and there's his family to consider too. No, better all round if the death is seen as a tragic accident. Also there is going to be an inquest, but as he did drown, it might be alright. David, I would like you to call the police, claim you were out diving together and Francis was washed overboard. Let them find him.'

'And I'll have to tell his wife the same story,' David said hollowly.

'Is that all right with you?' John asked. 'Do you want me to come along?'

'No, it's all right. This is one thing the army prepares you for.'

John sighed. 'Thanks. Phone me as soon as you can, I'll be waiting at home. Now let's get the hell out of here.'

He felt totally exhausted and strung out. After all his planning and forethought he had been defeated by the one element he could not control – the weather.

* * *

When he arrived home in Salisbury John felt shattered. He was fit for nothing more than a bath and bed. Catherine, however, had other ideas. She greeted him with a big smile and a kiss.

'I have something to tell you!'

'Let me have a drink first. I've had a hell of a night.'

He saw the way her face clouded over and felt a flicker of remorse. It was hardly his wife's fault if she did not share his problems and setbacks with the Company. John kept that part of his life a closed book so far as she was concerned.

A few seconds later he was doubly glad he had not been tempted to confide in her. Catherine poured him a large malt then curled up beside him on the sofa.

He knew what she was going to say before she spoke.

'I'm so glad you're back, John. I never know how long you're going to be away on business and I've been dying to tell you... we're going to have a baby! Isn't it marvellous news? God, I'm happy. Aren't you?'

To his surprise, he felt tears prick his eyes. It was good news, the very best. Catherine was made to be a mother and he was confident he would always be able to provide his child with the very best things in life. But in the midst of his joy he could not help thinking guiltily of another family in Essex who would even now be receiving the news that a beloved husband and father would not be coming home to them.

He prayed it would not be long before the Cornish police found Francis Morell's lifeless body and they could arrange a dignified send off, fitting for the first member of the Company to die in action.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
_________________________

Copenhagen, Denmark, Summer 1970

Andrea walked out of the gloom of Tim Larsen's office in Politigaarden into the welcoming sunlight. She appreciated no longer having to go to Vestre Faengsel to visit Erick, where they were only allowed to meet in a small cubicle. There a guard was always present to interrupt their conversation if anything about the forthcoming court case was mentioned.

At the Politigaarden, even though there were police around, she and Erick were left alone in the corner of an office for several hours at a time. The Police wanted Erick's help with minor background details which had no influence on the case and in Larsen's office husband and wife were free to talk about their fears and hopes in between consultations with the affable policeman.

Although Erick and Andrea disagreed with everything Tim Larsen stood for and objected to his one sided view of the case, they recognised his basic honesty. Over the agonisingly slow months leading up to the trial, a perverse sort of camaraderie had grown between them.

Bail had been refused to all defendants. Meanwhile, the media never stopped fabricating new scandals about the GIANT directors. All untrue, but newspaper sales had never been better.

It was such a beautiful day that Andrea decided to walk the mile from the Politigaarden to the Ministry of Justice where she worked as a secretary. She was conscious of the many interested glances thrown her way by passers by, who obviously recognised her from the newspapers, but she ignored them.

Andrea knew by now that Danes were more curious than sensitive.

Back at her desk, she was surprised when her boss invited her into his office for a private word. As she had asked for the morning off, she did not expect anything to be wrong.

'Have you ever considered,' he began nervously, 'finding another occupation until your husband's situation has been resolved?'

She frowned. 'Are you trying to get rid of me?'

'We have nothing but praise for your work, Andrea,' he said hastily, 'but you must understand that when the press discover you work for the Ministry of Justice, it could be embarrassing.'

She flushed angrily. 'I'm not on trial. Erick hasn't yet been found guilty of anything and if he is, it will be for something of which he is morally innocent. But I agree it will be embarrassing for the Ministry, so if you want me to leave without a fuss, I demand six months' pay.'

'I'm really sorry,' her superior said, relieved. 'The cheque will be in the post tonight.'

* * *

Preparation for the court case took eighteen months.

Erick and his co defendants were charged with conspiracy to deceive the minority shareholders in CDCM by selling GIANT of Scandinavia at an inflated price.

The defence would argue that the price was agreed by the CDCM board, which had been legally appointed, and reflected the value of the goodwill in GIANT. But as GIANT had now been forced into liquidation by Janus Kirk, this argument was going to be difficult to maintain.

A special court room had been built to accommodate the many defence barristers, clerks and assistants. The area for the press had to be made five times bigger than usual.

A judge and two lay assessors, one a dentist, the other a postman, were to hear the case.

In June 1971 the trial finally started. The press, finding the fine detail of the case too boring, still invented outrageous events which had nothing to do with what had happened in court. The defendants were assured by their barristers that they could ignore what was said in the papers.

Erick was involved in every detail of the case and wrote long instructions to his barrister every evening. When, towards the end of the case, the barrister informed him that he had some doubts about the outcome, Erick reached what he felt was the lowest point in his imprisonment.

'It's not my job to give advice,' his guard, Rasmussen, remarked that evening, when Erick returned to his cell from the court. 'But we've been together nearly every day for the last two years, and I have extensive experience in the observation of human misery.'

Erick shrugged his shoulders wearily. 'I don't believe anyone can help me anymore.'

'Exactly,' nodded the guard. 'That's exactly what you must learn to live with. That there's absolutely no chance of your getting off.'

'Thanks for those words of encouragement!'

'You know you've lost. The point is, what are you going to do about it?'

'Figure out how to get my revenge? No, no. What matters is how I get back on my feet, when I get out.'

'That's the spirit!' Rasmussen put the catch on the lock and sat on the bed next to Erick. 'Listen, the judge, a leading member of the establishment, has to convict all of you. There's too much at stake here. Public opinion is too critical of you for him to find you innocent. You have to accept that and look beyond it.'

'Yes the whole thing is a farce,' Erick agreed heavily. 'I must play my part, serve my time and try to keep my sanity.'

'You've got it. Now all those people in court needn't matter to you anymore. They've done their worst. You are already preparing yourself mentally for life after prison. Hang on to that.'

* * *

On Friday, 28th January 1972, the court was ready to publish its findings.

'Has your barrister said anything about how long you will get if this goes against us today?' Erick asked a pale, thin, sick looking Aage Madsen.

'It's no good losing faith now. I haven't even asked anyway. I only know I will appeal if the verdict goes against me.'

Erick could not help feeling guilty that Madsen had ended up like this. Of course he knew he had nothing for which to blame himself, but he had unwittingly got them all into this situation, and Madsen was innocent of any wrongdoing.'

At exactly two o'clock they were ushered into the packed courtroom. A ripple of excitement ran through the Court when the Judge entered.

'This court finds all the defendants guilty as charged. Jan Christensen, as Managing Director I find that you must bear the main responsibility and sentence you to seven years. Per Densby, your previous good name has been dragged through this court. I sentence you also to seven years. Erick Elgberg, I have allowed for your youth, but it was your ability to persuade others which was a major factor in creating this scandal. I sentence you to five years imprisonment. Aage Madsen, you allowed yourself to be persuaded and should have known better. I sentence you to four years.'

Faberson and Jeppesen each received two years for giving wrongful advice and were disbarred. As they had already served this time on remand, the Judge ordered their immediate release.

When they left the courtroom, the prisoners were jostled out through the building and into a windowless police van which took them back to Vestre Faengsel with full police escort.

'Why am I back here?' Erick asked Rasmussen. 'This is a remand prison.'

'Everyone has appealed against their sentences. It was on the radio and TV news.'

'No one even asked me if I wanted to appeal!'

Rasmussen shrugged. 'Your barrister must have done it on your behalf.'

When, the following Monday, his barrister visited him, Erick surprised him by making it clear that he did not want to appeal.

That same afternoon Rasmussen once again sat with him in his cell.

'I'd like us to keep in contact when all this is over,' Erick said.

'No. From now on we go our separate ways. That's how I want it,' was the guard's abrupt answer.

'Why? I'll have served my time by then.'

'My job as a prison officer would be at risk if I ever associated with you again. I might lose my pension. No, we are now two ships sailing in different directions.'

'You've been very good to me. I'd just like to show my gratitude in some way, that's all. I'm sorry you feel like that.'

'Let me put it more bluntly, Erick. You are a convicted criminal and life for you will never be the same again. Society has branded you. Now you must live off your wits, survive as best you can in a world where everyone else has some respect and dignity. You can't go back to the way you lived before. In prison you'll now start to make friends and gain valuable associates you would not have deigned to speak to previously. When you are out these people will be important to you. You will be important to them. And never forget – statistically there is a sixty five per cent chance you'll end up back in jail.'

'Never!' said Erick, shaking his hand. 'When I get out of here it's the simple life for me. No wheeling and dealing, no big business schemes. I don't care if I'm poor for the rest of my days – I'll be going straight. I can't face prison again.'

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN  
_________________________

Cerne Estate, Spring, Dorset 1966

With Catherine expecting a child, Lord and Lady Carven and May Forbes decided this was the right time for the next generation to take over Cerne House and Estate. The house in Salisbury was sold and John bought a detached Regency villa in two acres of grounds just outside Bournemouth. Archie and Gwen were installed in the main house and May was delighted with her self contained flat in an annexe.

It gave John enormous pleasure to engage a live in housekeeper who tended both his in laws and his mother. May's days in service were over at last.

At Cerne John employed a builder recommended by Arthur to renovate and decorate the house inside and out. John found Keith Spike's company so congenial that he asked the young man to work for him permanently. Keith was in his late twenties, an excellent carpenter and fanatical cricket player. He moved into May Forbes's old flat with his wife and baby daughter and became John's occasional driver as well as resident handyman.

On 28th April 1966, Michael John Forbes was born after an emergency Caesarean. The doctor told John afterwards that it was unlikely his wife would bear another baby.

That night he sat by Michael's incubator as Catherine slept. He was such a scrap of a child with frail twig like legs and arms and a thick shock of hair.

Although Michael was not yet a day old John knew that his arrival had brought new meaning to his own life. The bond of love between him and his baby son was something he had never felt for another human being.

* * *

Let's get away,' he said to Catherine a few months later. 'Just you, me and Michael. The sooner the better.'

'Where to? He's still very young.'

Unsurprisingly after the traumatic birth, Catherine had turned into an anxious mother who presided vigilantly over her son's welfare.

Her disappointment that there would be no sisters or brothers for him had been keen but John had told her firmly to count her blessings. They had a son now, strong and healthy, who was bringing them great happiness. It was enough for him.

'I just want us three to be together somewhere different,' he explained. 'Give me a chance to really get to know my son without business and Estate matters intruding. Leave it to me, I'll find us the perfect place.'

He rented a house on the outskirts of Cannes for six weeks during early summer. It had a pool, a wide terrace and a large garden with palm trees and a spectacular view of the Mediterranean. They loved the house and the neighbourhood, which was twenty minutes from the town centre.

It became John's daily routine to take a leisurely two hour walk in the mornings pushing Michael in his pram. He usually went to La Croisette, the seaside promenade, where he had a cup of coffee at an open air café. Then he strolled round the market behind Rue d'Antibes and bought the items on Catherine's shopping list. Back home, she fed Michael and put him down to sleep before they had lunch on the terrace. In the evening they went to a variety of outdoor restaurants with the pram standing next to their table.

John also chartered a yacht and its crew for three days. Catherine felt she was living in a dream. She had never known such happiness.

* * *

Meanwhile the demand for hemp was higher than they could fulfil. After the tragedy on the first landing, John had instructed David to follow the weather forecasts in detail and to abort any operation if the weather or the tides were at all doubtful. The Spanish captain was instructed to unload further away from the coast, enabling them to leave the hemp safely until bad weather conditions improved.

John insisted on not increasing the price, as he thought other importers would only undercut them, but he chartered another fishing boat in Morocco and increased the frequency of landings to twice a month. The quantities per shipment were doubled.

After less than a year, the Invisible Company controlled virtually the entire hemp market in Britain.

* * *

On Friday 14th October 1966, Arthur phoned John late and told him that that afternoon a Swiss collector, who had lived in England for ten years, had visited Black's of Mayfair. He and his wife wanted to sell their valuable collection of art and antiques. They had left photographs and a detailed list. Arthur guessed that it might be in John's interest to talk to the vendor as the man had let slip that he owned a small but influential bank in Zurich. Presumably there were financial problems.

John instructed the Hinkerstone Agency in Berkeley Street, a highly respected and discreet international detective agency, to get as much information as possible about his banking connection.

A meeting was arranged the following Tuesday in Arthur's shop with the Swiss, Count George von Fritzenberg. Arthur had told the Count that he had a private buyer who might be interested in acquiring his collection.

Arriving early, John stood on the other side of the road admiring the shop. Painted black, with stylish gold lettering above the frontage, it looked wonderful. Large pots containing cherry trees stood to either side of the door. The windows were black tinted but through them a spot light could clearly be seen trained on a Han dynasty terracotta figure and an ancient Etruscan vase. When he opened the front door he stepped on to deep pile black carpet. It was like stepping into a dark sea, exciting and unnerving at the same time.

The Count was already waiting.

After introductions over coffee in Arthur's office, he explained that he had to sell his valuable collection. John had learned through private enquiries that his country home outside Evesham was also for sale, but the Count did not mention it. Besides obtaining a reasonable price for his artefacts, his main concern was anonymity. A banker, he explained, could not afford any adverse publicity. The sale would have to be completed quickly and without fuss.

He told them he had chosen to live with his English wife and their children on a country estate in Evesham, which had belonged to her family, as his relationship with his own father was not good.

John had learned that the Swiss bank was run by managers von Fritzenberg's father had appointed many years previously. When the Count's father had died two months ago it had become clear that the bank had been steadily losing money over the last three years by investing badly in currency transactions. John knew that von Fritzenberg must be in very serious trouble indeed to part with a prized collection as well as his wife's estate.

'I will not take part in the valuation,' John established. 'Mr Black obviously knows much more about antiques than I do. I will merely follow his advice.'

'The photos,' Arthur said, 'have given me a good idea. But before a proper valuation can be given, I must see the pieces themselves. When would it be convenient for me to visit, Count?'

The request seemed reasonable and von Fritzenberg was prepared to give a date and a time. Seeing his chance, John put in, ' Excuse me, I don't wish to be indiscreet, but I understood your estate is also for sale and that you are considering moving back to Switzerland?'

'Well, yes,' said the Count reluctantly, obviously not liking the way the conversation was going.

'Mr Forbes happens to be a wealthy man, the owner of the Cerne Estate. He has also worked in a City investment house,' Arthur interrupted. 'I'm sure he has a good reason for asking.'

For a moment nobody spoke, then John continued, 'How much are you asking for both the Estate and your collection?'

'Close to two million pounds.' Von Fritzenberg got to his feet. 'But I think I have been invited here under false pretences. I understood you might be interested in buying our collection. That is all I am interested in discussing. Good day.' He threw his overcoat over his arm, grasped his briefcase and hurried down the stairs to the shop. John smiled at Arthur and left quickly.

He waited until von Fritzenberg's hand was on the door, then said, 'I'll probably buy both.'

Von Fritzenberg turned. 'I beg your pardon? You haven't even seen them!'

'My chauffeur is sitting over there in the blue Jaguar. Why don't we drive to your home right now? We can have a chat on the way.'

'It's a three hour journey!'

John shrugged. 'I've nothing better to do.'

For two hours he deliberately talked about everything other than the bank, the property or the collection.

When they reached the house near Evesham he made no pretence of examining it or the antiquities. It was the bank he'd had his eye on all along.

By the early evening they'd settled that he would pay two million pounds within two weeks for a fifty one per cent share of the bank; the holding von Fritzenberg owned. The Count would be employed for life as chairman and executive director and besides a substantial salary, ten percent of the income from the shares would also go back to him. He would not have to sell his antiques or his wife's estate and no one need know the true ownership of the shares. Indeed that was a condition of sale.

After dinner at his palatial house, von Fritzenberg confirmed that he and his wife would be moving back to Switzerland and taking control of the family bank.

A few days later the two men flew to Zurich, where John was shown around the bank without being introduced to anyone. In von Fritzenberg's father's office they signed an agreement prepared by a Swiss attorney.

* * *

'I want you to take full control of the import business,' John said to David a few days later.

'What do you mean, full control? I thought I was in charge!'

'So you are, but I intend to go into financing so I won't be around to oversee operations.' John smiled at David's obvious surprise. 'As you've often said, something could go wrong with the hemp business. Or else we'll get too old for it. The Company needs other areas to expand into.'

'So I take all the day to day decisions and report to you only on matters of extreme importance? Is that what you mean?'

'Exactly. The hemp business is now your responsibility.'

* * *

On Wednesday, 21st December 1966, John Forbes parked his Jaguar behind Tooting Broadway station and took the Northern Line to Bank. It was eight thirty in the morning and he had already been to his office in Esher. John had grown accustomed to changing his routes and avoiding any pattern in his daily routine.

It had been many years since he was last in the City. The brass plate was still on the wall outside Alexander Higginson Investments; the same one he had polished twice a week. He walked into reception. 'Hello, Tania. Remember me?'

'Of course I do,' she said, put on her horn rimmed glasses. 'It's John Forbes, isn't it? What are you doing here?'

'I'd like a word with Mr Higginson. Can he spare me five minutes this morning?'

'Since you're already here, I expect he will.'

John entered the familiar room, glad that he was not still working in this suffocating atmosphere. 'Good morning, Mr Higginson,' he said politely, though his loathing of the man had not diminished.

'Hello, Forbes. This is quite a surprise.'

'I'm sorry to have come without making an appointment. How's your son. Philip, isn't it?'

'Studying hard at Cambridge.'

'He was a bright boy.' John sat down and smiled at his former boss, who glared back suspiciously. 'I just wanted you to know how grateful I am for all the help you gave me. I've my own company now.'

'Oh, yes?' Higginson sniffed. 'And what line of business are you in?'

'Toys. I import from the Far East, sell to all the major wholesalers in Europe and the United States.'

'Well done. You also married Carven's daughter, if I remember rightly.' Higginson peered at him through thick lensed glasses. 'So, what can I do for you?'

'Over the last couple of years,' John said, 'I've made quite a lot of money. Now I'm interested in investing in another type of business.'

'Well, I'm sure Higginson's can advise you.'

'I don't want advice. No, what I'm after is something slightly different.' John paused then said, 'Would you consider selling Alexander Higginson Investments, if the price were right?'

For a long moment Higginson looked stunned. 'Why, you young puppy!' he said at last. 'You walk in off the street and ask if I want to sell the business built up by my father, and which will be taken over by my son one day? The firm which carries the family name. Never!'

Slowly John rose and held out his hand.

'Very well. I trust that won't be your last word. But goodbye for now.'

Ignoring his hand, Higginson stared over John's head. 'Goodbye, Mr Forbes.'

It was only ten thirty. John had a lunch appointment with Arthur Black, so decided to walk from the City to Mayfair, via St Paul's, then Piccadilly and Berkeley Square. It took less time than he had anticipated and he arrived at Black's about midday.

When he entered the shop a young man with long blond hair came towards him. 'Can I help you, sir?'

'Is Mr Black in?'

'No, he's gone for coffee with an American collector. He'll be back within the hour. Can I inform him who has called?'

'Tell him John was here. I'll just look around and come back later.'

To kill time he walked along Bond Street, where he went into Sotheby's auction rooms. In reception he bought a catalogue and, stepping back without looking, heard a stifled cry. A woman, picking up some papers from the floor, was nursing her hand which he had obviously trodden on.

'I'm so sorry! I didn't see you. Hope nothing's broken?'

She got to her feet, still holding one finger. John took her hand and looked at it.

'I'd better take you to hospital just to be on the safe side. Can you move the fingers?'

'I think so,' she said, bending one painfully, then waggling all the others. Her hand, he noticed, was covered in paint of various colours.

'It was very clumsy of me,' John said. 'Are you an artist by any chance? I hope you'll be able to continue working.' He noticed her lively hazel eyes and wide well shaped mouth.

She laughed. 'It's a special paint I experimented with yesterday. I can't get it off.'

'Not even with turpentine?'

'No. I used it on some Dutch porcelain to get a special effect.'

She was, he guessed, in her mid thirties. Her dark hair was shoulder length and she was wearing a hair band that matched her dark green Sotheby's uniform. She was just his height. John found that pleased him. On her lapel was a name badge.

'Mona Hobson.' He smiled. 'I'm sorry we had to meet in this way, but if you have any trouble with your hand, please let me know.' He gave her his business card.

'I'll survive.' She pointed to a few papers left on the floor. 'They're yours, by the way. I was trying to retrieve them after they fell out of your folder.'

Picking them up, John realised they were his notes about Higginson Investments, which he must have dropped while flicking through the catalogue. While he was at floor level he noticed her attractive legs.

'So you work here and also paint?' he asked, to keep the conversation going.

'Yes. This job helps pay for materials. They cost a fortune.'

'Now I feel even worse about your hand.'

'Oh, don't worry! It's better already. But it's nice having someone fussing over me.' She coloured a little, as if embarrassed by having said that. 'Aren't you going into the auction room? They started half an hour ago.'

'Right. I'd better do that. Merry Christmas.'

She nodded, looking into his eyes. 'Yes, and the same to you.'

John found his old friend back in his office and complimented him on the shop's display.

'This place is looking good, he said. 'The hemp side of things is going like a dream too but I leave that to David nowadays. With the Company cash rich it gives me the opportunity to invest in something else. I'm thinking about going into finance.'

'I thought you'd just done that, with von Fritzenberg?'

'That was a chance I couldn't pass up on, but this is something I've planned over some months. I intend to buy Alexander Higginson Investments. It's an old, respected firm that's not making any money.'

Arthur raised his eyebrows. 'Why bother then?'

'By taking bigger risks, I know I could make it highly profitable. And I'm thinking of setting up another company, financed by Higginson Investments.' John hesitated then said, 'I might need your expertise there.'

'I don't follow?'

'Would you be interested in helping me set up this new business maybe recruiting someone to be in charge of it, reporting to you? Of course you'll still be able to run this place too. I'll pay all expenses and guarantee you a minimum income of thirty thousand a year from the new interest, plus a share of the profits.'

Arthur did not say anything, but waited for John to continue. 'I suggest we set it up as a bona fide limited company, specialising in the financing of cars. We could call it something downmarket like Auto Trade Factors.'

'Why is it suddenly so imperative to embroil yourself – and me – in a notoriously dodgy trade? And what skills do I have that are vital for this enterprise?'

'Our security will be the cars waiting to be sold. We'll charge a reasonable rate of interest and make the system easy to use and operate. Banks won't usually touch this type of thing. We won't be so choosy and should quickly have a substantial business.'

'Why do I have this feeling there's more to this than meets the eye?'

'After we have become established and the car dealers have got used to us, we'll make a small operational change. We'll stop accepting payments by cheques, dealing only in cash, blaming the changes on too many bounced cheques. Our high street bank will quickly get used to the cash coming in daily, opening up the possibility of letting other cash deals go through it.'

'I thought the Swiss handled that side of things now?'

'They do, but even they baulk at receiving too much cash from one client.'

'And that's all there is to it?' Arthur was unconvinced.

'No,' John said. 'The Company will also have another type of customer: career criminals. The new business will be lending money to finance criminal operations. Tools, machinery, cars, muscle, etcetera, needed to set up a robbery, fraud, forgery, credit card scam or whatever. What can be more profitable to invest in? If successful, the clients we bankroll pay us fifty per cent of their haul. But we'll have to be flexible. No two operations will be the same.'

Arthur was thoughtful. 'What if things go wrong? How do we get our money back?'

'We don't. If the police get involved, we write the investment off. The clients won't owe us anything. However, if they pull off a scam and don't repay the loan, we'll use every possible means to get the money back and ensure that nothing similar happens in the future.'

John looked closely at Arthur, who did not seem very enthusiastic.

'This new company, Auto Trade Factors, will never take part in any crime directly and nothing will be recorded on paper. The money will be loaned on trust. We're only talking ten to twenty operations a year, perhaps more later on. Of course, we'll need a cover for this activity, so hence the car deals.'

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. 'And Alexander Higginson is kept as clean as clean, I presume? Well, congratulations. You've done it again. Knocked me for six with your big ideas.

But they are hardly people I'd like to spend much time dealing with.'

'You wouldn't need to. Just keep an eye on the books and study the funding proposals. You've got the contacts, Arthur. Do you think you can find someone to keep Auto Trade looking respectable?'

He nodded. 'I may know just the person.'

'Good. And we'll need to dig into Higginson's background. There's a receptionist there called Tania who might help. Perhaps she knows of some skeletons in the family cupboard. For instance, any investment that has gone wrong and been covered up. The son, Philip, is at Cambridge – maybe he's up to something.'

'So Higginson won't sell? Now you tell me.'

'He will eventually,' John said grimly. 'Money's no object when it comes to putting that bastard where he belongs. On the scrap heap.'

Leaving Arthur at the shop, John strolled slowly back in the direction of Berkeley Square, where he entered Moyses Stephens, the exclusive flower shop, and ordered three bouquets.

One a seasonal bouquet he sent to Tania, with a Christmas card.

One of white irises, anemones and greenery he sent to Lady Catherine Forbes, to be delivered without a card.

The last bouquet, of forty eight blood red roses, was delivered to Mona Hobson at Sotheby's. He put his business card with the flowers and wrote on the back:

Dear Mona,

I hope your hand has recovered from my clumsiness.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

John Forbes

P.S. Would you like to meet me for lunch?

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN  
_________________________

Esher, 30th December 1966

John needed to get away from his parents in law and mother after Christmas, and yearned for a few quiet hours. The day after Boxing Day, he slipped away to his office in Esher.

He picked up some letters from the doormat and put them on the front desk. He always left his elderly secretary to open them, as she enjoyed the feeling of importance this gave her.

From the windows of his office he looked down on to the High Street. A light snow fall disguised the suburban surroundings and with so few people about, he felt cut off from daily life. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk with the Telegraph.

The sound of the telephone made him jump. He wondered if he should let it ring. It had to be Catherine. Who else would call him here?

But it was not his wife. 'Is Mr Forbes there?' asked a soft familiar voice.

'Speaking.'

'Mona Hobson here. I wanted to thank you for the lovely roses.'

'Glad you liked them. How's the hand?'

'Fine, thanks.'

'I hope I haven't upset anyone, sending you flowers. Is there a Mr Hobson?'

'My husband died a year ago.' There was a pause at the other end of the line. 'Actually, I'm in Esher – that's why I phoned. I live on Kingston Hill.'

'So where exactly are you?'

'In a telephone box outside a pub in the High Street. I was going to invite you for a drink, but I wasn't sure if you went out with strange women?'

'Strange ones, no. Interesting ones, yes.'

She laughed. 'Then meet me outside. I don't like going into pubs alone.'

'I'm on my way.'

She was waiting outside the pub, wearing a long black Russian style coat and a fur hat. Her hair was caught in a black velvet bow at the nape of her neck. The pub was nearly empty. They chose a discreet corner table.

'I insist on getting the drinks,' said Mona, taking her purse out of her leather bag.

'Gin and tonic, please.'

She went to the bar and ordered. John sat at the table and studied her, admiring the graceful movement of her body under the long coat. When she sat down, he asked about her husband.

'He had a heart attack. It was such a shock. He'd never had a day's illness in his life. Was a keen sportsman.' She lifted her glass. Drank and sighed. 'Life must go on, they say. Only it doesn't. This is the first time I've been out with another man since he died.'

John thought it wise to change the subject. 'But you still paint?'

'I was an artist before I married. I studied at Ruskin. That's the fine art faculty of Oxford University,' she explained, seeing his blank expression. 'After that I did a couple of years at Ravensbourne, then I had my own studio in Pimlico. It was a struggle, but I was doing what I wanted to do. When I met my husband, we bought an expensive house and needed two incomes so I had to find a job. I like the work, don't get me wrong, but I wish I had more time to paint. I could be wasting my best years.'

Once she got talking, she was warm and friendly, and John had trouble keeping his eyes off her. One gin and tonic followed another. At last, realising she would have to leave her car and take a taxi home, Mona stood up to go.

'You can ring for a taxi from my office,' he suggested. 'It's just over the road. And I can show you my Picassos.'

'I'm sure you say that to all your pickups.' But she smiled, and tucked her hand under his arm as they walked across the road.

John had made some improvements to his office, especially in the conference room, which now had new wallpaper and carpets and better lighting. He had done this not because he ever received visitors, but so as to display the six precious Picasso drawings Arthur had given him to mark the acquisition of Black's of Mayfair. Before showing Mona in there, however, he took her into his private office.

'This is nice. But where are all the toys?'

'In that room over there.'

She opened the door and peeped in. He came up behind her, switched on the light and gently propelled her inside. She walked among the rows of dolls and mechanical toys, picking them up and putting them down. 'Oh, this is fun!'

'See anything you fancy?'

'Oh, yes.' Looking directly at him, she picked up a doll at random.

He moved back into his office and poured two gins. She followed him still carrying the doll.

'So where are these Picassos?' She took the glass he offered and put it to her lips.

'In here.' Opening the conference room door, he stepped aside for her to enter. After his visit to Black's of Mayfair, he now kept only the frame lights on the drawings in an otherwise darkened room.

Abandoning the doll on one of the chairs, its head leaning drunkenly against the table, Mona gave a gasp of pure pleasure and inspected each drawing in detail, first standing back then peering closely. John sat in a chair at the table and watched her. She had unbuttoned the coat. Underneath, she wore a cream blouse and a black jersey knit skirt. She stroked each frame. 'So simple.'

'They were drawn in 1951 and are called 'Judgement of France'.'

She glanced at him and sat down in the chair opposite, with the width of the table between them. Placing her glass in front of her, she cupped her chin in her hands and stared at him openly.

'You're beautiful,' he said

'Thank you.' She smiled. 'It must be the light. I'm quite ordinary really.'

John regretted having said something so banal. Her tone was cool and ironic. They sat in silence for a long minute.

'There's too much distance between us,' she said finally and lifted her hand, pulling her hair loose without removing her hat. Then, still holding his eyes, she unbuttoned her skirt.

'That was brave of me,' she said. 'The first step is always the most difficult.'

'Walk towards me,' John commanded.

She rose slowly. Trailing her skirt behind her, she moved towards him, her open coat revealing her clothes above the waist, and suspender belt and stockings below. Passing the doll, she draped the skirt over its head. 'So young and so innocent.'

'Walk round again,' John said when she got close. Without any comment she obeyed, walking more and more slowly until she was back, standing between the chair he was sitting in and the table.

She pushed herself up on the board room table. Sitting, she closed her eyes, crossing her legs in front of his face with a silken rustle. She was still wearing the black fur hat. Her head tilted back, showing the elegant line of her throat and shoulders.

John stood up. Careful not to touch her body, he inclined his head and kissed her deeply. She was good to kiss, passionate, wild, responsive.

'It's a long time since I've felt like this,' she murmured.

His hands brushed her hips, then took a firm grip and slid her backwards on her coat. She lifted herself, wriggling out of her panties, and lay back on the table. Quickly he took off his trousers. They kissed so hard he could taste blood. His hand teased her for a moment. The delicate flesh between her legs was wet. Then she took him in her hand and pulled him towards her.

Slowly he rode into her with long, deep plunges, wanting it to last for ever, but she squeezed so hard it almost hurt.

Trembling, he emptied himself into her. His orgasm was violent and short, so private that he made no sound.

For several minutes they clung together, both surprised, then he pushed himself away.

John's idea of feminine beauty had always centred on Catherine's large, enveloping form. Mona was slim, with high breasts and a hard belly and buttocks. Her sex was tight, wet and warm.

She lay with her eyes closed, hardly breathing, still wearing her hat. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I always cry when I come.'

* * *

John spoke with Mona on the telephone several times a week, but had not seen her since their Christmas interlude. She never phoned him, but sounded pleased when he got in touch. She explained that her house in Kingston had finally been sold and she was trying to find a flat. If she did not find one, she would have to move in with her parents in law.

At the end of February she still had not found a flat she could afford. The house had been heavily mortgaged.

John asked an estate agent to find a property centrally that he could rent. They came up with a maisonette on Prince Albert Road, St Johns Wood.

He met Mona outside St John's Wood tube station after she had finished work one night and suggested they should walk to the flat, so she could have a look and then make up her mind.

'There's no way I can afford a place in this area,' she said as they walked along.

'The friend who owns it won't be back in England for three months. He'd like someone to occupy it while he's not there. It's yours for free, if you want it.'

She cocked her head at him. 'What does your friend do?'

'He buys toys for me in the Philippines,' John lied glibly, 'and sells to the United States, where he is at the moment.'

The flat was spectacular, with an amazing view over Regents Park and the Zoo. Mona could not hide her delight.

'But his things are still here! I'll have to put my furniture in store.'

'No, you don't. All you need to say is, 'John, I like the flat'. Within two days it'll be empty and your own belongings moved in.'

'It sounds too good to be true.' She glanced at him and said seriously, 'I hardly know you. We've only met twice.'

'Does that matter? I don't have any ulterior motive, if that's what you're thinking. I'll never visit this place unless you specifically invite me. I don't have any keys.'

'Then I say yes. Thank you, John.'

'Good. That's settled. I wonder if there's such a thing as a drink here to celebrate?'

They found two cans of beer in the fridge and a couple of glasses.

'There's another way we could celebrate,' Mona murmured.

John grinned. 'I thought any advances on my side would be rebuffed? You mustn't feel like a kept woman.'

'Haven't you heard about a woman's prerogative? Lead me to the bedroom.'

Two days later, Mona was installed in the flat. She was a part of his life Catherine need never know about.

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN  
_________________________

Horserod, Denmark, Tuesday, 1st February 1972

WANTED – SALES ASSISTANT FOR STATIONERY COMPANY

Erick read twice the words written on the back of a dog eared business card stuck on the prison noticeboard, and decided to apply for the job.

He had come to the time in his sentence when prisoners were encouraged to find paid work as part of their rehabilitation programme. Usually this consisted of helping the elderly, cleaning churches, labouring in local parks or working as shelf fillers in supermarkets.

The company was situated on the third floor of a building in Vesterbrogade in the centre of Copenhagen. One office was used by the owner, an elderly man called Carlsen, another by Karen Knudsen, a small, well rounded blonde in her thirties. The third room functioned as a reception of sorts and was stacked with boxes, an old typewriter, a coffee machine and photocopier. All the offices were in need of a coat of paint. Even the artificial flowers looked tired.

Both Carlsen and Karen greeted Erick in a friendly manner. He had been told that Horserod inmates had been employed there for the last twenty years. From the postcards on the wall in the reception, Erick gathered that many still kept in touch.

For the first few months he happily made coffee, did the photocopying, answered the telephone, typed letters and checked stock lists. He soon got to know the workings of the little company and got on well with Karen, who took all the daily decisions. She was single, a quiet, well dressed woman with long hair always neatly combed back into a ponytail. She was not forthcoming about herself, and kept rather aloof. He wondered if she too had been recruited from prison but had never asked, finding her strangely intimidating.

'I have to go into hospital for two weeks so you and Karen must manage by yourselves,' Carlsen said to him one day. 'I should inform the prison but as you are doing so well, I won't bother.'

On the day before his employer was due to return, Erick completed a report on how he felt the company could be improved. He knew Carlsen would not be interested, but it was Erick's way of thanking him for the chance to work.

In his last week at work, he went into Carlsen's office.

'It's been a great experience, working here,' he said, 'and you've helped me more than you can ever know.'

'I'm very glad. I wish you could stay.'

Is anyone else coming to take my place?'

Carlsen shook his head. 'I haven't advertised the job. To be frank, Erick, my health isn't good. I'm thinking of calling it a day.'

'Then would you consider selling the company to me?' Erick took the opportunity that was offered without hesitation. 'I can only offer you two hundred thousand kroner for it.'

Carlsen was surprised. 'Have you got that sort of money?'

'I'll come back tomorrow with a proposal for payment. But I've been thinking about the inventory, those pens you can't get rid of. There are over five hundred thousand of them just sitting there. Can I go and have a look at them?'

Carlsen smiled at his enthusiasm and handed him the key to the garage. When Erick got there he found the pens packed in damp boxes. He put a handful into his pocket. He had the germ of a plan in his head but would not say anything about it

The next day he put forward his proposal to Carlsen. Erick offered to pay twenty thousand kroner after his release, knowing he could borrow this from his father in law, followed by nine similar monthly payments. If he were to fail in his obligation, even by one late instalment, the company would revert back to Carlsen.

'It's a very generous offer,' he said. 'But I would prefer a lower price backed up by a bank guarantee.'

'You know I can't go to a bank. I'm asking you to take my word,' Erick said seriously.

Carlsen thought about it for an hour, then agreed to the deal after Erick had guaranteed that Karen Knudsen would continue to be employed for five years.

'Why are you so concerned about Karen? She's a good worker, she could get a job anywhere.'

'Because,' smiled Carlsen, 'this way I will have someone I can trust who will tell me how things are going. And because, even though as you say she is excellent at her job, she would have great difficulty finding another. She was released from prison two years ago and will be under licence the rest of her life.'

Erick raised his eyebrows. 'What did she do?'

That's for Karen to tell you, if she ever wants to. Just take it from me. No other employer would take her on.'

'But you expect me to?'

'Exactly. She can be tough and is very loyal. You could have no finer assistant, believe me. Do we have a deal or shall we forget about it all?'

Erick looked Carlsen into his eyes and hesitated.

'We have a deal.'

* * *

'How do you fancy being Marketing Director?' Erick asked his friend Magnus that evening.

Magnus Lergaard, a fresh faced and athletic thirty year old, had owned a company that sold camping equipment. When he got into financial difficulties and was given forty eight hours in which to satisfy the bailiff, he swapped some cheques between his bank and Giro accounts, to make things look better, before drawing out all the money. For months thereafter he continued juggling cheques to keep the hole covered for the bank to see.

He had been sentenced to three years for fraud. When he was sent to Horserod from remand at Vestre Faengsel, Officer Rasmussen had told him to contact Erick who had been taken aback at first that the old guard should think he would have anything in common with a small time crook. But Magnus had turned out to be a pleasant, undemanding companion. They worked in the carpentry shop together, and shared nightly games of baccarat.

Now his friend laughed at Erick's grandiose suggestion Marketing Director of what exactly?'

'The stationery company, I've just bought it.'

Magnus gasped at him. 'You're joking? No, you're not. Where the hell did you get the money from?'

'I'll borrow the down payment from my father in law. That means you'll have to shift a few hundred thousand pens within the first three weeks or I can't meet the next monthly payment.'

'Pens?' Magnus looked at the sample Erick handed him. 'Looks all right to me.'

'Good,' he said. 'No one else thinks so.'

Magnus looked more closely at the pens and tried one out, wondering what he had let himself in for.

'I think we should print companies' names and logos on them so customers buying other articles from us get a couple of hundred pens free. They can use them as advertising gifts. Hopefully that'll move a lot of our other articles.' Erick looked at the puzzled Magnus and continued, ' or sell them direct. You must come up with a detailed plan within twenty four hours. If you crack that problem, and I succeed in paying the full price over the next months, you'll get twenty five per cent of the business.'

'I see. You want me as a partner, without me paying anything for the privilege?'

'Don't get too enthusiastic.' Erick smiled. 'And don't forget, I've landed up in here for doing much the same thing – buying a company without having the proper financial back up.'

'Don't worry,' Magnus said, 'you've got advantages you didn't have before. You and I have more motivation and determination than the rest of them put together – and we can't afford to have any scruples. We have to succeed.'

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN  
_________________________

Copenhagen, Denmark, 1975

Karen Knudsen now worked as Erick's personal assistant.

She had changed her hairstyle and started wearing un rimmed reading glasses at work. She and Erick were now on cautiously friendly terms and Karen gave him a certain grudging respect for the turnaround he had wrought in the company's fortunes. The company had expanded quickly over the last eighteen months. It now employed a staff of twenty and had moved to bigger premises, selling all forms of promotional gifts such as calendars, pens, T shirts, football shirts and diaries, each printed with the name of the customer.

One evening, after he had finished a late meeting with a customer, Karen came into his office carrying two glasses. Erick was sitting at his desk. Without being asked she sat down in an easy chair opposite, holding her glass in both hands.

'I've been waiting for the right moment,' she said in a low voice. 'I want to tell you what happened to me, even though you have never asked.'

'Only if you want to.'

'I have to.' She took a deep breath and began. 'I was happily married, or so I thought. I had just become pregnant. One day I came home from work and my husband had taken all his things and gone, just left a note saying he had fallen in love with someone else. After a week I found out from his work where he lived. I rang the doorbell and a young woman opened the door. I told her who I was. She had no idea he was married.

'She and I agreed that when he came back that evening, I would be there instead of her. She would leave a letter telling him she wanted him out right away. It was then up to me if I wanted to take him back. I still thought I loved him.' She stopped and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

'Don't go on if it distresses you,' Erick said, rising to his feet.

Karen went on as if he hadn't spoken. 'When I opened the door, he started shouting the most terrible things. How cold, calculating and cynical I was. That he found it repulsive making love to me. That he never wanted to see our child...' She swallowed and continued in a steady voice, 'He went on like that for about five minutes. The whole building could hear. I had to make him stop. Somehow we'd got into the kitchen. I picked up the bread knife and stabbed him in the throat. I remember him gasping for air and his blood all over me...'

Erick moved closer to her. She was upset but did not cry. For some reason this impressed him. 'What happened to the child?'

'My son was born in prison. I had him adopted when he was one year old. The worst day in my life. I have no idea where he is.'

He took her cold hand in his. 'And you have never met anyone else?'

She raised her proud face to his. 'Who would trust me? A murderer. I don't want closeness with any human being. What happened was my fault. My husband was right about my shortcomings and I hate myself for what happened. I've learned that it's best for me to live alone. For me there is nothing appealing in having a man huffing and puffing on top of me. And before you ask, I am not attracted to women either.'

'Surely...' Erick began, nonplussed.

'I'm now simply unable to handle a normal relationship.' And with that she looked away from him, a flush creeping over her face.

* * *

Erick and Magnus, with their English supplier, were sitting outside the Langline Pavillionen, a restaurant at the entrance to the harbour in Copenhagen. It was a sunny day in June.

After lunch, the Englishman casually said, 'Have you ever considered selling your company?'

'No,' Erick said. 'Why? Are you interested?'

'We could be. You've built up an important market for us in Scandinavia. We want to protect it. We could offer you around two hundred thousand pounds, without even looking at your books.'

'That's worth considering.' Erick kept his voice even, knowing that Magnus was just as surprised as he was. 'We'll think about it, and get back to you.'

'So what do you think?' he said to Magnus when they were back in the office. 'A very good opening offer. A nest egg for both of us. We could retire quite comfortably, or start something new and a bit more exciting.'

'Why should we?' Magnus was more cautious. 'We've only just started. Why don't we keep expanding? Why go to all the trouble of starting up again?'

But Erick had already decided to sell. He saw it as a first step towards reestablishing himself after the GIANT scandal. But he did not want to force his friend to do something against his will.

Magnus came into his office that evening with his own plan. 'Instead of selling out to the English company, you could sell your shares to me. I'll offer the same price, one million five hundred thousand kroner, for your seventy five percent. You must give me time to pay, but I'll add on interest.'

Erick had not expected Magnus to give that sort of commitment but he trusted him and accepted the offer on the spot, with one proviso: 'You have to keep Karen on until I find out what I am going to do next.' Magnus nodded. 'Now, what about a beer to celebrate the deal?'

The first monthly payment from Magnus arrived on the agreed date. Erick did not ask where it came from, but guessed that Magnus had made an arrangement with his bank.

The third payment from Magnus was two weeks overdue. Erick phoned him to see if there was a problem. Magnus sounded a bit evasive, which made Erick uneasy, but promised to come over right away.

He arrived looking dishevelled, unlike the unruffled, urbane Magnus Erick was used to.

'You know Scandinavian Advertising Gifts? Our competitor? I bought it a month ago,' Magnus began.

'I'm impressed.'

'It's in a terrible state. After a few weeks I realised that more funds were needed. The projections on which I'd decided to buy were overestimated. I've had to borrow from the bank giving my house as security, with personal guarantees. Now I can't raise the money for next month's wages, I have writs coming in from suppliers and I'm behind with rent and rates.

Erick tried to keep calm. Magnus still owed him over one million two hundred thousand kroner. He could be left with nothing.

When Magnus had gone, Erick walked for hours along the beach. He simply could not let Andrea down all over again.

In his mind he went through what had gone wrong. Magnus had told him that funds were still in Scandinavian Advertising Gifts, but either tied up in stock that did not sell or outstanding invoices that customers did not pay. How could he realise that cash?

He sat on the sea wall, staring out at the horizon. He had to do something. But what? The company's assets did not belong to them. The share majority did, but that was a different matter. To extract the assets of a company before paying its creditors was an illegal act. Everyone knew that. But he had to do it. It was the only way out.

He felt, sitting on the hard stone wall, that once again his goal was in sight only for the prospect of success to be snatched away. Unless..... unless...

His choice was clear. Face the huge loss, disappoint Andrea and possibly lose her and the children, ruin again his reputation this time forever. – Or knowingly commit a serious fraud.

In a strange way it cheered him up, knowing he had no choice.

He called Magnus from a payphone. 'Get hold of two large lorries for tonight and about half a dozen trustworthy people. Take them to all the warehouses of SAG as quickly as possible. Load all the stock into the lorries and move it to our warehouse in Copenhagen. Rent more space somewhere if you have to.'

'There's far more than we can move overnight,' Magnus objected. 'We'll have to do about two or three runs. What's the plan?'

'Never mind. Just do it. Keep on until every item of stock is taken out of the warehouses.'

'I hope you know what you're doing?'

'I need all the goods invoiced to our old company on three months credit at a quarter of what they were bought for.'

At the other end of the line Erick heard Magnus draw in a deep breath as realisation of what was being planned dawned on him. 'Leave it to me,' was all he said.

The next day, Erick sold all the debtors from Scandinavian Advertising Gifts to a company which Magnus formed. A solicitor was instructed to sue the previous owners for damages. At midday, Magnus informed the staff of SAG that the company was going into liquidation. Their wages would be sent by post.

The same day they appointed a liquidator to close the company. He was paid handsomely in advance.

At four o'clock the offices and warehouses of SAG were completely empty. Only the phones rang continuously, unanswered.

Although Erick had never done anything knowingly illegal at GIANT CDCM, this was different. What he had now done was criminal and so crudely carried out that anyone could see that the company had been stripped of its assets and only left with bad debts.

Every time a car stopped outside his house, Erick expected the police to knock at his door. It was only a question of time. He felt he was being watched, his post tampered with, his telephone bugged.

One morning a registered letter arrived informing him that SAG had been formally wound up.

'It's amazing?" Erick said to Magnus. 'No one other than the liquidator has looked into what we've done! When the remaining stock and the leases are sold and the last debtor has paid us, you'll have made one hundred thousand and I'll have made two hundred and forty.'

Magnus nodded and smiled at him. 'And I think I can guess what's coming next!'

'So why don't we?' Erick asked. 'Do it professionally, keeping it as legal as possible. It'll never be completely legal, but if we're aware of the pitfalls, use solicitors and accountants to cover every transaction, have proper companies buying the goods and always employ our own liquidator, we could make a fortune within a few years.'

They were silent for a long time, then Erick said slowly, 'If at first you don't succeed, crime may be your style.' Magnus smiled and offered his hand.

Mirage Consulting (Scandinavia) A/S, whose slogan was 'Solutions Implemented', started life in a prestigious office on Stroeget in Copenhagen. Officially it was a business consultancy advising on marketing and business problems.

Shortly after that advertisements had appeared, aimed at attracting companies with financial problems, twenty replies were received. A few days after this, Mirage was involved in its first takeover.

Erick had explained to Karen exactly what the company was doing. She agreed to run the office and administration matters and was paid double her previous salary. After a couple of months the office employed a staff of ten.

Magnus had taken over daily responsibility, leaving Erick to take the main decisions.

As their success grew, Erick began to wonder if a similar company could be set up in London.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN  
_________________________

Mayfair and the City of London, March 1967

'Did you read about Mick Jagger and Keith Richard being arrested by the Drugs Squad?' Arthur asked John when they met in the shop.

John laughed. 'In a few days their solicitors will get them off and all will be forgotten. If they can change the law on abortion, I wouldn't be surprised if one day soft drugs are made legal. An alarming thought! Most of my income would dry up the day that happened.'

'Anyway,' Arthur said, 'I've stumbled on something that might interest you. We've finally unearthed a skeleton at Higginson's. I'm sorry it's taken months. Something to do with his son.'

Arthur told his long haired looking young assistant to make them some coffee, then closed the door to his office. 'Philip, as you know, is studying economics at Cambridge. Over the last year he's become addicted to heroin. He's also queer. His boyfriend is the supplier.'

'Have you any proof?'

'We had to wait for the right time. Get a spy camera. That's what took so long. But these should do the trick.' Arthur spread several photographs over his desk. John picked them up. One showed a young man injecting himself in the arm with a syringe. In, another the same man was kissing another man. Several had been taken at a party and showed men openly engaged in sex with each other.

One picture, enlarged to twenty by fifteen inches, showed only a man's face, smeared in lipstick and mascara. His eyes and mouth were wide open as if in horror or pain. Tears ran down his cheeks. The photograph made a strong impression on John.

'This is Philip?' John did not recognise the boy with whom he used to play chess.

'Yes. You wouldn't think so from that photo, but he's still working for his degree and seldom misses a lecture.'

'I know he's very intelligent,' John said. 'The question is, does his father know about this? And who's the boyfriend?'

'He's a well known author,' Arthur said, 'fifteen years older than Philip, and not a drug user himself. I'd bet Alexander Higginson knows nothing about it.'

John gathered up the photographs and replaced them in the hard photographer's envelope. 'Be sure to get all the negatives. Tell your people they've done a great job. It must have been difficult to get a camera in to that party. Thanks, Arthur. It's been a big help.'

John decided to visit Higginson in his office on a pretext of wanting to invest a large sum of money. In his letter he apologised for the conversation at their previous meeting. 'Never put the knife in the front if you can put it in the back,' was a favourite maxim of his.

'How much would you like to invest?' Higginson asked, after John had seated himself in front of his desk.

'One million pounds.' he placed a bank draft for that amount on the desk.

Higginson looked at it in undisguised surprise. 'That's a very large investment, Mr Forbes. Of course we'd be honoured to invest it for you, probably spread it between shares and government bonds. Perhaps I could work out a written proposal for your consideration?'

'I would prefer that the full amount be placed in shares in one company.'

'And what is the name of this company?'

'Philip Higginson Investments Limited.'

Higginson's face darkened to a deep red. 'We've been through all this before! My firm is not for sale. Not even for a million pounds. So I suggest you leave this office right now and never come back.'

John held out the large brown envelope. 'Have a look at these. If I don't make a phone call within the hour, the contents of that envelope will be plastered over every newspaper in the country.'

'Oh my God.' Higginson loosened his tie, breathing with difficulty. After a long moment he lifted his eyes to meet John's calm gaze. 'This is blackmail.'

'Exactly. But he is your son.'

'What do you want from me? Why are you so obsessed with buying this company?' Higginson pushed the pictures away, as if he could not bear to look at them.

John slid them back in the envelope. 'I want Higginson's because I promised myself I would have it when I was your office boy. I want you to sell me all your shares. You will take the cheque for one million pounds to your bank. You'll pay it in and get a receipt. Then you will resign and pack your private belongings into the van which is waiting outside. The driver will take you home. Now,' he said, leaning back, hands folded on one crossed knee, 'concerning your son. I don't think fatherly advice will solve his addiction so I'll arrange for him to be sent to a discreet clinic in Switzerland. When he's been off drugs for six months, I'll offer him a job or, if he prefers, support him if he wants to continue studying.'

'Why should I trust you?'

'This firm isn't worth a million, which you know perfectly well. You're getting a good price for the shares and I'm offering to save your son from an early grave. If you want to call that blackmail, so be it.'

John sat quietly, not taking his eyes off Higginson, knowing he had him in his power. After a pause he slid the cheque across the desk.

With a desolate expression on his face, Higginson started to open the drawers of his imposing partner's desk, slowly removing the contents he wished to take with him. He didn't touch the cheque while John remained in the room, clinging on to the shattered remains of his pride. That, and £1 million, was all that was left to him.

* * *

Later that afternoon, new locks were installed at Philip Higginson Investments and the alarm system reprogrammed. The staff were each given a letter informing them that a Zurich bank had taken over the company and that there would be a ten percent increase in their wages from next month.

John had the photographs and negatives delivered to Higginson's house a few days later.

He met Arthur again beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park some days after Higginson Investments had been acquired.

'I have to honour a promise,' John explained, 'which means taking Philip Higginson to a Swiss clinic, probably against his will. It must be done very soon. I want professionals to do it.'

'What about those Scottish brothers, the Clarks?' Arthur suggested. 'They've never messed up yet.'

John nodded. The Clark twins had proved themselves thoroughly trustworthy and reliable enforcers in a few tight spots which the hemp firm had experienced.

'Perhaps it's time for me to meet them. I could have more work for them fairly soon. They need to be directed and I don't want them to work for anyone else.'

'I've no doubt they've the brains,' Arthur replied, 'and they're cold, calculating bastards.'

'Then I'll meet them tomorrow in Epsom,' said John, beginning to walk slowly back along the path, 'and if I like the look of them, they'll start reporting directly to me.'

Arthur fell into step beside him. 'Are you thinking of using their services for Auto Trade Factors?'

John laughed. 'You know me too well. How's it going?'

His friend looked suddenly serious. 'There's a bit of a problem. There are eight criminal organisations who could object to our new enterprise. We'll have to think about how to deal with them. A bank that finances criminal activities, which is what Auto Trade Factors really is, won't go unnoticed.'

'Anyone in particular?'

'The most vicious is a gang that deals in drugs as well as protection rackets. The head man is Duncan Grace. He's a thug, but shrewd with it. He works out of South West London.'

'So are you saying we'll have to get his permission to

start up our business?'

'I think we need to keep the peace.'

'I don't like it. The more people who know about our operation, the bigger the risk we run. Anyway, they're hardly on our level. Just common villains.'

'Don't underestimate them,' Arthur warned. 'If we can reach a deal with them, we won't have to worry about the Triads, Hell's Angels or the Mafia, or any similar nasty which might spring up. We don't want an out and out war with any of them.'

John looked worried. 'We want to remain invisible. Why can't we just expand the new organisation slowly, while we build up further contacts through prisons? Even get some police and politicians on our payroll...'

'I've already recruited some,' Arthur interrupted.

'When Auto Trade Factors gets going, it'll create a network of criminal contacts, soon making us stronger than any of those gangs you mentioned,' John said. 'That's the aspect of our operation which fascinates me most.'

They walked on in silence as Arthur realised for the first time the scale of the operation John was envisaging. He said at last, 'I think, I've found the person to run Auto Trade Factors.'

'Good. Tell me more.'

'She's in her forties...' Arthur began.

'A woman?'

'Yes. But tougher than any man. She has a knack for going straight to the heart of a problem. A good judge of character, respectable, and with good contacts. She's honest and she needs a job.'

'What's her background?'

'She ran away from home and was on the game at fifteen. By the time she was twenty she ran brothels. She and her husband also carried out several successful insurance scams. They retired a couple of years ago and were going to move to Spain, but the day before the move he ran off with all the money. He's never been seen since.'

'How did you learn about her?'

'Diana's her sister or brother, depending on the way you look at it.'

John hesitated. 'A bit close to home, isn't it?'

'Ah, but Rose is special. Shall I arrange a meeting?'

'No, I'll take your word for it. It's you who'll be working with her.'

'You know the eight gangland bosses we spoke about? One of them, Pete McPhee is Diana and Rose's father. The junk dealing is just a smokescreen to keep the tax people happy. My relationship with Diana which goes back on and off to when I was eighteen, has given me most of my underworld contacts. Without my father in law, I'd have no credibility. He has to know about our enterprise. Having taken Diana off his shoulders however has made me his favourite.'

John considered this new twist. He had never asked Arthur how he'd built up his network of contacts. By involving Rose in their new venture, not only would they get someone who sounded ideal for the job, but a person whose presence would almost certainly guarantee no aggro from the other gangland bosses. They would not want to tangle with both John Forbes and Pete McPhee.

When John got back to his office in Esher there were urgent messages from Catherine. 'It's your mother,' she said when he rang back, 'she's had a stroke.'

May Forbes died before John reached the hospital.

She went to her grave thanking God for the success of her beloved son, who had never given her a day's worry.

# CHAPTER TWENTY  
_________________________

Epsom Downs, April 1967

Arthur Black told the Clark twins that a meeting was being arranged between them and the person who was the real head of the organisation. They were to go to a pub in Epsom and wait outside for a dark blue Daimler outside.

When the car drew up, the driver told them to get into the back seat. They drove for ten minutes in total silence. 'Fancy a walk over the Downs?'

It was a beautiful spring morning. There were a few cars parked on the grass behind the Grandstand, their owners walking dogs or just strolling taking advantage of the nice weather. They passed several crocodiles of nursery school children in uniform.

'I thought we should meet,' the driver said. He was a slight dark haired man wearing a full length battered long Barbour and heavy brogues.

'I want our relationship to be based on trust,' he went on, 'so it's only fair you should know who you're working for. I'm impressed by your willingness to learn new methods and I think you're ready to do more in the organisation.'

As he finished speaking, a kite crash landed in front of them. He picked it up and waved to the little boy who was holding the string and just beginning to cry. He shouted to the boy to start running in the opposite direction while he held the kite aloft. A few minutes later the kite was soaring into the air and the boy was laughing delightedly.

'I've always liked kites,' the man said, as they started walking again. 'They fly so high and there's always someone in control, holding the other end of the line.' He smiled at them amiably. 'My name is John Forbes. I want you to sell me your souls.'

* * *

Jim and Neil Clark were identical twins, born in the Gorbals area of Glasgow on Christmas Day 1947. Their father was a violent alcoholic who, when the twins become too big for him, turned his fists on their mother. Often they would come home to find her semiconscious and bleeding on the kitchen floor. One night, finding her there and their father lying drunk on the bed, they decided to put a stop to it.

They bundled him, still senseless, into his own battered Ford Prefect and drove eleven miles outside Glasgow. They stopped on a bridge over the Clyde and threw the inert, alcohol sodden body over. The twins were fourteen years old at the time. Sharing this weighty secret, they would never rely on or confide in anyone but each other.

By the time they were sixteen they were already veterans of serious crime: armed robbery, protection rackets and grievous bodily harm. They had no scruples about their line of work and gradually climbed their way through the ranks of the criminal fraternity, keeping their own records clean.

They were not only strikingly similar in looks, tall, rangy and red haired, but also in their way of thinking, which often helped them in tight situations. Jim usually took control but Neil took time to consider the fine detail and sometimes challenged Jim's decisions. They were both keen sportsmen, kept themselves rigorously fit and were fearsome opponents in a fight.

Their last jobs in Glasgow were as enforcers for one of Glasgow's biggest villains, Alex Chartwin. Their reputation for ruthlessness struck fear in the hearts of local businessmen from whom they demanded monthly protection payments.

One day, Chartwin called them into his office and told them he wanted a car dealer reprimanded about his unpaid loan. They made it their business to find out the car dealer's daily routine. Twice a week he visited a woman who lived only a few minutes away from his yard. They kept a watch on her house until it was time to act.

At two o'clock one afternoon they quietly forced open the back door and crept upstairs. They heard moaning coming from a room to their right. They pushed open the door and stood to either side of it. On the bed the dealer lay over a naked woman, whose short fat legs were round his waist. Nodding to each other, the twins grasped him under the armpits.

'Sorry about this, love,' Jim said affably, 'you'll have to manage without him.'

The woman sat up, mouth open, too shocked to scream.

'Listen, lads, we can sort this out...' the man began.

Jim punched him in the mouth and the man shambled outside spitting blood and teeth. As they reached the car, Jim brought the butt of a revolver down on his head and he slumped unconscious across the back seat under a dirty blanket.

They drove to a derelict factory on the outskirts of the city. Neil dragged the dealer, still unconscious, across to the door which Jim kicked down. 'He's still out cold. We'd better just leave the bugger here.'

'Hold on. He's not breathing.' Neil dropped the body to the ground and knelt beside it.

'I didn't hit him that hard. Jesus Christ! What about the tart?'

'She won't go to the cops. Her sort never does.'

'No, but she's seen us, hasn't she?'

They drove back to the house. Jim knocked on the door which was opened by the woman, now wearing a dressing gown.

'What have you done to him?' she shrieked at them.

'We'll take you to him. You've two minutes to change.' They waited for her then drove back to the factory where they had left the body of the car dealer slumped on the floor.

'Where is he? Oh my God...!'

'Sorry, love,' said Jim, taking the safety catch off his revolver and pointing it at her head.

Later they paid a security guard to let them into the local steelworks and turn his back while they dropped two bulging post bags into the furnace.

After that the Clark twins had to lie low for a few weeks until Chartwin could arrange for their safe passage out of Glasgow. Their usefulness had come to an end in Scotland, but had a contact in London, Big Pete McPhee, who would know where their talents could best be used. So it was that they passed into the hands of Arthur Black, who soon had them in the employ of a man they never met. Their only contact was with Black and their instructions were relayed by telephone. They had to contact him twice every day.

Six months later, their lifestyles had changed beyond recognition. They lived at separate addresses, Jim in Chiswick and Neil in Kew. They never visited each other's houses and always dressed conservatively in business suits. Even their Glaswegian accents had been toned down.

The nature of their employment had also changed. Now, instead of using their fists, they were mostly using their breaking and entering skills to gather information. If this failed, they would use threats to obtain the necessary facts without resorting to violence. The mere sight of two identical hard men with fiery red hair, smartly dressed but roughly spoken was usually enough to elicit information from even the most uncooperative source.

* * *

Now the Clark twins looked at John, not sure they'd understood what he meant.

John Forbes spoke softly and with complete assurance. 'In exchange for your souls you will get stability, friendship and wealth. From today I will be your only contact. No one else, apart from Arthur Black, will know anything about you. As before, you will be contacted only when you are needed. You are never to contact me unless specifically agreed in advance.'

The brothers nodded, impressed by his air of confidence and control.

'I suggest that from now on you are paid four hundred and fifty pounds per week. After tax, I hasten to add, to keep the Inland Revenue sweet. Also I want you to move to better houses in your respective areas, taking out mortgages which you'll pay by standing order. Each of you will be given a completely new identity backed up with passport, credit cards, drivers' licence and bank account.' He stopped, watching a model plane buzzing above them. 'With me so far?'

They looked at each other, then nodded.

'Your work will become more complicated. You'll be enrolled in separate rifle clubs so we can apply for a gun licence for both of you...' A child suddenly careered into him, spilling some sugar from a lolly on his coat. John steadied him, dried his tears and handed him back to his apologetic mother. 'Not to worry. These things happen.' He gave the child a ten shilling note. 'Treat yourself to some sweets.'

They resumed their leisurely walk. 'You'll also attend military academies abroad to learn basic tactical skills. Ever heard of the Citadel in South Carolina? It's the toughest in the world. Then we'll see about a diving course, which could be useful. And, of course, you'll have to learn about alarms and other security equipment. These things are getting more sophisticated by the week.' He let this sink in then said quietly, 'Think you'll be able to handle all that?'

'Nae problem,' said Neil.

'Right. The final thing is to give you the right image. What's your opinion of the fairer sex?'

They looked at him blankly.

'Women. Do you like the ladies?'

Neil said after a pause, 'They have their uses.'

'Ever thought of getting married?'

'We're hardly the marrying kind, Mr Forbes,' said Jim directly.

'I know, but we must change that. A married man, with a proper job, children, a mortgage, a tax bill, attracts little attention. And should something go wrong one day, and who knows? then the courts look much more positively on a family man than someone they regard a career criminal. Are you getting my drift?'

The twins had been taken by surprise. This man was serious.

'Find a couple of nice women and start families. This isn't over the top. We're going to work together for years ahead. We must plan very carefully, something most people in our business regard as a waste of time. But we are different. We are here to stay.'

* * *

The brothers became proficient in all aspects of security and their overseas military training made them ruthless, efficient tacticians. They worked either separately or together, when their identical looks were often useful in establishing fake alibis.

'Deniability' and 'cut off' were their watch words. Everything they planned had these as top priority. They had to be prepared to defend themselves in court at any time, should something go wrong.

Jim met his wife Shelley, a typist for the local council, in a sports club. For weeks he had discreetly kept watch on the twenty or so women who went to the weekly evening fitness course there, wanting to lose weight. He selected a smiling and bubbly woman and invited her for coffee at the sports club. Slowly and carefully he nursed the relationship along before inviting her on holiday in Spain, where he proposed.

Neil decided to watch the same post office in Brentford every day to find out when the Social Security giros were cashed. He noticed a neat, well dressed young woman pushing a pram. By placing himself behind her in the queue and getting her two year old son to giggle, he started chatting to the woman. Two months later he married Vivian, an unemployed single mother.

Both the Clarks were now fathers but their wives had never met and were not even aware of the other twin's existence.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE  
_________________________

London, Spring 1973

On the evening of Monday, 5th March, David Kennedy met John in the Cricketers public house on Richmond Green. The pub was lit by candles, due to the miners' strike and it took some time for John's eyes to adjust to the darkness.

'Ramona has been followed,' his second in command said urgently.

John's eyes scanned the room. 'Let's get out of here.' He did not want to be trapped in a dark pub if they were under observation.

They walked along the Green towards the Richmond Theatre. 'Tell me all about it,' John said.

David explained that Ramona had been followed twice over three days.

'Do the rest of the team know?'

'No,' David said. 'The first time was Tuesday. She told Shastri, but at first they put it down to paranoia.'

'It's never paranoia or coincidence,' John said grimly. They stood in the entrance to the theatre and waited. John looked round. It did not seem that anyone was following them. They began walking again.

'There was no problem on Wednesday,' David continued, 'but yesterday Ramona was in no doubt at all. She phoned me from a public phone box and described the man who was waiting close by.'

'Sounds quite unprofessional to me,' John commented.

'But it could be the police.'

'The police or our competition. We'll have to find out.'

They walked on in silence. Then John said, 'Tell Ramona and Shastri not to say anything. Tomorrow, she's to take the tube to Richmond Station and walk beside the wall outside in the direction of the main entrance to Kew Garden. If she's under police surveillance, they'll have tapped the phone, so you'll have to be careful how you get the message to her.'

'OK. What's your plan, John?'

'We'll be able to spot anyone following her quite easily, There's a drive into the rugby ground where we can grab whoever's following and find out what's going on.'

* * *

John waited in the Esher office for the phone call. It was quite possible that Ramona would not be followed today, which meant the same procedure would have to be repeated day after day.

Eight years had passed since the hemp operation had started. The team was still the same and had gone from strength to strength. David refining and improving every last detail of the operation. However, John knew that no criminal enterprise could last forever. Perhaps this was the sign that this one was due to come to an end.

At quarter past three in the afternoon, the phone finally rang. Jim Clark said, 'Its Grace's man.'

'Right. Find out why he was following her. I'll wait here till you call again.'

Then he phoned David and asked Shastri and Ramona to leave their home and check into two country hotels and wait for instructions.

Duncan Grace was one of the eight gangland bosses mentioned by Arthur. He had grown in influence after other gang leaders had fallen foul of the law and been given life imprisonment. Grace was shrewd, unscrupulous and extremely dangerous. As no objection had come from any of the big London firms to the activities of Auto Trade Factors, although Duncan Grace was bound to know of them, and as neither Ramona nor Shastri was involved with Auto Trade Factors' operation, this aggravation had to be tied to the hemp business. Duncan Grace's main income was from hard drugs.

The peaceful interlude John had enjoyed was the main reason why he had become wealthy. The Company, whose invisible profile had been carefully cultivated, would become widely known if there was a full scale confrontation; it could never function in the same way again.

John had no intention of embarking on a gangland war with an old fashioned mobster like Duncan Grace in order to defend the hemp business. His organisation had only the Clark twins as enforcers, whereas Grace probably employed thirty 'heavies'. This problem would have to be resolved quickly and dealt within such a way that no other gangland boss would even think of threatening them again.

In the early evening Jim Clark phoned him back.

'Our chap knows very little. He was just told to report on her movements.'

'Do you know who's Number Two in Grace's gang?'

'A bloke called Derek Harvey.'

'Pick him up.'

Later the same evening Neil and Jim picked up Harvey outside the Pensbury Arms in Wandsworth. He was a stocky, overweight man in his late forties, notorious for his temper, who had worked for Duncan Grace for many years and was regarded as more cunning and intelligent than his boss. In a safe house in Ealing he was taken to the basement and, was standing. handcuffed to a pipe in the ceiling. The man picked up earlier was also in this house.

Harvey refused to answer any questions and instead threatened revenge.

Jim Clark calmly picked up a chair and placed it next to him. Without any warning, standing on the chair, he poured acid over Harvey's handcuffed hands. It made a hissing sound on the unprotected flesh and ran in rivulets of fire down his raised arms to inflict similar damage on his armpits and chests. Gasping and quivering with pain Harvey started to talk.

Having obtained the answers, Neil Clark drove to Esher and briefed John at three o'clock in the morning.

It appeared that one of the Company's wholesalers, an Indian friend of Shastri's, had become well known in various London nightclubs. Duncan Grace's men had noted his expensive Ferrari and overheard him bragging about his extravagant lifestyle. Grant arranged to meet the Indian and leant on him hard. The wholesaler eventually let slip that he was part of a larger organisation dealing in drugs.

Grace put him under surveillance for a week. When the man met up with Ramona in a restaurant in Chiswick, Grace ordered that she should be followed.

John sat quietly while Neil recounted these events. There was a chance that Duncan Grace might think the whole thing was an Indian operation and would not take it any further. However, two men from his gang were now being held in the safe house. John could not let them go back to their boss with details of another organisation, much more dangerous than Grace would ever have envisaged.

John gave his instructions to Neil.

The next morning in the house at Ealing, the twins carried out their instructions. They stripped Derek Harvey and while he stood naked and shivering, spread a plastic sheet on the floor: 'to wrap up the body', said Jim in a casual voice.

The twins discussed between them if they would allow him to write a farewell letter to his wife. All the while Neil played with the silencer of his gun.

Harvey was left alone for an hour. When the brothers came back, Jim briefly mentioned that perhaps there was another option.

Harvey was promised weekly payments to a bank account in Spain. He was to live there closely monitored. If the money was not picked up from the bank or should he try to leave the country, a close relative in England would pay the ultimate price.

Derek Harvey accepted the terms offered. The following day he called his wife from Heathrow to tell her he was on his way to Spain and would be away for some time.

The tail who had followed Ramona was released the same evening, under similar conditions.

* * *

'Is Mr Grace in, love?' The uniformed policeman stood on the doorstep of Duncan Grace's house on Saturday morning at seven o'clock.

The front door had been opened by Grace's wife who shouted for her husband.

'What's the problem?' Grace looked as if he'd just got out of the shower. His hair was wet and he rubbed at it with a towel.

The policeman asked if he could come in. He nodded, and led the way down the hall.

'I'm from Tooting Police Station,' the red haired officer said showing a black fold over Metropolitan Police Warrant Card. 'I'd like you to come with me to St. George's Hospital. A man believed to be Derek Harvey has been involved in a car accident. He's unlikely to survive the next couple of hours.'

'What's that got to do with me?' asked Grace suspiciously.

'Mr Harvey had a letter in his pocket addressed to you,' the policeman explained. 'There was a passenger in the car whose identity is unknown. Unfortunately he was dead on arrival at the hospital. We wonder if you might be able to identify both Mr Harvey and the dead passenger.'

'OK. I know Derek Harvey. I don't know about the other fellow.'

'Sorry to rush you, sir, but this is a matter of extreme urgency.'

The policeman and Duncan Grace got into the police car, a dark blue Rover with a single blue light on top, parked outside the house with another police officer in uniform sitting ready to drive off. Quietly, but at high speed they drove down the road to the corner. As it took the corner, Neil Clark turned round and shot Grace twice, once in the temple and once in the heart. Calmly he put a blanket over the body.

Two hours later the twins drove down a country lane in Essex which led to some old factory buildings close to the Blackwater River.

The factory was empty. The owner had agreed to leave the day before after a payment of £2,000. There was a strange, unpleasant smell hanging over the whole place.

The twins dragged the body into one of the buildings to an enormous wood chipper machine which was placed next to a container the size of a swimming pool. Neil switched on the electricity for both the chipper and an electric saw which was laying next to it.

Half an hour later Duncan Grace body had been spit out by the chipper in tiny parts into the container holding billions of maggots, which the owner packed and sold to fishing clubs and shops.

Before leaving, they turned off the electricity and opened the gate to the pigsties enabling twenty four hungry pigs to roam around in the bigger area, eating everything they could find.

The police car was set on fire and crushed in a breaker's yard. Later that same day the compressed remains were dumped from a fishing boat into the Channel.

When John was informed by phone, that Grace had 'retired' forever, he replied, 'That sounds like a shrewd career move.'

* * *

At four o'clock Sunday morning the loose tongued wholesaler came out of Stringfellow's nightclub, which had newly opened.

A waiting black cab took him through Covent Garden. The driver showed precision skills when reversing the car out of Maiden Lane and into Bull Inn Court. Entering the narrow passageway Neil Clark jumped out and let the car roll a few yards. Jim stepped out from the shadows and poured petrol over the back of the car. The wholesaler was trapped inside when it went up in flames, hammering wildly on the car windows.

He survived, but was scarred for the rest of his life. The incident was reported next day in all the newspapers. The other wholesalers had been given a stark warning. They knew what would happen to them if they stepped out of line.

John was not concerned with the possibility that information linking his organisation to the disappearance of Duncan Grace could have been passed on to the police. They were bound to have found out about the bogus police car from Mrs Grace, but there was nothing they could do without a body. That Derek Harvey was suddenly living in Spain was meant to look suspicious, but he had been told what to say when contacted by the police. It was a clear case of a gangland feud settled.

Only John knew that he intended calling Derek Harvey back to London after a couple of months to let him rebuild Duncan Grace's organisation. It would provide John himself with a useful alibi and he was prepared to count on Harvey's willingness to repay a favour, should John want it one day.

John knew he was lucky not to be sitting in a prison cell or lying dead. He was alarmed that he had let things slip to the extent that he might have endangered the lives of Michael, Catherine and Mona. Clearly the Company was becoming complacent. The team was out of touch with the times. John did not blame David Kennedy. He blamed himself.

He got David to arrange a team meeting in Paris, everyone travelling separately to evade police surveillance. The meeting itself was held in Le Piano, a restaurant located in the rue Tholoze in Montmartre, at eleven o'clock the next morning. Each member of the team would travel there by taxi after a phone call to their respective hotels.

The owner of the restaurant, who had been recommended by Arthur, closed it to the public after a substantial payment in cash. Outside, Jim and Neil Clark were keeping watch. Nobody could enter the restaurant without being seen by them.

Before he began to speak John studied each member of the team closely. 'It's come to my attention that some of you might be under surveillance,' he began.

'Are you saying someone has grassed?' asked William Webster.

'I have no reason to think so. It's more likely that the regular pattern of the operation has attracted attention. Ramona was followed the other day. The matter was dealt with. I'm not going into details.'

There was a murmur round the room.

'Over the last ten years each of you has had more than two hundred and fifty thousand pounds paid to you in bonuses with a similar amount invested with me. You are all wealthy. I regard you as shareholders in the Company. Now, as the Chairman, I want to put an important question to you.'

'Do we call it a day while we're still on top?'

The room was completely silent. Then John was bombarded with questions. The team was clearly not ready to retire.

John had come to the meeting without a clear idea of whether to close down the operation or not. He wanted the team to find the solution. Their safety was his main priority, but the huge revenue from the hemp business was a factor he could not ignore. He knew they felt the same.

'I vote to continue,' he said after two hours of discussion, 'but in a different form. We end the Cornish operation as from now, and begin airfreighting both the pressed and processed material as soon as that can be arranged. The existing wholesalers will be informed that we are not in business any more and Ray and Shastri will set up a network of new wholesalers. There will be only twenty four deliveries a year.'

He looked round. The proposal would be accepted, he felt.

'Each of you will have more time on your hands,' he continued, 'so I suggest you consider running a shop, restaurant or a pub or whatever you fancy. This will provide an extra source of income, as well as a cover for your income from the Company. Take this suggestion seriously and inform David what you decide and what kind of money you need. It is best the finance is arranged as loans. Any other questions?'

There was silence, and a general nodding of heads. Everyone on the team was relieved the Company was still in existence.

'As long as the hemp operation continues, no one deals in anything else,' John said. 'Especially not hard drugs. These are now becoming more plentiful on the market, but I want a firm promise from each of you not to touch them. If anyone breaks this rule, it will be deemed a breach of our code of discipline and dealt with accordingly and the operation closed down permanently.'

Each member of the team gave their solemn undertaking.

'Last, but not least,' John wound up, 'there is over a million pounds held by the Company on your behalf placed in foreign banks. I want your agreement that this money can be utilised for a long term investment which I'd like to put in hand as soon as practically possible.'

No one raised any objection. John Forbes had set up the hemp operation and had done well for them. They trusted him. His proposal was accepted.

* * *

By the end of 1975, John's decision to change the transportation of hemp from by sea to air had increased their geographical area of operations. A small air transport company had been bought in France. Its official business was the transport of excess cargo for other airlines.

Gradually they found wholesalers abroad and the agreed twenty four landings were increased with a similar number abroad.

John was aware that he had to start finding a way to change his life. He wanted to move on to the next phase, – the extending his sphere of influence – using the respectable fronts he had acquired via von Fritzenberg's bank and Alexander Higginson.

It was a complex task. Maybe it was time he tried to find someone with whom to share the load?

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO  
_________________________

England 1977

After taking over the running of Auto Trade Factors Rose Miller changed from a hard, disappointed woman to a self assured, elegant but forceful character. She took all the decisions and rarely involved Arthur. By now there were 150 legitimate car dealer clients on the books, which at any one time had over five million pounds in outstanding loans, secured by unsold vehicle stocks. The company was now an important client of Philip Higginson Investments.

The proceeds from the activities of the criminal clients, to whom Auto Trade Factors lent money brought in millions of pounds in profit every year. On average, there were two failures for each successful venture, which was what Rose had allowed for. The services of the Clark brothers had been required only occasionally, as Rose's reputation as charming but ruthless was known to most. Her clients were dangerous men, but they never scared her.

One day, one of her most respected clients asked her for a meeting in the top floor restaurant at the Hilton in Park Lane and introduced her to a thin, stooping Frenchman with a long, narrow face, whose name was Bertrand Boucher. The client excused himself right away and left them together.

Boucher spoke with a French accent and was extremely courteous. He explained that he had been educated as a barrister and had worked as an investigating Magistrate in the St. Germain district of Paris.

'I want to establish a business relation ship with Auto Trade Factors and you personally, so in stead of just being polite I think I should be quite open about my background,' he said. Without waiting for an answer he continued, 'when my wife and my small daughter were killed by some drunken wealthy yappies in Paris two years ago, who just left my family to die in the street, I took the law into my own hands.'

'Go on,' Rose said when he hesitated slightly.

'I made my own investigation and created a contact. When they openly admitted it and brushed off my sadness, I shot them.'

Rose looked at the man, who seemed to have said all he was going to. 'I'm sure that was a wise decision,' she finally said.

'To cut a long story short, the authorities had no proof, but to put a stop to the investigations I agreed not to work in the legal profession ever again.'

Rose studied the man's narrow features and penetrating eyes. She knew he was far more intelligent than he had led her to believe.

'I was introduced shortly afterwards to some friends of my brother who desperately needed legal help,' Boucher went on. 'As they were in hiding from the law and had no money, and they were looking at fifteen years or more, our arrangement was that if I could keep them out of prison and get them settled with new identities in another country, I would take over their various criminal enterprises.'

Rose raised her eyebrows. 'Did they go to prison?'

Boucher laughed. 'No, they work for me now, which perhaps for them is not much better. I am telling you these black events, only because I am trying to make a good impression and because I know you will check everything out.'

By the time he had paid for the lunch, Boucher had not asked any favours or mentioned any business. He had not even said he would contact her. Watching him walk out of the restaurant, Rose was reminded of a schoolteacher out of touch with reality. His suit, though expensive, was far too large and his shoes were the wrong colour. However, she was impressed by Bertrand Boucher as well as curious.

When he phoned her two weeks later, she flew to Paris and met him and his brother, with whom he shared an expensive apartment. Although Rose was attracted to Bertrand, he never took the initiative. Instead, a friendship was forged between them and Boucher became Rose's only close ally as well as being the agent for Auto Trade Factors in Europe.

Because of his calm way of handling inquiries, and her complete trust in him, Rose took on more foreign projects.

* * *

John and Mona met once or twice weekly, without fail. Their relationship had grown to be of immense importance to them. After five years it was still full of love, surprise and sex, and had deepened with time.

Despite this, John was torn by guilt. He felt it was unfair to Michael to put his marriage at risk. He did not want to hurt Catherine, whom he knew suspected him of many things but not infidelity. His mistress had become another reason why he had to change his organisation.

Mona gave an exhibition of her paintings once a year. She now earned enough to make painting her full time occupation and had stopped working for Sotheby's. She anticipated her first New York exhibition within a year. John had taken a growing interest in her work and was impressed with her determination and diligence. He was as pleased and excited as she was when she received good reviews.

Mona resolutely refused to become part of the art scene in London. She never attended the openings of new exhibitions and did not give interviews, guarding her private life jealously. Photographs of her work even had to be taken outside her own studio. This involved moving the large canvasses to the photographer's.

'But why not go to this opening?' John asked her just before an exhibition of her work at a gallery in Vine Street. 'It would give you valuable publicity. More people would buy and your prices would go through the roof'

'I just can't,' she sighed. 'My work is too important. One bad review would ruin my confidence and affect my painting.'

John himself attended the exhibition alone, as usual, listening to the admiring comments made by visitors. Nobody knew about his connection with the artist.

* * *

'I've something to say to you,' he told Mona one evening before leaving the flat. 'Something important. And please don't make a big song and dance about it.'

She jerked her head in his direction, but did not flinch. 'Is this the end of a beautiful relationship?'

'Of course not.'

Relief flooded her face. 'Tell me then. I promise to go along with whatever you want. You know that.'

'This flat....'

'You want me to move? It's far too expensive! You shouldn't pay the rent anyway, now that I'm making good money. I've told you so many times...'

'Stop, stop!' he silenced her with a kiss. 'I've bought the flat. It's in your name. You own it. That's all I wanted to say.'

She stared at him in disbelief. 'You're mad!'

'It's something I've wanted to do for a long time. Now nobody can kick you out. When you're fed up with me, you can just tell me to get lost. The flat's still yours.'

'John, how can you say something like that?' Mona pulled away from him, shaking her head. 'How can you afford to give away a flat just like that?'

'This is the transfer deed,' he said, carefully not answering and handing her an envelope. 'Keep it safe.'

'I can't believe this.' Mona drew out the document and stared at it. 'Why, John?'

'Just my clumsy way of saying that I love you.'

She gasped and fell into his arms. 'And I love you for saying that after all these years. I just love you. I do, I do!'

* * *

Catherine never mentioned the possibility of John's changing career, as she had no idea what he actually did. She did not want to know, dreaded any incursion on her safe, well ordered world. By keeping herself and Michael separate from that part of his life, she felt she was safeguarding them from harm.

The Estate's racing stables were now her full time interest and occupation. John had bought four racehorses and she was in charge of them. Together with her trainer and the estate manager she was also responsible for the training of thirty other horses placed with the yard by other owners.

Michael, a cheerful freckled faced boy who was eleven, attended the local primary school, though his name was down for Eton if he could be steered through the Common Entrance. His mother privately hoped he would not get in so that he would go instead to Sherborne as a weekly boarder and she would see more of him.

He was taken to school and picked up by his father's chauffeur in the Estate's Land Rover. John insisted on it unless he himself was able to be there waiting a little distance away from the many well dressed mothers picking up their children daily. Otherwise Michael was an average pupil, not outstanding in any way. He was good at music, but when Catherine tried to arrange private piano lessons for him, he flatly refused.

John made a point of spending several hours a day with his son. Once a week John had watched him play football in his school team, but Michael had recently lost his place because he was short of breath and found running difficult. The football coach suggested he be checked by their doctor, but nothing was found to be obviously wrong.

After losing interest in football, the boy discovered an interest in fishing. John took him to London and bought all the best rods, lines and flies at Farlow's, the finest fishing equipment shop, and they regularly went to the river at Black Moor Vale only twenty minutes from the Estate where John had arranged fishing permits. Some Sundays they went to North Point in Weymouth and sat with their rods on the pier, eating sandwiches, crisps and sweets packed by Catherine. John found fishing a very calming occupation and spent the time thinking about his various enterprises. He and Michael rarely spoke to each other on these outings but they knew the time they spent together meant a great deal to each of them.

* * *

On Monday, 6th June 1977, at nearly midnight, after Michael had been allowed to build and set fire to a spectacular bonfire in honour of the Queen's Jubilee, John was sitting alone on the terrace, a rug tucked about him. Both Catherine and Michael had gone to bed an hour ago. There was complete silence except for the crackle of the dying fire.

He was thinking about a report he had read less than half an hour ago, now lying beneath his hand. A neatly bound, forty page document, it had been delivered by motorbike courier from Higginson Investments. On its blue cover were the words 'Mirage Consulting (UK) Ltd'.

He was intrigued. The report was a very encouraging presentation of the company, including bank references, its credit rating from Dunn & Bradstreet and details of its permanent staff, including Roger Doubtree, Managing Director UK, and Erick Elgberg, the Danish owner of the company.

The detailed account it gave of Elgberg's past was the most interesting part to John. It was surprising that after such a big scandal in a small country, there could be anything good to say about the man, but he was described by words like 'talented' and 'a man of vision'.

John himself had married into the aristocracy and now owned the Cerne Estate. At thirty eight years old he had achieved what he'd set out to do: he had become wealthy, had more power than he'd ever expected to wield, but still felt he was living on a knife edge. One wrong step would take him straight on to the front pages, bring the whole of his carefully constructed empire crashing down around his ears with years of prison ahead of him. Then Michael, Catherine and Mona would suffer as much as he would.

This way of life could not continue. It was too hazardous.

John now craved normality yet years ago he had chosen a different path. A change of direction, though.... that was something he felt he could learn to live with.

He now knew what he wanted: a transformation, a gradual closing down of all his criminal enterprises so that the money could be rechannelled into legitimate business. His personal funds amounted to £26 million and John wanted to put them to constructive use thereby securing personal respectability and above illegitimate power.

To achieve this he needed help. Someone he could trust.

Someone to share the responsibility. Someone highly motivated.

Someone with a special knowledge of business he himself did not possess.

He drummed his fingers on the report.

Maybe – just maybe – the name he needed was right here.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE  
_________________________

San Lorenzo, Knightsbridge, Monday, 27th June 1977.

Over the last week, Erick Elgberg had wondered what the representative of a Zurich bank, which apparently owned Higginson Investments, wanted to talk to him about over lunch at San Lorenzo.

When he arrived at the bustling restaurant in Beauchamp Place, at the heart of the chic shopping district where Andrea loved to flourish her credit cards, his host was already waiting.

Erick knew Philip Higginson well after having been a client of the investment house for nearly a year, but this man was a stranger to him. He had his back to Erick as he approached the table, but even so his first impression was of someone who exuded quiet authority. As Erick's shadow fell over the table, the man rose and turned to offer his hand. He was a good six inches shorter than Erick yet commanding for all that.

'Delighted to meet you at last, Mr Elgberg. I'm John Forbes.'

Erick found himself held by the man's dark eyes as they shook hands. There was something almost hypnotic about them, he thought.

'Good of you to come,' his host went on, gesturing to him to sit down. 'I wanted to meet you as your company has become a major client of Higginson's.'

Erick nodded, taking a seat. He had decided to say nothing until he knew what this meeting was all about.

'Shall we order?' John Forbes passed him the handwritten menu. 'If you like Italian food, this is the place. The chicken béarnaise is simple but excellent, the wines the best from Italy.'

They made polite conversation until the food arrived. After they had eaten in silence for a while, John sat back, wiped his mouth on a napkin, and said, 'I represent the biggest shareholder in Higginson Investments – the Zurich Bank of Industry and Commerce.'

Erick had never heard of it. He kept his expression blank, his gaze steady.

'I'll be perfectly frank with you,' his host went on. 'I don't fully understand how your company works. It looks to me as if you're buying defunct companies and somehow making money out of them. I'm not as smart as Philip. Please enlighten me?'

Although Erick was in no doubt that this man was in fact far more resourceful than the vague and rather ineffectual young Higginson, he explained in detail what Mirage Consulting was doing, where it operated, its links with Scandinavia and how the funds from Higginson's were used to buy up even bigger companies.

'I am impressed,' his host said when Erick had finished speaking. 'It's a unique concept, as far as I can see, and a worthwhile service to the business community. I must congratulate you. You've certainly created a different type of operation which must have enormous potential.'

'Thank you. The owners of the companies we take over certainly appreciate our services.'

John Forbes leaned slightly forward over the table as the waiter cleared away their plates.

'I arranged this meeting, that I could ask if there is anything with which I can personally assist you regarding further finance,' he said softly.

Erick hesitated. He was, of course, pleased that this man was offering him another source of finance, but he now had a niggling suspicion that this lunch was not solely about Mirage Consulting.

'I'm very pleased with the service Mirage has received from Philip Higginson,' he said guardedly. 'I think we are doing all right at the moment.'

'Let's say you wanted to expand this business, though, say to the rest of Europe or the States, how much capital would you need?' Forbes asked. 'Within a couple of years?'

'A million pounds as a long term investment,' Erick answered promptly.

'I see. Have you considered expanding further?'

'We're starting a small sales office in Dublin shortly.'

John Forbes smiled. 'Well, that's a start.'

By this time they had finished lunch and were drinking thick dark espresso. Erick felt that the meeting was going well from his point of view. Although he still had these doubts about Forbes's agenda, he found he liked the other man. John had a charismatic personality, though whether he was pussycat or puma, Erick could not decide. That easy charm could well disguise a ruthless nature.

For his part, John too was satisfied with what he had seen of Erick so far. He liked the air of bluff openness, the guileless blue eyes that belied a mind that was sharp and unusually retentive. Erick's near total recall of facts and figures had been impressive. Yes, John decided, Elgberg fulfilled his every requirement in a new business partner except for one thing: he had the air of a busy successful man, one who was his own boss and had already made a comfortable fortune for himself. Maybe he was too successful to suit John's purposes?

John wondered what Erick's wife would be like.

Time to rattle his cage a little, John decided. The report on Erick's company had revealed that the Elgbergs were living in some style in a five bedroom house in Colonne Road in Wimbledon village. Back in Denmark, apparently, they still owned a luxurious contemporary villa in an exclusive suburb of Copenhagen, which they had rented out, as well as a summer place on the coast where Elgberg had moored his Danish build Bandholm yacht. It was all very comfortable but was it quite enough for a highly ambitious, demonstrably unscrupulous man?

'We have a place in Dorset, not far from Dorchester,' said John casually as he settled the bill. 'I wonder, would you and your wife care to come down for lunch this Saturday? Bring your children. They'll be company for my boy, Michael. Turn up around eleven and let's make a day of it. Just an informal get together. We're very laid back.'

* * *

When the Elgbergs turned off the Dorchester road and down a sweeping tree lined carriage drive that seemed to go on forever, Erick stopped the car to check the map John Forbes had drawn for him in the restaurant. Surely they'd made a mistake? But no, this had to be the right place.

Andrea, who resented having to accompany Erick on this business outing when she'd wanted to watch Bjorn Borg play Jimmy Connors in the final of the men's singles at Wimbledon, shifted restlessly in her seat as Cerne House at last came into view

'Hey, it's a castle!' called Christian from the back seat.

'No, it's not,' said his sister crossly. 'It's a witch's house like Hansel and Gretel. See those chimney pots? They're made of sugar.'

Glowing with a golden light on this sunny July day, mullioned windows thrown open to the warmth and ancient chimneys etched against a clear blue sky, Cerne looked every inch the perfect house. Just as John wanted.

Erick and the children were enchanted. Andrea started to feel seriously outclassed in her red and white striped T shirt dress and Dr Scholl sandals.

'We're not dressed for this,' she snapped. 'It will be so embarrassing!'

She was partly mollified when a slightly harassed looking woman stepped out through the open front door and greeted them.

'Hello there, you must be Erick and Andrea? I'm Catherine Forbes,' she said, offering them her hand. 'Welcome to Cerne. Do please excuse me – we're a lad down this morning and I've had to help out at the stables.'

Which would account for the strong smell of horse emanating from her worn breeches and short sleeved Aertex blouse, Andrea thought. And if she ever had thighs that size – which God forbid – the last thing she'd ever choose to wear would be jodhpurs, let alone stained ones.

Catherine greeted the children with a smile that transformed her round, rather pale face.

'I'm so glad you could come,' she told them. 'Michael will be thrilled to have some company. Did you bring bathing costumes? Never mind,' when they shook their heads, bemused. I'm sure we have some spares in the pavillion... Ah, John, there you are. Why don't you give everyone a drink while I go and make myself presentable?'

A dark, fine featured man came around the side of the house with a boy of about eleven in tow. He frowned slightly at his wife's dishevelled appearance before stepping forward to shake hands warmly with Erick and Andrea.

'We'll be on the terrace, darling,' he told his wife. 'Take your time. Michael, why don't you show Christian and Lisette your tree house?'

As the children raced into the garden, he led the guests into the house. Erick noticed the date 1635 carved into the keystone above the front door. In the dark panelled hall, Catherine excused herself and clumped away up the bare polished oak stairs. Their host ushered them through a dark tapestry hung drawing room and into a beautiful light filled Regency style morning room which must have been a later addition. Round eyed, Andrea just had time to take in the hand painted Chinese wallpaper and startling collection of porcelain in two bow fronted walnut display cabinets. A pair of floor length windows stood open to the stone flagged terrace shaded by a rose covered pergola. At the far end two girls flitted about setting a table, looking like magpies in their black and white uniforms.

John led the way to a wrought iron table and chairs where glasses and an ice bucket invitingly beaded with moisture stood waiting. He poured them out glasses of chilled Moselle and they sat sipping the wine, staring out on to a wide expanse of rolled and manicured turf. Herbaceous borders lined a long mellow brick wall from behind which, they could hear the shrieks and splashes of their children already in the pool with Michael.

Catherine appeared at last, breathless and apologetic, in a Liberty print pinafore dress and high necked white blouse which looked uncomfortably tight under the armpits. She sipped distractedly at her glass before saying to John, 'Have the children had a drink? I'll just go and...'

'I sent Maggie out to check. You worry too much,' he told her.

But she was restless and couldn't settle, offering after a few minutes to show them round the stables. Erick and Andrea politely accepted though they would in fact have been quite happy to sit all afternoon in the rose scented shade. Instead they followed her out into the dazzling light and heat and dutifully surveyed the neatly swept yard and the rows of half doors each surmounted by a glossy, enquiring head.

'This is where I'm based,' Catherine said, striding towards a converted cottage next to the stable block. They followed her inside to find that all the interior walls had been taken down and the building knocked through into one large vaulted room with bare floor boards beneath and heavy beams overhead. Saddles, bridles and other equipment hung from heavy stands and pegs upon the walls. There was also a board listing all the horses' names with details of the meetings where they were due to race. Another wall was lined with shelves on which stood silver framed photographs and impressive trophies.

'Goodness! Did you win all those?' asked Andrea, impressed.

Catherine was looking much more confident and relaxed in these surroundings. 'Not personally,' she laughed. They belong to the yard. We generally have half a dozen or so runners a month – not bad for a small set up like this.'

Eric noticed the new colour and animation come into her pale face. At first he had taken her for a plain and rather lumpen woman but there was more to her, he could see that now.

'It must be very exciting,' he said encouragingly.

She nodded and gave a sideways glance at her husband who was studying the forthcoming fixtures. 'Sometimes I feel I know more about horses than I do humans.'

'Nothing much is happening this weekend,' commented John.

'But we're at Sandown two days next week,' she told him and suddenly turned to Andrea. 'Perhaps you'd like to join us there.'

John nodded approvingly when she accepted but told his wife, 'I hope you're not including me in this?'

She heaved a sigh. 'As you can probably see, my husband prefers to stay away from the courses. He watches on television, though, and allows Michael to place bets on his account.' She shook her head reprovingly. 'I hate to think what he'll be like when he grows up, with a father like that.'

It was said as a joke but in the bare shadowed room her word rang hollowly.

'It's important to learn to calculate risk,' John murmured,

rubbed his hands together. 'Well, I don't know about all of you but I'm ravenous and I can smell Doris's roast from here. Shall we round up the children and go in?'

Sitting at the long table on the terrace, laid with Georgian silver and glasses with elegant hollow stems, they ate traditional roast beef and all the trimmings, the animal taken from their own stock apparently. John and Erick saw off a couple of bottles of claret; Catherine too sank her fair share, Andrea noticed with surprise. She herself, already feeling pleasantly somnolent from the food and the heat, preferred to stick to lemonade.

Afterwards John led Erick away to the other end of the terrace and the children went on the grass playing a desultory game of I Spy. Andrea and Catherine dragged loungers out into the sunshine and sat sunning their legs.

'How long have you lived here?' asked Andrea.

'All my life. This used to be my parent's estate. John came here with his mother when he was about five.'

'I think it's the most lovely and peaceful place I have ever seen. If I lived here, I don't think I could bear to leave it – even for one day,' Andrea enthused.

Catherine looked gratified. They seldom had new visitors as John preferred a solitary life and usually excused himself when Catherine invited the few friends they shared, apart from Arthur and Diana whose company he enjoyed.

'It's rather special, isn't it? I have to stay overnight when there's a meeting up north, but I must confess I simply couldn't bear to travel as much as John does.'

Andrea nodded sympathetically, wondering what useful information she might be able to glean about the enigmatic John Forbes.

'What does your husband do for a living?' she asked inconsequentially though in fact Erick had already told her that John was a high flying financier representing a Swiss bank.

Catherine said, 'He imports toys, mainly,' then hesitated for a moment. 'To be honest I've no idea what else he does though I know he has other business interests too.'

Andrea sensed that the other woman, despite her obvious wealth and privileged lifestyle, was lonely and shy. From the self conscious way in which she had refused pudding and constantly tugged her dress over the plump knees she was sensitive about her weight too. Andrea had been quite ready to dislike her, sure that she would be as standoffish and coldly confident as any stereotypical upper class Englishwoman. Now she found herself sympathising with this diffident vulnerable woman and wondering what sort of man exactly this new associate of her husband's was.

Andrea had the distinct impression that nobody really knew the mysterious Mr Forbes, especially not his wife. They'd been married over ten years and Catherine didn't even know what he did for a living.

* * *

On the terrace, the two men were drinking whisky from tall glasses with loads of ice and soda water.

The conversation had taken a surprising turn.

'I know all about the GIANT scandal,' John said. 'Please, don't be embarrassed about your spell in jail. I myself served a sentence thirteen years ago.'

This bold statement took Erick completely off guard. 'What happened?'

'They accused me of stealing a van,' answered John. 'I had to plead guilty. It was getting very complicated.'

'Why did you tell me?' Erick asked. 'You could have used your knowledge about me to your own advantage.'

'That would have been shortsighted.' John stared out over the gardens, then shook himself and said in a businesslike voice, 'I would like to invest personally in Mirage Consulting Ltd, if you agree. What I have in mind is that an associate company of mine becomes a shareholder, to the tune of one million pounds.'

'A million!' Erick could not believe his ears.

'That's the amount you mentioned, if I remember rightly.'

'Yes, but – just like that?'

John shrugged. 'It's only money.'

Erick laughed nervously. He had never come across anyone like John Forbes. Although outwardly calm and relaxed, he obviously knew exactly what he was doing. He had thought out every detail like a grand chess master, anticipating his opponent's every move.

'There's another matter I feel I must tell you about,' Erick said slowly, 'as you've been so frank with me. You've probably seen from Mirage's balance sheet that we make a very good profit now. The risk is that if we ever strike a snag at an unfortunate time, we could have operations in the pipeline that is not legally covered. It hasn't happened yet, but if it does the company could technically be charged with fraud.'

'So what you do is not entirely legal?'

'There's a short period,' said Erick, choosing his words with care, 'where things might be dubious. Sometimes only a day, other times perhaps a week.'

'I'm glad you told me.' John looked suddenly alert and energetic.

'So you still want to invest that million?'

'Perhaps more than that. One day.'

Erick sat up straighter and stared at John. 'You must be a seriously wealthy man.'

'I suppose I am. And I hope to be even more so fairly soon.' John was silent for a few seconds, then said, 'Will thirty per cent share capital be fair? Say I pay fifty thousand for the shares to you personally and the million on a five year loan at normal bank interest?'

Erick smiled. 'I think that's very fair.'

John held out his hand, which Erick shook firmly. 'You've got yourself a partner. I'll get two bankers' drafts to you during next week for those amounts.' He poured two celebratory scotches into their glasses. 'Let me say that I'm impressed by your determination in completely rebuilding your life after such a setback. Many try, most fail.'

'You managed it.'

John laughed. 'My incarceration was only a little hiccup. Actually, it happened to someone else. I'll tell you the whole story one day. How did you think I made the bulk of my modest fortune?'

'I assumed you'd invested a small sum in a high risk venture, which came up trumps.'

John smiled. 'That's not too far from the truth. Though I doubt you'd have called it a wise investment.'

'What was it?'

'Hemp. That's the business I've been in for years.'

Erick frowned. 'Isn't it used in the drugs industry? Cannabis? That kind of thing?'

'That's right. We import raw Moroccan hemp in bales and sell it on..'

'Why are you telling me so openly? You didn't need to explain.'

'I also have other companies.' John took up a croquet ball lying on the terrace next to his chair, weighing it in his hand as if he was going to throw it out on the grass. 'But now I want to finish with everything that could be regarded as a criminal. I'm seeking a change. A culmination.'

'You could be the person who makes it happen.'

Erick said carefully, 'If it involves drugs, it's something I won't want to be involved in.'

'This idea has nothing to do with drugs,' his host said seriously.

'Then go on.'

'The first step is to invest in publicly quoted companies which are influential in the financial and political sectors. This must be done slowly and very discreetly. When the time is right, one company will buy into the others, amalgamating them into one group, or group of groups.'

Erick nodded. 'I understand the concept,' he said, 'but that will cost a fortune. Probably more than any private individual can put his hands on.'

'You're underestimating me. I'm talking about doing this over a period of about ten years, during which time funds will continue to flow in from my other companies. Dividends will be accruing on the shares we hold which will be reinvested in other shares. The companies we control will buy the shares on our recommendation. These shares can then be used as security for bank loans, so even more shares can be purchased. I have contacts with people all over the world who can back me. I also control the Zurich Bank of Industry and Commerce, Higginson Investments Limited and a finance house called Auto Trade Factors.'

Erick was silent, finding it hard to take all this in.

'So don't be concerned about funds,' John continued. 'That's my problem. It's only money after all. You'll be in control of the buying of the shares which will eventually create the group of groups. They must be acquired in such a way that the Stock Exchange is not alerted. It will be important, too, to get a mix of companies under our control, to achieve a broad spread of investment. We will not be high profile. In fact the opposite. I like to think of it as the Invisible Company.'

Erick cleared his throat. 'These companies you buy shares in,' he said. 'Will you appoint your own boards of directors or leave them as they are?'

'We leave them alone. For the time being. We have no interest in running the companies on a day to day basis. Their own people will do that better than we can. But we will have to appoint a City solicitor and a respected accountancy firm to assist us in building up this group.'

'So what is the final purpose of controlling this group?'

'First, respectability. As I said, I need to distance myself from crime. Secondly, influence. A group such as the one I've outlined will wield significant public and political power. And you are the man to head it. You've got the business acumen, I've got the funds.' He looked at Erick, still playing with the croquet ball.

'Give yourself time to think it over. There's no hurry.'

'Thanks,' said Erick, a little doubtfully. 'I'll let you know when I've had a chance to sort out how I feel about all this.'

John moved in his chair, pushing himself as close as he could towards Erick.

'You and I,' he said, 'are not normal businessmen. We are in business not for wealth, but for power. We must get our feet under the top table. Nothing else matters, does it?'

The two men sat for several minutes in total silence, considering the magnitude of John's ambition.

'Do you have time for any other interests besides business?' Erick finally asked.

'I go fishing with Michael which we both enjoy. Sometimes I play the piano, but only to amuse myself. What about you?'

'I loved sailing in Denmark,' Erick answered. 'You're always close to the sea there. That's what I miss most about living in London.

'Well, we'll have to see what we can do to remedy that,' said his host with a smile.

Erick, dazed by the speed with which everything moved forward, the wine and whisky he had drunk and the sheer beauty and style of his surroundings, merely nodded.

After watching Bjorn Borg winning the men's singles final over five sets, the Elgbergs left for Wimbledon Village.

* * *

Two cheques, drawn on the Zurich Bank of Industry and Commerce, arrived at Mirage Consulting (UK) Ltd five days after the meeting at Cerne.

Kirsten Knudsen, who had moved with the Elgbergs to London, working as Erick's personal assistant opened the envelope.

She handed the contents of the envelope to him, an expression of incredulity on her face.

Besides the two cheques there was also a glossy prospectus and a short handwritten note from John Forbes.

Dear Erick

Catherine and I so enjoyed your visit – we must do it again soon. Since you mentioned yachts, I've been thinking about them. I'd welcome your advice about the enclosed. Naturally, since we are now business partners, you'd be more than welcome to sail it.

I trust your judgment in this as in our joint venture. Give the broker a ring direct.

Kind regards

John

The eight page colour prospectus showed a motor yacht called L'Acqusition. It mentioned a length of 140 feet, needing a crew of six all year round and a price of £2 million.

At that moment Erick realised that this new cooperation with John Forbes was the single most significant step he had taken in his life. Bigger than GIANT of Scandinavia.. Bigger than Mirage Consultancy. He was embarking on a third career with a man he hardly knew. Bound for glory or an ignominious reunion with Rasmussen he caught himself wondering, and swiftly dismissed the thought. John Forbes did not seem to know the meaning of the word failure.

Kirsten peered over his shoulder. 'How does it feel?' she asked softly.

'What do you mean?' he said, still staring at the carefully composed, intensely seductive photographs.

'To find yourself caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.'

Erick shrugged. 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Kirsten,' he said irritably. 'John Forbes and I have a business relationship. He's no more important to me than that.'
PART THREE

DON'T TREAD ON OUR DREAMS

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR  
_________________________

Cerne Estate, Dorset, Tuesday, 23rd January 1979

John looked at his watch. It was ten past three in the afternoon and he was waiting for Michael outside his school in Dorchester.

The boy was now thirteen years old, but still happy to be picked up by his father. They would put his bike in the boot and drive home together in the Estate's Land Rover or in John's Jaguar. It gave them twenty minutes uninterrupted time together to talk about fishing, football or whatever was on Michael's mind.

John had made it a priority that this happened at least twice a week. But what had happened to his son today? He was usually first out of the school gates and several of his classmates had already passed by on their way home.

He looked again at his watch and decided to wait a few minutes more.

'But your son hasn't been to school today,' a surprised teacher explained when he eventually inquired. 'We did phone your home. Your wife told us that Michael was feeling a bit under the weather, but that he would be in tomorrow.'

This didn't sound right, John thought, getting into the car. Catherine would always phone him if there was a problem with the boy. Why had she not done so?

When he reached the village, he stopped and went to a public phone to dial the house.

'Sorry, Mr Forbes. I know you don't like uninvited visitors, but a man and a woman are waiting in the drawing room.' Mary, the young house maid sounded nervous as she answered the phone.

'Is Michael all right?'

'He's not exactly ill, Mr Forbes,' she said finally. 'But he is not himself today. And neither is Lady Catherine. I couldn't say why exactly but I think it's something to do with the visitors.'

'Thanks, Mary. I'll be there in five minutes,' John said and put down the receiver, suddenly icy calm. It looked like the game was up.

It had to be police or customs officers.

* * *

He noticed an unfamiliar black Mercedes parked in the drive and gave a sigh of relief. The authorities would never use a car like that. In the hall he shook out his coat and saw a man's black overcoat already hanging upon his usual peg on the stand.

'Who are they, Mary?' He tried to keep his voice steady when the maid appeared soundlessly in the hall besides him.

'They said they were from your insurance company.' The girl shuffled from foot to foot. She had been strictly instructed never to let anybody into the house, without prior invitation, but obviously these people had been impossible to deter.

'All right. Go back to your work.' After she had scuttled off pale faced, John pressed the panic button by the side of the front door.

Several of these buttons had been installed at various places in the house for just such an emergency, to alert Keith Spike that something unexpected had happened. The Clark twins were linked to them, as well as a special private telephone system connected them to the Cerne Estate, the Esher office, Arthur Black and David Kennedy. These telephones were built into cupboards, which were always kept locked. On the Estate only John had the keys. The phones triggered bleepers which John, Arthur, David and the Clarks always carried with them. The system, bought in the United States, worked on radio wavelengths in England and via the normal telephone system abroad and was scrambled so that no one could listen in.

Keith Spike arrived, breathless. 'What's the problem, Mr Forbes?'

'Some unexpected guests,' he said quietly. 'Why have you not noticed them and warned me?'

'I've just come back a few minutes ago. You asked me to drive to Southampton and order the material for the new garages, You remember.' Keith was red in his face. He felt he should still have checked out who had arrived in the car.

'Yes, sorry. Give me a few minutes with them, then come into the drawing room without knocking.'

'Understood.' Keith flexed his broad shoulders and tensed the fingers of his hands in readiness.

John pointed out through the window, to the Mercedes. 'And take the registration number of that car! See what you can find out via your police pal.'

As Keith went off, John's bleeper sounded. He unlocked the cupboard under the staircase and picked up the phone. 'Get down here. Urgently!' Then after replacing the receiver and locking the cupboard, he walked into the drawing room to confront the visitors.

'Can I help you? I'm John Forbes.'

The male visitor was tall and dark, wearing gold rimmed aviator sunglasses. He was holding an official looking black briefcase. The woman was younger, in a smart navy trouser suit, her black hair combed back from her high, olive skinned forehead. They looked very alien in the slightly fusty formal drawing room with its tapestry hung, panelled walls and pink shaded Famille Rose table lamps.

He saw his wife sitting bolt upright on one of her parent's red plush upholstered Coronation chairs. She was holding a whisky glass in one hand and looked straight at John without acknowledging him.

The dark haired man got to his feet and stepped forward. 'Sorry to come without an appointment but if you'll just give us a few minutes of your time, I believe you'll find it worthwhile.'

He spoke with no discernible accent but every line of his sombre beautifully cut clothes and neatly groomed raven black hair proclaimed him to be Italian.

'Who are you?' John enquired brusquely.

'My name is Carlo Contorni.' said the Italian. 'And this is my assistant, Flavia.' He waited for John to acknowledge her with a brief nod and then went on. 'For some months we have investigated you and your organisation. We are here now to arrange a meeting between you and the head of the organisation we represent.'

John allowed himself to relax slightly, taking in this unexpected development. He kept his eyes on the woman, whose hand rested lightly yet significantly on the handbag that hung from a gilt chain by her side.

At that moment Keith walked in. 'Sorry, sir. Didn't know there was anybody here.'

The woman's hand slid inside the bag. Instantly Carlo Cantorni held out his hand to the new arrival. 'You must be Keith Spike.'

John's minder was taken by surprise. He looked to his boss for guidance, ignoring the outstretched hand. Catherine started to laugh, an ugly high pitched sound she seemed unable to suppress.

'Your visitors were very determined to see you,' she told John through chattering teeth. 'They've been here since eight thirty this morning. Said they had to see you today but they would not let me call you on the phone. Oh – and they thought it would be better to give Michael the day off school too, though I told them he had a math's test.'

The flood of words dried abruptly. She drained the whisky from her glass and got up to refill it. She still would not look at her husband, her back stiff with unexpressed rage.

For the first time ever he had breached their unspoken agreement never to drag her into the murky world he inhabited beyond the boundaries of Cerne. The threatening visitors who had forced their way into the house this morning had lived up to her worst fears and Catherine hated her husband for forcing her to confront them. Ignorance had indeed been bliss and she knew now she would never again be able to ignore the harsh reality of John's world.

'Lady Catherine.' Contorni smoothly intercepted her on her way to the drinks tray. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 'You make us sound like monsters,' he protested as she shuddered involuntarily. 'I did explain it was absolutely vital we should meet your husband today, and now it has happened. I'm sorry if we have upset you and your son.'

When Catherine remained speechless, John told her, 'Take Michael off riding or something. And close the door on the way out.'

For a moment it seemed she would argue. Her eyes, when they finally met his, were bleak and dazed looking. Finally, shrugging her shoulders, she made for the door, staggering slightly. Keith tried to steady her with a hand on her arm; she shook him off angrily.

There was no longer any need for John to disguise his fury.

'What the hell is going on here?' he spat out. ' If you've investigated me you must know that I'm hardly likely to welcome you here – pushing your way in, terrifying my wife and son. So tell me – who exactly do you represent and what is it you want?'

'We represent Signor Rudi Grattini from Rome.' Contorni nodded to his assistant who slid her hand deep into her bag.

John expected to see a gun.

Instead she brought out an envelope. 'Here is a letter from Signor Grattini which will explain everything. He wishes to meet with you privately tomorrow.'

John tore open the expensive crested vellum envelope. On the paper inside, beneath a matching letterhead, was typed a list. It contained the names of every member of the hemp smuggling team.

The names of his team.

At once realising the significance of this, and the fact that these two were only messengers, John curbed an urge to force them to tell him how they had obtained the information. Instead he commented, 'I trust, when we meet, Signor Grattini will tell me how he came by this?'

'That is not for us to say, Mr Forbes. But I assure you he is a gentleman, a man of honour and respect. May I tell Signor Grattini you will receive him here tomorrow?'

'Ten pm,' John agreed. 'But not here. Make it London. I'll be waiting at 'Blacks', an antique shop in Mount Street, Mayfair. So long as Mr Grattini comes alone, I'll guarantee his safety.'

'I take it that it is Mr Arthur Black's shop?'

'Yes.' John could not hide the fact that he was shocked by the extent of their knowledge.

Without another word he showed them to the front door and watched the shiny black saloon glide into the encroaching shadows of the beech avenue. In a moment is was as if it had never been there. But John knew it had, and worse than that his wife did too. Slowly, he went in search of her and Michael.

He'd expected to find them in the stables, saddling up, but a surprised looking groom told him that Lady Catherine hadn't been in all day. John swiftly retraced his steps and took the stairs to their bedroom two at a time. Catherine was not there so he made for Michael's and pushed open the door without knocking.

He saw his son first, hair dishevelled and the freckles standing out on his chalk white face like exclamation marks. Michael was sitting on the side of his bed, one hand pressed to his mother's shoulder as she lay face down, her body riven by deep, terrified sobs.

'She won't stop, Dad,' he said in a thread of a voice. 'I told her it would be all right – I knew you'd sort it out when you got home. But she was just so frightened...'

He dashed one hand across his eyes for a moment then sat up straight, squaring his skinny shoulders. One member of the family breaking down was quite enough. He had no intention of adding to his father's anguish.

John could read everything that was going through his son's mind: the fright and the confusion and the determination to be strong. He had never loved Michael more than at that moment. Wordlessly he held out his arms to the boy. Michael looked down guilty at his mother, patted her shoulder a final time then ran to John and clung to him with both arms.

'It's all right, son. Everything's all right now,' John soothed him, hugging him close. After a minute he held his son away from him and said, 'We have to help Mummy now. Go and find Keith. Tell him to call Dr Hill. He has the number.'

The boy looked surprised, 'But we always see Dr O'Hara...'

John glanced of his wife's shuddering body. 'No, I think Mummy needs a different doctor this time. Go and tell Keith. I'll stay with your mother.'

Dr Frederick Hill, a handsome upright man with a shock of steel grey hair and a bluff forthright expression, was beloved by the retired population of Bournemouth and ran several highly lucrative nursing homes there. He also, unknown to his painfully respectable clientele, provided medical treatment and a safe house for the criminal fraternity. Having used Dr Hill several times before, John knew he would be discreet when paid to be so. He couldn't risk calling in O'Hara with his wife in this condition for fear of what she might let slip.

Hill asked John to leave the room while he examined the patient. Through the closed door John could hear a brief exchange of words and further weeping, low and exhausted now. The doctor called him back in and explained, 'I've given your wife a sedative. It shouldn't take long to work. She's all in.'

They sat silently by while Catherine sank into a deep sleep. Hill brushed her damp tangled hair away from her face and sighed deeply.

'She's in a bad way, John. I think I should take her in for a while.'

'Oh, surely not? She's just had a shock. Once she's had a good night's sleep...'

The doctor shook his head. 'I don't want to poke my nose in here but your wife's mental condition is extremely precarious. I don't know exactly what has happened today but I'd guess that this is something which has built up over many months. Perhaps years. She needs help, and for a while at least she needs to get away from here. I can call a private ambulance and take her back with me now, if you like?'

John nodded. It would suit him very well if she was safely off the scene for a few weeks.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE  
_________________________

Mayfair, London, Wednesday, 24th January 1979

The Clarks installed a camera behind a mirror in the office and microphones in four places. Armed with a silenced Berretta and having hidden a rifle close by, Jim would wait on the roof, watching the office through a skylight, while Neil was to act as minder and monitor proceedings inside the shop.

At exactly ten o'clock that night the black Mercedes drew up to the shop. An inoffensive looking elderly man, heavy built and with an abundance of silver grey hair, emerged from the vehicle carrying a thin briefcase. Inside Neil Clark took his long black coat and frisked him expertly, looking into the briefcase. Then he led the visitor up the stairs and into the empty office. John had decided to make Grattini wait, to give Neil time to take photographs using the concealed camera.

When he was ready, John entered the room and introduced himself.

'Very pleased to meet you at last. I am Rudi Grattini.' The heavy set man spoke with a strong Italian accent.

'Can I offer you coffee or a drink?'

'A small cognac would be most welcome.' The man smiled a somewhat lascivious smile. 'I like the shop. It is most beautiful.' John sent Neil for drinks.

'It's been owned by my friend for many years.' John was impatient with these courtesies. He was interested only in finding out where Grattini had obtained his information.

But the visitor was in no hurry. 'So many beautiful things. And your home too, my associates told me all about it.'

'It belonged to my wife's family originally. Naturally she is very attached to it, as am I.' He suppressed the memory of Catherine's still sleeping form being stretchered from Cerne the night before. Grattini was leading up to something and John had to be ready for it. He looked to John like a man at ease with meetings like this.

The Italian got up slowly and walked round the office. He stopped along side the display of bonsai Serissa trees. David Kennedy kept improving John's collection and he had given these to Arthur. 'What are these delightful little things?'

'It's a bonsai forest,' John replied shortly. 'They're Serissa trees, meaning 'tree of a thousand stars'.' A thought passed through his mind then: had Grattini mentioned the bonsai to make John aware that he knew of David's hobby? But the beautiful white blossomed trees would make anyone comment upon them, he decided.

Coffee and Cognac were brought in as they maintained their polite conversation.

'I would like to apologise for sending my two associates yesterday,' said Grattini. 'But I had no choice. You have been very difficult to locate, Mr Forbes. If I had not seized the initiative in that way, you would never ever have agreed to see me.'

'So what organisation do you represent?' He demanded. 'If I don't find out who I'm dealing with, I don't think we will get very far.'

'I represent only myself. I have worked independently for the last fifty years. My organisation offers a different service from yours, but like yours it has contacts all over the world. I also deal with other major Italian organisations. I am respected by them, a man of honour. They do not interfere with my operation in any way.'

'So what do you want of me?' John was unsure what to believe.

'I would like to fulfil a personal ambition to introduce a new product into the market.'

'What product?'

Grattini hesitated. 'Before I tell you, Signor Forbes, I must have your word that what passes between us will remain of the utmost secrecy. I must talk very openly. Afterwards you can refuse my offer and we need never see each other again. Your knowledge of my product and my knowledge of you and your organisation will remain inviolate.'

John nodded. 'Agreed. But before we part, I want the name of your informant within my organisation.'

'I like your directness.'

'So tell me about this product, Signor Grattini?'

Grattini seated himself and adjusted the diamond links in his cuffs. 'It is an entirely new drug, which does not derive from heroin or cocaine. A pharmaceutical innovation with amazing potential.'

'Tell me more.'

The elderly man smiled genially. 'All in good time. First a little introduction about myself and my bona fides. Many years ago I started my working life as a diamond cutter. Then I became a site holder at De Beers, influential and well respected in the trade. I can set a price and no one will dispute me. I will even buy a stone back at the same price within three months, less costs incurred. Over the years diamonds have become the most important commodity in money laundering. When I tired of the trade itself I made it my business to locate people who might have need of such a service. Third world dictators, big industrial owners, cash rich entrepreneurs, large scale tax fraudsters, commodity dealers and criminal enterprises....., believe me, Mr Forbes when I say I am extremely well connected.'

Grattini sipped his drink before continuing. 'Then, five years ago, a professor of biochemistry was introduced to me. He had just come out of prison after serving six years for poisoning his wife's lover. He wanted to borrow money to set up a laboratory and for me to introduce him to people who could market his product. I was not at all interested at first but the man is very gifted, probably a genius, so I agreed to lend him money.' He replaced his glass carefully on the table and opened his briefcase, bringing out a small envelope. 'This, Signor Forbes, is the end result.' He shook out the contents of the envelope on to the table.

It was a half inch long transparent capsule containing blue and white grains. John drew in a deep breath. 'What is it?'

'There is a nerve in the human system called the Vagus nerve. This is medical fact. No one can dispute it. It has not formerly been regarded as a very important nerve, just the one which controls itches, sneezes, yawning. But my friend firmly believes that it is also the link between our sexual organs and the brain. All things to do with sudden release.'

Grattini stopped and looked at John to see if he had any questions. John said nothing.

'If he is right, then maybe it is possible to create a drug which can help trigger sexual arousal. My friend believes he has now found it.'

Grattini passed John a piece of paper. 'These are the ingredients. When you read them, you will see why the pills are so difficult to produce.'

John ran his eyes down the list. Amphetamine, Glycogen, Amyl nitrate, Testosterone nitrate, Dacha,, PCP, concentrated alcohol, Ephedrine, Mahuang, Yohimbine...

Many of the names he had never seen before. He passed the paper back without a word.

'My colleague has been experimenting with these ingredients and he has now perfected a technique for producing pills in large quantities. I should mention that unfortunately, because of the nature of some of the ingredients, the pills cannot be sold legally.'

'So you obviously believe that they work and that there is a large market for them?'

'Large, yes, but discriminating. This isn't a street drug. Our initial trials on an upmarket sample of consumers were an enormous success. Even by the initial manufacturing stage I had recouped a large part of my original investment, which had run into close to a billion lire.'

'You obviously had a distribution network in place at that time. Why not continue?'

'Ah. Then I was using a Mafia supported organisation. They dealt with everyone and everything. A heroin deal went wrong and the boss was shot dead. I do not wish for that publicity if – or should I say when – I begin to market this product on a worldwide scale.'

Grattini leaned forward, looking John directly in the eye. 'Signor Forbes, the market for this product is bigger than you can imagine. No one else in the world has the knowledge and the resources I have. And no other organisation has the distribution network and the marketing expertise of yours.'

John got to his feet and began pacing the room. Despite himself he was intrigued by Grattini's sincerity but remained unconvinced about the product.

'I need proof that these pills of yours are as effective as you claim.'

Grattini smiled and relaxed into his chair, knowing his opponent was trapped.

'Then don't take my word for it!' he passed over a file from his briefcase. 'Here is a report about the physiological reaction of the body after one of these pills has been swallowed.'

'How do I know this is genuine?'

'The author can be introduced to you any time you care to visit Rome. He is a professor of Medicine at the University, a very respected scientist in his field. He has, I hasten to say, no track record in the manufacturing of the pills, but has merely studied their effects.'

John scrutinised the papers inside the folder. They contained a lot of diagrams.

'The report is very complicated. Perhaps these will be easier to understand.' Grattini handed him another envelope containing large glossy photographs. 'Here, you see. We have pictures of a man and woman. These were taken with an infra red heat sensor camera which is why they look different from ordinary photographs. Here,' he said, pointing to another picture, 'we see the same people taken with the same camera, twenty minutes after they have each swallowed a pill. They have been in different rooms, and have not seen each other. Can you see the difference?'

John compared the photographs. On the first ones, which had a time and a date printed in the bottom right hand corner, the outlines were mainly in blues and greys. On the later ones, timed twenty minutes later the same date, there were areas of red around the groin area of the man, and the breast and groin area of the woman. Both outlines had a slightly pink colour.

'Besides these photographs,' Grattini said, 'I can also show you films of these people, taken at the same time. Also timed and dated by digital recording. You will also see what happened when we introduced them to each other, after the pills had taken effect.' He smiled lasciviously.

'And these physiological changes happened because of the capsules?'

'Yes. See. The man has an erection. The woman is flushed and panting. Their pulse rates have increased. But they have not been together, or seen anything which could have aroused them. The film will prove this.'

In spite of himself, John started believing that Grattini was genuine. The report looked authentic and the photographs seemed to corroborate the written evidence. If a drug existed which heightened sexual pleasure, without any side effects, there could indeed be an enormous market for it all over the world. And people would pay through the nose – gladly.

'And you're sure there are no adverse reactions to this drug?'

'I am positive,' Grattini said firmly. 'Our little pill – let's call it the Serissa – has a relaxing, calming effect. Every person who has tried it reports that their energy and confidence increased for up to three hours afterwards, even after strenuous sexual performance. Of course, as the heartbeat also increases, there is a slight possibility of a heart attack in those people who have pre existing medical problems. This is why we must target our market very specifically.'

'You're slowly convincing me,' John said. 'But I must carry out my own experiments before I commit myself.'

'I can arrange delivery of samples wherever you like.'

'So what exactly do you want of me and my organisation?'

Grattini smiled. 'I want your existing wholesalers to have five hundred capsules each, free of charge, to distribute to what I will call, for want of a better expression, the opinion former, the legal profession, financiers, people in the arts, bankers, company directors; people like that. They will appreciate what our little pills can provide. If the demand is as high as I confidently expect, the price of each Serissa subsequently sold should be in the region of fifteen pounds.'

'And what is the wholesale price?'

'Two pounds.' Grattini leaned back, studying John closely, a small smile playing round his lips. He had played a second card his opponent could not ignore.

John made swift calculations. If the capsules were as efficient as the evidence seemed to suggest, it should be easy to sell half a million or more a week throughout Europe. The Company would earn a million clear of expenses. This prospect was too good to ignore.

'All right,' he said. 'Have some samples brought over. Once I'm satisfied they work, we'll buy them from you for two pounds per unit. I have a condition, however, before we take this further.'

Grattini sighed. 'I demand to know, today, the name of the informant.'

'I'm an honourable man, Signor Forbes. I applied pressure. I cannot deny it. I used people you do not challenge. Give him another chance, I beg you.'

John said grimly. 'One weak link and any chain will break. I'm sure you realise that.'

Grattini waved his hand. 'We are now friends and business colleagues. Call me Rudi, please.'

'Rudi. Call me John. Now, the name?'

'Very well, John.' Grattini took out a slim gold pencil and a leather notebook from his inside pocket and wrote something. He tore off the page, folded it twice and held it in his hand. 'I must be getting back now. It's been delightful to meet you. John, I have a feeling our association will be long and very profitable.'

While he spoke the big man descended the stairs of the shop, his large white hand clutching the piece of paper which seemed to float before John's eyes, tantalising him with the revelation it contained.

Grattini nodded to his chauffeur who was standing to attention by the open passenger door of the Mercedes and carefully closed the door behind him.

With an electronic whirr the tinted window slid down. John stepped forward and took the paper in nerveless fingers as the Mercedes glided away. He stood in the deserted street for a moment, his head bowed, in no hurry to read the name that was now in his possession.

When finally he did he closed his eyes for a moment and waited for the roaring in his ears to die down. Of all the possible names it was the one he had most dreaded to see. But now that he had there was no way out. John knew what needed to be done.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX  
_________________________

London, Friday, 26th January 1979

Though it was after midnight, he called Rose at her house in Totteridge and told her that he was planning an extraordinary general meeting of the team tomorrow night.

'I want somewhere where we're not overlooked and with plenty of parking. Can you help me out?'

'It took her a minute or so to shake herself awake. Normally she'd have given anyone waking her in the middle of the night a few choice words but not John. Not tonight. Something important was going on and his attention was focussed solely on that.

'There's Dalton,' she volunteered after considering his request. 'It's a wrecker's yard we took in part payment of a debt? Plenty of parking and a large rundown garage smelling of oil. It's not exactly luxurious, mind.'

'Sounds perfect. Give me the directions and give the keys to the man who'll arrive in one hour.'

'Bloody hell, John! It's the middle of the night and the keys are in the office.'

'Rose, it's important.'

She could hear from his voice that this was not something to argue about and agreed without further protest.

An hour and a half a motorcycle courier arrived at the office. A fine drizzle had set in.

'Not much of a night for it,' Rose commented to the leather clad figure as she handed over a padded envelope. He said nothing, didn't even push back the black tinted visor of his crash helmet to meet her eyes. Instead he held out his hand which seemed unnaturally big against his skintight biker's leathers and was dusted with coarse red hair. He took the envelope and turned on his heel. Rose shivered in the cold breeze which blew in after his retreating figure.

* * *

When Jim Clark delivered the keys, his brother and their boss were waiting outside in one of the discreet Ford saloons the Company used for business. They inspected the garage, where the smell of oil hung heavy in the air and the inspection pit was filled with discarded rubbish. The Clarks arranged to clear that up and bring in folding chairs for the visitors and some heavy duty lighting. They paid particular attention to a small lockable storeroom to the rear – damp and cell like, dimly lit by a bare forty watt bulb hanging from a frayed flex.

John nodded his head. 'This'll do. I'll leave you to make your own arrangements for collecting. The meeting's at eight pm and I expect people will be arriving up to half an hour early so everything must be in place before then. I'm going to make the calls within an hour.'

'Leave it to us. No worries.' Jim Clark smiled reassuringly.

John looked at him, then at Neil. It was incomprehensible to him how lightly the twins took their chosen trade even if tonight he thanked God for it.

For John Forbes had just ordered a killing. Now he could walk away to make phone calls to each member of the team, confident in the knowledge that his orders would be carried out to the letter. The informant would be dealt with but, more than that, the Clarks intended to mount a spectacle that no one would forget.

* * *

Arriving there at ten to eight on a chilly January night, Ray Immerman parked his Bentley Coupe and shivered as he hunted through the boot for the old car coat he kept there. The door to a ramshackle garage stood partly open, etched by the faint light from within. He knew just by looking it would be cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey inside and was glad of the coat.

As he turned up his collar and walked briskly across, he caught up with Shastri and his sister. Ramona was picking her way delicately across the potholed ground, in delicate open sandals under her richly embroidered sari.

'I don't mind telling you, Ray, I don't like the feel of this,' Shastri greeted him nervously.'

'Oh, stop it,' snapped his sister. 'This is supposed to be an extraordinary meeting, isn't it? Stop going on, let's see what it's all about.'

Inside the garage they saw some attempt had been made to improve conditions, with a couple of industrial heaters and three neat rows of chairs set out on the newly swept floor. There was hardly any light though and it took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust. Then gradually they saw familiar faces around them and the newcomers slid into seats next to Brains, who seemed to be looking round for someone. Ray was about to ask where John was when, momentarily, the lights flickered, dimmed, and finally the room was in complete darkness.

Shastri caught his breath audibly, then laughed nervously when a powerful arc light on the floor before them was switched on to reveal the slight familiar figure of John Forbes. For a moment he stood in silence, his head bowed. A murmur of unease ran through the team, to see him so grave faced and silent, just standing there. Eventually he began to speak in a voice that sounded hoarse and strained.

'I apologise for the surroundings. Not the ritziest we've ever had but very shortly you'll appreciate my choice. I've called you together here for two reasons. The first is the one I gave you on the phone. The Company has been given a chance by a foreign organisation to diversify into a new designer drug. The potential profits are huge, but so are the risks.'

He stopped. It was as if he had lost the flow of his speech.

'John, are you all right?' someone asked when he did not continue.

Ignoring the question, he continued. 'Sadly, one of the risks has already become apparent. I'm deeply sorry to have to tell you that for the first time in fourteen years we have suffered a life threatening security breach. The foreign organisation has come into possession of a complete list of the Invisible Company's personnel – yes, your names and mine, business and private addresses, and the names of all our business connections and family.

There were exclamations of disbelief as people looked around in panic.

'I don't understand,' said William Webster, getting to his feet. 'If the operation's blown wide open, how come you want us to branch out? What about damage limitation, deny ability, and everything we have practised over the years? As well of course as the obvious: getting to the bottom of how this happened?'

'It's very obvious,' said Ramona calmly, her finely arched eyebrows raised superciliously. 'One of us must have talked. That's the only way.'

'It wasn't us...,' her brother started to bluster.

John held up his hand for silence. 'That won't be necessary. In accordance with the agreement we made in Richmond when we started the Company, the informant has already been dealt with.'

There was absolute silence for a moment as his audience thought back to the meeting in a quiet South London suburb when each of them had taken a solemn oath of silence and agreed to abide by the consequences should they fail to keep it.

John nodded over the heads of his seated audience and a low humming filled the room as the hydraulic ramp of the open inspection pit beneath him was activated and slowly drew level with his feet. There was something lying on it, they saw. A long oblong shape shrouded in dark canvas. He bent and drew back a corner of the cover.

William Webster was first to his feet to check out the identity of the informant, but even before he saw the still pale face, he knew who was lying dead on the ramp.

David Kennedy had informed on the Invisible Company and had paid the price.

For a few moments pandemonium broke out. People crowded around the body, unable to believe the evidence of their eyes.

'But – he was your friend,' a stunned Shastri told John before his sister tutted at him and pulled him away by one arm.

'Oh, man, this is heavy,' Eugene kept repeating. 'I mean, Dave... that's heavy.'

'I suppose there's no doubt about this?' Ray Immerman said in clipped tones. 'You must have been very sure of your ground before taking this decision?'

'Please take your seats,' John said, now fully in control, feeling he had come through the worst.

Standing next to the body, he continued. 'I was very sure. Our prospective partners gave me his name as evidence of good faith.'

'Don't give us that,' Webster burst out. 'What "good faith" would that be, then? David would never have sold out. They must have forced him to give the information. He'd never have betrayed us willingly!'

'No, he didn't,' John confirmed in a low voice.

* * *

It had been a harrowing day for him.

The Clarks had picked David up in Maidstone. It had been a delicate operation with Jim and Neil following David's car in a panel van for a couple of miles. At a traffic light Jim calmly walked from the van, opened the unlocked passenger door and pointed his gun at David as he slid in beside him. At the White Feather pub's car park close by, which was not overlooked from the street, David was asked to get out of the car and into the panel van. A blow to the back of his head had knocked him unconscious. Handcuff on wrists and ankles secured him in the back of the van.

David's pocket's were emptied and his car locked. The keys were placed in the exhaust, ready for the person the brothers had asked to drive it to an agreed destination.

Blindfolded and gagged, David came to ten minutes later to find himself in the back of a van, covered in heavy carpets hardly able to breathe.

They had driven him to the garage in Dalston and interrogated him about his family's confrontation with Grattini's employees.

It had been decidedly unsubtle: a man and a woman had forced their way into his house one day while David was out. Fiona and the children had been seriously scared, without being touched, but worse was to follow on his return. When in front of the children and his wife he flatly refused to give them the information they sought, the woman took the youngest child, Carol, from the room and went upstairs. There was an ominous silence, and David started to protest angrily. Suddenly frenzied screams rang out from the four year old. David sprang up, ready to attack the man. His gun went off, a bullet hitting the floor inches in front of David's foot. Calmly the woman returned and threw several locks of hair on the floor in front of them.

Almost bald headed, Carol clung to her mother, who seemed paralysed by shock.

Another threat followed, directed towards his wife, and then David crumpled and gave them everything they wanted.

After David had confessed to the Clark twins he had wept and pleaded for his life, begging for a second chance, mentioning a letter lodged with a solicitor, offering to relocate in another country and never to come near the Invisible Company again.

Dispassionately, the Clarks relayed this to John over the telephone.

He confirmed that there was no change to their orders, but was thunderstruck by the speed with which the brothers carried them out. Before John could ring off the radio telephone line, he heard the two shots, one to the head and one to the heart, that killed his former cell mate and trusted friend.

For a minute John sat paralysed looking at the black telephone. He started shaking, feeling as if he was going to vomit. By taking deep breaths, he slowly regained control of himself and scared that someone might come in and see him, he walked out into the garden, leaving the door open behind him.

The sound of those shots still echoed in his head hours later.

* * *

'Intolerable pressure was brought to bear on David,' he told his hushed audience. 'The lives of his wife and children were threatened. In the face of that threat, he gave in.'

'So he loved his family,' said Brains wildly. 'For that you killed him?'

'No, not for that,' John said calmly. 'David was killed because he lied and covered up. I might have overlooked the fact he'd given them the information, fearing for his kids – if he'd come to me directly afterwards and let me know what was going on. Instead he covered his tracks and left us all wide open to an organisation that wants in on our operation. Fortunately I've managed to agree terms with them. But if I hadn't, or if they'd decided to put their own people into England, then more than one person would have died as a result of this, you can be sure of that – or they could have chosen to post the information they now had to the police, waited for our arrest, smiled at our long sentences and then taken over. Maybe with David promoted into a prominent position.

Ramona rose from her seat and came towards John. She knelt down beside the body and gently drew the canvas cover back over it. 'Poor David,' she said. 'I liked him. He was a nice man – but weak. Weak as water.' She folded her hands and said loudly: 'May your God be with you.'

She got up briskly, dusting herself down as she spoke. 'We can't afford for people to see the rest of the Company the same way. John did the right thing by us, if you ask me.'

'Thanks, Ramona,' he told her, grateful for the show of support. 'And I'd like to assure everybody here that David's family will be taken care of. You have my word for that.'

* * *

John dreaded the meeting, but it had to be faced.

He arrived at the substantial and respectable villa in Maidenhead around ten o'clock. Fiona Kennedy, face scrubbed clean of make up and hair tied back, was wearing a floral housecoat when she opened the door to him, obviously ready for bed. She smiled to see John who was a popular visitor to the Kennedy household and inwardly he quailed at the pain he was to inflict on her.

It was the worst thing he had had to do all day, worse even than hearing the shots which had killed his old friend. Seeing Fiona's welcoming smile give way to a rictus of despair, he held her in his arms, as much to hide his own guilt stricken expression as to comfort her.

John told her that David had been killed while in West Scotland, planning a new import route, swept overboard as Francis Morell had been that first time.

'But he said he would be home tonight? Nothing about going all the way to Scotland.' she said, bewildered.

'Maybe he changed his plans and was going to phone you. He didn't tell me either. I got a phone call from someone in the village.'

She seemed to believe him and, good Army wife that she was, woke the children and told them the news herself before breaking down. John wondered how much she guessed. She'd been threatened by Grattini's people, must have known of the deal David did with them, but never by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she reveal that she regarded her husband's death as anything other than a tragic accident.

If that was the way she wanted to play it, he was relieved to go along with it. He felt chilled to the marrow when he left the cosy family home. He wanted soft arms, warmth, some loving kindness, and Mona would give him that, whatever the hour.

Even if, in his heart, he no longer believed he deserved it.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN  
_________________________

Virginia Water, April 1979

It was Paul Dockett's first day working in London.

Being the chief cashier in a bank owned by an Indian group was certainly a new experience, but he had known it would be different, when he decided to take the job. It would take some months to get used to, but without this gamble he would have been stuck for the rest of his working life in the Ascot branch, where he had already been for more than twenty years. Seeing the same faces every day, hearing the same jokes, the same complaints from the local customers – with younger and younger new managers pushing him around.

Working in London's Mayfair was going to be different. A real challenge.

Everyone at BCCI had been friendly and polite, he thought, walking towards the tube station in Piccadilly. He had noticed though that when the bank staff were not talking directly to him they switched from talking English to Indian, even if he had been told that it was against the bank's policy. At the interview he had accepted that he would be one of the odd ones out. His superior had said it openly, that the bank was keen on not being regarded as only a bank for the Indian and Arab community, and the best way of showing this was to employ traditional English bank staff.

The streets were dark and rubbish was piled up everywhere. Maybe he could not even get a train home. 'The winter of Discontent' had forced him to take the very first train to London that morning. Now he waited for over two hours in a pub lit by candle light.

Ann and he were the only one who knew, that when he was offered the new job by Mr Abdul Assiz, the deputy manager for international affairs, Paul had been promised he would be promoted to assistant manager within a month and if that went well he would be in line to become one of the three managers in charge of a new branch in Regent Street soon to open. Before Paul had said anything in reply Mr Assiz had taken him by taxi from the bank's impressive head office in 101 Leadenhall Street, in the City, to the premises in Regent Street.

Standing on the internal balcony, looking out over what was going to be the banking floor, Paul had accepted the job.

Soon he could call himself 'bank manager'. That was the only thing that mattered.

'How did you do, love?' Ann asked as soon as he opened the front door to their house in Virginia Water.

'Fine. Certainly a big change, but it went all right. I must have opened four new accounts in just one day. Where's Elisabeth?' He knew he had grown moody because of his unhappiness with not being promoted or moved to another branch after all those years with his former employers, but with that behind him, now he was looking forward to a new start.

'We should do something tonight,' he suggested. 'I mean, to celebrate. But the miners will probably put the Kybosh on that as well.'

'Hi ,Dad,' his fifteen year old daughter came rushing down the stairs.

'How are you? Have you done your home work? Shall I help you?'

'No, Mum did it.'

Virginia Water was usually regarded as too expensive an area for a bank cashier, but they had been able to buy the house there with the money inherited from Ann's grandfather, combined with a cheap mortgage from the bank.

The inheritance had also enabled Ann to give up her job as the manager's secretary in the same branch. They had blamed the stress of it for the fact that she did not immediately become pregnant on marrying Paul. The change of pace had helped and now they had lived in the house for nearly ten years. Ann loved her life and was happy with her part time job at one of the local estate agents.

It was an uneventful suburban life. Some might even have called it narrow boning. But to Paul Dockett, content in the company of his attractive wife and beloved daughter, it was all he had dreamed of. He couldn't imagine ever doing anything to jeopardise his ideal uncomplicated existence.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT  
_________________________

London and Esher, May 1979

The injection of money from John Forbes had turned Mirage Consulting into a thriving organisation which now employed fifty people. One of these was an Irishman called Sam O'Sullivan, whom Arthur had recruited to become chauffeur, handyman and minder to Erick.

Mirage's stock, acquired from the companies it had put into liquidation, was stored in a huge warehouse in Hammersmith. It was a regular Aladdin's cave, the volume of goods so large that the more saleable items were constantly offered to a network of market traders, builders or retail stores for cash by the Company's own sales staff. One Sunday in every month the warehouse was opened to the public.

Mirage had by now liquidated 124 companies and formed 32 new concerns out of the wreckage. These were usually sold back to the previous owners at a profit with payments spread over five years, as the old proprietors knew more about the products than anyone at Mirage and were delighted to be back in business without the burden of large debts.

Erick and Andrea flew to Australia and established a similar company in Sydney, Mirage Consulting (Australia) Pty, with an Australian partner. The Australian concern set up a sister company in New Zealand.

They flew home via New York, where Erick asked a head hunting company to find a suitable managing director for a new Mirage to be set up in the USA. He also hired a private investigator to check out every persons name the company came up with. He was looking for someone slightly desperate for a new start or drastically wanting to improve his or her situation in life.

* * *

Roger Doubtree, the London MD, widely regarded as pompous and snobbish, was unpopular at Mirage Consulting. Although Erick was aware of this, he also recognised Roger's ability to get the job done. His salary was set at £50,000 a year plus bonuses, but Karen had told her boss that Roger had several times asked for money in advance, which had to be sanctioned by her as she signed all company cheques.

Her relationship with Erick remained unchanged from their earlier days. So long as he occasionally complimented her on her looks and gave her a hug now and then, she was happy.

Ben Bancroft, Mirage's full time legal advisor, worked unusual hours, often arriving at midday and leaving early, or else coming in at dawn and staying till midnight. Erick accepted this as he had no doubt that Bancroft was loyal to the Company. He had developed important contacts with officials at the Law Courts, obtaining valuable information about companies facing trouble before they actually received letters from the court notifying them of judgments or winding up petitions. Bancroft then immediately approached these companies, offering an alternative way out of their situation.

He also improved their contacts within the police force. Often Erick was asked to sanction payments in cash, which Bancroft used to reward court officials and police officers with exotic foreign holidays and other luxuries.

All in all, a highly successful, tightly run ship, Erick told himself before taking Andrea and the family off for a cruise around the Greek islands aboard L'Acquisition.

* * *

'I'm not going to stand for this any longer!' an angry Karen shouted at her employer.

'Take it easy. What's the matter?'

Erick had been back in the office precisely one hour. Deeply tanned from days on the deck, hair almost white from the sun, he wasn't yet into the swing of things at Mirage, mind still floating free as the sea wind above the beloved yacht.

'It's Roger! He's had the nerve to put his company car up for sale and intends to buy a Rolls Royce.'

'A Rolls?' Erick frowned. 'Did you sign the cheque?'

'He gave me an ultimatum. Either I signed or I was dismissed. You have to do something!'

'I will,' Erick agreed. 'Send him in.'

Roger came hotfoot into his office a few seconds later. He began to speak, but Erick held up his hand. 'Karen tells me you intend to buy a Rolls on the company account. You must be out of your mind. Imagine turning up in that in front of some poor sod who's in the process of losing his business and being evicted from his home.'

'It's secondhand ,' Roger told him truculently. 'It only costs a few thousand more than the car I have now. It's no big deal.'

Erick stood up. 'Oh, come on, Roger. Don't be deliberately obtuse. I'm not having it and you've made matters worse by threatening to dismiss Karen. Climb down off your high horse and be more realistic.'

'If you won't back me up by sacking her, I'll resign.' Roger moved closer to reinforce his threat. He pushed his face aggressively towards Erick's. 'And you know I can do you a lot of harm.'

'You'd better tell me exactly what you mean by that?' Erick was suddenly very calm.

Roger backed off, realising he had gone too far. 'You know what I mean. If I walked out, this business wouldn't last five minutes.'

'Do you think I wouldn't be able to find another MD?' Erick studied Roger's expression, knowing what he had really meant. Doubtree knew too much about Mirage Consulting and, if dismissed, could use his inside information about the company to devastating effect. 'Either you apologise to Karen,' said Erick, picking up some papers and leafing through them casually, 'or you are out of here within thirty minutes.'

Roger drew in a deep breath and backed down. 'All right. I'll apologise.' He left the office, not meeting Erick's eyes.

He threw the papers down and paced the room. What had Doubtree meant precisely by that word 'harm'? Blackmail? Would he really take his information to the police, who might well decide to bring in the Fraud Squad to investigate Mirage Consulting's methods?

Changes would have to be made to the set up of the company. If Karen were in sole charge, he would have nothing to worry about.

She knocked and entered closing the door behind her. 'Roger's apologised,' she said, 'but I don't like having him around. He really upsets me.'

'We'll get rid of him,' Erick promised. 'It won't be easy, but I'll think of a way.'

* * *

'Here's another cheque Roger wants me to sign.' Karen placed it in front of Erick. 'I can cope with daily problems, but this man is supposed to be my superior and I think he's useless, specially at a time when the company is getting bigger and bigger. You should get rid of him now.'

Erick picked up the cheque from Karen. It was made out to Roger Doubtree in the sum of five thousand pounds.

'It's an advance on his wages. Not for next month, but for two months ahead. If I didn't have to sign all the cheques, he'd be into next year's by now.'

'OK. Leave it with me. I'll have a word with him.'

Erick decided to approach Roger as discreetly as possible and took him to lunch. He waited till after the main course before talking business.

'You're a highly qualified person,' he said, 'with enormous managerial skill. I think you should consider moving on with a brilliant reference from us.'

Roger slammed down his knife. 'Are you sacking me?'

'Let me finish. My proposal is that it might be possible to offer you a golden handshake in return for all the hard work you've put in.' Taking a pen from his pocket, Erick wrote the details of a generous pay off on a sheet of paper.

Roger did not even look at it. 'So you're writing me off? Are you sure that's wise? I know everything about your company! And I'm not leaving just with one year's salary.'

'So what do you want?' Erick leaned back. Roger had taken the bait and it was now a just a question of reeling him in.

'I want a hundred grand up front and double my salary for the next two years.'

Erick was quiet for a while before calling the waiter for some coffee.

Roger said impatiently, 'Are you going to accept my terms or not?'

'Write your resignation on that serviette,' Erick said quietly, 'then pack your things and be out of Mirage Consulting's premises within one hour. If you do that, I will write you a cheque for a hundred and fifty thousand in full and final settlement.' He showed Roger a cheque already written for that sum, made out to him personally, and held it between his hands, ready to tear it up. 'If you don't accept this offer here and now, you'll get nothing.'

'I'll resign when we get back in the office,' Roger muttered.

'Now. Unless you want me to sack you.'

Roger grabbed the pen Erick held out and quickly wrote five lines on a paper serviette.

'It was nice doing business with you.' Erick handed him the cheque. 'Now get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.'

After Roger had left Mirage Consulting, having cleared out all his effects, Karen came into Erick's office. The tension had drained from her with Roger's departure. She looked calm and in control – if a little young for what he was about to offer her.

'I would like you to become Managing Director of Mirage Consulting , with overall responsibility,' he said. 'And I want you to be in charge of all our operations abroad.'

'Erick!' she gasped.

'How does it feel at the top of a multinational company?'

'I think... I think this is more than I have ever dreamed of in my life!'

* * *

A week later, Ben Bancroft, Mirages legal advisor, asked to have a private word with Erick. 'I've just had a phone call from the police.'

Erick sat down heavily.

'It sounds as if Roger has cashed the cheque and still decided to spill the beans.'

Erick felt as if he could not breathe. His heart had begun to hammer hard against his ribs. 'What do you mean?'

'They're going to take a formal statement from him this afternoon. I'll see them tomorrow and find out what can be done.'

'How do you know about this?'

Bancroft smiled. ' Those foreign holidays and cash hand outs have come in handy at last.' He took a deep breath. 'I don't think we should worry too much. It might just amount to a damage limitation exercise. If we could only get someone to teach Doubtree a lesson...'

Immediately after the solicitor had left his office, Erick picked up his telephone and called John Forbes.

* * *

'All right.' John picked up a toy helicopter from his desk and toyed with it. 'He just needs to be taught a lesson. Have you got his address?' John asked casually. After Erick had written it down, he smiled and said, 'Right. Now forget all about Doubtree. I think I know the very people to settle this. They will be paying him a call shortly and after that I'd be surprised if we have any more trouble.'

Erick waited impatiently next day for Ben Bancroft to get back from a meeting with his contacts in the police force. One, he knew, was a Detective Inspector in the Fraud Squad, – the three others of lower rank, working in specialist squads in London.

As soon as Bancroft walked into the office, Erick said, 'Are we still in business?'

'We are if you're prepared to shell out four thousand,' he said. 'That's their price. One thousand each.'

'Pay it. But I don't like it, Ben. I'd feel happier if we had some hold over them. Have any of them been on holiday at our expense?'

Bancroft nodded. 'Of course. And I've offered our Inspector another jaunt to the Seychelles for which he's bitten my hand off. If you're prepared to authorise a few more thousand, I'll arrange for him to be photographed enjoying the high life, in the company of myself and a few other dubious characters. Mind you, they have to make a bit of noise and take a statement from me, before shelving the case due to lack of any hard evidence.'

'Do it,' Erick said shortly. 'We must have something to use or we leave ourselves wide open to these charges.'

Bancroft nodded. 'I want you to know, Erick, that I'm not just throwing a thousand pounds at each of my police contacts. Nothing so blatant. The way it works is that I've told them I can get cheap tickets, late cancellations, for just two hundred pounds. Naturally, I pay the travel agent the full whack.'

'And is that the way you go about it with our other contacts? The court officials and so forth?'

'Yes. Holidays, tickets to hot shows, discounts on cars. No clumsy bribes in cash. We have to have it put to them in an acceptable form. Softly, softly catchee monkey.'

'Good,' Erick said. 'Okay, Ben, do it your way. If we can get the police off our backs, I think our friend Doubtree is in for a little shock which should warn him off pulling any more stunts like this.'

* * *

'How did you persuade Roger to withdraw his statement?' Erick asked John when they next met.

'Who said I did?'

'I want to know,' Erick persisted. 'As a partner in this business and as possible chairman of the new venture, I insist on it.'

John smiled. 'He was picked up Saturday night, taken out of bed and brought to Epping Forest outside London. There he was stripped naked, wrapped with brown packing Sellotape from his feet to the top of his head, leaving just his nose clear, laid in the black velvet interior of a coffin with a breathing tube, which existence he did not know about, and then buried so that he could hear the earth falling on top of him – until everything finally became deadly silent. The next morning when he was dug up, he'd had a change of heart.' John shrugged. 'Gentle persuasion.'

Erick was shocked. 'You call that gentle?'

John sighed and threw an arm around his shoulders. 'Your problem has been resolved and we carry on with our master plan. You should thank your lucky stars you're not having to slop out in some odious prison.'

# CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE  
_________________________

London, August 1979

Detective Sergeant Malcolm Fox pushed aside the file marked 'MIRAGE CONSULTING (UK) LTD' and leaned back wearily.

This investigation had been a disaster, he thought. Not that he had been directly involved, but as the officer in charge of pushing the paperwork through for CID over that month, he had been aware of what was going on.

Why a few weeks ago, had his two colleagues suddenly dropped all interest in working on Mirage? They'd excused themselves as having more important work to do, in spite of the incriminating statement they'd obtained from the firm's previous Managing Director, Roger Doubtree, before inexplicably he withdrew everything. That both officers on the case had suddenly asked their superior for time off to go on holiday with their families did not fit naturally with their being busy. And trips to the Seychelles were not exactly commonplace for officers of their rank.

Malcolm Fox was not naive. He took it as a realistic possibility that Elgberg had bribed the two police officers to drop their investigation but he had not of course the slightest proof and combing through the file had given him very little to go on.

Doubtree changing his mind seemed ever more serious. It was unlikely this was just "money talking" as he was known to have received a huge payoff from Elgberg previously. Getting him to withdraw his statements and keep quiet, subsequent to this had to involve heavy duty threats, perhaps even on his life.

If instructions had come from above to let Elgberg be, Malcolm Fox would not have objected, but he should have been told. Why did they always keep him out of everything?

Fox enjoyed his work. He never worried about the hours he worked or the tedium the job often entailed, so long as the investigation produced a result. Gathering details, the intricate unwinding of complicated criminal schemes, gave him immense pleasure. Everything else, including his private life took second place. He was proud of his nickname of 'Foxy' and tried to live up to it.

Malcolm Fox was ambitious. He wanted a better house with more space. He wanted his wife to be able to stop teaching.

To be forced to work with two police officers he did not like or trust was a problem, but he had no intention of declaring open war on them. The force did not encourage whistle blowing and to draw his superiors' attention to what had gone on in this investigation could signal the end of his own career.

He picked up the file again and glanced at the report on Elgberg. An interesting character, he thought. Maybe he should keep a discreet eye on him. Someone with Elgberg's background, intelligence and business competence, plus a slightly reckless tendency to sail close to the edge, was bound to make another mistake sooner or later.

Malcolm Fox took out his private note pad and for five minutes jotted down some salient facts about Erick Elgberg, before closing the file and putting it in the OUT tray.
PART FOUR

A SEA OF TROUBLE

# CHAPTER THIRTY  
_________________________

Scotland Yard, Victoria, London, Monday, 24th September 1979

'And we have no criminal record on John Forbes?' Detective Chief Inspector Jeremy Adrians from C11, Crime Intelligence, asked his colleague Chris Mills of the same rank.

'No. There've been several investigations. All come up with absolutely nothing,' Mills answered. 'The Dorset Constabulary confirmed that he's a wealthy man and has lived all his life in Cerne Abbas.'

'And the tax people?'

'They too confirm he's a high bracket taxpayer going back many years. They've also looked into his income several times, but come up against a firm of high powered chartered accountants, prepared to slug it out in court over each extra penny they demand. However,' Mills went on, picking up a sealed plastic evidence bag from the desk, 'that doesn't necessarily rule out what this letter tells us. Namely that he finances drugs operations.'

'Maybe. Although in my opinion it was written by someone with a very serious grudge against this John Forbes.'

Both officers looked at the letter. Adrians took it from Mills. He knew how overworked the force was, but with the few scraps of information they already had and these detailed allegations it seemed to him, it would be a grave mistake not to investigate Mr Forbes.

'I think there's too much here for us to dismiss as mischief making by someone with a grudge. What about the twelve people this David Kennedy mentions, all supposedly major figures in the drugs trade? The Reading prison connection is easy to check out. He also states clearly that if we receive this letter he'll be dead. In my opinion that leaves us no option but to start an investigation.'

'We have one hundred and sixty David Kennedys on our register. Let's look at each of them for starters.' Mills paced the room, hands in pockets. 'I wonder where this poison pen letter's been all this time? It's taken seven months to reach us.'

'Probably the usual thing,' Adrians replied. 'Someone's been asked to post it after a stipulated time. Kennedy knew his life was in danger, so he wrote the letter and gave it to his solicitor to post if he disappeared for six months or so. The letter's dated January, but the postmark is just two days ago.' He took a coin out of his pocket and flipped it into the air. 'Heads or tails?'

'Heads.' The coin landed as Mills had predicted. 'Right. I'll look into David Kennedy,' he said. 'You get the mysterious John Forbes.'

Adrians slipped the coin back into his pocket. 'Imagine if this letter were genuine! This drugs outfit could be one of the biggest in Europe, and right under our noses! John Forbes would be quite a catch.'

'And not only for the drugs,' said Mills thoughtfully. 'If, as you say, Kennedy knew he was a marked man, we have Forbes on a murder charge too. That should put him away for life – a decent collar. And a pat on the back for us. So let's get stuck in, convince the guv'nor it's worth slipping a bit of money the grasses' way.'

Adrians still looked doubtful. 'He's not going to go for that. Forbes has no form and his wife's titled. Wouldn't you know it?'

'Who's taking care of the drug angle – Customs?' Mills changed the subject.

'We'll give them Forbes's gang members' names and whereabouts – on the strict understanding that we get first crack at the man himself.'

'The key to all this isn't Kennedy or the rest of Forbes's gang. It's actually here in the postscript.' Mills got up and started walking restless between the desks.

Adrians stared at the few hastily scribbled lines tacked on to the end of David Kennedy's letter from the grave: 'He has killed before. Check out Duncan Grace. John Forbes was responsible.'

'You've pulled the file already?' enquired Mills.

'Duncan Grace was small time compared to Forbes, though he was Mr Big in South London. Owned a few pubs in the Wandsworth area, ran a string of pushers. Must have stepped on Forbes's feet, somehow. He simply vanished one day. Into thin air.'

Mills looked annoyed. 'No body, nothing really. Any brief would insist that Mr Duncan Grace is abroad, living the high life, enjoying the profit of his crimes. Maybe we should talk with his old friend.'

'Someone called Derek Harvey is mentioned as a close associate for many years.' Adrians thought for a moment then continued, 'There's always a second in command, isn't there? Maybe this Harvey is still around. Let's see if the old organisation is run by him or someone else now. Yes, I think we come at this from Duncan Grace's end, see where that takes us. With a bit of luck, we'll hit Forbes with a double whammy.'

# CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE  
_________________________

Cerne Estate, Dorset, March 1980

'It's my fourteenth birthday soon,' Michael began tentatively.

There was no immediate answer from his father. The statement had pulled John up short. Where had the years gone? Images of happier times flashed through his mind.

'Is that a hint?' he said at last. 'What present are you hoping for?'

'You wouldn't give it to me anyway.'

John frowned. 'Look, if it's not too way out, and if your mother agrees, you can have it, I promise.'

'Terrific! Look!' Michael took a crumpled colour brochure out of his pocket and handed it to his father.

John laughed. 'A fishing trip! We've done that loads of times. We can go fishing any weekend.'

'This is different. It's fly fishing, based in various bed and breakfast places or inns along the river Usk. With fishing permission included. You know what the Usk is, don't you? The finest trout river in Britain, maybe the world. Please say it's all right?' Michael implored.

'And who's going with you?' John asked although he already knew the answer.

'You, of course. Look. It's all in the brochure. It'll be just you and me for a whole week.'

'And that's your fondest wish?'

John searched desperately for a way out. A week was a long time for him to be out of touch these days. Since David's death he'd become more closely involved with the day to day monitoring of the drugs side of things, despite his avowed intention of standing back from this operation and concentrating on the master plan. He still meant to make the break but, ever sensitive to atmosphere, knowing just how shocked the team had been by David's execution, he had personally to bring them round again.

'I've already asked Mum,' Michael was running on. 'She thinks it'll do us both the world of good.' He laughed at his father's expression of defeat. 'And you promised!'

Nevertheless, John was careful to clear it with his wife personally. Since her mental collapse after the Italians had forced their way into the house, John had treated her with kid gloves. He showered her with expensive gifts. A magnificent full length sable coat, designer clothes, specially commissioned jewellery. And Catherine threw it all back in his face. She was unimpressed by anything funded by the proceeds of crime, and in any case had long since abandoned any pretence of keeping herself svelte and desirable for her husband, though these days she drank far more than she ate.

There were vodka bottles stashed in several different hiding places in her bedroom – they'd slept separately since her return from the clinic – and in her stable yard retreat. Catherine stuck to Vodka during the day as it was odour free and easily passed off as water, but when the clock struck six each evening she was at the drinks table, pouring herself the first of several large Scotches before dinner, to be followed by a steady intake of wine during the silent meal.

Under the relentless tide of alcohol her figure had thickened and her once fine skin was etched with fiery threads of scarlet. Her eyes remained her best feature, surprisingly clear still and a striking dark blue. But these days John could hardly bare to meet their gaze for the depth of hurt and condemnation they contained.

When he spoke to his wife about the fishing trip, she merely shrugged and laughed sardonically.

'Don't look to me for a convenient excuse, John. I know you'd rather be away from here, taking care of what you call business. But you promised your son anything he wanted and now's he's called your bluff – so you're stuck with playing the devoted father for a whole week. Isn't that just too bad?'

The unfairness of it stung him like acid. He had never begrudged time spent with their son, and Catherine must know that. But glancing at her puffy face and glassy eyes, he knew she was past caring about the truthfulness of the accusations she hurled at him. She sought only to wound and shock, as he had wounded and shocked her.

John sighed and turned away without entering into the argument for which she was spoiling. There was no point. He would stay from a sense of duty for as long as his son remained at home. Love for his wife no longer entered into it.

They left Cerne on 20th March, so they could be back the day before Michael's birthday. John had insisted on travelling in his Jaguar, even though Michael would have preferred taking the coach and train. They spent a pleasant afternoon walking round Abegavenny and arrived at their bed and breakfast place ten miles outside town in the late afternoon.

They both liked the homely room. After unpacking, they bounced on the bed a few times then went down to speak to their elderly landlady and ask where they could eat locally.

'But you can't go out! I'd expected you to eat here, evening meals are included in the price. So's breakfast.'

John looked at Michael and nodded.

'Well, that will be fine, Mrs...'

'I'm Gwladys. You're the only guests at the moment strangely enough as I'm usually full. I'm so pleased to have such nice people in the house. Some come down here and because there's nothing much to do in the evening, just drink and sit around telling nasty stories. I can see I'll not be having any nonsense like that from you two.'

And so the mind behind a criminal organisation and his soon to be fourteen years old son, passed a highly agreeable evening being royally fed by Mrs Gwladys Ifans and entertained with fishing yarns, before going early to bed, ready for the following day.

'Thanks for today, Dad,' Michael said, just before falling asleep.

They were up at seven. Over breakfast Gwladys told them about the complicated fishing regulations. Large stretches of the river were privately owned and could only be fished with the permission of the owner.

'My husband paid more than a hundred thousand pounds for our part of the bank some years ago, when we moved here from Cardiff,' she explained. 'Unfortunately he died suddenly a year ago and left me with the house, the fishing beat and a large mortgage, hence the B and B.'

'Sorry to hear that,' said John.

'Oh, don't be sorry for me. Love this life, I do. Howard was always complaining and moaning. Maybe he saw too much sadness. He was a doctor, you see. No, I'm quite happy here. Let me go down with you and get you started. It'll be a dry day.'

After an hour she left them alone, promising to bring sandwiches and tea for lunch. Michael enjoyed teaching his father what he could about the different flies used and directing John's attempts with the unfamiliar rod. Throughout the afternoon he became more adept and fascinated by fly fishing, which was a skill he was quite happy to learn. No telephone or urgent messages disturbed the day, a completely new experience for him.

* * *

'Dad, why is it that we have everything and the villagers here are so poor?' Michael asked on their second day.

'That's just the way it is. You have to look after yourself and your family before anything else.' But Michael's question lodged like a knife between his ribs. John knew his answer had been glib, that his son deserved a better explanation.

'I think you know,' he added slowly, 'that things are more complicated than that. These people have different values, a sense of community. I'm sure that the owner of one of these battered old houses or small farms is regarded as being just as rich and important by his friends and neighbours as we are by ours. I had to make my own way in the world. I chose my path Through it I've made a lot of money, which was what I thought I wanted.'

'To be rich?' Michael asked.

'More or less,' John replied. 'Now I can't quickly change my way of life. Maybe I can't change it at all. If I don't go on, our whole lives – mine, yours, your mother's – could collapse round us. And I'm too set in my ways to imagine doing anything else.' He looked into his son's innocent eyes. 'But you have a choice, Michael. You're young and can choose a career which is more important and maybe will improve other people's lives. Like medicine, science, teaching. Or anything that interests you. Photography, painting, acting. You can do anything you want.'

'Does that mean I can help you in your business one day?'

'It would make your mother happier if you chose a different occupation,' John answered quietly, unable to tell his son she would be appalled by such a suggestion.

'How about if I became a fisherman?'

'There's not much money in it,' John replied. 'It's fine by me, but your mother might not like that either.'

'I wouldn't mind being a chef.'

'Ah,' said his father relieved, 'that's much better.'

Then Michael leapt up with a yell. His line was being pulled into the water, the reel whirling round. 'Dad. I've caught something. Help. I don't want to lose it!'

They settled into a routine, finishing until around four o'clock then going back tired to Mrs Ifans for a cup of hot chocolate and a shower. After dinner, Michael phoned his mother and gave her full details of that day's adventures. The fish they had caught were placed in the freezer for him to take home. By eight o'clock each night they were in bed and slept fast and deep.

The weather had been fine for March, although on the last day it poured with rain from early morning and the wind was bitter. They were both lucky, though, catching two plump trout apiece.

'Can I prepare the fish in the kitchen tonight?' Michael asked. 'I want to do it myself and Gwladys said it would be okay.

As soon as they entered the house, he proudly handed the fish to their landlady. He and John were cold and soaked to the skin. With their mugs of hot chocolate, they went up to their room.

John suggested that Michael should take a shower first to warm himself up.

'Yes, okay. And Dad, thanks for this week. It's been really great. The best time ever. I have enjoyed fishing and being with you.'

John smiled. 'Thanks, Michael. I've enjoyed every minute of it too.' He took off his wet clothes and dried his hair with a towel. 'Now, you go and take a shower. I'll just lie here and wait. If I fall asleep, wake me so I can get a shower before dinner.'

* * *

John woke an hour later when Mrs Ifans knocked on the door.

'I thought you were coming to help me, Michael?' she shouted.

John looked round. He could not see his son anywhere. His clothes were still on the chair where he'd left them.

'Sorry if I woke you,' their landlady continued. 'But it's your last evening here.'

John jumped out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe and went into the en suite bathroom. On the floor his son lay unconscious, the shower still running. John propped him up against the wall, swathed him in towels and began to chafe his hands and cheeks. They felt icy despite the steamy warmth of the room.

'Is everything all right?' Mrs Ifans shouted.

'No, get a doctor,' John exclaimed, opening the door. 'Michael collapsed in the shower while I was asleep. Please... hurry.'

Within a few minutes the doctor had arrived. Together they carried Michael to the bed, where he started to stir and look around.

The doctor made a thorough examination and questioned him carefully.

'I believe your son may have collapsed from exhaustion,' he told John after he had finished, 'but unfortunately that is not the whole explanation. I believe Michael needs to go into a hospital for a thorough check up, particularly of his blood.'

'His blood?' John said surprised. 'He's been absolutely fine for the days we have been here. Nothing the slightest bit wrong until now.'

'My point precisely.' The doctor kept taking Michael's pulse. 'There's an underlying cause for this collapse which might be serious. I can't explain why his gums are bleeding. We can either arrange transportation to London or admission to a local hospital.'

'No, London,' John said immediately. If a hospital was necessary, he wanted his son to go to the best available. 'Great Ormond Street. Is it possible to get an ambulance to take us there? Will he be all right for those three or four hours?'

'I can go with the ambulance,' the doctor offered. 'I believe I can get someone to stand in for me here. I'll phone Great Ormond Street now and talk to the registrar.'

John took his son's hand and held it tight. 'Thank you very much Doctor. Please make whatever arrangements are necessary. '

'I can go home by car,' whispered Michael.

'No, I think we should do what the doctor says. Are you warm enough? Try to relax, Michael.'

He nodded and closed his eyes.

'A private ambulance will be here in ten minutes,' the doctor confirmed. 'Great Ormond Street will have a consultant standing by.'

At that moment there was a knock on the bedroom door.

'Mr John Forbes?' a man's voice asked.

'Yes. What is it?'

'We'd like a word with you. Step outside, please. I'm a police officer. It will only take a second, we don't want to make a spectacle out of this and upset your son.'

From the man's tone John deduced it would be unwise to argue. He took a few steps outside the door to be confronted by the two plainclothes officers, incongruous in their city suits and raincoat.

'My name is Chris Mills, Chief Inspector with the Police Intelligence Unit. My colleague here is Chief Inspector Adrians.' He pointed to the dour looking man standing to one side of him.

'We're sorry about your son and will try to accommodate you as much as we can, but I should warn you, John Forbes, that you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder David Kennedy and for importing an illegal substance.' The policeman continued with a formal reading of his rights.

'Oh, my God!' Gwladys Infans had come out of her bedroom and overheard what the policeman said. She rushed down the stairs, wringing her apron between her hands.

John sagged against the wall. Why was all this happening at once? He couldn't think straight. He looked at the policeman who had done the talking.

'I guess you want to take me to London?'

The policeman nodded.

'There's an ambulance coming,' John said, then noticed the doctor standing in the door wearing a shocked expression, eyes fixed on John's face.

'Yes, it's all in hand,' the doctor confirmed. 'The ambulance is on its way. We have a very sick boy here.'

Mills stepped forward to reinforcing his authority over events.

'Where are you taking him?'

'Great Ormond Street, the children's hospital,' John replied with a sigh of resignation.

'Then we'll return to London together. You go with the ambulance, cuffed to one of us, and we'll see your son settled in. Your car will be transported sometime during the coming week.'

'I must phone my wife right away about Michael,' John insisted.

'I'm sorry, but I have more bad news,' Mills continued imperturbably. 'We arrived early this morning at your house in Dorset with a search warrant. I'm afraid Lady Catherine collapsed after we detained her and is at present in a hospital close to Holloway Women's Prison, whereto she will be returned tomorrow. I have spoken to her doctors half an hour ago and they confirm she's under sedation, but hopefully will soon recover. Maybe it was the shock of seeing the team in her home. I'm afraid she can't come to Great Ormond Street at present.'

'She's under arrest?' John could not believe what he'd heard.

'Yes, I'm afraid so. The charges you face are serious and wide ranging. We believe she must have been involved as an accessory. Maybe you can give us your solicitor's name? He should be able to arrange bail for her. Unless there is further evidence, we're not going to object. I think we both know who the key player are, John.'

With the lapse from the carefully, polite 'Mr Forbes', John realised just how serious a threat he faced. The police seemed horribly confident, altogether sure of their ground. Someone must have talked. The Clarks wouldn't mess up, by leaving any evidence of his death.

'Let's get Michael to hospital first,' he sighed. He could not at present see his way through this. His son was the most important thing.

Mills took out some handcuffs and offered half to John, with exaggerated politeness closing the other on a detective constable, who had just entered the room as if he knew he was expected to do the honours..

'I take it we have your word that this will all go smoothly, Mr Forbes?' The policeman casually pushed aside his jacket, showing John that he was armed.

'Yes, of course. And Michael need not know. Please. Not yet.'

* * *

At the hospital John, the Welsh doctor and the policemen were asked to wait in the consultant's office while urgent tests were carried out on Michael. Two hours later the consultant joined them.

'I'm sorry to say that all the indications are that your son has leukaemia,' he told John. 'It's rare in a boy of fourteen. We have to find out whether Michael could have inherited it from someone in your immediate family. We can treat it with chemotherapy, which kills the malignant cells, but this might entail a bone marrow transplant at a later date, possibly followed by regular blood transfusions. Michael's a brave boy. He knows that we must do a bone marrow test. It is not pleasant, I'm afraid, but he's a stout chap. Says he's prepared.'

John felt tears well in his eyes and searched blindly for a handkerchief. 'Please go ahead. The sooner the better,' he said with difficulty. He could hardly speak for the great weight he felt pressing down on his chest, almost suffocating him with its alien presence. His son, sick and in pain. And any minute now John was going to be forced to leave. He could feel Mill's restlessness at the other end of the handcuffs. 'Is his life in danger?' John inquired in a low voice.

'No,' the doctor said, 'not at this moment, but I don't know what the further tests may show. It is possible it won't be good news.'

Used to coping with crisis and danger, John was usually abnormally calm in tense situations. But this was different. This was happening to Michael his son. For almost the first time in his life, he found himself floundering, not knowing where to turn. He was breathless with terror, within inches from screaming it aloud.

'Can I see him?' John asked with difficulty.

'He's asleep,' the doctor said. 'Not now.'

They both knew that with John in police custody it was unlikely that father and son would see each other for days, possibly weeks.

John refused to let himself think further than that.

* * *

John left the hospital in a marked police car. For even the short distance from Great Ormond Street to the Paddington police station, the police car was escorted to the front and rear, all sirens wailing. with several policemen on motorbikes following the convoy, while above them a helicopter traced their route. Other traffic moved quickly out of their way.

John was told that from now different police units, C1 Reserve, Organised Crime Branch would take charge jointly with Criminal Intelligence Branch.

He remained outwardly unconcerned and exercised his right to silence, not saying one single word to the police, even with his solicitor present. However, he indicated that he wanted it to be noted on the official statement paper and signed for by all in the room, that he had said absolutely nothing.

At eight o'clock next morning John Forbes was brought from his cell to be formally charged with conspiracy to murder David Kennedy between January 1979 and September 1979, within the jurisdiction of the Central Criminal Court, and also conspiracy to import a controlled drug class 'B' namely cannabis. Thereafter he was fingerprinted and photographed, and returned to his cell. Two hours later, he was led, handcuffed to two uniformed officers, to an armoured prison van with outrider escort and sirens wailing, which took him to nearby Marylebone Magistrate's Court where he was remanded in custody for three weeks to Brixton Prison. Ernst Rubinstein made no application for bail on his behalf.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO  
_________________________

C Wing, Brixton Prison, London, March 1980

'The Number One', a trustee called Charles Peary was called into the Wing PO office of Brixton Prison and told that eleven remand prisoners would be arriving that evening.

Peary considered it strange he had been told this, but didn't think any more about it until he had allocated cells to all the prisoners coming back from court and waiting in the prison reception for him to finish his allocation job.

'Hurry up, Charlie, for God's sake. I want everyone banged up, before that lot of eleven VIP's are coming onto the wing. They're getting very impatient.'

'It takes the time it takes,' Charles said. 'Anyway, I'm ready now. What's the big fuss about?'

'Better keep on your toes,' the duty officer warned. 'Word is they can bring this prison to a standstill, so don't mess with them. Governor's instructions are to give them exactly what they want.'

'OK, guv.' Peary shrugged. 'No skin off my nose. What are they in for?'

The duty officer tapped his nose. 'Don't ask questions, Charlie. You know how the system works. A phone call here, a bit of oiling there – anyway, word is they're to have star treatment. So make sure you give them the best accommodation. Unless you want to leave here minus a vital bit of your equipment!'

* * *

Behind a warder, Peary could see a line of men in dark business suits, the first of whom looked familiar. As he moved closer, peering in the dim light, Peary realised who it was. He approached the man at a fast trot, falling over himself to be helpful.

'Welcome to C Wing, Mr Forbes.' That should impress the screw, he thought. And it wouldn't do him any harm with their distinguished visitor either.

'Thank you.' John Forbes looked at him blankly, obviously not recognising him.

'What are you doing here?' Peary asked jovially.

'I'll tell you tomorrow. For now, just allocate us single cells next to each other, so we can get our heads down.'

'That's out of the question,' Peary said without thinking. 'If you want singles, I'll have to move more than thirty men who're probably already asleep. You will become very unpopular here. They're three to a cell in here, you know.'

Forbes shrugged. 'So?' He looked steadily into the orderly's eyes.

Peary averted his gaze and jumped to attention. 'Right away, Mr Forbes, sir!'

'Who was that?' John asked William Webster on the way up the clanging iron stairs to their hastily allocated cells on the second landing.

'Charles Peary,' William said.

'I don't remember him.'

'You probably don't even know him. He's obviously been told by the officers to show you respect. I suppose he could be a customer of Auto Trade Factors. He was running a huge international travellers' cheque fraud before they fingered him. Well, it's good to have someone we know in the job of 'Number One'. He can be trusted, but he's a bit of a MASDOHL.'

'What's that?'

William smiled thinly. 'Middle aged smoothie down on his luck.'

* * *

At seven next morning John was allowed to phone Great Ormond Street and speak to his son. Michael had been told about the situation and John promised that everything would be back to normal within a few weeks. Then he phoned the hospital close to Holloway Prison. Catherine was much better and the solicitor had seen her there late last evening. She would be released on police bail this morning and promised to visit him as soon as she had been to Great Ormond Street.

By nine o'clock the same morning the ten members of John Forbes's hemp team were gathered in his cell.

'The seventh sin is regret, I was once told,' he said, looking round. 'So let's all remember that. Why we find ourselves here is of no real importance today. How we get out and back to normal should be our first thought. We must set up lines of communication with Ramona in Holloway.'

'Vera could visit them daily.' William suggested, confident of his wife's willingness to help in any way she could.

John nodded. 'Yes, good idea. Please organise it so she comes here before visiting Ramona. I'll arrange solicitors and barristers for all of you. There's not much else we can do at the moment. We can't hope for bail until things calm down and we've found out exactly what they have on us. So if you all agree, for the moment no one will apply for bail.'

Asking for their consent was just John's way, a formality he liked to observe before carrying on business as usual. Even banged up in Brixton, John Forbes was firmly in control.

The whole team knew there was only one way to survive prison life, and that was by not taking it seriously. Their laughter could be heard echoing throughout the Wing. The prison officers were suddenly betting on John's stream of racing tips, which usually brought them winners.

Cigarettes were in plentiful supply for all the remand prisoners. Every afternoon two black cabs arrived with food from outside restaurants, and a cell had been converted into their dining room.

One thing was uppermost in John's mind. He had to find out how the police knew about the hemp operation, how they had managed to arrest the whole team and how they had tied the name of David Kennedy to the operation. Only he knew what the Clark twins had done with David Kennedy. There was no way his body could have turned up, so it had to be a leak.

The first name to spring to mind as a possible informant was Erick Elgberg. He could have made a deal with the police while they were investigating him, before John helped him out over the television report. But he did not know the names of the hemp team, and certainly would not have known of David Kennedy's death.

Another candidate was Rudi Grattini. He knew the team. But why, if he had wanted to close down the operation, had he gone to the trouble of setting up the Serissa deal? Serissa were now being marketed throughout Europe, and its success depended entirely on effective, discreet distribution. But Grattini was an obvious suspect, whom John would have to keep in mind.

Bernard Boucher knew the team. He knew about David Kennedy. And he had a motive: to gain control of the drugs empire. But it did not make sense. John had already offered him so much and told Boucher that he planned to step back from the drugs operation as soon as he could.

Of course David's wife could have talked. Any member of the team itself could have grassed to the police, but in that case the informer would have been separated from the others in prison as sooner or later the truth was bound to be discovered.

Whoever it was would have had to make a written statement to the police. John knew he would have to get hold of that statement. It was more than likely the police wanted to keep it to the very last moment, hours before the hearing started. He had told Erick and Arthur that should he be arrested they should not visit him under any circumstances. A communications system was set up whereby letters destined for him were sent to various reliable cons at Brixton, as the censoring process for convicted criminals only involved opening envelopes to check for money. Charles Peary, who as 'the Number One' had permission to go anywhere in the prison, picked up and delivered this correspondence. The names Forbes and Elgberg were never mentioned in these letters.

As John believed the solicitor's room in the prison could be bugged, the communication to his solicitor was therefore mostly by the means of letters via the convicted criminals serving their sentence at Brixton. John instructed Rubinstein to use any means he could to find out from where the police had got their information. After Rubinstein had visited an Inspector on Bancroft's payroll, with cash discreetly concealed in a newspaper, all defence solicitors received copies of police statements, forensic report and a photocopy of David Kennedy's letter, together with various forensic reports.

John immediately realised that this whole situation was his own fault. It had been his decision not to take the twins' mention of David Kennedy's letter seriously.

He looked at the note about Duncan Grace and smiled. Not much chance of anyone finding him either.

* * *

Catherine stayed constantly with Michael at Great Ormond Street during the first difficult weeks of his treatment. At first she refused to take John's phone calls, still furious with him for her arrest as part of the drugs team. But after he had written her several increasingly anguished letters and constantly rung Michael's consultant for updates on his son's progress, she realised that John was still going to be a presence in her life, even locked away in Brixton Prison.

Grudgingly, and making it quite clear that she did so only for their son's sake, she agreed to receive Visiting Orders and came to Brixton at regular intervals to tell her husband how Michael was progressing. He'd come through a course of chemotherapy with the loss of all his hair but his spirit unbowed.

The Great Ormond Street doctors were cautiously optimistic about his case, and Catherine told John that she was expecting Michael to come home to Cerne in the next month or so. After that it would be a waiting game to see if the disease recurred, in which case he would need more chemotherapy and a possible bone marrow transplant.

John had never felt so angry or so helpless in his life. In this particular crisis he had no role at all to play but that of a passive spectator, powerless to help his own son.

* * *

In Brixton month after month went by. They were refused bail as conspiracy to murder was one of the charges still preferred against them. The police obviously hoped someone or something would break and were prepared to wait as long as the High Court would allow.

As every member of the team knew that time spent on remand would count against their sentence, they decided that they might as well make the best of the relative comfort which Brixton afforded them and the fact that they still were together as a team.

Eighteen months after their arrival, Charles Peary put his head round the door to John's cell. 'Customs and Excise want to see you.' He gave John a Visiting Order and waited for him to move.

'Tell them to piss off.'

Peary smoothed out the VO. 'I think you'd better read the back of it,' he said.

John turned it over and frowned.

In large handwritten capitals were the words: MONA HOBSON. ST JOHN'S WOOD.

An hour later John passed Peary's desk. 'I need the education room for half an hour,' he said shortly. 'Set it up for an urgent meeting, will you?'

The hemp team congregated in there soon afterwards, Peary and a couple of his friends stationed outside to ensure they remained undisturbed. John stood in front of the blackboard.

'We now have a situation,' he began, 'where Customs have found out something seriously damaging to me. Not a criminal matter, a private one. I've had to act quickly.'

'Don't rush anything,' William said. 'Everyone here is on your side.'

'Thanks.' John looked around at the faces of his team, every one of whom had been proved by the long time on remand to be fiercely loyal. 'Right. This is how things stand at the moment. The most serious charge against us is murder, or conspiracy to murder. It could theoretically become two charges and in any case carry a life sentence for all of us as conspirators. I've now made a deal with Customs that they'll ensure the police will not do anything about the Duncan Grace matter and that they will drop that charge relating to David's disappearance.'

There were murmurs of interest and relief.

'This means we only face the drug charges. Apparently they had every one of us under surveillance for months, so I'm afraid that these will stick. Half an hour ago I was forced to make a statement admitting to having financed two years' supply of raw hemp. This means that bail can now be considered for each one of you, but to avoid undue publicity it has been agreed that the applications will be processed one by one.'

Ray Immerman spoke up. 'How serious is the charge against you?'

'I don't know. I'll have to speak to my brief. We've been on remand for some time, which will knock a good deal off any sentence. My pleading guilty doesn't mean you have to do the same, but we have to be realistic. Let's see exactly what evidence they've got on each of us before we decide.'

The room fell silent. Each member of the team knew how unlikely it was that they would be found not guilty.

'I've already told Ramona's solicitor to get her out of Holloway. And as you, Ray, are the eldest, I suggest your solicitor acts on your behalf as soon as Ramona's out. Then, when Ray is released, we'll move up the scale. William and I will be the last to go.'

* * *

At the beginning of December William Webster was finally told by his solicitor that there would be no objections to bail.

John was now the only member of the team left in Brixton.

On Monday, 14th December, Catherine did not arrive in the morning for her usual weekly visit. At three o'clock John asked for a phone call to be put through to the Cerne Estate. After a long while, it was answered by Michael.

At the sound of John's voice, his son said brokenly, 'How could you? How could you?' and put the phone down. John rang again, becoming desperate, but it just kept ringing. In the evening he tried every hour without success.

He spent a sleepless night, hearing his son's voice constantly. He was even more determined to get bail so that he could begin to sort out his private life.

On Tuesday morning a Visiting Order was brought to him. He rushed over to the large visiting room and waited for Catherine with growing impatience.

Instead of sitting, she pushed the chair under the table and looked down at him.

'I've lived with your deceit since the day we married, so it's my own fault I've been hurt. But for fourteen of those years you've been screwing Mona Hobson and that I can't tolerate or live with. Don't try to deny it. I've read the police report and believe every word.'

John was shattered. The most important aspect of his agreement with Customs had been that his affair with Mona would be kept absolutely secret from his wife. Why had they gone back on their word? The most likely explanation had to be that the police had not agreed to honour the deal and being more than mortified with losing the murder charge, had decided to take their own crushing revenge.

'Catherine, please sit down and give me a chance to explain,' he said weakly,

She glared at him. 'Are you saying this affair didn't happen?'

'No...'

'And it's gone on for fourteen years?'

'Yes, but...'

Before turning on her heel, Catherine threw her wedding ring across the table, hitting his cheek.

It fell to the floor and lodged in a crack in the lino from where, weeks later, half buried in cigarette ash and grime, a prison inmate, working as a cleaner picked up and studied it.

With its engraving smoothed away, it should fetch a pony or so. 'C Undying love, J'. What was the silly bitch doing letting go of it in a place like this? Some people deserved everything they got, he thought, and then swallowed it.

* * *

John was granted bail on Monday, 21st December 1981 and moved into a furnished flat Arthur had rented in Hans Place, Knightsbridge. Every day he had to report to his local police station.

He made no attempt to contact Catherine by phone, but wrote a letter urging Michael and her to meet him in the New Year. He gave his address and telephone number.

On Christmas Day he ate a solitary ready made dinner from Harrods food halls, waiting in vain for the phone to ring.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE  
_________________________

Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge, 2nd January, London 1982

When John reached Erick at Mirage Consulting in the New Year, he said, 'Remember that restaurant where we first met? Be outside tomorrow morning at six.'

At one minute past, a thin faced, nondescript looking man walked towards Erick, wearing a workman's donkey jacket and flat cap. It took Erick a moment to recognise his usually dapper, smiling friend John Forbes.

'I hope you're not getting paranoid,' he joked as, on John's instructions, he hailed a passing taxi which took them to Victoria Station, from where they caught a tube to Turnpike Lane, changing trains several times on the way. They hardly spoke leaving the tube, but walked for ten minutes, then John led Erick up Green End Road and turned into the gateway of a shabby Victorian terraced house whose front door key had been left under a plant pot.

'That's better.' John took off his disreputable cap and jacket. 'It's been a long time, Erick. How are Andrea and the kids?'

'Fine.' Erick hesitated, then said, 'I was sorry to hear about Michael. Tough on you all. Andrea meets Catherine regularly so I've been updated.' He poured coffee for them both from a thermos flask which had been left on the kitchen table.

'I'm expecting Arthur and William Webster in a couple of hours, as well as Bernard Boucher and Rose. But I wanted to see you first.'

Erick looked at John, surprised to find himself ahead of the queue.

'I think you know what I want to discuss. You remember a while back at Cerne, we talked about my plan to establish an enterprise with you in charge? Well, the time has come to set the wheels in motion. I'd like to explain the plan in more detail, and then you can decide if you still want to be involved.'

Erick nodded. Although nothing had been said between them about the grand plan since that early meeting, he knew John well enough to realise it was always ticking over in his fertile mind.

'Let's take it step by step,' John went on. 'I estimate that the whole thing could take a year or two to get off the ground. The companies which will be the foundation of the enterprise must be formed and will need bona fide trading histories.'

'That will take at least a year,' Erick confirmed.

'Our Zurich bank has formed a company called Tout D'abord Industrie Society. Its chairman, George von Fritzenberg, is a close associate of mine. He'll assist us in every way he can. The bank will place four nominee directors on the board of the new enterprise, but you will be in complete charge.'

Erick nodded, non committally.

'At the moment,' John went on, 'thirty million pounds can be invested. It is up to you to convert this into shares, government bonds, et cetera. The Zurich bank will buy the shares on your instructions. The investments must be spread widely, so that we end up with shares in a string of companies all over the world. When you're ready, but the sooner the better, I suggest you set up a base in Mallorca. I like the island as legally it is difficult to penetrate an operation there. Very few companies use Mallorca as a business base and we can probably be left alone there, disappearing between the tourists and the Europeans who are settling there plus,' John smiled, 'it's the ideal place for the yacht. Then we'll target the first company to take over. But let's get the wheels turning now, while you're still at Mirage Consulting.'

Erick sensed that, if he didn't put a word in now, he would be railroaded. 'We're still talking hypothetically, I presume?'

John smiled. 'Of course. Hear me out then decide if it's what you want to do. From now on, every year, I'll put at least forty million pounds at your disposal. Besides investing that amount, you'd be able to borrow on the shares and invest the amount borrowed also. The dividends on these shares would give you further working capital. This arrangement will continue for ten years, by which time we'll have invested more than five hundred million – plus the amount borrowed on the shares and the revenue created. Say a total of eight hundred million. On top of that, we can influence the companies we've taken over, to invest in shares on a similar basis.'

Erick laid his hands on the table in a gesture of restraint. 'All this,' he said carefully, 'is dependent on your committing forty million a year!' He looked hard at John. 'This is a massive undertaking! How can you come up with that kind of money?'

John shook his head, smiling. 'Erick, have you so little faith? The finance is my responsibility. Don't forget, there's Higginson Investments, Auto Trade Factors, the Zurich Bank of Industry and Commerce, as well as my personal business associates. Forty million a year is, I think, a realistic amount.

'I want you to sit in on the rest of the meetings today, so you know that what I'm suggesting can and will happen. I expect, after ten years, to have invested a billion in fifty one per cent shareholdings. This should represent control over companies with total assets in excess of two billion pounds.'

Erick was silent for a moment, his head reeling, struggling to take it all in. 'If it happens as you say,' he murmured at last, 'this enterprise would represent one of the most powerful financial groups in the world.'

'Of course.' John sounded quite unfazed. 'And that, Erick, is precisely why you're interested. The day we amalgamate all these companies into the group of groups, you become chairman of the whole shebang.'

Erick sat back, staring at the blandly smiling man opposite him. He knew John was not mad, but very definitely a person with an overweening ambition for power. Pure power for its own sake. He doubted there was any political ambition behind the plan.

'You will be paid five hundred thousand a year tax free,' John went on. 'I'll pay for a house in Mallorca and won't interfere in your daily running decisions. The whole enterprise will be entirely your responsibility.' He paused, then smiled. 'I'll also throw in L'Acquisition for your personal use.'

'Finally a bribe!' Erick joked nervously. He got up and began to pace the room. 'And who'll run Mirage when I leave?' Too late, he realised he had said 'when', instead of 'if', and knew that John would not have missed the slip.

* * *

This was the biggest decision Erick had ever taken. He could not pretend he didn't know where the funds for this huge enterprise would be coming from; the drugs business and the financing of serious crime. If he accepted this offer, he would be implicated in criminal activity just as serious.

Slowly he stretched out his hand to shake John's. 'It's a deal,' he said. Subject, of course, to Andrea's approval.'

'How do you think she'll feels about moving to Mallorca?'

Erick looked sheepish. 'I don't know. I had serious trouble moving her before! But let me worry about that.'

'It's all up to Andrea then?' John said as if he was talking to himself. Obviously such an idea had never occurred to him since Catherine's wishes had never figured in his own plans.

'Yes,' Erick said firmly.

'You put your marriage before what I'm offering?'

'Yes,' he repeated. 'That's just the way it is.'

'It must be real love?'

'I guess so,' Erick confirmed.

John laughed. 'I'd never have taken you for a henpecked husband, Erick! Just wave the prospect of the yacht at her. That should do the trick!'

'No, that's not the way to go about it. But, tell me, have you spoken to Catherine yet?' Erick countered.

John's face hardened. 'She hasn't phoned.'

'I could drive down to Cerne Abbas and talk to her?'

'Thanks, but no. That's something I must do. You know, a spell in prison doesn't worry me in the slightest. I suppose I knew it had to happen one day. What's really crucifying me is this situation with Catherine and Michael.'

* * *

Arthur was the first of John's other visitors to arrive.

'A challenge? That sounds ominous,' he said after John had explained his scheme and mentioned that Erick was considering moving to Mallorca to set up the enterprise there. 'Your challenges usually involve high risks, John. What if something goes wrong with this new one?'

'Then I'll deal with the situation as it arises.' John's voice was calm, as usual. 'Arthur, if I took every decision based on the principle that things might go wrong, I wouldn't have got very far. I'm in a risk taking business. It's my job to evaluate the odds all the time.'

Arthur nodded. 'Am I included in this challenge of yours?'

John had always recognised a restlessness in his friend, a constant desire to do something new. Perhaps even Diana didn't know this side of Arthur, he thought.

'I'd prefer you to be on the sidelines, not directly involved in anything new,' he said gently. 'You're the person I trust, always there with advice and sensible suggestion. You stay exactly where you are, at Black's of Mayfair, and give Erick all the support he'll need. I want each of our operations run separately. I think Auto Trade Factors can stand on its own and Rose should now be responsible to Bertrand Boucher, not you. Do you think she'll be okay with that?' She's coming here later.'

'I don't have much to do with her nowadays. She is a stubborn woman, proud of her own abilities, but are you aware how powerful you're making Monsieur Boucher? I've only met him three times, but I can't say I warmed to the man. All the charisma of a three days dead halibut on the slab.'

John smiled. 'I don't want him for his charisma. He's competent. Able to score goals. Serissa's bringing in a couple of a million a week. Boucher's got the European distribution going like clockwork. And he managed to save most of the hemp business in England by operating from Paris.'

Arthur pursed his lips. 'Well, that's all that matters then, isn't it? I still don't have to like the man. Rose adores him, which is more to the point.'

John smiled at his old friend. 'Don't worry about Bertrand. He's our man one hundred percent. If not, I'll see to it.'

* * *

Rose arrived next. Arthur greeted his sister in law, but soon said his goodbyes. Erick sat in a corner of the room, listening without commenting. He was wondering how Andrea would react to the prospect of moving to Mallorca. The kids, he thought, should be in favour. Christian, now a tall and handsome twenty years old, was largely independent and working as a management trainee in a Piccadilly Hotel. Lisette would finish school this summer, and a change of scene would probably suit her fine while she worked out what to do with her life. Which just left Andrea....

With some difficulty he turned his attention back to John's meeting with Rose.

She looked older than her sister Diana. Her face harder, and more guarded, with the greying blonde hair cut short. She wore a classic beige herringbone suit, matching high heeled shoes and carried a businesslike briefcase. She would not have looked out of place at Mirage, he realised in surprise.

'I wanted to tell you face to face,' John said to her, ' I'm committing funds to a very big new investment. It's vital that revenue from Auto Trade Factors continues to come in regularly and finances our new project.'

'I see no problem,' she replied coolly.

'I'll be using Bertrand Boucher in another capacity from now on. He's taking over some of my responsibilities. Please make your monthly report to him from now on.'

'I'm used to talking with Bertrand several times a week,' Rose said in her cool, precise voice. 'He's an intelligent man and has been a brilliant consultant for Auto Trade Factors.'

'From now on you are responsible for the company.' John smiled to sugar the pill. ' And Rose, I have every confidence in your abilities.'

Bertrand Boucher had become far too valuable to run only one operation. John should have promoted him some time ago.

* * *

Philip Higginson arrived next.

'Our target figure is four million,' he said, after asking how John was. 'And I feel sure we'll reach it.'

'In future,' John told him, 'I'd like our profits, together with around 25 per cent of the clients' funds, invested in certain publicly quoted shares. Erick will tell you which ones to buy when the time comes. I'll leave it up to you to decide how much you think it wise to invest for each client, but I guarantee it will be worth it as a long term investment. Basically, our aim is to build up a substantial shareholding in selected public companies within Higginson Investments over the next ten years, thereby supporting a new financial enterprise.'

Philip raised his eyebrows. 'Sounds interesting.'

'If you manage it well,' John went on, 'I'll change the share structure of Higginsons so that you personally have a fifteen per cent share stake in the firm. And it won't cost you anything.'

After a grinning Philip had left, William Webster arrived. Over some tea and sandwiches John told him about Bertrand Boucher's new responsibilities.

'Have you had time to check how the hemp business has survived?'

'Yes, and I can only admire the way Bertrand has handled such a difficult situation. As far as I can see we will be selling for around ninety million worth of hemp this year in England alone.

'So how much profit do we expect to make?' John asked.

'After deduction of expenses, wages, et cetera, I expect forty per cent of the turnover to be clear profit subject to buying prices remaining unchanged. Bertrand has increased the prices to the wholesalers, I hear, so that margin could improve considerably.'

* * *

Boucher arrived last. John explained Erick's possible new role and asked for the Frenchman's full support.

He looked at John, then at Erick. After some time, with a slight grimace, all he said was, 'I think it is a splendid idea.'

'When William and I receive criminal convictions, it will be in everyone's best interests for William to do something else when he comes out of prison. When you think the time's right, Bernard, I want you to move him to the States to set up the Serissa operation over there.'

'I have no problem with that,' Bertrand said levelly.

John realised that he had ended up with his criminal operations being run by an ex investigating magistrate who looked like a retired schoolteacher, behaved as if he had no feelings and seldom smiled. Nevertheless, John felt he could trust him. Boucher was a perfectionist, something he and John had in common.

'Okay, please bring me up to date on what's happening in our organisation now?'

Boucher outlined the details of how, after the unexpected arrest of the British hemp team, he had managed to replace most of the trade by operating out of France with people he knew.

'And what about Serissa?'

'We handled four million units last month,' Boucher said with a trace of pride. 'They're an incredible success, but I don't know how long the craze for them will last.'

John spent the next two hours explaining in minute detail how the various operations should be run and where the funds should be banked. Step by step Bertrand was handed more responsibility. At no point did he show any surprise, but signified his acceptance by nodding his acceptance.

Erick said hardly anything. While listening, his thoughts went back to the days of GIANT in Denmark. Then unable to raise capital for an emerging, significant young business, now here he listened to stratospheric sums being quoted for turnover, profit and projections, coming from much simpler operations, which were shamefully criminal. This was the first time he had received such a clear insight into John's operations and in his heart he would have preferred not to have been involved at all. John Forbes had Erick hooked and the worst of it was, he knew it and did not intend to let him wriggle out of the commitment. He knew very well the prize was too rich and alluring.

Before leaving, John said, 'When the case comes to the Old Bailey we expect to face only the charges relating to the hemp business. Providing Customs keep to their side of the bargain, I'm expecting a sentence of six to eight years. With parole, it will be one third of that or at the worst half and automatic parole. Unfortunately there's still some time to wait before the case comes up at the Old Bailey.'

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR  
_________________________

St. John's Wood, London, Thursday, 11th February 1982

John rang the entry phone bell to Mona's flat.

'Who is it?' her disembodied voice said in his ear.

'John.'

There was silence, then the buzzer sounded. He pushed the door open and entered the lift.

Mona was standing at the door to the flat. She wore a loose smock covered in paint and scuffed slippers. Her hair was uncombed and she had no make up on.

'Come in.'

'Thank you.' John closed the door behind him. They stood in the hall looking at each other. Mona's eyes suddenly filmed over and she turned her face away brusquely.

'How's the painting going?' he asked. He could not handle her tears.

She turned towards the living room and he followed. 'I haven't sold many this last year. I found out you'd secretly bought a lot of them, and so I lost confidence. You shouldn't have done that. It was a very short sighted thing to do.'

'I'm sorry. I only did it to encourage you.'

She shrugged. 'The police were here. I had to give them a statement about us.'

'I don't blame you for that.'

'I couldn't deny I knew you. I didn't tell them you had given me the flat. I guess I should have done.'

She was still beautiful, John thought, if older looking than he remembered. If theirs had been just a casual affair, he could have finished it quickly. But fourteen years... Did he love Mona? Reluctantly he concluded this was probably the closest he would ever come to love in his life. If Michael had not been more important to him than anyone else, John knew he could never have given her up.

He walked round the flat, which was exactly as he'd remembered it. Mona did not move, but stared at him as if he were a stranger to her. 'The police told me you're a drug dealer. A career criminal. They said you coldly killed a friend who'd displeased you, that you are powerful and extremely dangerous. They said if I'd any sense, I wouldn't have any thing more to do with you.'

'I'm involved in soft drugs. The rest is nonsense,' John said calmly. He went to pour two whiskies. 'I think I need a drink, if you don't mind? Hell, Mona I'm still the same person!'

'What about the toy company? You took me there. I saw it.'

'That's just a front.'

She said flatly, 'You're going to prison, aren't you? Like any criminal lowlife.'

'That's the risk I run in my line of business. Listen, if I were an ordinary businessman I could go bankrupt and lose everything. You learn to live with these things.'

She waved away the glass he held out to her. 'Why have you come here?'

'I have to win back Catherine.'

She gasped. 'You come to tell me that? I think you should leave now!'

'Because of Michael,' he continued, ignoring her outburst.

'What about me? You haven't given me a thought, have you? I've just been a plaything for you to use. Get her excited, have sex in every imaginable way, then little John can walk out full of vigour, to go on dealing in drugs and murdering people...' Her voice was rising hysterically.

'Mona, if this had been just about sex, do you think I'd would have stayed with you all this time?'

She was too overwrought to be logical. 'Of course! You couldn't take the risk of sleeping around and you were bored with the fat arsed, pompous wife who couldn't satisfy you. But, stupid me, I didn't realise.' She averted her face. 'You've made me feel used and dirty. The truth is, John, I loved you. I bloody well still do.'

He went over to her and put his arms round her, feeling sobs shaking her whole body. 'And I love you, Mona. But Michael is even more important to me. That's just the way it is.'

She lifted her swollen, tear stained face. 'We don't have to finish...'

He held her against him and spoke over the top of her head. 'I'll always look after you financially, but maybe we shouldn't take up where we were interrupted. I'll phone you when I'm back in circulation.' As soon as he had spoken these last words, he knew he'd been wrong. He should not have left her any hope at all.

'I don't understand what makes you tick.' Her voice was muffled against his chest.

John was silent. He could not explain it himself. As a boy, his motivation had been the pursuit of wealth and power for their own sake. Now he had achieved them, he realised that a price remained to be paid.

'I don't want your money,' Mona said, her voice suddenly hard. She pulled away from him. 'But let's not part as enemies. Promise you'll phone me?'

John hesitated. He had come to finish their relationship, but here he was giving promises he knew he could not keep. 'I'll let you know when I'm out, but our relationship can never be the same. I can't hurt my son anymore. I just can't.'

She gave a small hiccuping laugh. 'I've always known that if I pressurised you in any way at all, you'd vanish. I expected every visit to be the last.' Slowly she walked to the door and opened it, standing aside to let him pass. As he got to the landing, she said, 'I wish we'd never met, John.'

She closed the door on him, leaving him empty and alone, full of regret for a love he knew he had squandered.

* * *

Erick had not worked out any plan for persuading Andrea to relocate to Mallorca. He would not have known how to – they had always been totally honest with one another. He just had to tell it to her straight and leave the decision up to her. No way he could force her into living a life she did not want.

'I've been offered a job by John, setting up a sort of investment company,' he stated later that night. 'I'd be paid a fortune, there'd be a house with the job, cars, servants – anything you cared to name really.'

Andrea lowered her Evening Standard and looked at him over the top of it. Showing no surprise she said, 'An investment company?'

'Yes.'

'Laundering John's dirty money, I suppose?'

Erick was silent. It was no use denying it, she was right.

'We'd move to Mallorca, set up house there – money no object,' he said hastily. 'I'd be on half a million a year – more once things start to build. Oh, and John's throwing in L'Acquisition for our exclusive use.'

Andrea looked down as she folded the paper though he had seen the flicker of interest in her pale, clear eyes.

'Does John have enough money to finance such an investment company? He has to look after Michael, remember? Private medicine costs a fortune. The Estate costs another. And he'll be behind bars for the next few years. Are you sure this makes sense?'

'John has far more money than we imagined. A hundred million pounds is going into the company, very soon. Around eight hundred million over the next ten years.'

Andrea gasped. 'He could buy the whole of Denmark for that! No one – absolutely no one – has that kind of money.'

'John knew we would think like that, so he let me sit in for a whole day on his business meetings in a safe house. There's no doubt he's serious and will have the money. Or it looks that way at the moment.'

'But he's going to prison soon.'

'Even so, the man's amazing... he's had this in mind for years. From the first day we met in fact. This company I'd set up would eventually allow him to become legitimate. Influence, power, respectability... he'd have stakes in tens of blue chip companies, controlling hundreds of thousands of people. He could retire and live the rest of his days in luxury. As we know his situation at home and in business is more than difficult at the moment a mess in fact but he regards this only a small hiccup and is focussed more than ever. Remarkable.'

Andrea looked her husband in the eye. 'Erick, if you do this, you must take every precaution to protect your own position.'

'What do you mean?'

'You can't hide behind a respectable business front any longer. If you go ahead, then we must both acknowledge that you are stepping outside the law rather than living on its fringes.'

Erick smiled ruefully. He had always admired his wife's ability to present the facts exactly as they were, uneasy listening though it sometimes might be.

'Maybe so. Perhaps I'm tainted by association, but I'm not the same as John. I don't intend to be. Some of the things he's into...'

'Don't fool yourself, Erick. You have to accept things as they really are. You will be part of a major criminal enterprise.'

'So you don't think I should do it then?' he began, images of Mallorca, sea, sun and L'Acquisition's receding as he spoke.

Andrea gave her cat like smile.

'Did I say that? Frankly, Erick, at our time of life this is a heaven sent opportunity. You will never get another chance like this to make real money.'

'Well, don't sound as though I've kept you in penury all these years,' he said, annoyed.

Andrea got up and came to sit on the arm of his chair.

'Darling, you've always done your best for me and the children, that goes without saying. But this is in a different league. It's risky, certainly, we both understand that, but the rewards could be immense. I think you should go for it and to hell with the consequences. If the worst should happen, we know we'll survive. We did before.'

Erick gazed at his wife, not for the first time amazed by her gambler's instincts combined with ruthless clear sightedness.

'You're an amazing woman, Andrea,' he told her huskily. 'You know I couldn't do any of this without you, don't you?'

She kissed the top of his head. 'I do, skat. I do. But fortunately you won't have to.'

A moment later Erick phoned John. 'It's on,' was all he said.

'That's great, Erick.' The phone was immediately put down.

And for the first time in his dealings with John, Erick found himself wondering uneasily what the reaction would have been if he'd decided to go his own way instead of meekly falling in with John Forbes's master plan.

* * *

Since Erick had informed John about Andrea's and his decision, he'd realised that an accountancy company would be needed one day. Erick had tried to contact his old colleague, Jan Christensen, several times, but Jan had disappeared without trace. This was peculiar: every Danish citizen had to be registered by law with the National Folk Register.

He decided to phone Tim Larsen, who sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him. After exchanging pleasantries, Erick asked, 'Do you know where Jan Christensen lives now?'

'I thought he was working for you.' Larsen was surprised. 'He's lived in London for about a year.'

'He hasn't called me,' Erick said. 'In fact haven't seen him since the GIANT scandal.'

'After his second prison sentence, he cut all ties over here and went to London. That's the last I've heard of him. I'm coming to London soon. I'll phone you if I can find out anything. He must be registered for tax, national insurance or social security. Perhaps we can have lunch together. But keep it quiet!'

Larsen arrived in London a couple of weeks after Erick's phone call. They met at Simpson's in the Strand for lunch, during which Larsen gave Erick Jan Christensen's address.

'Don't tell Christensen you got it from me.' Larsen puffed on his pipe for a few seconds. 'He's on social security, I'm afraid. By the way, did you know that Per Densby died last week?'

'I'm sorry to hear that.' Although Densby had been responsible for his downfall in Denmark, Erick was genuinely upset to hear of his death. After all it hadn't been for Densby, he would never have met John Forbes.

The address Larsen had given him was in a rundown area of East London. The street was full of wrecked cars. Erick could not visualize the fastidious Jan surviving in such a place. The house itself was in need of a coat of paint, its windows cracked and covered by newspaper.

Erick rang the bell. The door was opened by a slovenly elderly woman.

'I am looking for Jan Christensen. Does he live here?'

'Yes, love. He rents a room upstairs, but he's not in. Can I give him a message?'

Erick gave her his business card. 'Please ask him to phone me. It's important.'

Leaving the house, he felt he ought to check the local, the Fox and Hound' and entered the pub on the corner, a dark and dingy place smelling of stale beer and tobacco. Peering into the gloom, he saw a figure slouched in a seat near the bar. It was Jan, looking thin, grey and unshaven. Erick bought two pints of beer and took them across to the table.

'You're not an easy person to find.' He sat down in the chair opposite.

Jan lifted his head. His eyes focussed blearily through his thick spectacles. 'Erick – Erick Elgberg himself!. Det var satans,' he swore in Danish. 'How on earth did you find me?'

Erick ignored the question. 'Why haven't you contacted me?'

'I was going to. Wanted to get on my feet first, but I haven't managed it yet.'

Putting his hands into his pocket, Erick brought out his wallet. 'No arguments, Jan. Here's a couple of hundred pounds. I'll get another two thousand to you this afternoon. Get yourself a decent suit and a better place to live.'

Jan stared at the wad of notes. 'I can't accept money from you, Erick. I'm still in shock just seeing you.'

'Don't be so touchy. Regard it as a loan. As you very well know, inspiration often comes from desperation.' Erick leaned closer to Jan, smelling the other man's despair. 'I am here because I have a proposal for you to consider.'

Jan pulled away, his eyes darting suspiciously behind the thick lenses. His hand swept the notes slowly into his pocket. 'What is it?'

'I'd like to set you up as an independent accountant.'

'Thanks, but no one will employ me,' Jan said. 'I've tried everything. I'm just a nobody, struck off and all that. It seems I can't even compete for jobs as a small time business accountant.'

'I propose that we set you up in your own accountancy business,' Erick continued. 'My company is setting up an enterprise which will need to have direct control over a fair sized chartered accountancy firm. You're the perfect man to head it. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Actually you do not even have a choice, Jan, if I'm absolutely frank'

Jan emptied his glass in one and put the empty glass next to Erick's. 'I don't know what you have in mind,' he said roughly, 'but as you can see, I'm in no position to argue. I would sweep the streets if someone gave me a broom! But I'm still a good accountant, Erick. Whatever you want of me, I'll do it. No questions asked. I take it that's the price?'

A month after this meeting, Erick gave Jan a banker's draft, drawn on a foreign bank, to purchase an accountancy firm which was for sale. The funds had come from John Forbes, but Jan assumed they had come from Erick's company, Mirage Consulting.

All Mirage's accounts were transferred to Jan Christensen's new company, which was named Hamlet Accountancy. Auto Trade Factors' accounts were also transferred, together with some of those of Higginson Investments. Hamlet Accountancy soon employed five chartered accountants and a staff of six. It took offices in Old Queen Street, Victoria, overlooking St. James' Park.

Erick and Jan met regularly in the park, either beside the bandstand or by Duck Island. Their meetings lasted several hours. Jan Christensen was never told of the involvement of John Forbes.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE  
_________________________

Old Bailey, London, Tuesday, 18th January 1983

For the year he had been on bail, John had been in weekly touch with Arthur, Erick and Bertrand Boucher by public telephone, but had not received a single call or letter from Catherine. Every day he expected divorce papers to arrive and was resigned to that, but his son's continued silence was torture to him. Through Michael's consultant he kept himself informed on his son's progress. Now sixteen and a half years old, Michael had come through three courses of chemotherapy and extensive hospital stays and was formally in remission. John prayed that it would stay that way, and that one day his son would pick up the phone.

On the eve of John's trial, both Erick and Arthur phoned to wish him good luck. He had forbidden his two friends to come to court, as spectators would be monitored and photographed. Shaving himself on the morning of the trial, John knew that from now on he would have to get used to a battery razor. It was eight o'clock and he had to be at the Old Bailey before ten. He decided to walk from his Knightsbridge flat, knowing it would be some time before he was free to walk through London again.

He did not feel nervous. The prospect of prison did not worry him. He preferred it to being manipulated by self obsessed barristers with their antiquated costumes and theatrical posturing. John wanted the case over and done with as quickly as possible, so had stuck to his guilty plea and recommended that the other defendants follow his example.

At eight thirty he left the flat taking with him a small shoulder bag containing a radio, toilet articles and a battery shaver. He entered by the visitors' door to avoid the many journalists gathered outside Court One.

The trial of John Forbes and his associates had been heralded by a blaze of publicity. The media had made the most of stories about the huge soft drugs organisation, gleefully named John Forbes, the wealthy husband of trainer Lady Catherine Carven, as the mastermind behind it. As hash was now in common use more than ever, there was no groundswell of public opinion against the defendants, who were more regarded as rather colourful characters rather than dangerous criminals.

The panelled courtroom was bulging at the seams with a dozen legal teams, each consisting of a top QC, solicitors and clerks, representing one of the defendants apiece, for whose services Rubinstein had paid. None of the team could say that the Invisible Company had not looked after them. Overworked, the prosecution fielded a team of only four.

It was twelve thirty before the Judge appeared. 'I'm sorry for the delay,' he said. 'Another case has overrun. We'll have to deal with this matter on Wednesday.'

All defendants were refused bail. The eleven men and one woman were taken to Brixton and Holloway respectively.

On Wednesday morning the prisoner had to make their plea in open court.

The Clerk got up and said loudly, 'John Forbes.' John rose, feeling embarrassed and wishing to get this performance behind him the as fast as human possible.

'There are four counts against you on this indictment.' The Clerk continued, but John decided not to listen.

'Do you plead 'guilty' or 'not guilty'.' John could not help himself. He started counting, one, two, three, four.... inside his head. When he reached thirty he could hear a murmur growing.

'Guilty,' he said with a firm voice. The judge looked relieved. The barristers smiled to each other.

After they had all pleaded guilty the prosecution outlined its case. Most of the defendants had met in Reading Prison between the years 1964 and 1965. It was therefore likely that the drugs business had been established eighteen years ago and had operated until the present day. The prosecution barrister waited until the end of his speech before mentioning John Forbes's alias of John Spencer, under which he had served an eighteen month sentence. John heard this with a sinking sensation. Nervously he waited for David Kennedy's and Duncan Grace's names to be mentioned... However, nothing was said and the defence started as planned with the least seriously implicated members of the gang.

The defence made their speeches in mitigation over several days before the Judge could pass sentences.

'John Forbes, you are an intelligent, professional career criminal. In sentencing you for this very serious crime I have taken into consideration your guilty plea and the time and costs you have thereby saved this court and the British taxpayer. I also find that, although the importing of any drug on to these shores is abhorrent to the ordinary man in the street, your organisation did not apparently deal in such substances as heroin and cocaine. I therefore sentence you to seven years' imprisonment.'

John was very relieved, he had expected eight. With the time he had served on remand, plus possible parole after serving one third of this sentence, he could be out in a few months.

William Webster was given five years. The lightest sentences were given to Ray Immerman, and Ramona, who received twenty four months and were immediately released. Within a few months, most of the rest of the team would be freed.

* * *

Erick telephoned Catherine as soon as the outcome was known.

'Yes, I'll visit him,' she said thinly, as if it was something Erick was forcing her to do, 'When I know where he'll be sent.'

'Good. He's very down, Catherine, and doesn't look well. Losing you and Michael is tearing him apart.'

'There's no question of a reconciliation,' she said shortly. 'I'll be going because we're married, because he is Michael's father and he's in trouble. That's all.'

After a month, Catherine asked for a Visiting Order to Maidstone Prison. John waited for her in a lather of impatience. When at last she arrived, picking her way through the crowds of visitors, chin up and eyes resolutely refusing to dwell on her prison surroundings.

She emptied a bag of sweets she had bought in the prison shop on to the table before him. 'I bought you these. A harmless vice.'

Her sarcasm was not lost on him. 'Thanks,' was all he allowed himself to say.

Catherine dusted down the chair before she sat. 'How are you coping?' she asked stiffly.

'Not too bad. How's Michael? Is he all right?'

'He's fine. The new drugs are at least stabilising his condition and the move to the Royal Marsden seems to give him a boost too. God knows why. From a child fighting cancer to an adult... Well, I suppose you could call it progress of a kind.'

John sighed. 'I wish I could see him.'

'Give him little more time. I think he's finally coming round to the idea.' She knew what John still meant a lot to Michael, and her son's attitude was softening. She had caught him reading accounts of the trial.

'I thought he didn't want to know me anymore?'

Catherine took a deep breath. 'Michael loves you. He's just very protective of me.' She searched for a handkerchief in her bag as unexpected tears welled up. 'And don't think I'm crying for you,' she protested, blowing her nose loudly.

'I know. And I'm not pestering you, am I? All I want is for you to go on visiting me.' He waited until she had composed herself, then said in a low voice, 'I love you, Catherine and I'm desperately sorry for everything. Not seeing Michael is killing me.'

'I know.' She gave him a reluctant smile. 'Who would ever have thought we'd end up two sentimental old fools?'

He took her hands, squeezing them between his own. 'How's the Estate?'

'I want to sell it,' she said quickly. ' Well, I don't really want to, but the upkeep of the place is crippling. You know that. Sometimes I wonder if owning the place was so important, that it drove you to crime.'

'Of course not. I want to help you with the upkeep. Please let me...'

'No!' Her face hardened. 'I don't want your money. It's tainted.'

'Visiting time over,' the prison officer shouted.

John stood up to kiss Catherine on the forehead, then gathered the sweets in his hand and took them over to the next table, where a harassed wife was trying to placate four unruly children and a desperate father.

John waved goodbye to his wife, still sitting at the table, then turned towards the heavy iron gate leading back into the prison.

* * *

Michael visited a few days later. When John was told his son was there, he was overcome with nervousness.

The boy waiting for him was at least a foot taller than when John had last seen him, and the chubby cheeks with their high colour were long gone. His son had lines around his eyes and mouth that did not belong on a sixteen year old. Facially he bore a strong resemblance to Catherine's father, Archie Carven, blue eyed and hollow cheeked, a lock of sandy brown hair falling forward over his high forehead. He wore a country tweed jacket, battered and patched at the elbows. The collar of his checked shirt was frayed. Catherine had obviously meant it about not taking John's money.

'Hi, Dad,' said the boy in a low unfamiliar voice.

'Michael.' They stood looking at one other for a long time without speaking, then John sat down and waved for him to do the same. 'The last time I saw you, we'd just finished our fishing trip.'

'Wasn't that great? The best week of my life. I often wish we could do it again.'

'So do I.' John smiled ruefully. 'But you probably have a girlfriend by now. You wouldn't want to be lumbered with your old dad.' He hesitated then asked, 'How's your mother?'

'Still mad at you. But if you were home for a month, you could change that, Dad, I haven't forgotten what it used to be like.'

The pain and uncertainty of his illness must have coloured his memory, John decided. He doubted he could ever win Catherine round, though for his son's sake he would keep on trying.

At the end of the visit, Michael reached over and took his hand. 'Don't forget, I miss you a lot, Dad.' He brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, got up and pushed his way through the crowded room, not looking back.

* * *

On his wing again John lat down on his bunk and closed his eyes.

'Forbes!' Two officers were standing in the cell door way. John had not seen the men before. 'The governor wants a word with you.'

At least it could not be any bad news regarding Michael, John thought on the way through the prison. Could the police had come back with new charges? Was that why David Kennedy and Duncan Grace had not been mentioned at the Old Bailey?

'Please.' The governor waved his hand for John to sit down. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.'

The governor looked at the two officers standing at the rear of the room. 'Could you leave us alone for a moment? Thanks.'

'Is it about my wife?'

'No.'

John relaxed slightly, waiting for the governor to continue. He knew that the man was not one of the useless do gooding sorts, but had worked his way up through the prison service and taken two years off to become a priest along the way. At their first meeting, the governor had told him, 'I don't want be troubled with the details in your file, Mr Forbes. We start fresh today. You keep a low profile and I'll ensure you have as uneventful a time here as possible.'

Now he cleared his throat looking troubled. 'There is no easy way for me to say this,' he began. 'I'm afraid that your application for parole has been refused.'

John froze. He remained deadly calm, but his voice held a note of anger. 'What?' He knew exactly what this meant in time left to serve. It was one year and two months until automatic parole.

'You'll have to serve two years four months longer. I'm very sorry.'

'Two years four months!' said John, astonished, getting half out of his chair.

'I've spent the whole day trying to get the Home Office to change their minds,' the governor continued, 'but as from yesterday it's government policy that a drug related sentence over five years must automatically mean a longer term in prison, namely two thirds of the sentence given by the court. Although this change wasn't introduced to penalise distributors of soft drugs, I'm afraid you fall into the category because of the volume involved. I didn't believe it would apply retrospectively but the Home Office is standing firm on this. A minister out to make a name for himself. I really am very sorry, John.'

John had read newspaper articles expressing outrage at the short sentences drug dealers were actually serving, due to one third or half the sentence being written off as automatic parole. He had never thought for a moment a change of policy would affect him.

John spent the weekend in his cell feeling angry and trapped. An extra thirty months' imprisonment felt like a lifetime. He had turned forty four a month ago. His master plan, as well as all his other enterprises, could not easily be overseen from a prison cell for more than two years. And what would it mean for his chances of rebuilding bridges with Michel and Catherine? He was stuck in here, with no way of knowing if his son would even be alive at the end of his sentence.

There seemed to be only one option open to him, and he spent Sunday setting arrangements in hand.

* * *

A week later, Arthur received a prison Visiting Order made out in a different name and sent to an address provided by the Clark twins.

'You look great,' John told his elderly visitor the following day. 'Perhaps you've overdone the make up a bit, but a bald head rather suits you.'

'I've spent two hundred pounds and a couple of hours with a stage makeup expert to look like this,' Arthur grumbled, 'but I think it's worth it. No one would ever recognise me, eh? So what devious scheme have you in mind now?'

'I'm not staying here any longer.'

'You want to be moved to an open prison or something? That shouldn't be a problem. I can work on that. Do you know the name of the allocation officer here?'

Looking hard at his friend, John said, 'I need your help to escape'.

'Oh, my God,' gasped Arthur.

Determinedly John continued, 'A new identity, transport from here to a safe house in England and then abroad.'

Arthur put his head in his hands. 'Bribing the Home Secretary would be an easier option!'

'I don't want any violence or guns involved,' John continued. 'The escape must happen outside the gates. Listen, Arthur, I'm a category C prisoner on gardening detail which means I get to work outside about one day a week. It's our best chance. Tell Jim and Neil to arrange all the details.'

'God help us all!' Arthur said aloud and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

* * *

On Tuesday, 2nd August 1983, John was the first to be ready for work. The governor had ensured that he got a gardening job as compensation for the extra time he must serve, but for three weeks now no work had been done outside because of wet weather. This morning, however, it was fine and they were to tend the shrubbery outside the main gates.

Once outside, John looked around, noticing the grey van parked opposite. He bent down to tie his shoelaces, the agreed signal to go ahead. He then started raking the dry soil, second to last in a long line of men. The guards stood talking and smoking in the hot August sunshine.

The peace was suddenly shattered by a noise so loud that every man dropped his rake or hoe and held his hands over his ears. The earth was whipped to a cloud of dust, flowers and bushes bent in the wind as a micro light aircraft hovered above the working party, small and impossibly frail seeming, just a pilot, an engine and a propeller. A rope was thrown down and a scuffle broke out on the ground as various men tried to grab it and guards struggled to hold them back.

John stood close to the edge of the pavement, ignoring the commotion behind him. Suddenly a motorbike appeared from the back of the van, skidded to a momentary halt beside him, then revved off down the road with John clinging to the driver, Jim Clark, who was dressed in black leather and a visored helmet. In the busy centre of Maidstone he handed John a helmet and map, pointed to another parked motorbike, its engine already running, and clapped him on the shoulder. John continued alone. On a remote road five miles from Maidstone he stopped at a van parked in a layby. In the back of the van he changed clothes.

John drove the van for an hour in the direction of Croydon, using only side roads. Then he stopped, parked the van and walked to a mini cab office, asking to be taken to Sutton, then on the way changing his mind and going to Wimbledon. In the toilets at Wimbledon Station he again changed clothes, taken from the holdall he had found as expected in the van. That evening he arrived at a small terraced house off the Fulham Road.

Jim and Neil Clark looked after him there for a week before with a passport in the name of John Miller, which Arthur had procured, he travelled to Ireland, took a flight to Brussels, and then a train to Paris.

John stayed in a small flat there and for the first time in months enjoyed the taste of complete freedom. After a week he visited Bertrand Boucher in Montmartre where he picked up a nearly new yellow Renault 2CV and a completely new and different identity, with a passport, driver's licence, national insurance number and credit cards.

He drove south on the Route du Soleil towards the Mediterranean and the house that Arthur had arranged to be bought by a foreign company for an Englishman called Peter Carter.
PART FIVE

A PEACE CALLED SOLITUDE

# CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX  
_________________________

Lodeve, Languedoc, France, Friday, 2nd September 1983

John stopped the car in front of a rambling, grey stone house. In several places its walls had recently been patched and plastered over and this had not yet dried, leaving a raw unfinished appearance. The black shutters at the windows and the heavy wooden front door were firmly closed, giving him the feeling he was unwelcome.

Somehow though he felt an affinity with the place. It was as if the house were presenting itself to him as he had always shown himself to the world; a blank facade behind which only a few were allowed to penetrate.

Shortly before, he had crossed the bridge over the River Orb and driven into the medieval village of Lodeve.

The inhabitants, he had read, were a mixture of French, Arab and Spanish Gypsy. It was market day and the main streets and squares were full of stalls. Unable to understand the handwritten signs, he found himself stuck in the middle of the bustling market with several people crowding in at the car windows trying to give him directions. Finally he parked in front of the old cathedral and consulted his map.

He had left it up to Arthur to find a suitable hiding place. He had not seen so much as a picture of the house or been given any description of it. Eventually he found a man who understood a little English and told John with many shrugs and gesticulations that the address was eight miles away, at the end of a track far off the main road. John smiled, Arthur had done his research well.

After having driven higher and higher, half an hour later he had found the nearest village, a few old stone houses huddled close together with a church and a boulangerie which also functioned as a general store. All the shutters were closed. It was becoming intensely hot and there was no one to give him directions. John walked into the shop and showed his map to an elderly lady dressed in black who pointed to the road leading out of the village, indicating he should turn off on the first track to the left.

The track went on for miles, through violet blue fields, now with the dark blue mountains rising majestically in the distance, shifting and blurring in the heat haze. At the end of the dusty track was a burnt out wreck of a car, and next to it a high rusty gate.

Climbing out of his car, John looked around. Arthur seemed to have taken his need for seclusion a little too seriously.

He pushed open the squeaking iron gate and drove up an overgrown drive shaded by gnarled old olive trees, towards his new home.

He stood looking at it for a minute or two. He had no key and was wondering if he should try the door and walk in, when it was opened by a woman of about thirty, dressed in a plain blue dress and sandals. 'Monsieur Carter?'

'Oui, c'est moi,' John said in what little French he possessed.

She smiled. 'I speak a little English. Come with me.'

Her narrow, freckled face with its brown eyes and strong black brows had a permanently serious expression. Long straight black hair, parted in the middle, was pushed behind her ears and hung down to her shoulders. She was strongly built and taller than John. As she took the one suitcase he had brought with him, he could see that her hands were calloused and dry from hard work.

'Merci beaucoup,' he murmured.

The woman walked round the house opening doors, explaining things to him in fairly good English mixed with French. Inside it was pleasantly cool with a faint flowery fragrance hanging in the air. The rooms were large with white walls, original stone floors and very little furniture. The main bedroom was on the second floor. It contained a large bed, with a carved chestnut headboard, a side table with a lamp and a heavy old armoire. From the window John saw several barns and outbuildings in various stages of dereliction.

'This all looks very suitable,' he told the woman.

'The English gentleman who made the arrangements asked me to live here, to clean and cook for you. I hope this is good?'

'Perfect.' John smiled. 'How did you learn to speak English so well? Not many people can in this area, as I've discovered already.'

'I worked in a hotel in Lodeve and went to evening classes to learn English.'

'Good. You can teach me French. What's your name? Comment vous appelez vous?'

The woman blushed. 'Je m'appelle Cecilia Brassac.'

'Je m'appelle Peter Carter.' They shook hands solemnly. 'Will you show me around outside? It will make me feel more at home.'

'Un moment. I need my other shoes.' She disappeared to return wearing stout boots, a lighter dress and a large straw hat.

For several minutes John tried to work out what was growing in the fields. It looked like lavender, but he was unsure. He had expected a small remote cottage, not a rambling country house with fields of blue as far as he could see. He had to ask what they were.

'Grosso, Abrial and Sumian,' Cecilia answered. John looked even more bewildered. Suddenly she realised that the man had no idea at all what the crop was. 'Grosso Lavendin? Lavender. Perfume. Cosmetics. Soap.' Cecilia made gestures.

'Ah,' said John, knowing he must explain to her soon that the farm had been bought for a holiday retreat, and that was why he did not know what was growing in the fields.

It took hours to walk around the farm's perimeter. There were apparently ten hectares of land, planted with a hundred thousand lavender bushes. Cecilia told him that the neighbours, a Monsieur Popougnot and his wife, came a few times a month with their men to weed and inspect the lavender. They were also in charge of the harvesting, which they did with their own people and machines. She explained that most of the land was planted with Grosso, and a few fields with the Abrian and Sumian variants, on a rotating basis year by year. The distillation was carried out by a company in Provence and the essence sold in the perfume centre of Grasse.

Cecilia explained that there were only eight farms specialising in lavender in the area, though many in Provence: how in early spring the fields turned lightly green, darkening to a deeper shade as the weather grew warmer. In early summer the flower buds would swell at the end of the new stalks, at first purple and especially noticeable, when the wind swept through the field. In summer the flowers came out a sparkling violet blue, as now. Within a month the fields would be harvested and everything would turn grey again. Each day the field looked different and no two plants were exactly alike.

John was impressed by the unspoilt beauty of the place and glad that there was no one living close by. The land bordering two sides of the lavender fields was completely uncultivated.

Back at the house, they were both exhausted. John said he would take a nap and went up to his bedroom. A little while later Cecilia entered quietly, placed a glass of iced water on the table and closed the shutters. She left without a word.

At seven she woke him, bringing him an ice cold Pernod. Wearing just a pair of white tennis shorts, John sat outside in the yard under a straw lean to roof, watching the setting sun. After an hour, Cecilia came and told him dinner was ready.

She had laid the table for one.

'Please eat with me,' he said. 'I can't sit here alone with you in the kitchen.'

She protested, but in the end sat down at the table and ate her dinner with him, keeping her eyes averted. The food was simple, but much better than he was used to.

'Qu'est ce que c'est?' John pointed to his plate.

'Civet de lapin,' Cecilia answered.

He shook his head and shrugged. She rose and led him out of the house, turned left and walked a few steps into a field full of lavender. She stood listening, then waved for him to follow.

A rabbit lay snared in a trap, struggling desperately to free itself. Cecilia lifted it carefully, stroked the paralysed animal, and then after turning its head slightly to the right, yanked it hard to the left and broke its neck.

'Lapin,' she said, smiling broadly. 'You like, eh?'

John nodded, marvelling at the efficient way she had despatched the poor creature.

After finishing his dinner, he sat outside in the yard again, face towards the dark blue mountains. The whole place was completely quiet. Not a sound, not a movement.

He was still sitting there hours later when with a shiver he realised how late it was. He went indoors, finding the place deserted, though a light glowed beneath Cecilia's door as he went up to his room.

The next day was equally warm and sunny. Cecilia was up before him and served him a breakfast of eggs, homemade bread and strong black coffee. He asked her if there was somewhere in the area he could swim.

'Oui. There is a lake, fifteen minutes by car,' she said. 'But there is also the river quite near. I show you yesterday.'

'I've forgotten where it is,' he said. 'Show me again, sil vous plait.

She led him outside and they walked for a while before they came to the river. She pointed up to the mountains, then hugged her shoulders, shivering. 'Il fait tres froid. Brrr!'

John laughed and repeated, 'Brrr. Brrr.' Then took his socks off and poked his toes in. The water was cold and clean.

'Merci. I can find my own way home.' When she had left him, he took off his clothes and dived into the water, sitting with his back to the current. He stayed there for a while without moving, enjoying the sensation, before he noticed the large trout swimming round him. An ideal place for Michael to fish.

At the thought of his son, John's peaceful mood was shattered. He'd been lying low for too long already – and just when contact with his family had been restored this had to happen. He had to win back Michael's affection, which meant he must find some means of reconciliation with Catherine. If he didn't, he knew his relationship with his son would be in danger of gradually fading away and that he could not allow. Whatever the cost, he must repair the damage he had done to his marriage.

When he got back to the house, Cecilia was preparing lunch. Afterwards, John slept for several hours, before being woken as before with a large cold Pernod.

* * *

The warm and pleasant days passed in an unchanging rhythm.

Cecilia taught him French for two hours every afternoon, but her English improved more than his French. John liked to see her serious expression relax into smiles, and told silly jokes which he would then have to explain, waving his arms and pulling faces while she dissolved into giggles.

She assured him she was happy with her job, living on the isolated lavender farm. Although he had told her to use the car when she wanted, she used it only to go shopping in Lodeve, buying supplies to last for a whole week. She was not interested in visiting the town more often than necessary. Told him she had no family, except an old uncle in Lodeve and had never been outside Languedoc.

She also told him she had been married, but had separated some years back. Her husband had beaten her. She had asked the Church for a divorce, but that was not possible at the moment. John knew she was a devout Catholic and attended mass every Sunday without fail, walking there in the heat dressed in her best black dress, a bible in her hand. She would not drive. When John asked why, she replied, 'It does not look right to God.'

In his turn, John merely told her he was married with one son. He realised that Cecilia was innately shy not from ignorance or lack of sophistication but as an animal is shy. It took a while for her to feel fully at ease with him, but gradually she relaxed as she found him to be kind and good humoured.

He had noticed she seemed to possess only three dresses and no shoes other than the sandals and walking boots. One day he persuaded her to go to Lodeve and buy a new dress, shoes and a television for her room. He spent the rest of the day fitting an aerial on the roof.

He found her to be the perfect companion for his new life. She left him alone, but was always in the background if he needed her. She smiled more readily now and often sang as she went about her chores.

John got used to sleeping for an hour or two every afternoon, when the sun was at its hottest. Cecilia prepared his Pernod in the early evening and brought it to him, waking him quietly by opening the shutters to let in the daylight.

One day, nearly a month after he had arrived, he half sat up in bed and took the glass she held out. Instead of quietly leaving the room, as usual, she remained standing.

Looking straight ahead, she said in a low voice, 'Tu ne preferes pas les femmes?'

She put out her hands to him. He looked at it, touched her palm with his fingertips. Then she turned her back, unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the ground. She stood unmoving for a few seconds before, courage restored, she turned to face him.

He made room for her beside him. She shifted her lithe, strong body next to his and lay on her back, eyes closed. She sighed deeply and held his hand against her breast, savouring the moment. Gently he touched her hair and lips and brought his mouth down on hers. Her kiss was soft and lingering. She smelled of lavender, fresh twigs of which she always put in the wash.

After that, they made love every afternoon. Cecilia never stayed afterwards but, carrying her dress and shoes, showered, then started preparing the evening meal in the kitchen.

She was shy at all times except when she was making love. For her it was a natural and uncomplicated part of life, and for John an unexpected blessing in this strange new life.

* * *

John had still not made contact with Arthur or anyone else. His daily routine included walking alone for hours every day. He lost track of time. Solitude suited him, giving him an opportunity to think and plan.

He knew he could not continue like this. He must decide his future: whether to remain here with Cecilia, or go back to England and try for a reconciliation with Catherine.

It would, of course, be possible to arrange matters so that it looked as if he had died. He could then live quietly here, improving the place year by year, but with no possibility of ever seeing his son again. He would also have to forget the plan upon which Erick was already embarking. No, staying on, living as he was now, would only be exchanging one prison for another.

On the other hand, if he chose reconciliation, he would have to give himself up and serve the rest of his sentence. His master plan could still move ahead. If he did persuade Catherine to give him a second chance, she would insist he change his way of life. He could sideline his criminal operations, already nominally under Boucher's control, and concentrate on the group of groups, to all intents and purposes an entirely legitimate enterprise.

A few weeks later the postman arrived on his moped, flourishing a telegram.

'Phone me,' it said. It was not signed, but only Arthur knew where John was.

He drove to the boulangerie in the village with Cecilia. While she went for a walk, he phoned the branch of 'Dazzling', a shop where Diana worked. He gave her the number and waited for Arthur to phone back. Ten minutes later, his friend phoned him.

'Michael's ill. He's back in hospital,' Arthur announced without preamble. 'They have a bone marrow match and are going to operate.'

'When?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

'I need a plane at Lodeve airport first thing. Make the arrangements in London and tell the Clark's to find out how I can visit the hospital without being seen.'

John put the receiver down slowly. He had been kidding himself, thinking he had any easy option. There was no way he could walk away from this. Whatever Catherine wanted, he would have to agree. Nothing mattered so long as Michael recovered to live a normal life.

As he sat outside the shop, staring into space, Cecilia came back. Seeing his expression, she knew something was wrong.

'My son is sick. He has leukaemia,' John said mechanically. 'I have to go back to England.'

She looked at him levelly, then took his hand. Without speaking, she led him towards the church. Pulling open the heavy door, she walked into the dark interior, leading him like a child. She sat him in a pew at the back and moved slowly towards a statue of the Virgin. Crossing herself, she dropped a coin into a collection box then lit a wax taper, sliding it into the rack beneath the painted figure.

John watched her, moved by her utter conviction she could help him by bringing him here. For an instant all hope vanished. He feared the worst could be happening at the present time and he was far away, unable to help or support. He dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his face. 'Please save Michael. Please save him,' he whispered.

Feeling Cecilia's hand on his shoulder, he got to his feet and followed her out of the church.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN  
_________________________

London, September 1983

Cecilia drove him to the airfield early the next day and left him there to wait as he asked for. It was deserted. At one o'clock a Beachcroft B200 plane landed. The pilot jumped out and came towards John.

'We were told over the radio,' he said, 'your son was operated on this morning. He's sleeping now.'

'Thanks.' John climbed on board and decided to try to get some sleep. Five hours later, when they arrived at an airfield in West Sussex he jumped out on the far side of the field and the plane taxied back to control.

A car was waiting at the perimeter fence with Sam O'Sullivan behind the wheel.

'Any news?' John asked breathlessly, sliding in beside him.

'He's in a coma. They don't know how long before he'll come out of it. That's all I was told.'

Outside the hospital John was met by Neil Clark, in white hospital overalls. 'The Police are here. Two of them at least.' He handed John a white coat with name tag, stethoscope and bleeper in the top pocket. 'Follow me.'

They walked quickly past reception and straight on to the end of the corridor where they called a lift.

'We've already passed one policeman downstairs,' Neil said. 'The other is snoring his head off. Some Temazepan fell into his dinner, if you know what I mean. You've hours yet.'

On the fifth floor they walked towards Michael's private room. Jim Clark was standing outside the door, dressed as a male nurse, while beside him a man lolled fast asleep in a comfortable chair.

John opened the door. A nurse sitting beside the bed looked up. He nodded at her, hoping she was an agency employee and not on the permanent staff.

'Everything all right?'

She smiled. 'No change.'

'Fine. I'll just take a look at him. You go and get yourself something to eat.'

As she had no reason not to believe he was a doctor, she immediately walked out of the room. John sat beside the bed and stared at his son. Michael slept, clear fluid dripping into a vein in his left arm. He looked very white and thin. John took his limp, cold hand. He sat in silence for a while, then started talking. He talked about anything and everything, hoping the sound of his voice would rouse Michael. He described the fishing trip they would take together, just as soon as he was well.

His own sleepless night and the flight were telling on him. Sometimes in mid sentence his eyelids would droop, before he jerked awake with a start. It was getting light when, after short doze, he felt another presence in the room.

'Cathy.'

At her name she blinked, almost as if coming out of a trance. Was there a fleeting warmth in her face, the beginnings of a smile? Just at that moment, Michael's hand moved in his.

'He's coming round. Catherine, call the doctor!' John got up and made for the door. 'I'll have to go.'

'Where can I get in touch with you?'

'Phone this number from a public box.' He hurriedly wrote Sam's telephone number on a scrap of paper and gave it to her. 'I'll wait for your call.' He threw a last look at the bed. 'Hurry and fetch the doctor! I think Michael can hear us.' Then he stepped past the sleeping policeman.

* * *

At Sam's neat house in Edgware John kept informed of Michael's progress.

His son, although he still had not eaten or spoken, now seemed aware of what was going on around him. When Catherine phoned in the afternoon, she told John that Michael was doing as well as could be expected.

'Be outside Dazzling in the King's Road at five o'clock. Someone will pick you up there and we can meet. You will come, won't you?' he implored her.

'Yes.' The receiver clicked as she hung up. John stood looking at the phone in his hand for a long time, until Sam came up behind him. 'I don't know if they told you, Mr Forbes,' he said, 'but it was your wife who donated the bone marrow only some days ago.'

'No, they didn't. Thanks for telling me, Sam.' He asked the driver to pick up Catherine at the appointed place and to keep an eye on the house from the end of the road while she was there. At half past five the bell rang. John opened the door and Catherine walked in. She didn't look him in the face but went straight into the front room and sat down.

He followed and stood in the doorway. She lifted her head and looked directly at him. For a moment neither of them said anything.

'Michael was feeling better when I left the hospital. I think he's aware that you've been there,' Catherine began.

'What do the doctors say?'

'They think he'll pull through,' she said tiredly, 'but that doesn't mean everything will be all right. He may need another transplant.' Then, in a flat voice, she told him Michael's life had depended on the operation. Fortunately her bone marrow was a good match, but the risk of a relapse was considerable. 'I was left to make the decision alone,' she said. 'Imagine how that felt. I'm sorry. It was brave of you.'

'The procedure was nothing. I was out of bed the next day. The bone marrow was frozen ready for when the operation could take place.' She paused, still holding his gaze. 'If everything goes well, Michael should be all right for a long time. But if he rejects the transplant, he's at risk of infection all over again. Complications could set in. We just have to hope...'

'You've been very brave,' said John, wanting to take her in his arms and offer comfort. If only she would not reject it. 'Whatever happens, you know you've done the right thing. And he'll be fine, I know it. He's young and strong and has everything to live for.' He paused. 'We have so little time. Everything's got out of hand. We have to talk, Cathy.'

'I know. I'm here, aren't I?' She set her chin at a defiant angle. 'You've brought all this on yourself, John. Why did you escape? You've just made a bad situation worse.'

He was silent.

'All this cloak and dagger nonsense, disguising yourself as a doctor,' she went on. 'How long do you think, you can keep it up? Prison might be degrading, but surely living like this must be humiliating for a man like you?'

He nodded. 'You're right as usual. Catherine. I hope I can sort it all out, but I have to ask you to make an incredible sacrifice.'

'Why should I?' Her eyes flashed at him. 'I didn't choose a life of crime, or have an affair for fourteen years. I didn't run away because I couldn't face up to the consequences! It's you who should be making sacrifices.'

'Do you think I don't know that?' He took a step towards her, then stopped. 'Listen to me, please, Cathy. You can turn me down and I won't argue, but please, please think about what I have to say before you answer.'

She bit her lip, then sighed. 'All right, I'll listen.'

'Come and stay with me for a week. Just you, Michael and me. We'll talk this through. Catherine, if I've ever meant anything to you at all, please give me this one chance.' He moved another step closer to her. 'Think about it for Michael's sake, if nothing else. Then, if we can make a go of it together, I'll go back to prison and finish my sentence.'

# CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT  
_________________________

Lodeve, Languedoc, France, 24th October 1983

Five weeks later Michael was well enough to travel. John picked Catherine and his son up in the Renault 2CV from Lodeve Airport, having given Cecilia two weeks off.

When Michael and his mother left the quiet Dorset village, looking as if they were just going shopping, Bernard Boucher's people had ensured they were not followed. They had travelled via Paris taking the journey in easy stages over two days.

John decided it would be best not to push things but allow them to discover the magic of the place themselves. The journey had tired Michael out, so they spent the first day in the house, getting acclimatised.

The next day they picnicked lazily beside the river while Michael sat fishing. His health seemed to improve daily. His hair, which had fallen out with the latest treatment, had started growing again, but he wore a baseball cap most of the time.

Catherine seemed to be enjoying herself, but had not said anything about their situation. John could not help thinking about his uncomplicated sex life with Cecilia. Between them there was no conflict. No difficult choices to be made. He knew it was up to him to broach the subject of the future to Catherine and one evening, while they were sitting outside watching the sunset, he began. 'I must ask your forgiveness for my affair with Mona. If you can forgive me, I'll do what I promised – give myself up and finish my sentence. Then we can start a normal life.'

'And what will you do for a living afterward? Are you willing to give up your criminal career and become an ordinary, honest citizen?'

'If you give me time,' John said carefully, knowing that any prospect of a reconciliation hung upon his answer. 'I'll convert the business into a group of companies with the help of Erick. My involvement will be that I own shares. It'll take a few years to achieve, but it has started and once we've succeeded, I shall be a legitimate businessman. Is it good enough?'

'I don't know.' She sighed. 'It's Michael I'm thinking of. He needs you, I know that. I think your visit brought him out of his coma. That's the reason I agreed to come. I won't decide anything before you've spoken to him.'

* * *

The next day, Michael was up and ready to go fishing straight after breakfast. John followed him to his favourite spot and sat under a tree, watching him.

It did not take long before he had caught his first fish. By lunchtime he had five large trout lying on the grass.

'Michael, there's something I need to talk to you about,' John began, when they were eating Campaigne bread and the local goat cheese. 'It's not easy, but you're seventeen and old enough for us to speak man to man, as it were.'

Michael smiled. 'If you and Mum want to get together again, that's OK with me. I'll never understand about that Mona woman, but I won't hold it against you forever. I know Mum loves you and needs you more than you think.'

'Thanks. That means a lot to me.' John rolled over on to his back, staring up at the trees. 'But there's something else. You know I'm on the run. I don't want you to think I'm just a common criminal. I want to try and explain...'

'The main thing,' Michael interrupted, poking at the fish, 'is that you should get back with Mum. I don't care what the papers say about you. How can I? You're my Dad.'

'Let me at least try to explain. When I was younger than you, I chose a career in crime. It seemed an easy choice back then. With hindsight, it was the wrong one. Now to get back with your mother, which is the all important matter now, I'll have to go back to prison and finish my sentence, but in the meantime, I want you to study at catering college. After a couple of years, we'll buy you your own restaurant if that's what you want.'

'Are you as rich as people say?'

'I'm even wealthier. I don't take much notice of what other people say.'

'Some of the newspapers said that you were linked to the Mafia.'

'Michael, I give you my word that I had nothing to do with the Mafia or any other international syndicate, except for some occasional trading,' John said. 'And from now on I'm going to be turning my business into a normal commercial enterprise so you'll never be ashamed of me again.'

'Don't say that. I'd never be ashamed of you, Dad. But you and Mum told me not to smoke. You even promised me a car if I didn't until I was eighteen! And all the time you were dealing in hash. I don't understand?'

'There's no easy answer to that,' John said wryly. 'But I grew up with the hash culture. I even thought it was less dangerous than nicotine. I've never used it, but I have to admit that hash dealing will never be an honourable business. Which is why I'm getting out of it.'

* * *

'How did your talk go?' Catherine asked while they were waiting for Michael to come down for dinner that evening.

'Very well, I think. He's a sensible, intelligent boy. We just have to hope that he won't follow in his father's footsteps.' He took her hand and smiled at her. For once she didn't pull it away.

Michael came down dressed in a chef's outfit. Laying plates on the kitchen table, he asked his mother, 'Have you taken the old man back? Everyone deserves a second chance. Even Dad.' Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the stove where the trout he had caught lay neatly filleted, ready to be cooked with butter and almonds.

After Michael had gone to bed that night, they sat in the yard drinking the local young wine. When it grew cold, they went inside. 'Let's have a drink to sleep on,' John suggested.

In the kitchen, he poured cognac into two glasses. He offered one to Catherine, and she sipped it slowly. Putting his glass down on the table, he stretched out his arms to her.

She stood unmoving for a while, then took a step forward. He pulled her towards him, tilting her face to his. They kissed for a long time and Catherine clung to him after the kiss ended.

She drew away with a sigh. 'Never deceive me again, John Forbes,' she warned him.

'I promise.' He kissed her again. 'I do love you.'

'Maybe, in your own way. But you've been a very stupid man. I'm far too good for you.'

'I know you are.' He took her hand. Together they walked out of the kitchen and through the house, turning off the lights, then up the stairs, past her room and into his.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE  
_________________________

Lodeve, Languedoc, France, October 1983

Cecilia came back the day after Michael and Catherine had left. John saw her familiar figure, walking the dusty road between the lavender fields.

When they met in the yard, she handed him a carrier bag. Inside was a wide brimmed Panama hat of fine straw. It was obviously an expensive one.

'Thanks so much. You shouldn't have done it.' John was surprised and touched. He put it on his head. 'It's just what I need! Does it suit me?'

'Comme ca.' With both hands she pushed the brim of the hat down all the way round. 'This way you do not look like un Anglais!'

After his midday nap, she came in with his drink as before, then stood looking down at him. He hesitated, then held out his hand. Smiling, she stepped back, shook her head.

He joined her in the kitchen. 'Tell me something. What do people in the village say about me?'

'They call you a Parisian lavender grower. They think you will never be any good at growing lavender if you live to be one hundred and twelve.'

'Then one day I'll prove them wrong.'

* * *

Arthur Black arrived in a taxi from Montpelier Airport, Erick Elgberg came by train via Marseilles, William Webster flew into Nice and rented a car, Bernard Boucher drove down from Paris.

'So how do you like my choice of hiding place?' Arthur said after he and John had greeted each other. 'It meets your requirements, wouldn't you say? Peace and solitude.'

'I've fallen in love with it,' John said. 'I'm seriously thinking of moving here permanently one day. But first we have business to discuss. 'I'm going back to England as soon as possible.'

Arthur whistled through his teeth. 'You've decided to give yourself up?'

'Yes. It's one of Catherine's conditions if we're to get back together. See that I'm moved from Maidstone to an open prison as soon as you can.'

'Do you want me to talk to Rubinstein? He could maybe make a deal with the Home Office.'

'No, keep him out of it. I'll just turn up,' John looked at Boucher next . 'Update me on the European business and Serissa.'

For the next few minutes Boucher and John discussed the hemp operation, and John gave his instructions. Then Boucher turned his attention to the finance company.

'Auto Trade Factors invested two hundred thousand about a year ago. That was to finance the silver bullion robbery near Heathrow Airport you probably read about.'

John frowned. 'I'm not sure I like the sound of that. There was enormous publicity. I didn't even know we were involved.'

The bullion raid had occupied the headlines for weeks, he remembered. The gang had got away with several hundred bars. Many had been arrested, but a major part of the haul was still unaccounted for, thereby putting the spotlight on the police. We took half the silver as our profit the day it happened,' Bertrand continued unperturbed. 'It's now in a safe place here in France. It won't be touched until we can find a way of melting it down and selling the silver on legally.'

'What's it worth?'

'More than ten million pounds.'

'Christ!' For a moment, even John was taken aback. 'What happened to our clients who borrowed the money?'

'There are three of them. They're in Parkhurst, doing fourteen years each. Penniless, but not talking.'

'Offer them one third, say three million, to be paid on release. If they've got dependants, we'll look after them while they're in prison.'

Boucher nodded, then said, 'I have had a recent inquiry about an investment of several million. I have known this man for several years. He needs the funds to set up a bank fraud. The details are complicated. Someone with a better brain for finance needs to look into it. I wanted to tell you, John, not only because it involves a large sum, but because it could open a new market for us. One with enormous potential and hardly any risk. The man is Russian.'

'Russian?' Erick looked surprised.

John hesitated. 'It might be worth looking into...'

Arthur heaved an exaggerated sigh. 'John, I thought you were winding down, remember? Not starting up with someone we hardly know.'

'We can't stop overnight. Erick, do me a favour. You and Bertrand talk over the details, then get on a plane and have a chat with this fellow. What's his name, Bertrand?'

'Osov. Ivan Osov.'

'Right. So that's settled.' John pushed his Panama back on his head and looked at William. 'I don't want the old team involved in anything for the time being, but we keep paying their wages as usual. Frankly, I don't know what to do with them.'

'Shastri and Ramona want to retire. They have their own chain of travel agents now. The others still want some kind of employment, more for the team's sake than the money,' William said. 'I've told them to be patient.'

'Have you given any thought to my idea of your going to the States?'

William nodded. 'Vera and the kids are all for it.'

'Then do it. Somewhere fairly low key, stay away from the big cities. Get settled in, then look for a suitable legit business. Find someone who can sort out all the paperwork, whatever the costs. Then advise Bertrand on the American market. Talk it over, you two.' John looked at Bertrand, who nodded. John turned to Erick next. 'How are your investments going?'

'Fine. We'll soon be ready to get into first gear.'

'I want us to go ahead, Erick. Now. It'll give me something to think about for the next couple of years. Have you spoken to Andrea? What does Karen think? Have you mentioned anything to Sam? He could be useful as a trusted courier between you and me...'

'I'll get started,' said Erick, sounding overwhelmed.

John glanced from him to Arthur, who was getting stiffly to his feet. He looked older than his 50 years. They were no longer young. All middle aged, and still doing the same thing!

It was time to move on. Now.

* * *

Since his friends had left, John had enjoyed his solitude more than ever. He knew that soon he would have to endure cramped prison conditions once again, the smell of sweat and urine, the degradation, the same mind numbing routine.

It was getting cold in the evenings. The leaves on the trees were changing colour. His neighbours, the Popougnots, had been with their people and farm machinery and harvested the lavender. The fields looked dry and grey. John walked round the outbuildings, then went inside and sat in front of the fire Cecilia had made.

He had decided to leave the farm to her to look after. Her involvement in it had grown and John had overheard her in angry discussion with Monsieur and Madame Popougnot when they had offered a low price for the lavender harvest. He also wanted to give her a substantial amount of cash to run the place and make improvements. A new kitchen, a large room for Michael, a study for himself, an outside terrace and garages.

Cecilia never made any demands on him. She never disturbed him, but kept herself to herself. John could hear her working in the kitchen. In a moment she would bring him a tray and ask the same question she did every day at this time: 'Where do you want to eat?'

'Here, in front of the fire,' he answered. 'Come and sit with me. There's something I want to say to you.'

'I know.'

'How can you know?'

'You are going away.' She spoke flatly, still standing. 'You have had something on your mind for several days. I shall soon find other employment.'

'Please sit down, Cecilia. I can't talk to you while you're standing up.'

She sat on the worn carpet between him and the fireplace.

'You're right,' he said at last. 'I am going away for about two years. But I want you to live here. Would you be happy to do that?'

'Alone?' She thought for a moment. 'I'd need a rifle and a dog.'

'I'll buy you both. What do you say?'

'Tres bien. A dog will be company enough for me. I will stay.' She lifted her face and stared at him. 'But how will I reach you?'

'You can't.'

'There may be a fire?... I might get ill? I'll need to know where you are.'

'I'll give you the telephone number of a friend of mine.' He hesitated, then said, 'Cecilia, when I come back, my wife and son may be with me.'

'I understand.'

'Good. Now, I want you to take some money.' He explained to her the improvements he wanted. 'Here are six hundred thousand francs for the rebuilding and your wages.'

'Mon Dieu!' She looked at the large envelope he held out to her. 'I will hide it in the kitchen.'

'And in here,' he said, taking another envelope out of his pocket, 'is one hundred and fifty thousand francs. I want you to go to Lodeve, open a bank account in your name and pay it in. It is yours. Tu comprends?'

'Non.' She drew away, shaking her head. 'I want only my wages.'

'Don't make me angry,' he said, putting the envelope into her hand and closing her fingers round it. 'You've earned it, and when the money from the harvest comes in I want you to put it in your account too. You'll need it when you're old.'

She picked up the first envelope, rose to her feet and left the room. When she came back, she said, 'I have hidden the money for the work.'

'Now take the other envelope and promise me you'll do as I say?'

She gave up arguing. 'Tell me something?'

'What?'

'Where are you going? A place without a phone? Un monastere?'

John laughed. 'Not quite. Though I'm certainly retiring from the world.'

'You laugh at me! It is not funny, I think.'

He blew out a long breath. 'I am going to prison.'

Cecilia recoiled from him in horror. 'Mon Dieu! You joke? Ah, now I understand! You are fugitif? C'est vrai?'

'Oui. Je suis un fugitif.' He took her hands in his. 'Two years is not so long. They will soon pass and then I'll be back as a free man.'

'With your wife and your son' She was silent for a few minutes, but left her hands in his. 'But why? What have you done? You are a gangster?'

'Oui.'

Amused by her expression of disbelief, he bent forward and kissed her lightly. When she slid her arms around his neck, he did not protest. The next two years would be long, cold and lonely.
PART SIX

FATE, A RAT IN THE NIGHT

# CHAPTER FORTY  
_________________________

Leningrad, Russia, 7th November 1983

From the airport, Erick took a taxi to Leningrad and the enormous Pribaltiyskaya Hotel overlooking the Finnish Sea. His room was large and simply furnished, but felt cold and damp. He complained at reception, but was politely told that there was nothing else they could offer, as all the rooms were of the same standard.

The hotel restaurant was empty and also reeked of damp. Erick ordered blini, one with caviar another with salmon, both uneatable. Even the beer was undrinkable. He retired early to bed.

Next morning the room temperature was just above zero. There was no hot water. He looked out of the window and saw that another foot of snow had fallen during the night. He dressed quickly, shaved and went down to reception to order a taxi. The address had been written down for him by Bertrand Boucher.

The taxi driver demanded to be paid in American dollars. The price was outrageous, but Erick wanted to get the trip over as quickly as possible. The driver then refused to go anywhere until he'd got the money in his hand. When this problem had been sorted out, his attitude changed completely. He became unctuously friendly and spoke reasonable English.

The Catharine Palace was, like many of the buildings in Leningrad, painted blue and white. It was about a thousand feet wide, with golden onion domes embellishing each corner of the roof.

'You'd better wait,' Erick told the taxi driver, wondering if he had come to the right place. 'Don't leave until I tell you.'

In the reception area Erick asked the young man behind the desk if he could speak to Ivan Osov. The man nodded and smiled.

'Please sit down,' he said in good English. 'I will see if Mr Osov can see you.' He picked up the telephone and spoke in Russian. Then he looked at Erick. 'Mr Osov is very busy today. Will you kindly write your name here and tell me what you want to talk to him about? He will try to fit you in later this week. He was not expecting you.'

'Please tell Mr Osov that I am an associate of Monsieur Bertrand Boucher.' Erick wrote both his and Boucher's name on the pad the young man held out. After another short telephone conversation, the receptionist smiled. 'Mr Osov will be here in five minutes.'

A dapper little man of about fifty hurried up to Erick, one hand outstretched, the other casually in his pocket. 'Mr Elgberg! I wish you had told me you were coming. Did you arrive here by taxi?' His English was perfect, without any discernible accent.

Erick shook hands. 'I told the driver to wait.'

'I will tell him to go back to Leningrad. We will arrange for your luggage to be brought here from your hotel. You will stay with us. Wait here a moment.' He hurried out to the taxi, then came back again. 'Welcome to our humble home. We Russians are poor, so do not expect too much of us. I am so pleased to see you. Please follow me.'

'I was surprised when I saw the Palace. Is it a museum?' Erick asked.

'It is a great museum. Many Russian tourists come here during the summer. I don't think it is well known abroad as Russia has so many palaces. I live here with my wife and can enjoy the garden and the lake every day. We lived in Moscow before I retired.'

'You look too young to have retired.'

Osov laughed. 'In Russia many retirements are involuntary.'

They walked towards a frozen lake. Boats had been pulled ashore for winter. Beside the water stood a small timber built house painted light grey, its windows picked out in a darker shade. A thin plume of smoke hung in the icy air above it.

'This is my dacha. We have lived here for two years now. My wife's family are from Pushkin nearby and some work here in the museum. The young man you met is her nephew.'

They entered the house, which was plainly but tastefully furnished. A fire blazed in the large open hearth, giving the room a warm, cosy glow.

'Welcome!' A round little woman, her black hair caught back in an old fashioned bun, came bustling up to Erick. 'I am Petra, Ivan's wife. I will make you some tea and then in an hour something to eat. I hope you are staying here?' She looked older than her husband, wearing a baggy blue knitted dress with a white belt.

'Yes, thank you. If it's not too much trouble? I should have informed you I was coming, but arrangements were made at the last moment.'

'We're always pleased to meet someone from London. We lived there for two years before moving to Paris and then New York. My husband worked for a bank. This is six years ago. Now we are quite happy here.'

Osov frowned, indicating with a wave of his right hand that she should go and prepare the tea. When Petra had gone, the two men stood side by side looking out of the tall window towards the lake. The only sound came from the flames crackling in the grate.

'My guess is,' Osov said quietly, 'that you came unannounced to catch me unprepared. To see if I am who I said I am. But the fact that you are here tells me that you are at least interested in my proposal.'

Erick smiled. 'I have to give my opinion, see if it is technically workable. But before that, tell me about yourself.'

'I used to be in charge of foreign investment for the Zhargo Bank in Chermyakhovskage Street, Moscow. All my life I have worked for that bank, here and abroad. After New York, I was asked to take up the position of branch manager for the Leningrad area.' He moved away from the window and waved Erick to one of the comfortable armchairs set beside the fire. 'After a year I had a dispute with head office in Moscow and refused to take the responsibility for something they had messed up. They wanted me to brush something under the carpet, as you say, which is not uncommon in Russia. In the end I received an ultimatum. Either I retired with a full pension and the many privileges I enjoyed and kept my mouth shut, or the bank would sack me. So I retired.'

Osov stared into the fire. 'Maybe it was my lucky day, because it was then I discovered that I possessed a valuable talent.'

'For what?' Erick asked.

'Acting. Deception, my friend. I believe in England you would call me a con artist. I was used to thinking like the manager of a small branch. This, combined with my ability to inspire trust, brought rich rewards shortly after I retired.'

'You're talking of bank fraud?'

Osov nodded. 'You can be shot for that here, as you may know. But since I was allowed to keep my passport, I carried out my schemes in Paris a couple of times, with considerable success. Working in the West is perfect for me. Who would ever think of tracing me to a town like Pushkin? The Western authorities probably wouldn't bother anyway, and if they did, where would they start? Our police here haven't even a telex.'

'I see your point.'

'But things are becoming worse in Russia every month,' Osov went on. 'I believe that within a couple of years, the communist system will collapse and a free economy will emerge. When that happens, those who understand what the people want, and can give it to them, will become all powerful. Unfortunately, there are people here who have always controlled our black economy. The Russian Mafia, we call them. Do you know, we have fifty ways of saying "to steal" in the Russian language?'

Erick wondered how Osov dared to be so open with someone he had only just met. 'How can you be sure I am Bertrand Boucher's associate?'

Osov smiled. 'I asked the taxi driver where he picked you up. Your passport is in the hotel safe, as the law requires. The hotel made a registration card, which you are supposed to carry. Your air ticket is in the room and it is a return. A call to Paris confirmed your description. All that happened before you even said hello to my wife. We Russian can be naive but we are not stupid.'

Erick laughed. 'I'm glad you take precautions. We can't be too paranoid. Why don't you tell me your plan?'

* * *

'The principle of any fraud is to create a situation where the banks have one hundred per cent confidence in the fraudsters. This is my area of expertise. I have two of Russia's most talented actors from the Bolshoi Drama Theatre helping me. They speak and write English perfectly without any accent and have both lived abroad for several years. Their lives are devoted to saving the theatre. Every rouble they make out of helping me is ploughed back into BDT. They have become experts. They are skilled in building up my assumed identity, discreetly and subtly. Maybe you will laugh, but we train two half days a week. We have scripts... we improvise... we analyse... One word out of place could put an end to months of work.'

'You are very thorough.' Erick sounded impressed.

Osov smiled. 'What you do not understand is that people like us have to have something to hang on to, to devote our lives to. My two friends are deeply involved with the survival of this fine theatre. That is a stronger motive even than personal greed. They are married to two dancers from the Ballet.'

'I'm surprised,' Erick admitted. 'I don't know what I was expecting, but certainly not a scheme to subsidise the arts!'

'Leningrad is where Dostoievsky lived. He believed that everything is possible,' Osov said slowly. 'For a person to borrow a thousand roubles from a bank is more difficult than to ask for millions of dollars. The first is merely an irritation, the second demands to be taken seriously. The spotlight is on the project, no longer on the person presenting the plan. Then it moves to the advisors. Finally to matters of security, profitability and timing. The "closing", as they call it in American marketing, then depends on the confidence of the fraudster, his credibility, manners, looks, smile. His whole aura. Finally, of course, the person on the other side of the table wants the business and feels he could be making a big mistake by not giving his approval to the scheme.'

'I think you have succeeded in convincing me.' Erick smiled. 'You obviously know what you're talking about. But once you've gained the confidence of your bank manager, what happens then?'

Osov sat back, beaming. 'Then we break that confidence! After a decent interval, of course.'

'I'm not sure I follow you.'

Osov leaned forward. He spoke slowly and carefully. 'We have already opened various accounts, both in England and Spain. We are setting up a property development company in London with offices in Mayfair. First, we will ask three banks for finance for one or two developments in London. As we expect to have a large deposit in our account when we ask for this finance, I do not expect a problem. We show that we can get the work done and, more important, that we have made a profit. Probably we have not, but that does not matter. Over the next two years we expand, but more and more abroad, where things are difficult to check. It is all starting to get a bit complicated, but by this time our accounts are getting bigger and bigger, and now the bank loves us. This happy relationship continues for up to two years. Then – poof! We pull the carpet from under them and the bank realises that the most recent undertakings it has been given are worthless. Then they find out that this successful property company has been built on sand.'

Erick expected from his experience with banks that an ambitious plan such as this could succeed. He recognised Osov as a man who could both plan and carry out exactly what he promised.

'I understand,' he said. 'As you know, I'm here to report back if you are genuine and if, in my opinion your project will work. I think I can say that we will go with you. All profits to be shared fifty fifty.' He looked steadily at the man opposite and then said slowly, 'I should warn you that if my organisation ends up being conned and not the banks, then your life, and those of your loved ones, will be forfeit.'

Osov breathed in deeply but did not speak. Erick went on in a low voice, 'This is no idle threat. An enforcement squad is linked to the organisation. It takes instructions from only one person and its members never give up.' He sat back. 'You can back out now and nothing will happen. But if you take our money, you are committed. We will accept failure, but any double dealing will be a death sentence.'

Osov smiled. 'Erick, I am not a dreamer. I am a plodder. What you have said, I fully understand. I will honour my part, but I do not wish my plan to be mentioned to anyone. What I have told you today is strictly between ourselves.' When Erick nodded, he continued. 'When can I expect the funds for my project?'

'I must leave Leningrad tomorrow. The money can be transferred to wherever you want within a week.'

'I am impressed that you can act so quickly.' Osov rose and began to pace the room, his mobile face registering pleasure. 'I would like part of the funds transferred to the BCCI Bank, Regent Street Branch in London. The account is in the name of Nicholstein's Property Company Limited. The bank manager is a Mr Paul Dockett. Unfortunately in the end, of course, he will be the sacrificial lamb. But...' He lifted his shoulders in a shrug... 'You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.'

# CHAPTER FORTY-ONE  
_________________________

Edgware Road, London, Wednesday 9th November 1983

Erick and Andrea had been invited to dinner at Arthur and Diana's.

They had been there before, but on this occasion they had been asked to dress for the occasion.

The flat was on the top floor of the Water Garden in Edgware Road. It was exquisitely furnished and commanded a wonderful view. Arthur had filled every room with antiques especially chosen to complement each other, creating a gracious home and not a soulless showplace. Entering the flat, Andrea declared, was like stepping into a different world.

In the living room they saw Catherine with a man sitting on a sofa close by, his back turned to them.

'John!' Andrea ran to him. 'What a surprise! You look well!'

He gave them both a hug. 'This was Arthur's idea,' he said. 'He arranged it with Catherine.'

'What are you doing in England?'

'I'm in transit.' He laughed at their bewildered expressions. 'I'm giving myself up, going back to Maidstone tonight. But they can wait a few more hours.'

'This evening is in John's honour,' said Arthur.

Afterwards John and Catherine took a taxi from Edgware Road to Chelsea, as she was staying in a small hotel off Sloane Street. Michael was at Cerne.

'Do you believe in fate?' she asked on the way. 'Are our lives determined for us?'

John looked out of the window as they drove down Park Lane.

'I don't know. Fate seems to me like a rat in the night. Perhaps we have control over the small things, but significant events happen of their own accord.'

They sat in silence. When the taxi stopped at the hotel, she asked, 'Are you coming in?'

He shook his head. 'It'll only make things more difficult. Let's say goodbye now. I want to get this over.'

'Is there no other way?' Her voice sounded wistful. 'Seems pointless to throw away two years of ours and Michael's lives.'

'There's no alternative. Let's blame it on fate.' He leaned over and kissed her. 'We're doing the right thing.'

'I still love you, John,' she said sadly and climbed out of the taxi.

He watched her hurry into the hotel, then said to the driver, 'Take me to Maidstone.'

'You must be joking!' The driver looked aghast. 'I'll never get a fare back from there this time of night. Not worth my while, mate.'

John dug into his wallet and brought out six fifty pound notes.

The driver grinned. 'Where exactly in Maidstone, sir?'

'Do you know the prison?'

' Yes, it's more or less in the middle of town. Working there, are you?'

'No. I'm going back to do a couple years more on my sentence.'

He saw the driver's eyes widen in the rear view mirror. 'Can you do it in bits now?' Then he understood. 'Jeez! You been on the run? You don't look the sort. What did you do?'

'Just sold a bit of hash.'

'Would a spot of music help?' the driver asked.

'The best thing you can do,' John said firmly , 'is to leave me alone. I just want to sit here and look back at London. I won't be seeing it for a while.'

In a couple of years, he reflected, Erick would be one of the most influential and respected industrialists in the world.

Arthur had already fulfilled his dream of owning a high class shop and had a home which any tycoon would envy.

Bertrand Boucher had risen from nowhere to become a powerful and feared figure in European syndicated crime.

And he, John Forbes, the person who had set each of them well on the path to achieving their personal goal, was on his way back to prison.

# CHAPTER FORTY-TWO  
_________________________

Blantyre House, Kent, February 1984

'Any ideas on target companies?' Erick asked Jan Christensen impatiently on the telephone a few weeks later.

'I have done as you said, not being a company analyst myself, I found Graham Rose, and persuaded him to join Hamlet Accountancy. He's only been here for two weeks, but he's very experienced and in a few days you will have the first suggested company,' Jan replied. 'Copies of the accounts will also be in the post within a few days, together with a detailed report I have worked on. You might be surprised by the product they manufacture, but think it over. It makes sense to me.'

Graham Rose's report on Crown Bicycle PLC of Sheffield made fascinating reading for Erick. Graham was absolutely right. The company had large unencumbered assets, a manufacturing base that was presently being upgraded, and owned majority shareholdings in several other bicycle companies in the Far East, India and Africa. Based on the share price, the company was valued at £125 million and a quarter of the shares was still with the family who had founded it. The rest of the shares were well spread.

Before doing anything else, Erick had to talk to John, whose attitude to Crown would tell him everything he wanted to know. He decided to fly to England and visit John in Blantyre House open prison in Kent, where he had been moved the previous week.

* * *

'It took me ages to find this place,' he complained when he was finally seated opposite John in the shabby visiting room. 'How are you?'

Erick looked round. The other prisoners looked like middle aged, hard men, probably eager to finish their sentences without any fuss. He knew they all had long stretches behind them, as they all came from Maidstone Prison.

'Fine,' John replied. 'Catherine and Michael have been here and they'll be coming every month from now on. Mike's doing all right, but I think you know there's not much hope if anything goes wrong again.' He waved his hand. 'This place is a bit run down, but it's not bad. Three evenings a week I play the piano. A local lady teaches me. And I've just started a year's full time business management course. Every morning I cycle to the local college to get to know more about shares, investments and accounts.' He grinned. 'Some contradiction, eh? Me being back on the school bench while you're playing monopoly with real money.'

Erick smiled. 'Speaking of which...'

'You've got something important to tell me or you'd have sent Sam.' John sat back, waiting.

'Graham Rose, who is our analyst, has given me the name of a target company. Your reaction will tell me if we're on the right track.' Erick paused, then said, 'Crown Bicycle PLC.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'I use a Crown bike every day. It's the trusty steed that takes me to college.'

'So what do you think?'

'An astute choice. A quality product. If the balance sheet isn't full of holes, you're definitely on the right track.'

'So I'll approach the family about selling their shares?'

'I'll keep my fingers crossed,' said John. 'Hope you're successful after getting me all excited!'

* * *

Ben Bancroft had suggested that they take over an existing solicitor's practice in Kensington, Church Street. He had found a young solicitor called Thomas Wren who was willing to take on the company's legal work and whom he could place in the firm for a couple of months to gain experience. Then the practice could be moved into the City, with a change of the name. Wren's wife was a barrister working in Serjeant's Inn on the Temple, who would also be useful to the Company.

Thomas Wren & Partners, Solicitors, of Cutlers Gardens, London EC1 became a reality two months later. Higginson Investments and Hamlet Accountancy were told to use Wren's services as often as necessary.

Shortly after setting up his practice, Thomas Wren met Erick and Karen to discuss the best way of approaching the family who owned part of the shareholding in Crown Bicycle PLC.

The largest shareholder was the eighty five year old daughter of the original owner. Wren was told to approach her family solicitor on the behalf of the Zurich bank, and suggest a meeting with her financial and legal advisors. The offer for her shares was considerably higher than their market value. No other family shareholders were to be approached until the response to this offer was known.

A week later her solicitor accepted the offer. Erick then instructed the foreign banks and the companies he had already set up to buy further shares via their brokers in London. Over a four month period, small numbers of shares changed hands. By early June 1984, the Invisible Company had become the majority shareholder in the long established and highly respectable, Crown Bicycle PLC.

Erick's next task was to make its board aware that this power could now be wielded. He decided it was vital to gain influence over its Managing Director, Howard Femberley. It had been Femberley's personal vision that had gradually changed the company into a modern industrial giant.

From the report Erick had received on Femberley and his wife, he knew there was nothing detrimental to be found out about his personal life. He would have to approach Femberley himself and make him aware of the situation. He would have to demonstrate a show of strength at the next board meeting.

In the Sunday Times Business to Business section, Thomas Wren advertised for a person with good references to become a company board member. A £6,000 annual fee was mentioned in return for attending six meetings a year. Several suitable applicants applied whom Wren interviewed.

After consultation with Erick, a 66 year old retired Army Major called Angus Collaby was selected. Although he had no business experience, he made no secret of the fact that he needed the money badly. He was finding his pension very difficult to survive on and, after having served in Aden, Malaysia and Northern Ireland, found this a bitter pill to swallow.

Wren approached Crown's directors and informed them that he wanted, on behalf of a shareholder, to put forward a new board member to speak on their behalf. The application recommended Major Collaby to the board.

The next meeting went as planned, with Major Collaby being voted on to the board, much to the surprise of Howard Femberley. The written votes were shredded after the meeting, to ensure that board members did not know who had voted for Collaby. After the meeting Femberley cornered the new board member and demanded to know whom he represented.

Collaby gave him the rehearsed answer, adding with a smile that the board would have nothing to fear from him, as he was there merely as an interested overseer.

The look on Femberley's face told Collaby that the implications were apparent to him. Femberley now knew that somewhere, somehow, there was someone who could make decisions about his company and there was nothing he could do about it.

Soon after this, Erick wrote to Howard Femberley in Sheffield and explained he wanted to discuss a matter of importance with him personally.

'I am an investor in Crown Bicycle,' Erick introduced himself. 'I wanted to come here today to tell you how pleased I and my co investors are by the way you've handled the turnaround of the firm.'

'How big a holding do you have?' Femberley asked.

'Only a few per cent myself, but I am in contact with many other investors and together we represent at the moment fifty one per cent.'

Femberley tapped his fingers together. 'So you control a majority shareholding without declaring it? I suppose you know that's illegal?'

'No. We are all individual investors, any one of whom could sell their holding tomorrow.

At the right price.'

'I'm not sure I like the sound of this,' Femberley murmured. 'It doesn't seem right that someone can quietly buy up a majority shareholding and gain control of my board without declaring who they are or whom they represent.'

Erick smiled reassuringly. 'I'm merely a wealthy investor, with contacts all over the world.'

'It looks to me like a flock of vultures have landed on the roof.' Femberley was a man who had worked his way up from the factory assembly line. He knew he had a talent for business; regarded his position as something he had worked hard for and deserved, and here was a wealthy playboy who lived in Mallorca, according to his business card, implying that he, the Managing Director of Crown Bicycle PLC, was a mere figurehead!

'Let's cooperate instead of fighting,' Erick went on smoothly. 'How about if we rewrite your contract to reflect your achievements? We'll also give you the opportunity of buying more personal shares. If you're willing to cooperate with us, we can help the company buy more factories and expand into retailing. We are your supporters, not your enemies.'

Femberley's mouth twisted into an ironic smile. 'Cooperate and we'll look after you,' he said dryly, 'or go against us and we'll sack you. That's what you mean.'

'If we can come to some agreement today,' Erick said, 'I'd like to invite you and your wife to Mallorca for a long weekend in August. The island is beautiful at that time of year. You'll soon realise that our intentions for the company are entirely honourable and it will all be to your personal advantage.'

Femberley gave in with a resigned shrug.

* * *

In the summer of 1984 the Cave was ready for occupation and on the last Saturday in June the Elgbergs moved in.

Mr and Mrs Howard Femberley were picked up by Sam at Palma airport a few weeks later. At midday, sitting round the pool bar, Erick asked if they were interested in spending the rest of the day on the yacht.

The two couples spent a relaxing day and evening without talking business. Getting to know Femberley was the purpose of the exercise as well as gaining his confidence. Erick knew that Femberley himself would bring up anything which concerned him, if Erick were patient.

After lunch on Sunday, Femberley could not suppress his curiosity any longer. 'I am interested in your proposal to rewrite my contract. What did you have in mind?'

Erick was pleased that he had obviously accepted the fait accompli. He went through his suggestions, which included a substantial amount in shares if the company's three year plan were carried out within that time. Then he said, 'Put in writing what you'd like included in your contract and I'll guarantee that it's accepted by the board.'

At the end of their discussion, Erick said casually, 'If I telephoned you from time to time about other companies my co investors are interested in, would you be willing to give us your support?'

Femberley looked out over the azure sea and sipped his dry Martini. 'Of course. May I say how much we've enjoyed this weekend? I hope you will visit us next time you're in England.'

After the Femberleys had left, Erick sat alone at the pool. He had no doubt that Femberley had completely accepted the situation without any threat ever having to be made. How remarkably easy it had been to convert the hard working, upright Managing Director of Crown Bicycle PLC into another pawn in the Invisible Company's net!

* * *

After the successful takeover of Crown, Graham Rose found another target company, a large magazine publishers, Lina Publishing PLC. Its shares were so spread that just 30% of the share capital could swing any boardroom decision. Lina Publishing also owned a 20% holding in one of the British tabloids and had magazine interests from Hong Kong to the States.

Femberley's support, together with acquisitions by the Zurich bank and from the States, meant that this time it was easier to obtain the necessary shares. Erick was left with the delicate problem of informing the directors of the publishing company that the balance of power had shifted.

This time, instead of forcing an appointment to the board, he merely had to show the managing director, Lina Pinto, confirmation that twenty new shareholders were requesting Thomas Wren, Solicitors, to act on their behalf. This he did after Miss Pinto had spent three days at the Cave enjoying his hospitality.

The day after that Graham Rose came back to Erick with the information that the shares they had bought had been owned by the well known English tycoon, Randolph Purcell.

# CHAPTER FORTY-THREE  
_________________________

Cerne Estate, March 1985

Catherine Forbes put down the receiver. The prison had just confirmed that John was being released on Monday.

Why had he not telephoned with the news himself? Because he had finally decided not to come back to her? Would someone else Mona Hobson – be waiting for him at the gates?

She had known his release was coming up, but the date has been uncertain before the parole board had given its final approval. She and Michael had visited him every month, and during the last year she had seen him become more and more withdrawn. He seldom smiled. It was as if he had a burden on his shoulders and did not know how to ease it.

Michael was away at college and was not expected home until the end of the week. She wondered whether to contact him but decided not to. If John did not want her there, she did not want Michael to know. She could phone the prison to ask if her husband wanted her to meet him. No, it would be too embarrassing if she were told that someone else was picking him up. And she would not humiliate herself by contacting Arthur to see if he were going. He and Diana had both been very helpful and supportive, but they were dependent on John and would always do his bidding.

Next month she would be 44. Her parents were in their seventies and her father had just been diagnosed as having Alzheimer's Disease. So many things in their lives were different from the first time, she had welcomed John home from prison, she thought.

His affair with the Hobson woman had ruined everything. Although they had been together in France, she felt it could never be the same between her and John. Now, she only occasionally thought about sex.

She sat in the living room and looked out over the lawn. Could he change? Was it naive to ask that question even to herself. However, she knew that the Elgbergs' move to Mallorca was part of John's new plan. He had certainly had enough time to decide what to do, but why had he not made his plans clear to her? John owed it also to Michael to come and explain what he intended to do.

Catherine got up and paced the room. The house was cold because she could not keep the heating on for long; the cost was astronomical.

Her husband was a professional criminal. She had to face it. Very little dignity in that. But if she were honest with herself, she wanted him back. She missed him – the way he smiled, the way he used to look at her. Even if his affair had ruined the magic, she was happiest when he was with her.

She should have looked for another man while he was in prison. If she had, John would have been pleased for her. He wanted whatever made her happy. But no man would be interested in her. That was why John had been forced to find a mistress all those years ago. If she had a hold on him sexually, she might not have failed to keep him. It could only be that she was no good in bed.

Michael was the only card she held. John would never do anything to hurt him again.

'Damn you, John. Why didn't you phone?' Lying in bed she looked at the pillow beside her. She would have to face that empty pillow for the rest of her life, if he decided not to return.

* * *

On Monday morning at five o'clock Catherine drove John's dark blue Jaguar towards Kent. Keith Spike maintained it regularly and it had never let her down. The smell of the leather interior reminded her of John. At least he would be happy to see the car!

At twenty past six she parked outside Blantyre House, switched off the engine and settled down to wait. She had brought a flask of coffee to keep her warm.

Half an hour later the day shift prison staff began to arrive. Catherine moved the car further along the road, but still in sight of the blue mesh gate. There were no other cars waiting.

At about seven o'clock, she noticed two men walking from the administration building towards the gate. One of them opened it and they shook hands. Then John stepped through. He looked round, pulled up his collar and walked to a bus stop on the other side of the road.

For a minute she did not move. He had not seen her. She switched on the ignition and flashed the headlights. John glanced towards her, then waved.

As he came towards her, she wound down the window and asked, 'Would you like a lift?'

'I'm not in the habit of being picked up by good looking women in expensive cars.' He got in beside her, staring awkwardly ahead. Silence descended.

'I thought – someone else might be picking you up,' faltered Catherine eventually.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek. 'No. I don't know how you could get such a silly idea. I went to prison to sort out our relationship, if you remember?'

'Do you want to drive?'

'No, I want to sit here and admire you.'

'I wish I could cope with you better,' she sighed. 'You walk out of prison after all kinds of dramas and here I still am, the faithful, trembling wife. It's pathetic.'

'Catherine.' He took her hand and clasped it between his own. 'I love you in my own way. Perhaps that's not enough for you, but it's as much as I can offer. Why do you look so gorgeous? You're too much for an old lag like me to cope with. Please take me home.'

She smiled. 'I think you've gone stir crazy.'

'Probably. I know I'm sad and everyone thinks I'm bad, so I'm probably mad as well. How's Michael?'

'He's at school till Friday. I haven't told him yet. I wanted us to have a few days to ourselves.'

'Good idea.'

They were quiet for the rest of the journey. Once inside the house, John took off his coat and went into in the living room.

'Can I get you a drink?' she asked.

'A whisky would be nice.'

He looked around him, then opened the doors and walked out on to the terrace, barely able to believe for a minute or two that he was at liberty to move freely around this beautiful old house and garden. It felt strange to him now. He knew that he owned it, but after his time in Brixton, the dreadful waiting time in Hans Court, Maidstone, the escape and then two years in Kent, it was the farm in France that now filled the quiet space in his head to which he retreated in times of stress. Such as now, if he were really truthful with himself.

'Welcome home.' She gave him the drink.

'Thanks.'

With his arm round her, they walked back inside. He put the glass down and took his wife in his arms. They kissed for a long time, gently, companionably. This homecoming was very different from their first passionate reunion. After a while Catherine led him upstairs to bed. They stayed there till midday, then went for a walk round the Estate. In the evening they dined in a local restaurant, where the other customers tried not to stare at them.

'If this embarrasses you, we can go home,' John suggested.

'It's all right. I prefer the village to know you're back, the sooner the better.'

John sat quietly, his thoughts far away.

'So what are your plans?' Catherine asked suddenly.

He brought his gaze back to her. 'The only active business will be the one Erick is running in Mallorca. I think that's all you need to know.'

She sighed. 'I meant, are you going to stay with me or not?'

He lifted his glass of wine and took a long mouthful before replying. 'I'd like you and Michael to move to France with me.'

'So you want to uproot us all?'

'Catherine,' he said solemnly, 'we need a fresh start in another country. I'm too well known here. I don't want to sell the Estate. If you don't want to come with me, you can live here as long as you want. I'll see you're taken care of financially. But please, think about coming to France with me. Give it a year and then decide if we stay there or come back here. We could close down the Estate for a year, leave it as it is, or we could rent it out, whatever you prefer.'

Catherine was silent. Michael would jump at the opportunity to live in France, so her options were limited. To be alone on the Estate, while Michael spent as much time as he liked with his father, was not a happy prospect. Also, she thought, John's intention of moving to France surely ruled out his resuming the affair with Mona Hobson.

'It would be worth a try, I suppose,' she said at last.

'I'm overwhelmed by your enthusiasm.'

She kicked him hard under the table.

He smiled. 'I have some meetings to attend to for a few days and at the end of the month I'll have to go away for a couple of weeks. When I come back we can leave for France. But keep it under your hat for the time being.'

'The same old skulduggery,' she sighed.

He took her hand. 'There won't be any in France, I promise. There I'm just a Parisian lavender grower, as they say.'

'You've worked it all out,' she said. 'And I can't make a scene without the whole village knowing.'

'Exactly.' He held out her glass, which she took and raised to him in a silent toast.

'I think we should phone Mike tonight or he'll feel left out,' she murmured.

* * *

A few days after his release, John went to his office in Esher, which had been unused for several years. The secretary was paid merely to come in and forward any post.

He sat down at the boardroom table and stared for a while at the Picasso drawings, thinking of Mona. Then he took a piece of paper and wrote a list of the meetings he must hold.

Arthur – the Clarks – Rose Miller – Philip Higginson – Bertrand Boucher – Rudi Grattini, William Webster – Erick – Cecilia and the farm.

He folded the paper as if in a trance, then carefully tore it up and put the pieces in his pocket.

Then he started taking his few private belongings down to his car. He asked the accountant, whose office was in the same building, to arrange for the Picassos to be sent to Mrs Hobson at the address in St. John's Wood. The lease, together with the furniture, light fittings and carpets was to be sold and the bank accounts closed. All the toy samples were to be donated to Great Ormond Street Hospital.

John wrote a cheque to cover expenses and told the accountant he was moving to Mexico and gave him the address of a hotel he had seen in a brochure, although he had never been there and never intended to go.

Before leaving the office he made a phone call and booked a private Falcon jet to take him to Montpellier Airport.

* * *

On the afternoon of the 25th March, John took a taxi from Montpellier Airport to the farm. As he jolted along the track he noticed the lavender fields were turning a fragile green. When he drew closer he saw Cecilia's washing hanging on a line in the yard, which had been newly paved with red bricks.

A dog began to bark. John had forgotten about the new dog. A strong looking, brown animal with a distinctive ridge of fur on its back running from head to tail stood in the middle of the yard looking ferocious. John remained still for a moment, then went straight towards the dog, looking it in the eyes. He patted it on the head, turned round and walked towards the front door. The dog followed him meekly.

As he did so, Cecilia came out, a towel wrapped around her hair. She stood completely still, then ran towards John. She took his face in her hands and kissed him several times.

'I have missed you,' she said between kisses. 'It was such a long time. But you are back. Why is there no luggage?'

'Give me a chance,' he said smiling. 'I'm just passing by. I'll tell you what I'm doing when we can get inside the house. I need a long, cool Pernod. What's the dog's name?'

'I call him Winston,' she said.

'What kind of dog is it?' John asked.

'It's a Rhodesian Ridgeback. They use them in Africa to hunt lions. Winston looks scary but is au coeur tendre.'

The outside of the house had been painted in the only colour allowed in the area, a light pink. Bougainvillaeas now grew along its walls and over the outside terrace area. Central heating and air conditioning had been installed inside.

'You've looked after the place so well,' John said gratefully, walking through the house and opening all the doors. The whole place was more cosy. Now it would be easier for Catherine to settle in, he thought.

'You must see the kitchen. It is the nicest in all of France,' Cecilia proclaimed proudly.

He admired the kitchen while she poured him an iced drink. 'Yes, it's a beautiful room. Very French. And you've done all this on the money I gave you?'

'I still have some left. Shall I show you? Also my bank account I have not touched and it has grown, as I paid the harvest money into it.'

'Good. As I said, I'm here just for a short visit. I must go back to London tonight.'

'Not tonight. Tomorrow morning, early. I will drive you.' She hesitated, then said slowly, 'My husband died a year ago. He got into a fight. He had drunk too much, as usual. Perhaps it was God's will.' She picked up John's hand and held it against her face. 'You can't imagine how I have missed you, mon cher. My mind and body has had such pain, thinking about you.'

'Wait,' said John. He clasped her hand and held it away from him. 'My real name is John Forbes. I have tell you.'

'I did not even know your real name?' Cecilia clearly had difficulty assimilating this at first. Then she seemed to disregard it.

'My wife and Michael will be moving here soon,' he continued. 'I know it might be too much to ask, but I hope you will stay on?'

'So no more amour with my new man?'

'Unfortunately, no.'

She turned away. 'We are two lonely people, a man and a woman, God brought together on this lavender farm.' She turned to face him again and smiled sadly. 'But you have been away for such a long time. Encore une fois? En souvenir d'amour?'

They walked to his bedroom. She closed the door and the shutters. John pulled her towards him. She kissed his throat, then unbuttoned and removed his shirt. Her hands ran over his chest, before she slid slowly to her knees and held him tight against her.

He had often thought about her, but only at this moment was he aware how much he had missed being with her. Time stood still. They did not move for an eternity and then, as if in dream where everything happens in slow motion, she loosened her hold on him. Her hands touched his legs, moved up and fondled him shyly. She opened his trousers and held him in both her hands. Then she moved and took him deep in her mouth, saying something in French, until she felt him growing.

He pulled her up and led her towards the bed. He undressed her slowly, remembering her supple, strong body. He touched the triangle of hair between her legs which she had cut very short and she pressed herself in a curve against his hand. She moaned. Slowly he brought her close to climax using his fingers, then decided not to stop. He continued until she came with a long, low moan which did not seem to end.

He rolled her over on her stomach, pushed her hair above her head and lazily kissed her neck. Slowly he scratched her shoulder blades, continuing down the back of her ribcage. He licked her spine to the small of her back. She squealed and giggled. He sat up, looking at her and continued stroking her buttocks.

'Don't keep looking at me,' she mumbled, without making any attempt to move.

'Pourquoi?,' he said ignoring her.

He bent forward and gently kissed her thighs and calves. Taking hold of her ankles he spread and bent her legs, pressing her up on her knees, so that she was leaning on her elbows, her head buried in the pillow.

His hand touched her very lightly between her buttocks. When he heard a deep sigh, he eased himself inside her and began moving very slowly.

# CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR  
_________________________

The Cave, Mallorca, Tuesday, 2nd April 1985

John phoned Erick from the plane and asked for Sam to pick him up at Palma airport. Erick was waiting in stead and took him to the Cave.

John was impressed, and congratulated Andrea on her good taste. Within a few hours the Elgbergs felt that an old and much loved member of the family had returned. They lunched outdoors and then went on board L'Aquasition where John met Captain Pedro.

'How long are you staying?' Erick asked, after they had inspected the yacht.

'Till midday tomorrow.'

'We've not much time, then. Let's go back to the house and I'll show you what goes on here.'

John smiled. 'Don't make it too technical.'

* * *

'You know Karen is in charge of our daily operations,' Erick said, while John greeted her in her large office with its spectacular sea view. 'Several times a day we register the share quotations for the companies we have gained control over and those we hold as investments, so we can monitor any unusual developments. The information is entered on computer and at the end of business for that day, we have an exact picture, both of our loans and our commitments.' He handed John the report from the previous day.

'Can I take this with me?' John put the report on the desk without opening it.

'Of course. At the back there are two pages where you will see a list of all the investments. The next pages are lists of shares we have deposited with banks as security for loans, agreed loans but not taken up, the various shareholdings, deposit boxes, bank accounts etcetera. Basically it tells us what we have or can have available in cash within twenty four hours. The last page shows what our whole enterprise is worth at any specified time.'

'Who else has access to this information?'

'There exists only one hard copy,' Karen replied. 'Everything on computer is protected by a code to which only Erick and I have access. If the computer has not been used for twenty four hours, it will automatically self destruct the programme.'

John looked out of the window. The sea was calm, the water dark blue against the brilliant white hull of L'Acquisition. It hurt his eyes, looking at it. Without turning round, he said in a low voice, 'I'd like to say, Karen, how pleased I am that you are part of our organisation. If there's anything I can do for you personally, tell Erick to get in touch with me. I regard you as one of our most important members.'

She looked embarrassed but pleased. A becoming blush passed over her normally inscrutable face. 'Thank you.'

John and Erick entered the next room, where eight people were working at computer screens.

'Here we are looking at companies which might be of interest,' Erick explained. 'At any one time we can monitor up to twelve different companies on several stock exchanges. Besides the share prices, we can now evaluate each individual shareholder's portfolio – who is selling and, as far as possible, who is buying. The purpose of this exercise is to be aware of the strength of the shares and to discover whom to approach if we want to buy. We daily update directors' and boardroom members' names, with a detailed profile of each. Also we register all loans taken up by a company. Any buying is then carried out by Karen.'

Nodding to the computer operators, John followed Erick into his office. 'Tell me which companies we now control?' he said when the door was closed.

'At the moment Crown Bicycle, Lina Publishing and Silverdale, William Webster's company in the States,' Erick said, 'plus the ones you know about, such as Auto Trade, which now indirectly owns at least twenty small companies in the secondhand car business. We intend to sell these on to one of our target companies one day. Then of course there are Mirage Consultancy, Higginson Investments, Thomas Wren & Partners and Hamlet Accountancy.'

'So what's in the pipeline?'

Erick sat back in his chair and steeped his fingers. 'You've heard of Randolph Purcell?'

'The media magnate? Of course.'

'He's not a happy man, I can tell you. In debt up to his ears and beyond. I don't think any bank will lend to him now. Purcell Industries is one of our target companies.'

'How did you get to know about this?'

'Purcell sold us some shares in Lina Publishing. His finance director got in touch with Higginson's. Philip told him Higginson's couldn't help personally, it's way out of their league, but promised to see if any other investment houses were interested.'

'Are these private problems or company ones?'

'That's what we have to find out. Hamlet Accountancy is ploughing through everything they can get hold of to do with Purcell and his companies. We'll know if the whole thing is viable within a few days.'

John nodded slowly, a smile spreading over his face. He looked up at Erick. 'Excellent,' he murmured. 'It's finally starting to come together,'

# CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE  
_________________________

The Cave, Mallorca, April 1985

It was no use having information about Purcell Industries and its subsidiaries, Erick thought, if Randolph Purcell did not get in touch again. He had asked Graham Rose to deliver a letter by hand to Purcell referring to his conversation with Higginson Investment, saying that Hamlet International Accountancy had contacts with wealthy foreign investors. If Purcell were interested in obtaining finance, whatever the amount, would he contact Graham personally to arrange a confidential meeting.

A few days later Purcell's finance director telephoned.

'Tell him,' Erick instructed Graham, 'that due to the size of Purcell Industries, it will be necessary for Mr Purcell personally to contact a Mr Erick Elgberg direct.'

Randolph Purcell telephoned three times. Erick told Karen to say that he was unavailable, hoping to make Purcell so desperate he would be more forthcoming about his problems. Purcell was astute. He would already know that the organisation Erick Elgberg represented offered financial solutions which came from dubious sources and with a high price tag. For him to have to come to them could only mean he had no other options.

Erick told Karen, who filtered all his calls, to put Purcell straight through the next time he phoned. There was no doubt he was at the end of his tether.

She opened the door to Erick's office. 'It's Purcell. He nearly bit my head off. Something's obviously upset him.'

'Put him through.' Erick let the phone ring two or three times, then picked up the receiver.

'Can we meet?' Purcell sounded harassed and bullish. 'Can you be in London tomorrow? It'll be worth your while.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Purcell. If you want a meeting, you must come to me,' Erick said smoothly.

'Very well.'

Erick smiled. Purcell was not a man who would normally accept such terms. He waited. After a long silence at the other end of the line the tycoon went on, 'My private bankers, the American Bank in London, are holding four hundred and forty million of my own shares in Purcell Industries as security for a loan of around two hundred million. I took out this loan a year ago and now the bank won't play ball.'

'Why not?'

'The share price has fallen to an unrealistic level because of the present press vendetta against me.'

'But that's no reason why the bank should act against you,' Erick said. 'Is there another reason?'

'Yes,' snapped Purcell.

Erick let him stew for a moment, then said, 'So what do you want me to do?'

'Buy all the shares,' Purcell said immediately, 'and sell them back to me in a year's time for an agreed price.'

Erick sighed. 'Why don't you just try another bank?'

Purcell barked impatiently. 'You must be aware, Elgberg, that I've already tried that. I'll see you early tomorrow.' The receiver crashed down at the other end, leaving Erick sitting back in his chair, surprised, wondering.

He told Karen to update all their information on Purcell Industries and, using their various companies and banks, to buy a substantial number of shares. 'Also find me the name and telephone number of the manager of the American Bank in London.'

On receipt of this information, he phoned George von Fritzenberg and asked him to contact the bank manager and find out if the rumour were true. Did the American Bank want to sell a substantial number of shares in Purcell Industries PLC?

After an hour von Fritzenberg called back. 'They certainly want to sell, either in one large or many small lots. If they can't, they'll unload them on the Stock Exchange. The market would know that this quantity could only come from Purcell himself which would send the price tumbling down and could trigger off an offer for the whole Purcell group. The manager also said that the bank was under an obligation to Mr Purcell not to sell for another forty eight hours.'

* * *

Randolph Purcell arrived in his own jet. Sam drove him from the airport to the Cave in the Alfa Romeo. When they stepped out of the lift into the strong sunshine, Erick was already sitting under a square white parasol before a table laid for breakfast.

'Mr Purcell, glad to meet you at last!' He offered his hand to the large, florid man who was already sweating in the hot sun. Or perhaps it wasn't the sun, Erick thought. Randolph Purcell had an unmistakably hunted look.

'Mr Elgberg.' Purcell sat down heavily and the chair groaned audibly. 'It was good of you to see me at such short notice. Time becomes even more important when you are up against it.'

Erick smiled. It must have cost the other man a lot to admit that. 'Let me pour you a cup of coffee,' he said, 'and we'll find out if there's anything I can do for you. Explain why the American Bank is in such a hurry to sell your shares. Be completely honest, please. Your visit will be a waste of time if you aren't.'

Purcell helped himself to a roll. 'Okay. I'll play with open hands, Mr Elgberg, which is something I try not to do. I know time is running out and you could be my last chance. I've never been in such a corner before.'

Erick studied Purcell, thinking of GIANT UDCM. How easy it was to get boxed into a corner, without any possibility of getting out, and see everyone turn against you.

'A year ago,' Purcell said, buttering his roll, 'I took out a loan on Purcell's African mining shares for £100 million. This was arranged through an African bank. Nothing much wrong with that, except that the funds were used to stabilise Purcell PLC's share prices. As I could always sell the Purcell shares bought when the price went up again, I didn't have any sleepless nights about it.'

'I take it that's not the whole story?'

'No, the Purcell share prices kept falling so I built up a considerable loss.'

'So you established another loan?' Erick asked in an attempt to speed up the explanation.

'In London, with the American Bank, I arranged a £220 million overdraft, giving my own Purcell PLC shares, the new shares I had bought over the last year, and the African mining shares, as security.'

'And you paid out the African bank?' Erick asked.

'That was the intention, but I ended up continuing both arrangements by using the mining shares as collateral in both banks. At first I intended to rectify, but as the share prices kept falling and the bank only asked for me to sign an agreement, I asked a trusted friend at the mining company to cover when the American Bank checked the share register. The shares are owned by Purcell PLC, not by me personally.'

Erick did not have to ask any more. It was obvious that Purcell had bribed someone in the African Mining Company to forge the share register. This had been easy to do then and because of Purcell's good name, the bank had obviously not asked for having the share certificate. Now he could not afford to redo the transaction, it would certainly be regarded as a major fraud.

'I think we both need a whisky,' he suggested. 'And perhaps a swim before the drinks come? If you have no bathing trunks, I'm sure we can find some to fit.'

After ordering the drinks, he led Purcell upstairs to change. Erick knew he looked well in trunks, and would again have the other man at a disadvantage. Purcell's paunch spilled over his borrowed garment and his legs were like two pale, hairless poles.

'I hope I haven't shocked you too much,' he gasped, after they had been swimming two or three lengths of the pool. He hung on to the side while Erick floated leisurely on his back.

'Nothing shocks me. How did the Americans find out?'

'The African bank was sold a month ago to a Spanish bank. Unknown to me, the American Bank is a shareholder of this bank in Madrid. When they computerised the African bank's securities and compared it routinely to the two others banks, it became obvious.'

'If my investors give you a loan against less security,' Erick said, swimming to his side, 'we'll be in a worse situation than the American Bank. What's our incentive?' When Purcell did not reply straight away, he said quickly, 'Let's go and have that drink. I appreciate that you've been frank with me. If there is a solution it will have to suit my backers or there is nothing I can do.'

The Invisible Company was not in the business of giving loans. Getting close to someone else's fraud could spell a catastrophe. The conversation had to go in another direction, Erick felt, or there was nothing more to talk about.

The two men lay on loungers, enjoying the morning sun. Finally Purcell said, 'You will have to tell me soon if you can help me. Time is running out.'

'I've an idea. I'll have to make a phone call to see if it's viable. Although I'm not sure if it's what you want...'

'I'm listening.'

'I don't think anyone will lend you two hundred and twenty million against those Purcell shares. That's out of the question. Your latest spate of bad publicity hasn't helped. Banks talk to each other, so your position is probably no secret. That leaves us with only one option: namely that you actually sell all your shares.' He paused to let this sink in. 'If you do, they would be split and sold in small batches by us all over the world. There would be no guarantee that you could buy them back again. However, you would get the bank off your back once and for all.'

'I'm still waiting for the good news,' Purcell grunted. 'Your suggestion is no different from just letting the bank sell. I'm still finished, ruined and probably facing criminal charges.'

'Oh, I think it is different. We make a five year contract with you, including a lavish pension and a substantial share option, subject to you getting the conglomerate back into shape within a couple of years and the share price to an agreed level. Sell companies which are liabilities. Keep a low profile. Together we'll find the best Managing Director money can buy, who will work with you with the aim of taking over the job of chairman when you retire. I'm sure all this will stabilise the share price and no one will hear from us about the dodgy double share certificates.'

'And you think you could get backing for that?'

'I believe so. Probably we'll want all the shares to stay in your name for some years, but that's all. Our legal people can work something out.'

Purcell went silent staring out over the sea. Erick was not going to add anything. What he was doing could be the deal of his life, or the start of total disaster. His thoughts went to John. If it went wrong, how would he react...

'If I agree,' he said at last, 'when can you get me an answer? The bank must be told tomorrow.'

Erick knew he had the other man at his mercy. 'If we have a deal in principle, I'll make a phone call while you wait here. If it goes as I expect, our bank will confirm with the American Bank that the funds are available as from today, but we are waiting for the legal papers to be drawn up. We will ask the bank for an undertaking that there will be no bad publicity. Our accountants and solicitors will come into your company right away and work through the night. You instruct whoever you have to about this by phone, then go back to London and get the paperwork started with our legal people. I'll join you within a few days.'

Randolph Purcell held out his hand. Erick shook it. 'So after the papers have been signed,' said the tycoon slowly, 'your organisation is the owner of Purcell Industries?'

'We'll own your thirty per cent,' Erick confirmed.

'And the rest!' Purcell smiled too, a little weakly. 'You were buying up individual holdings yesterday, weren't you? I would guess that soon, today or tomorrow, you'll own the majority shareholding.'

Erick pursed his lips, still smiling.

'I'm intrigued that you're not more interested in who's appointed as the new Managing Director. That you haven't shaken a specific man out of your sleeve. You haven't asked for changes to the board, either. What I'm asking myself is, why the hell do you want these shares?'

Purcell was a cunning old fox. He sensed there was more to this than met the eye. 'Let's call it a stepping stone,' Erick said at last.

'To what?' Purcell's eyes narrowed. 'So this is all part of a bigger plan?' When Erick remained silent, he went on, 'You want to amalgamate Purcell Industries with another company?'

'Maybe.'

Purcell did not intend to give in so easily. 'I hope that's your intention,' he said, looking directly into Erick's eyes. 'If so I happen to know that Conrad Jensen would sell part of Jensen Trust, if the offer were right.'

'Jensen?' Erick knew Jensen Trust very well. It was one of the most successful international conglomerates, specialising in tobacco, insurance, chemicals and pharmaceuticals, amongst other things. Conrad Jensen was also married to Purcell's sister, he now remembered. 'How large a part?'

'Twenty per cent.'

'I'm interested,' he said, as coolly as he could.

'Then leave it to me. Would it make any difference to our arrangement if Purcell Industries bought the shares?'

'Not the slightest!'

'Vanessa and Conrad are in South America until September. Nothing can happen until they return. As soon as they do, I'll recommend your organisation. If the price is right, I guarantee they'll sell.' He raised his eyebrows at Erick. 'So when are you going to make that phone call?'

* * *

Erick telephoned the special number at the Cerne Estate.

'What's up?' asked John.

'Nothing bad.'

'Then why are you phoning me on this number?'

'I must make a decision right now, which is so important that I think I ought to involve you.'

'Ought to,' John said, 'is not the same as '"have to."'

'I'm sorry?' Erick was perplexed.

'You make the decisions, right or wrong. That's your job.'

'So you don't want to hear what this is about?'

'Only if you insist!'

'Purcell Industries...' Erick began.

'Best of luck.' And John hung up on him.

# CHAPTER FORTY-SIX  
_________________________

Lodeve, France June 1985

John had contacted Cecilia in France and told her when he was arriving. She had insisted on picking him up from the airport. They drove to the farm, hardly talking.

Winston recognised John right away, jumping up and nearly knocking him over.

While Cecilia unpacked his things, he went for a walk. The deafening silence, the pink Bougainvillaeas in the yard against the reddish house, the endless lines of lavender, the smell, the amazing colours, the solitude, all of this worked its magic on him each time he came and made him feel at ease.

In prison he had realised that he could not change before he had achieved his ambition.

He still craved power. If he changed his path before his goal had been achieved, his life would be a failure. During the long days in prison John had grown to understand that paradoxically he had no ambition to flaunt his wealth or power and no wish to be recognised by the world at large.

All he wanted was to live here, unknown and at peace.

Here, he had achieved the solitude he craved. He could not visualise how Catherine would take to it, but if Michael were content it would turn out all right. It had to.

Sweat was running down his face and arms. It was only June. How would Catherine cope with the heat?

He was sitting in his customary place in the yard when Cecilia placed a drink in front of him.

'Can I talk to you?' she asked.

'I thought you looked worried. What is it?'

'I hope I'm not letting you down,' she said hesitantly, 'but your wife's coming to live here... I cannot get used to that so I must leave.' She took a deep breath. 'My uncle is very ill and I am the only family he has, so I have to move to Lodeve.'

'When?'

'In a few days.'

'That's very short notice. Who's going to look after me and what about Winston?' John said this with a smile, although he suddenly felt abandoned.

Cecilia did not smile. 'You remember Monsieur Popougnot? He died a month ago. Madame wants to sell their lavender farm and have my job.'

'I liked him,' John said, remembering the old man's good advice about his lavender. 'But she's so old, Cecilia! Are you sure she's up to it?'

'She is strong and works hard. She has brought up six children. And she is a good cook.' She lifted her face, determined not to cry. 'Will you talk to her? She will look after Winston.'

John thought for a moment. He had to find someone before Catherine arrived. At least he knew Madame Popougnot, and she would not be a security risk. 'Very well. Ask her to come.'

Cecilia moved out the following day. Both she and John knew it was for the best, but that did not make their parting easier. John said he would visit her in Lodeve, but they both knew that was unlikely.

An hour after she had left, a large battered van drove up with Madame Popougnot at the wheel. Dressed completely in black, she emerged from the vehicle with an assortment of bulging string tied bags, her weatherbeaten face set purposefully. Without saying a word, she moved her belongings into Cecilia's room then attacked the washing, shooing John away with flapping movements of her hands.

Exactly at seven she served dinner. She set a large round dish smelling strongly of leeks which he detested, full of vegetables and boiled pork before John,. He tried to eat it but soon gave up.

She had placed herself at the other end of the table without being asked and was loudly slurping her pot au feu. When she had finished she came to take John's bowl away. Seeing his meal unfinished, she began an angry stream of French.

Winston came and sat next to John, looking up as if he wanted to lend him his support.

John did not understand any of it, but her meaning was clear. He had wasted good pork and vegetables. He needed to gain weight, she implied, putting her hands on her big stomach and pointing to his. She stood over him while he dutifully spooned up the cold meat like a naughty child.

'Tres bon, mon petit gars,' she said finally, taking away his empty bowl and planting a wet kiss on his forehead.

A moment after she was back. 'Creme Glacee au Miel de Lavande,' she said proudly and placed the home made ice cream in front of John.

She went off to the kitchen and did the washing up while John sat, his stomach complaining, wondering what he had let himself in for.

* * *

'What a funny little car!' Michael laughed at the 2CV in which John had driven to Montpellier Airport. A taxi followed with their luggage.

John glanced towards Catherine. 'Why didn't you send your things with the removal company?'

'It can take days for removal vans to arrive.' She was looking out of the window, her voice carefully neutral, reserving judgement, he felt. He had agreed that she could transport her two favourite horses to France, hoping they would occupy her and make the move more bearable.

When they arrived in the yard, Madame Popougnot bustled out of the house in a white apron and scarf. Winston had been put into the barn so as not to scare them.

'Madame Forbes! Et le fils, Michel! Bonjour et bienvenue.' She swooped on the surprised Michael and hugged him. 'Monsieur 'as been so zad wizzout you,' she said, chucking John under the chin.

'Merci, Madame.' Catherine smiled.

'I am Pauline Popougnot. You and I, we will be good friends, n'est ce pas?'

'You speak English?' John was stunned.

'Naturellement.' She turned to Catherine. 'Les hommes, ils sont imbeciles.' She picked up the three suitcases as if they were toys and walked into the house.

Catherine smiled at John. 'I think we'll get on fine. Where did you find her? She's a treasure.'

* * *

Over the following days, Catherine made plans to convert an old barn into a stable. They went to Lodeve to talk to builders, and John picked up several books about lavender growing which he had ordered in English. He asked the bookshop assistant if there was anyone in the area who could help him on the farm and was told that Monsieur le maire, Marcel Lebrun, was the best person to see.

The removal lorry and horse transporter arrived together. Catherine led her horses down the ramp and into the yard, pleased to see that they had made the journey unscathed.

'My piano!,' John said in surprise when he noticed she had been considerate enough to ask for the piano to go into the lorry. 'That was very kind of you. Thanks Catherine.'

At the same time Monsieur Lebrun arrived. He forgot all about lavender when he saw the horses and stood open mouthed, admired them.

'They are Thoroughbreds, aren't they?' he asked in perfect English.

'Why?'

'These are the most beautiful horses I have ever seen,' Monsieur Lebrun said, 'and owned by la plus belle femme en Languedoc.' Gallantly he lifted Catherine's hand to his mouth with true Gallic aplomb. 'Enchante, Madame.'

John, who was standing only a few yards away, smiled. Monsieur le maire would do wonders for Catherine's self esteem, he thought. Perhaps he should let him help her with the horses, and forget about the lavender.

Then Monsieur Lebrun saw Madame Popougnot. 'Mon Dieu!. Pauline... mais que fais tu ici?'

'She's our housekeeper,' John explained.

'Pauline Popougnot, a housekeeper? But her departed husband and herself had a great gift for the growing of lavender! She is a genius. The plants talk to her. She listens to what the lavender bushes want. Everything I know, I have learnt from her. Many people in this area have now changed to growing wine but not the Popougnots.' He walked to Madame Popougnot and kissed her twice on each cheek. She batted him away. 'And she taught herself and her six children to speak English so they could get better jobs.'

'Really?' John said in surprise. He had no desire to extend Mme Popougnot's sphere of influence at the farm, but if it stopped people calling him a 'Parisian Lavender grower'....

'Let her look after your fields and you will never have any worries. Everything she touches will grow,' Lebrun assured him. 'But I would like to help you with les chevaux,' he said, beaming at Catherine.

* * *

'No, I don't think you should buy Madame Popougnot's land,' Catherine said firmly, when John broached the subject to her. The Popougnot farm bordered their own, and would have doubled their yield. 'We agreed that this move was for a year only. If we do go back to England, it won't matter how much lavender you produce.'

'But see how happy Michael is! He won't want to go back.'

'I know.' Catherine was aware that John had already decided to stay. 'But for how long? He's a man now, John, he won't want to stay with us forever.'

They had begun to argue nearly every day. To avoid this, he went for long walks or came up with excuses for going to Lodeve on his own. They slept together but made love only occasionally.

For her part, Catherine felt cast adrift – away from her normal environment. She could not see the charm of this place and found the heat of summer unbearable.

Madame Popougnot sensed that she was unhappy. Catherine enjoyed the way Pauline treated John like a little boy and looked forward to the visits of Monsieur Lebrun, but these diversions failed to make up for her homesickness.

* * *

In September John, Catherine and Michael flew to England for two weeks. They stayed at the Cerne Estate and accompanied Michael to hospital. The consultant confirmed that there was no problem with his living in France as there were suitable hospitals in the area, but both John and Catherine agreed that if anything happened to affect Michael's health, it would be best to get him back to London.

Returning to France was painful for Catherine. She waited until she and John were sitting outside in the cool of the evening before she broached the subject. Michael had gone to Lodeve with a friend.

'Being back here makes me realise how little I like France,' she said. 'All my friends, my parents, the stables are in England. You want to distance yourself from everything, but I don't feel like that. What would you feel about my living on the Estate and you coming back whenever you want? Maybe a week every month.'

'And where does Michael come into this?'

' Either he studies in Montpellier or he comes back to England with me and finds himself a job in a well known London restaurant to get some work experience. I can see he's happy here, fishing and going on walks with you, but he'll be bored before long. As the doctor said, there's no reason he can't live a normal life.'

John was silent. They had both tried to make their marriage work, but he knew that Catherine was finding it difficult adjusting to the new way of life. She would never be happy in France.

'We have Michael to consider. He has his life in front of him and must come first.'

'Of course he must,' John said, knowing that a separation was inevitable.

The next morning they sat together over breakfast, Michael still asleep upstairs.

'I think that the friend Michael went to Lodeve with yesterday, was the doctor's daughter Syhne!' Catherine said.

'Really? Good for him.'

'I spoke to him about going back to England. At the moment he's very much against it. I think we should enroll him in college in Montpellier. He could drive there every day. I'll stay on here for a while, settle him in. It's his future we have to think of.'

'Cathy, you're right,' said John, relieved. He got up and stood over her. 'Thanks,' he said, kissing her hair.

* * *

They celebrated Christmas and the New Year together with Lord and Lady Carven on the Cerne Estate.

Michael had his regular checkup at the hospital, where he was told that everything was fine. He went back to the farm with his parents in time to start the new term at Ecole D'Architure in Rue de L'Esperou, Montpellier, where they taught courses in Tourism, Social Sciences and Restaurant Catering and Management. He liked it there and made new friends. Every afternoon the students went to the beach or spent hours sitting in the Café's on the Place de la Comedie in the centre of town. Regarded as a talented chef, Michael was also good looking and popular with the girls to whom he now spoke in fluent French. John had bought him a Peuogot convertible, which enabled him to stay in Montpellier in the evenings with his new friends.

One Saturday evening his friends were invited to the farm. Catherine and John had promised to spend the evening in Lodeve, to see a film and have a meal in a restaurant, staying away until twelve. When driving towards the farm they heard the music. They stopped the car and got out. Leaning against the car they saw the young people dancing in the farmyard.

Catherine took John's hand. 'You don't know how much it means to see Michael acting like any normal young man. Maybe he will just grow out of his illness, given a year or two. And maybe you made the right decision for us all to come here. Tonight it feels like it, standing here.'

He pressed her hand. 'I hope so. Nothing else matters than seeing Michael happy, really. He's made himself accepted, with such an ease and in a foreign country. Shall we drive on? We can't stand here all night

'Yes, some of them have a long drive home. Thanks for being patient with me.'

'I think it is the other way round.'

* * *

John had come to a truce with Madame Popougnot, who in any case openly adored Michael and loved to share her recipes with him. His son wrote each of them neatly into his large recipe book and cooked them while she praised him endlessly. Madame Popougnot and John talked about lavender production for hours as they walked over the fields.

'The lavender we grow here is perhaps the finest in the world. It becomes the clean and pure nature in a bottle,' she explained in her idiosyncratic English, which he was just able to follow. 'But this is a dangerous area for lavender growers. The flower take longer to ripen, as the level we are on from the sea is not high enough. The best yields of essential oil are obtained when 80% of the flowers are in full bloom. We have to harvest within a few days. Rain and storm can ruin so much hard work. It is a strong, wild essence we produce, which you can feel and smell far away. Because it is expensive, people think it is not easy to grow. But it is when we watch out. We should know better what the wholesalers in Grasse wants. Most of the essences are now exported to the big multinational companies, so we need to adapt.'

Her deep knowledge of the different varieties fascinated John, though it was not perhaps surprising given that her family had for three generations produced lavender for commercial use.

He dug up samples of plants and kept them in large pots so as to learn their characteristics and study their growth. He took cuttings from specimens which appeared especially vigorous and tried them under glass. He had a greenhouse built, where he loved to experiment. Madame Popougnot sold him her lavender farm and they solemnly considered if the distillation should be done there next year, instead of the crop being sent to Grasse.

John handled his other business interests in less than half a day a week. He studied Erick's reports but never telephoned or interfered in the Mallorcan enterprise.

Catherine's days were occupied by caring for the horses, preparing them for races. She and Lebrun had also reached an understanding. In exchange for his help with the heavy work in the yard, she allowed him to help when the horses were taken for training at the local airfield. Stopwatch in hand, he timed the gallops. Catherine accepted his gallantry towards her as a compliment, but of no real significance. She knew that he was an inveterate gambler who would bet heavily on the first horse she entered for a race, should she stay in France long enough..

She could see that John was content with his life here, but she knew she would move back to England instantly if Michael ever decided to leave.

Living here alone with her husband was unthinkable.

# CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN  
_________________________

`Lodeve, France, March 1986

'John! John!' cried Catherine running out into the yard. 'Michael's collapsed. We must pick him up.'

There was a phone call from Montpellier. Michael had fainted in class. Although he had now regained consciousness, he was not in a fit state to drive.

John immediately became unnaturally calm and efficient. He did not trust the doctors here. After making sure that his wife was all right, he got straight on the telephone to the Royal Marsden in London.

When they arrived at the college, they found Michael in the first aid room. 'I'm all right. I could have driven home,' he protested. 'It was probably something I'd eaten.'

'I've spoken with the hospital,' John said firmly. 'We're flying to London immediately.'

'That's ridiculous! You're making a lot of fuss about nothing. I'm not going.'

'It's not..., and you know it.'

Catherine was fighting back tears. 'Please do as your father says, Michael.'

'OK, OK.'

John had already arranged for a private plane to fly them to Heathrow. His son began vomiting heavily on the plane. They arrived at the hospital in the late evening, to be told that Michael would have to stay there a week for tests.

* * *

On the day of the final one, John went to the hospital. Michael was expected home the next day and Catherine had decided to stay on the Estate. John was told that the last test would not be finished for two hours. He went for a walk, and when he came back the consultant asked him to come to his office for a talk. As soon as John heard these words, he knew it was serious.

'I'm afraid Michael is not getting better,' the consultant began. 'The precursor cancer cells are spreading fast. His liver is affected.'

John's eyes filled with tears.

'A week ago the tests were not good, but I needed this last one today to confirm the direction the disease is taking.' The consultant hesitated, then said, 'I'm very sorry. In our opinion, your son has between two weeks and two months to live. He doesn't know, yet.'

John could not say anything. He fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

'I understand you live abroad?'

He nodded.

'As things are now, Michael should not leave the hospital.'

'Will he be in any pain?'

'No. We can at least help with that.'

'I must tell my wife.' But how on earth could he break this devastating news to Catherine?

'Michael's illness has been very hard for her to cope with,' the consultant said, 'it's better for your wife to know the truth now, so she can come to terms with it.'

'And what about Michael?'

'From my experience with terminally ill patients, I'd say that it is wrong to try to deny him the truth. One can't pretend about such a matter. I suggest you and I tell him together.'

'Why did it happen to me?' Michael's voice was anguished, his face bleached white by shock after the consultant had broken the news and left him alone with his father.

'I wish I could answer that.' John fought to keep his voice steady. He sat as close as he could to his son, holding both his hands, fruitlessly willing his own warmth and vitality into Michael's wasted body.

'I'm not afraid,' he said after a while. 'Does Mum know?'

'I'll tell her when I get back.'

'That won't be easy,' he sighed and lay back on his pillows, trying to keep up a brave front. 'Poor Dad. She'll blame you, you know, which isn't right. This has nothing to do with any of your schemes.'

'I know that. It doesn't matter, Michael.' The compassion and understanding of his dying son were more than John could bear. It would be easier somehow if Michael began to rage over the injustice of it all.

'There was just so much I wanted to do with my life! Finish studying, start a restaurant and make Mum proud, go fishing with you again in Wales, travel through India, sleep with Syhne... Now, I'll never see her or the farm again. It's not bloody fair!'

'I know, Michael. I know. Shall I ask the nurse to give you something?'

'Dope me quietly out of existence, you mean? Yes, that'd be easier all around, wouldn't it? Well, no thanks, Dad. If a few weeks is all I have left, I want to stay fully conscious every minute that I can. There are things I have to do still. People I have to talk to...'

John sat with him a while longer. When Michael felt calmer he asked to be left alone as he had to make a phone call to France.

'How do you say goodbye for ever and ever and ever? He asked, looking at his father.

John stopped at the door, barely able to breath for the anguish he felt. 'I don't know.'

'Well, I'll tell you, Dad, you just have to say it. One word after the next.'

'Are you sure you are up to that, just now?'

'Time is running out. Can't leave anything for a second.'

'I could stay while you phone.'

'No thank you. You worry about Mum.'

Syhna, the doctor's daughter, understood exactly what he was telling her and begged to be allowed to come to London and visit him, but Michael wouldn't allow it. There were some farewells that were better done from a distance.

* * *

When John broke the news to his wife her reaction surprised him. He'd expected tears, fainting fits, debilitating shock. Instead Catherine flew into a rage which lent colour to her pale cheeks and kindled her eyes.

'It was all for nothing!' she screamed. 'I tried and tried and still I'm losing Michael.'

John tried to calm her down, painfully aware that those 'efforts' included their failed reconciliation, but for several hours he couldn't seem to reach her. She shattered objects in her room and swore and screamed aloud until she was hoarse. Then, quite suddenly, she washed her face in cold water, put on a clean blouse and started to pack a suitcase.

'I'll be sleeping at the hospital from now on,' she told John, after getting Keith out of bed to drive her up to London. 'Call in some time, when you're not too busy.'

'I'll stay in a hotel close by,' he said unable to argue.

They both knew this was goodbye. Only Michael had kept them together and when he left there would be no further need to pretend a love that neither of them felt.

'I won't see you again, Mum – Dad ever,' Michael said the last afternoon, feeling himself drifting deeper and deeper into a welcoming blackness.

He died peacefully in his sleep the night after his twentieth birthday, John and Catherine were at his side, divided by a gulf of failure and bitter regrets.

* * *

At his funeral in Cerne Abbas, the whole village turned out to watch the coffin being taken into the church.

John tried to be supportive to Catherine, but she turned away from him and relied completely on her parents.

Catherine blamed him for Michael's death. This was God's way of punishing them, she felt, for the life John had chosen, the things he had done and for her acceptance of what she'd known all along was indefensible.

* * *

Catherine made it quite plain she expected John to leave Cerne and return to France.

He did not say anything. He was past discussion. He leaned back in his favourite chair in the room he had known all his life and closed his eyes.

'I loved you once, John. Maybe I'll never love anyone else the same way. But you've not really changed as you promised,' he heard his wife say. 'I believe you just pretended all the time to Michael and me. You have become a recluse but you're still in the mire, up to your neck. . I don't want to live with a man like that. I can't bear seeing you, in fact go back to France. Now.'

'Give me a few minutes with you to sort out some practical things and you'll never see me again.' He paused, then went on, ' I'll contact my solicitor tomorrow and begin divorce proceedings. I'll give you a lump sum and monthly payment for life.'

'And the Estate?'

'It's yours. With the interest from your settlement, you'll be able to manage comfortably. I hope you'll tell me if you want to sell one day.'

Catherine stared at her soon to be ex husband. He had lost weight and his eyes looked burnt out.

'Yes. Make the arrangements. I agree.' She walked from the room without a word of tenderness or goodbye.

John sat looking out over the lawn. It was getting dark and nothing moved outside. Half an hour went by. He felt so very tired. In need of peace and solitude. Tears started running down his face. He did not bother to wipe them away. He could manage without Catherine and she would be better off without him, but when he thought of Michael's funeral, just a few hours ago, he wondered if it was worth living. His heart started to beat slow and heavily, his breast began to hurt and he could not breathe. He pressed himself back in the chair and passed out for a moment.

Eventually he got up from his chair and walked out of the house, leaving the heavy front door standing ajar. For the last time he passed under the stately trees lining the long drive and made for the road past the dark churchyard.

In a passing lorry he hitched a lift to Southampton, where he caught the ferry to France as a foot passenger. He arrived at the farm near Lodeve a week later, tired, dirty, unshaven and footsore. And to his own surprise feeling free at last.

# CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT  
_________________________

Lodeve, France, April 1986

For a week John did not answer any phone calls. Some days he stayed in bed. Others he got up while it was dark and walked out of the house, staying away all day.

On the lavender farm he did not talk to anyone. Grief prevented it. He was able to live as he pleased, but did not know how to begin now that his reason for existing had been taken away.

He still had not been back to Michael's fishing spot at the river. Several times he started to walk there, but gave up when he found his heart beating painfully and his body shaking. Many times he considered if he should get in contact with Cecilia, but never took the initiative.

Then Arthur arrived unexpectedly. 'You shouldn't have come,' John protested.

'I had to. You're my friend. You need me. I'm staying here for a little while.'

'Away from your beloved Mayfair? I must be in a bad way.'

Arthur was the soul of tact and discretion. He asked endless diversionary questions about lavender growing, accompanied John on long walks and answered all the phone calls. He tried to phone Catherine, but was told by the housekeeper that she was not to be disturbed.

'Come with me to Michael's place,' John said eventually.

'Whatever you say, John. Come on, let's do it now.'

The two men walked slowly, without speaking, to the river. John sat down again under the tree where he used to watch Michael fish. He tried to speak to set Arthur at his ease. This was no picnic for him either. But his friend folded his hands on his chest, pulled his hat down over his eyes and proceeded to fall asleep – or pretend to. Winston sidled closer to John and eventually lay down beside him, his chin resting on his master's leg.

Every day after that, escorted by the dog, Arthur and John walked to Michael's place.

'Does life always grow more sad?' John asked one day. 'Or is it only mine?'

'Everything changes,' Arthur replied. 'The older you get, the more you gamble on each new risk or initiative. If anything goes wrong, you might not have time to make a comeback.'

'My ambition was so important to me once. Now it seems my whole life has been one wrong turning after another.'

Arthur shook his head. 'People like you have to follow their ambition or they die a little day by day. At least you had the guts to make your choice.'

'That doesn't mean it was the only one I had,' John said wryly, 'or that it was right.'

After a week, Arthur said, 'I've been here long enough. You're getting fed up with me. But before I leave, I'm afraid there's a matter we have to discuss.'

'You've waited long enough to bring it up. Had to make sure I could take it, eh?'

'Two journalists paid me a visit in the shop a few days before I came, asking if I knew where a John Forbes lived.'

'What did you tell them?'

'That I had heard you lived in Spain, but had lost contact with you.'

'Journalists? Which newspaper?'

'Daily News. Someone's obviously trying to make a quick killing out of a story about you, and we'd better do something about it. I don't know how they linked me with you, unless they've seen us together. Maybe a picture from the funeral in the local paper?'

'I'd hoped I was yesterday's news. Court hearing was publicity enough.' He was silent for a moment, then murmured, 'The Daily News, you say? Look, telephone Erick and let him know what's happened.'

'What can he do?'

'We own the bloody newspaper, so far as I know.'

Arthur stared at him. 'Own the Daily News? Isn't it one of Randolph Purcell's rags?'

'Yes. And we own Purcell Industries.'

Arthur gaped. He could only shake his head, speechless.

John smiled. 'Sorry, I should have told you before now.'

'You can still shock me.' Arthur rose to his feet. 'Does this mean you've achieved your final goal? Are congratulations in order?'

'There's a way to go yet, but we're getting there. Thanks to Erick. Underneath that calm Scandinavian exterior he's as driven as I am.'

An hour later, he confirmed that the two journalists had been taken off the story. It was unlikely Purcell had given them the lead, as John's name had never been mentioned to him. Erick promised to look into it further.

'Why don't you pop over and see us, John? You could do with a little holiday.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Just do it. Your friends want you back on your feet.'

'All right, I'll come.'

'You promise?'

'OK, yes, I promise. Anything for a quiet life!'

* * *

The day after Arthur left, Madame Popougnot gave John a note from Cecilia. She said how deeply sorry she was to hear of Michael's death, and gave him her best wishes for the future. He sat for a long while holding the letter, staring at her fine and level handwriting.

On the post mark, he could see that Madame had had the letter for a week.

The next day he found the small house in Lodeve where Cecilia's uncle lived. He was told that the old man had died and Cecilia had moved to the village near the lavender farm.

In the boulangerie the woman owner pointed to a flight of stone stairs on the other side of the street. There were terracotta pots filled with pink geraniums on each step. They led up to a heavy wooden door on the first floor.

John knocked and the door was opened by Cecilia.

'John! Bienvenu!' She smiled at him. 'I see you are still wearing the hat I gave you.'

He walked into a fresh white painted studio, with a view over the fields and a kitchen in the corner. The furniture was old, worn but solid, the room welcoming and clean, filled with colourful local faience and flowering plants.

'Why didn't you contact me when your uncle died?' he asked.

'I can manage by myself. I bought this place with the money you gave me. I rent out the flat on the ground floor. I am quite happy.'

For a moment John found it hard to speak. He could not bring himself to mention Michael.

Cecilia brought up the subject herself. 'I am so sad about your son. I never knew him, but I understand what he meant to you.'

John suddenly felt his legs buckle beneath him. He clutched at a chair and sat down. 'Michael is dead,' he whispered. 'He's really dead.' It was the first time he had allowed himself to accept that he would never see his son again and a great black void seemed to open around him, separating him from Cecilia in her bright and cheerful room. Horror, grief and loneliness engulfed him. He could not move or speak before Cecilia came to him.

Standing she held the sitting man for several minutes, then she suggested with her arms, that he stood up. She led him to the bed, pulling back the faded quilt which covered it. She undressed him, cool and impersonal as a nurse, then gently pushed him down between the sheets. When he tried to speak, she put one finger to her lips and shook her head. John lay back weakly. It was peaceful here, the only sound the low droning of a bee blundering through the geraniums spilling over the windowsill.

When he awoke, it was dark and for a moment he felt disoriented in this unknown place. Then he sensed the familiar roughness of the hand draped around his waist; caught the faint scent of lavender in the cool linen that enveloped him. From her regular breath he could hear and feel she was asleep. He turned his head towards the curtainless window. It was either becoming dark or the morning was breaking. It had to be early morning, he decided for himself. He had slept a whole night for the first time in months.

He turned to Cecilia and kissed her awake.

'Are you all right? She asked anxiously. 'You are going home?'

He pulled her tenderly against him, recognising the comfort she represented and loath to let it go. 'No need, Cecilia. With you, I am home.'

After breakfast she took a black scarf out of a drawer and tied it round her head. 'Come,' she said. She took his hand and led him down the steps towards the church.

She pushed the heavy doors open and John followed her inside. They both lit candles. She put her arm round his shoulders. 'Pray if you can.'

'I can't. I don't know how.'

'Make your own prayer.'

She led him to a pew and sat down beside him. They remained there, not speaking, until the shadows changed.

Then, with Cecilia's belongings in the back of the car, they drove back to the lavender farm.
PART SEVEN

SECRETS ARE EDGED TOOLS

# CHAPTER FORTY-NINE  
_________________________

The Cave, Mallorca, June 1986

John saw Andrea waving as soon as he and Cecilia came through Customs at Palma airport. Although they had never met, Andrea gave Cecilia a big hug, glad that she had come with John. The Elgbergs had not seen him since Michael's funeral.

'We have some Russian visitors staying tonight,' she said in the car on the way to the Cave. 'I hope that's all right?'

'Yes, of course. Business doesn't stop just because we come for a few days,' John assured her. 'If we're in the way we'll go on the yacht.'

Erick welcomed them as soon as they stepped out of the lift, while Andrea took Cecilia on a tour of the house the two men sat down at the bar beside the pool.

'How are you?' Erick asked his friend when they were alone together.

John shrugged. 'Coping. That's about all. It's going to take years for me to come to terms with it.'

'The relationship between father and son can be very strong. I hope you don't mind talking about it?'

'No. And Cecilia has been a big help. She never met Michael, but she understands my feelings.'

'How's Catherine?'

'Much better. I phone her now and then. The divorce is going through.'

Erick poured him a stiff drink and changed the subject. 'I've sent the Osovs to Palma with Sam to do some sightseeing, so we won't be disturbed before the afternoon.'

'Don't fuss over me. I'm looking forward to meeting your Mr and Mrs Osov.'

'Then we'll all have dinner together tonight,' Andrea said, coming back with Cecilia.

The French woman hardly said a word, although it was obvious that Andrea had tried her best to make her feel at home. It was difficult to find anything to interest the shy country woman who preferred to sit quietly next to John, looking out over the sea.

At dinner, Ivan and Petra Osov were introduced to John and Cecilia. Petra and Cecilia seemed to sense that they were kindred spirits, equally at sea in the luxurious retreat where the discussion more often than not centred on multi million pound business deals. Softly, in French, the two women talked of their homes and the details of their lives while Andrea and the men talked business.

The next day, Erick invited John to sit in on a business meeting with Osov and Bertrand Boucher, who had just arrived from Paris.

'Your investment has already borne fruit,' Osov reported. 'A few days ago three million pounds were deposited in your account in Switzerland, and the same amount in your Gibraltar bank.'

'That's very good news.' Erick glanced towards John, who merely raised one eyebrow.

'It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Forbes,' said Osov. 'I hope you are impressed also?'

'Call me John. Is there something else we can do for you, Ivan?'

'You know the saying: everything has its price.' Osov paused then said, 'I would like to ask you some favours.'

John nodded for him to continue.

'In this type of scam we have just done there is often a scapegoat. In this case, a helpful if rather credulous bank manager from the BCCI branch, Regent Street. He'll be at the Old Bailey in December for sentencing; pleading guilty to fraud, I understand. I would be grateful if you would arrange that his stay in prison be as pleasant as possible and especially that his wife be looked after.'

'We can arrange that,' said Erick.

'Thank you. If we could also persuade Mr Dockett, while he is in prison, to tell us a little more about the bank's cheque clearing procedures, the mechanism and timing and how to achieve up to date statements on big clients, it would be of immense value in our next venture.' Osov handed a typed memo with the details to Erick, who again nodded.

'The sale of the antiques is going very well, increasing in revenue all the time,' Osov continued. 'I have met some of your people. Very professional and reliable. I get the feeling the team are all rather wealthy business men today. Very comforting.'

'I'm pleased to hear that it's working out. They are all old and close friends.'

Osov inclined his head. 'Lastly,' he said, 'I have discussed with Bertrand the possibility of buying from a supplier in Europe, on a regular basis, forged roubles and other currencies, and transporting them back to Russia. His advice is that the quality is too poor and the sources unreliable. We already have original Russian printing plates and the up to date security guide for printing roubles. Even more important, we have access to the banking system in Russia. I would like you to consider setting up a printing unit in Europe to supply us with top quality counterfeits.'

He looked carefully into the faces of the men round the table. 'Now that Gorbachev is in power, I believe this currency will secure us a very strong position when the communist system breaks down totally, as it must. Private enterprise will return, the whole of Russian industry will be up for privatisation, and the humble rouble and other soft currencies will be in great demand inside Russia. I am in no doubt that if that happens, and we prepare ourselves properly, it would be possible to gain control of an industrial group and our own bank.'

John sat deep in thought, aware that all eyes were upon him. 'It's for Bertrand to decide,' he said at last. 'But I like the idea, Ivan. If you agree to invest some of your revenue into shares which we will choose on your behalf, I think we can do a deal.'

Osov smiled. 'To invest my own money would make me feel a closer part of your organisation. I would like that. I take it your investments are handled here in the Cave?' He glanced towards Erick, who gave a slight nod of the head.

* * *

Later that day John entered Erick's office, where he found his host and Karen deep in discussion. She finished her conversation and left the two men alone.

John looked at the large canvas graphs hanging on the walls, one to either side of the wide whitewashed room, with its panoramic view over the sea below. The graphs showed details of hundreds of companies: ownership, products, annual profits, estimated value, employment records and subsidiaries. The graph behind Erick was in green, the one on the opposite wall in red.

'This looks like a wartime command headquarters,' commented John.

'It is in a way.' Erick smiled. 'What you see behind me is what we control. Over there is the final part of the jigsaw, namely Jensen Trust PLC.'

'Jensen Trust owns all that?' John looked surprised.

'It's a huge conglomerate, but its structure is quite straightforward. All the subsidiary companies manufacture everyday products, which suits us very well.'

'Can we really muster enough capital to take it over?'

'We don't know for sure, but we think it's a possibility.'

John sat down on the sofa by the window and studied the two charts. This was the first time he had had an overview of the full operation. It was mind boggling.

'I'm impressed Erick. I know we set out to achieve this, but seeing it happen is another matter. Even I sometimes doubted we could pull it off. You have made it happen. You must be very proud.'

'We're not quite there yet,' said his friend, not sure how to handle a compliment from John. 'And it's your money which has made it possible, don't forget.'

'You'll get there. After seeing this, I know it's going to happen.'

'Quite an achievement for a couple of outsiders. A fallen tycoon from little Denmark and a crook from sleepy Dorset.

'In Denmark we had a philosopher called Soren Kirkegaard. I don't know if you've ever heard of him?'

'There's no need to talk down to me,' said John. His tone was affable enough but Erick was in no doubt that he had blundered.

'Sorry, didn't mean to. Anyway, Kirkegaard said something which describes our situation perfectly: "Life can only be lived forward and understood backwards."

John thought about that for a while, his expression neutral. 'And in Dorset,' he said finally, we always used to say: "The old hoss looks over his shoulder while young 'un races to the knackers yard."

After a moment he smiled and those dark expressionless eyes of his warmed slightly as they met Erick's.

He breathed out, unaware until then that he'd been holding his breath for as long as

John remained angry.

# CHAPTER FIFTY  
_________________________

Scotland Yard, London, Monday 5th January 1987

Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox had received a telephone call from the Assistant Commissioner's office at Scotland Yard telling him he was wanted at a meeting that day. He had no idea why but was confident there was nothing wrong with his work.

He walked the mile from his office to the Yard, where he was told to wait in reception. At all the other meetings he had attended he had known exactly where to report; they had always been scheduled at least three days ahead. Evidently this was no ordinary meeting.

Malcolm Fox's career was shaping up nicely. In January 1985 he had been promoted to Detective Sergeant and joined the Cheque Squad, based at the Queen's horse stable at Rochester Row Police Station in Victoria. The Squad specialised in investigating cheque and credit card fraud.

Fox had recently passed the promotion exam but, only coming low down in the order of merit, he was not due to be promoted on the spot to detective inspector, staying on the Cheque Squad.

Fox's superior retired due to health problems a few months after he joined and he was swiftly made up to Inspector. He requested some basic training in computer accountancy, which he was granted after the usual nit picking over resources, and found his own painstaking methodical style was well suited to financial investigation. Computer equipment was installed that would made it easier for him to investigate incriminating pattern of behaviour.

The big financial institutions, which had grown scornful and contemptuous of the force's refusal to grasp the nettle of petty frauds, welcomed his initiative. Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox was soon tipped as one to watch. It could only be a matter of time before he received another posting. This time he had his sights set on being part of the new Serious Fraud Office.

Meanwhile he was proud of his nickname 'Foxy' and tried to live up to it.

After a lengthy wait, he was called up to a room on the tenth floor where two men and a woman were already seated round a low table. None was in uniform.

'Detective Chief Superintendent Lawrence Sutcliffe,' a burly red faced man introduced himself. His thinning hair was carefully combed forward to disguise a receding hair line. Ten years older than him at least, calculated Fox. Well, all in good time. Sutcliffe shook hands with him, an unlit cigar in his other hand. 'Let me introduce Mr Graham Higgins, who represents the Minister of State for the Home Office. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Wilson from the City of London Police.'

Fox could not suppress a momentary twinge of irritation that the woman held a higher rank than himself. Her firm handshake and quizzical smile let him know she had recognised his discomfort, adding further to his sense of disorientation. What possible interest could the Home Office take in a mere DI from the dodgy cheque division?

'We've asked you here today as we have a situation which needs to be handled very delicately,' Sutcliffe went on. 'And we feel you would be the right person for the task.'

Fox nodded, trying to control his rising irritation as Sutcliffe fumbled with his cigar and a lighter. 'How much do you know about the Stock Market?' he asked, after several failed attempts.

'I understand how it operates,' Fox replied carefully, 'but I can't say I have any special knowledge of share dealings.' Sutcliffe would have known this anyway, he thought; better to be honest at the outset. Obviously he had been picked because of his other, more instinctive talents.

'But you know that sales of shares over a certain limit must be publicly declared?'

'Of course.'

The man from the Home Office took over. 'Let me explain the situation. Some months ago the Stock Exchange asked the City of London Police to investigate share movements in three publicly quoted companies. The majority shareholding in each of these companies has passed to someone who has in effect taken control without disclosing their identity. This person – or persons – uses a string of companies and banks to mask the transaction so that their identity remains unknown.'

'To what purpose?' asked Fox.

'That, too, is unknown. No changes have yet been made to any of the boards of the companies taken over. It seems it's business as usual, which is odd. As you know, most takeovers involve structural reorganisation in the boardroom, changes of directors, management, etcetera. In these cases, nothing much has happened.'

'Then might it not be the case,' Fox suggested, thanking his lucky stars for his diligent daily perusal of the Financial Times, 'that these takeovers are purely speculative investments? When the shares go up, or another bid is made for one of these companies, the big investor would be in line for a sizeable profit.'

Higgins impatiently nodded. 'But they've contravened Stock Exchange regulations and have gone to considerable pains to do so. When any individual or group owns more than twenty nine percent of a company's shares, an official bid has to be given for all the shares to ensure that all shareholders are treated equally. These rules are formulated to protect the company and its employees, as well as the minority shareholders.'

Fox nodded, glancing covertly at Sarah Wilson to see if she was following all this. She looked remarkably composed.

'So what do you think is behind all this?' he asked.

'Corporate and political power,' Higgins declared. 'Think about it. What government would dare to tangle with a gigantic conglomerate employing tens of thousands, possible hundreds of thousands soon? Think of the potential for massive upheaval if they tried to: job losses, bankruptcies, secondary industries going to the wall. Financial melt down on a huge scale. Added to which, there's always the possibility that people in high places could be corrupted by unscrupulous operators. The placing of contracts could be influenced. Share prices manipulated. Assets of companies taken over could be stripped from the inside.'

'Pension funds,' Sarah Wilson put in.

Higgins smiled. 'Quite. The companies pension funds can be instructed to buy shares in other companies they want to take over, perfectly legally. And then, of course, they can launder vast sums of money and pay themselves or associates on consultancy contracts.'

'I see,' said Fox slowly. 'It all boils down to power. Money on this scale buys political and financial influence.'

'What can be done about it?' Sarah Wilson sat up straighter and crossed her legs. She had good legs, he noted in spite of himself.

Higgins smiled grimly. 'This is different from large fraud, or a company going bust, or a financial institution collapsing. Those are usually one off events which the stock market can ride – sometimes a pretty bumpy ride, but confidence in the market will usually be regained. However, if the press find out about this scenario, it could have a catastrophic effect. It's no exaggeration to say we could face a complete lack of confidence in the whole of the financial system, and in many other financial institutions besides. Billions could be wiped off shares prices if the scandal were to break. Worse even. We simply can't even predict the consequences.'

Higgins stopped to let his words sink in. Privately, Fox felt stunned. Sarah Wilson still looked a model of composure, as if she knew more than he did.

'Do you have any idea who's behind it?' Fox asked at last.

'None whatsoever. But someone has control of vast sums of money and somewhere they've left a trail. It's back to basics on this one. We need someone reliable to sniff out those loose ends and follow the money. More of a bloodhound than a Fox, in fact.' he permitted himself a thin smile at his little joke.

Fox addressed Sarah Wilson. 'What have the City Police on this?'

'The Stock Exchange tried to carry out its own investigations before calling us in,' she answered. 'We've only just been briefed. The answer is, not much.'

'So what's my role?'

'We want to set up a special unit,' Sutcliffe butted in, having successfully lit his cigar, 'to co ordinate everything. You, Fox, will be in charge of this unit. DCI Wilson will put you in the picture.'

'Yes sir,' he said smiling at Sarah, who smiled back.

The best lead we have,' she began, 'is a private bank in Zurich which is often involved when these shares are bought. It deals on behalf of third parties, so the bank itself could be quite unaware of the significance of these transactions. Even if we had more information from the Swiss police, which unfortunately we don't, everything the bank does is quite legal in Switzerland. There are also banks in Gibraltar, New York and the Bahamas which might be involved.'

'As you can see,' Higgins interrupted, 'this whole thing is a ticking bomb. We need to investigate before too many departments become involved. As things stand now, only the Home Office, the Stock Exchange and a few people in the City and Metropolitan Police know about it. The Prime Minister has asked to be kept personally informed on our progress.' He paused for maximum effect then went on, 'Tomorrow the High Court will issue a Public Interest Immunity Certificate. That should keep the press off our backs for a while.'

Sutcliffe pointed at Fox with the wet, chewed looking end of his cigar. 'We've decided to base the unit at Southfields Police Station, Garratt Lane, well out of the limelight. You, Fox, will report direct to me. You'll have five officers under your command. Also at your disposal will be an accountant and barrister who specialise in international finance. The operation will be known as Operation Vagabond.'

# CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE  
_________________________

Lodeve, March 1987

John was alone with Madame Poupognot in the farm house when the special line rang. It was Arthur.

'I've just been informed that a police unit was formed some months ago to look into questionable share dealings on the London Stock Exchange. They're calling it Vagabond.'

John was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'It's not good news,' he said finally, 'but I suppose it had to happen . I'll talk to Erick. We'll have to keep an even lower profile. Arthur, tell the Clarks to monitor the position every day and report back to you. Although I don't see what the police can do since our operation is outside their jurisdiction.'

'I can't answer that,' grumbled his friend, 'because I don't really know what you're up to.'

'Moan, moan! That's because you don't need to. Thanks for the call.' John put the receiver down, then lifted it immediately and dialled Erick.

'Marseilles airport, two o'clock tomorrow. I'll meet you.'

* * *

John picked Erick up and drove him to a bar in the Desivalies Clary area of Marseilles. They sat at a table at the back, John wearing his Panama hat pulled down low over his face.

'What's this about exactly? Your phone call made me nervous,' Erick asked.

'Take it easy. Drink your aperitif, smile and relax. This is just a organisational problem.'

'Not before you've told me what this it's all about.'

'Arthur's told me that the police may be investigating our share purchasing. They've set up a squad to look into the Stock Market movements of foreign investors. So how bad is this?'

Erick drew in a deep breath. 'Most of the shares are bought via companies we control, through nominee directors, so I can't see how the police can find the source of the funds as our names aren't on any official records anywhere. But there are nominee companies, based outside the United Kingdom, which exist only to buy shares. These can look suspicious, although actually it's quite common practice.'

'How can we overcome this problem?'

Erick stared round the near empty bar. 'We could place these nominee companies into Purcell's ownership. Then the buck would stop there. The police would think he financed the share buying. Purcell would have to do some explaining, though.'

'That sounds a possibility. Tell me, Erick, how far away are we from our overall target?'

'At the moment we're investing only in Jensen shares. We have a firm promise from Jensen and his wife that they will sell us their personal holdings, which will be the key to it all.'

'Will they really sell to someone outside the family?'

'No, but they'll sell to Randolph Purcell, who is Vanessa Jensen's brother. We're working on the terms and conditions now. As Jensen's shares will be bought by Purcell Industries, the police won't even look at it.'

'So one day Purcell Industries will be our flagship, the basis of the whole enterprise? Aren't we maybe making ourselves too dependent on Randolph Purcell?'

'I don't think so. Up to now he has fulfilled his part of the bargain. Purcell shares are going up and will jump even higher when the Jensen deal becomes public knowledge. He benefits personally.' Erick hesitated. 'But we'll owe him a big favour.'

'And when does the deal go through?'

'At the end of August, if all goes well. I can't do it more quickly. It depends on the money coming in and what loan support I get. The Jensens are environmentally conscious and will be devoting the rest of their lives to the green cause. They won't sell unless the buyer commits a substantial sum every year to green charities.'

'Go on,' John said, as he paused.

'The final price still has to be agreed. We have to show that the funds are available, deposited in an account, awaiting Jensen's signature to the agreement. Also the amount covenanted to the environmental charity has to be finalised.'

'August? That's months away.' John sounded sombre and Erick glanced at him in surprise. For the first time he noticed that John was looking much older than his 48 years. His hair was thinning, his shoulders stooped, and now he wore glasses most of the time.

'I could try to push things along, but so far as I can see, we won't have the funds available before that. We could give up on this deal completely, sell the Jensen Trust shares we have already bought and wait for another target. Or just stay where we are now and play it safe.'

John said nothing. He wondered if they were pushing this deal too far. But in just two months they could achieve what they had set out to do. No, they should not panic now.

'OK,' he said. 'Go on with it, Erick. But arrange a meeting with Purcell in London or in Mallorca and get everything straight with him. Ask him directly what he wants for his support. We don't want a demand, just before we are going to sign the agreement.'

'A date has been agreed for the Jensen meeting. It's the twenty eighth of August, in Cannes. I'll go back to Mallorca and leave for London tomorrow.'

* * *

In London, Erick and Andrea stayed in a rented terraced house in Radnor Walk, just off the Kings Road by the Town Hall. Erick did not want to stay in a hotel. The meeting with Purcell had been set for one o'clock at the head office of Purcell Industries. Erick had never been there but, without quite knowing why, felt uncomfortable that Purcell had insisted on holding the meeting on home territory and not in the restaurant suggested by Erick.

The impressive building was in King Street, St James's. In reception Erick had to sign his name and was given a security badge saying 'VISITOR'. When, after that, he was kept waiting in the front office for ten minutes, it was a clear signal there was trouble ahead.

Purcell greeted him as warmly as ever, but somehow Erick sensed he was nervous straight away placed a leather folder on the table.

'What's on your mind?' Erick asked.

Purcell looked hard at him. 'A clear and different picture is emerging.' He opened a folder and took out a thin spiral bound report.

'Sometime ago, you asked me to ensure that an article in the Daily News was dropped. I did so. But I also asked for the reporter's file on the story. Then I employed a private detective to dig up everything he could find about a John Forbes, who featured strongly in the story. These are his findings.' He waved the report in the air. 'It makes very interesting reading. I've made three copies of it. One is in my safe and another with my solicitor. I think it would interest the various authorities very much indeed, especially coming from me.' Purcell hesitated for a moment, then pressed home his advantage. 'I could also publish the story in the Daily News.'

Erick had not been expecting this. This was not a question of merely negotiating a demand – this was a full scale battle for control, using blackmail.

'Can I read it?' he asked.

'Just let me finish. I then asked for a report on you. That, too, makes fascinating reading. You can read it later and tell me if anything in it is incorrect. However, that's not my main concern. I went along with the Purcell Jensen merger knowing these facts, expecting some substantial recognition from you. So far nothing like that has happened. And I certainly did not go along with your ideas to have legal troubles. A week ago I had a visit from an Inspector Malcolm Fox, who asked me all kinds of questions.'

He paused to see how Erick received this information. Erick did not move a muscle.

The police want to investigate our share register. I must hand them the computer file on our share ownership. Perhaps nothing will come of that, but it could equally well be disastrous. Only you know. Much will depend on what I tell them. Especially if I mention that my own shares in Purcell plc are legally owned by you and your associates.' He paused again. 'I chose to hold our meeting here as I'm being kept under surveillance. Whether it's by the police or someone else, I have yet to find out.'

'Can I say something?' Erick got to his feet. 'If this is what was on your mind, I understand your anxiety. But this isn't the time or place for me to answer these allegations. First I need to contact some of my main investors. I suggest we meet again later today.'

His telephone conversation with John was short. To Erick's surprise, John asked him to bring Purcell to see him in France. They were to lease a jet in Paris, then drive from Marseilles. John would ensure that they were not followed.

At nine o'clock Erick and Purcell arrived at the farm house.

'May I introduce Randolph Purcell. John Forbes,' Erick presented the two men to each other. They shook hands.

'Pleased to meet you,' said John. 'Sit down, Randolph. Allow me to pour you a glass of our best local vintage. I'd like your opinion on it.'

Erick decided to leave them to get acquainted and went in search of Cecilia. He found her in the kitchen. They hugged and kissed each other. 'Sit down for a moment and try this,' Cecilia suggested, as if she knew he would prefer to leave the guest with John.

Madame Popougnot appeared in the doorway. 'I keep telling her, Monsieur Elgberg, that they should decide to marry, then everything will be comme il faut,' she grumbled.

* * *

'Erick is a very straightforward and uncomplicated man. He thinks the best of everyone,' John said to Purcell over the bottle of wine. 'I'm the complete opposite. I expect the worst of everyone and I don't react well to threats.'

He spoke softly although Purcell sensed the signification underlying his words.

'I think you and I must reach an understanding. For my part, I'll forget you ever threatened me, while you will hand those reports to Erick tomorrow. You will go along with everything we ask you to do regarding the police investigation into your shares and you will back the coming merger with Jensen Trust fully without making any further demands. When you've done that, I will start then to regard you as a friend.'

'Why should I? What's in it for me? I am not getting involved with you, whoever you are.' Purcell had obviously decided his best form of defence was attack.

'You're a brilliant industrialist. You've built up a colossal company from nothing. I'm a mere lavender grower of whom nobody has heard. But I've got real raw unsophisticated power and when push comes to shove I own your company.' John paused, his eyes fixed on Purcell. 'If we fall out, it'll mean the end of both of us. You'll soon realise that.'

'Are your people following me?' blustered his visitor.

'No. The police have been keeping an eye on you because of our share dealings. But I've made sure you haven't been tailed today. For both our sake.'

Purcell nodded, taken aback by the reasonable, friendly tones of this man who was issuing a serious threat to him.

'The question you have to ask yourself is,' John went on, 'do you want outright war with me? You came to Erick when you were in trouble. You had already committed fraud by forging share certificates. We offered you a way out of that situation. But your petty fraud will be as nothing compared to the scandal there would be if it became known that not only the purchase of Purcell Industries itself, but also many of the companies Purcell Industries controls were financed by the proceeds of criminal activities such as drugs, funding of criminal operations and fraud on a massive international scale.' He took a slow, careful mouthful of wine. 'Once you've been found guilty of your paltry share fraud, no one will believe you knew nothing of the financing of the merger, which will double any sentence. And then you'll find yourself in the worst prison in England, doing the worst job, trust us to arrange that, worrying about the gruesome day of your release when we will settle your debt to us.'

Purcell licked his lips. He said slowly, 'And the other option?'

John smiled and held out his hand. 'We shake hands now and co operate. No more talk about going to the police or any threats ever. A handshake between people like us is more binding than any written contract, don't you think? It's irrevocable.'

' I need time to think.'

'Of course.' John smiled. 'You have thirty seconds.'

When Erick came back John said casually, 'Our little misunderstanding has been settled. I now have complete confidence in Randolph. You can give him our full support. The reports on both of us, including the copies, will be given to you tomorrow in London.' He rose, opening the door to the terrace. 'And now let's enjoy one of Cecilia's delicious meals.'

Erick looked puzzled. He had been out of the room for less than ten minutes.

Cecilia carried plates to the table on the terrace, followed by Madame Popougnot.

John took Cecilia's hand. 'I would like to introduce my fiancée. Although I also love the elder of these ladies, I have chosen the younger one. It goes without saying that I expect you and Andrea,' he said to Erick, 'and Randolph and your wife, Dorothy isn't it, to join us for the wedding sometime in the Autumn.'

During dinner they discussed the inevitable publicity about the Purcell Jensen merger and the amalgamation of the other companies to form the group of groups, which they knew would affect share prices.

The whole affair must be handled very delicately. If they could carry this off, the Company's financial advisors had worked out that share prices in Purcell Industries and Jensen Trust could well add around ten per cent to their current value. This would represent a profit on paper of over forty million pounds.

Purcell nodded and smiled and did his best to appear like a guest who was delighted to be sharing John's table, but from time to time Erick caught a glimpse of the shock and fear he could barely suppress.

Randolph Purcell had gambled and lost. Now he was obliged to sup with the devil and no spoon was long enough to keep John Forbes at bay.

Erick knew what it felt like and could almost find it in himself to pity Purcell.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO  
_________________________

London, July 1987

Six months had passed and Malcolm Fox had started making progress.

He had ascertained that, besides the three companies Sutcliffe had mentioned, another three recently taken over could also be possible victims. His team had managed to uncover the modus operandi: owners of shares had been approached individually by highly respectable firms of solicitors, and the price offered for their shares had been higher than their market value. If a shareholder demanded an even higher price, that too appeared to have been paid. Small amounts of other companies' shares were also bought daily at the Stock Exchange, the change of ownership then being registered at the head office of each company.

Obviously, some of the foreign banks involved in financing these deals could themselves have been taken over. However, as Higgins had said, the Zurich bank had not changed its board of directors for several years.

Fox had been given carte blanche to employ financial specialists from outside the police force. The International Fraud Investigation Unit in Lyon had also been put on the case.

He was working on two theories: one, that a group of international investors, or even a foreign government, were trying to organise a single power base from which to operate and were unconcerned about the legality of such an action; or that the funds came from a criminal organisation which was patiently building up a massive power base from which to operate.

Fox was inclined towards his second theory, the very thought of which seemed to send Sutcliffe into a flat spin. Fox was forbidden to use the internal mail to contact his superior and instead hand delivered a report twice a week. Sutcliffe never failed to stress the possible repercussions should word of their investigation leak out.

The first real breakthrough had come in the same week as the unit was set up, when Customs in Gibraltar discovered three million pounds in cash in the suitcases of a Samuel O'Sullivan arriving on a plane from Rome. They had not detained him as all his paperwork was valid. After a phone call to a local solicitor, mentioned in a letter which O'Sullivan had handed them, the name of the bank to which the money was en route had been revealed, together with O'Sullivan's Mallorcan address. As a routine precaution, Interpol had been informed and, in turn, had passed the information on to Operation Vagabond.

The only reason for O'Sullivan to be in possession of such a large amount of cash, instead of transmitting the money by bank transfer, was to cover its source. A cash amount of that magnitude would arouse the suspicions of any legitimate bank. However, the Gibraltar bank confirmed they were expecting the money and that they knew the account holder. They were not obliged to divulge anything more.

Fox tried to investigate the source of the money and the bank which received it. He came up against laws in Gibraltar which were as protectionist as those in Switzerland. His only hope was to delve into the background of Samuel O'Sullivan.

He had a record of petty crime; had served a year's sentence for handling stolen goods. However C11, the Criminal Intelligence Unit, had now come up with a name connected to O'Sullivan's which aroused Malcolm's curiosity. He found it more interesting than anything which had happened so far on the investigation.

Sam O'Sullivan's employer was Erick Elgberg.

The name sparked instant recognition with Fox who remembered how smoothly Elgberg's man had bribed two of his Knightsbridge colleagues with holidays to the Seychelles.

Malcolm Fox got out the old file on Mirage Consulting and started a major investigation of everything related to Elgberg. After two months he felt he knew the man better than his own wife.

At the end of July, Fox was informed that a Mrs Ann Dockett had been stopped in Swiss Customs on her way to deposit a large sum of money in the Zurich Bank, having flown in from Rome. Her husband was serving a sentence for bank fraud. She lived on Mallorca. It was not much of a connection, but still worth taking seriously.

Things were coming together, he thought. He obtained a photograph of Ann Dockett through the passport office and got it enlarged, studying it in minute details. She looked an attractive if ordinary woman, but probably she had been picked for these very attributes. Whoever employed her – Erick Elgberg? – would rely on her ordinariness to enable her to travel alone and unprotected carrying large amounts of cash.

He decided to go to Copenhagen, where Elgberg had lived before he moved to Mallorca. Tim Larsen, a prosecuting police barrister, met him at the airport and took him to the Politigaarden, headquarters of the Copenhagen Police. This was a large angular building with a circular cemented yard in the centre and offices on four floors filled with heavy furniture. It had a musty, depressing atmosphere.

Larsen had prepared a file in English on Erick Elgberg's activities in Denmark. He told Fox to read it and come back the following day when he would try to answer any questions.

Fox spent the rest of the day digesting the file. Erick Elgberg, as he had suspected, was the same man he had come across in newspaper reports on a share scandal in Denmark, nearly twenty years before. Things were finally slotting into place.

Next day Fox lunched with Tim Larsen at a restaurant on Raadhuspladsen, the central square in Copenhagen.

During their preliminary conversation, Larsen explained he had known Elgberg and his wife very well.

'I can't say if he's your man,' the Danish policeman said, 'but if you are looking for someone with a broad understanding of business finance and an immensely strong motivation, he could be.'

'What's his motivation?'

'He served a five year sentence when he was about twenty eight or twenty nine. What the report does not say is that he was at that time a rising star in Scandinavian industry and commerce, with strong support in the press. Then, without warning, he was publicly disgraced. If that had not happened, he would today be at the very top of Danish business.'

'I remember it vaguely,' Malcolm said. 'It even made the British press, which doesn't usually bother with European news. Certainly not in the Sixties, anyway.'

'It was the biggest scandal we ever had. I was the investigating officer. When it finally came to court, I acted as the police barrister. Our legal system is different from yours.'

'So you knew Elgberg well?'

'Very well.' Larsen hesitated. 'I don't mind saying I actually liked him very much.'

'Why?'

'Because he is a likeable person: intelligent, charming. And I would say honourable in his own way.'

'But you think he could be the man I'm looking for?'

'Very possibly. But he must have found someone else to provide the funds. Even Erick could not have amassed such a fortune in a relatively short time.'

Fox tried to read Larsen's expression. 'Have you any idea who provides the funds?'

He shrugged. 'No one in Denmark, I am sure, could control that sort of money. Not many people in Europe, come to that. I think that is your problem, huh?' He raised his hand to the waiter, indicating that lunch was at an end.

Fox knew he would not get any more information from Larsen. He left the restaurant deciding to go for a walk, to think over what he had heard.

Suddenly he remembered that he had left his umbrella under the table. Although in Copenhagen the sun was shining, he was due back in London that afternoon and might need it.

As soon as he entered the restaurant, he saw Larsen standing in a telephone booth at reception. After retrieving his property, Malcolm walked close to the booth, pointing the umbrella to Larsen and making gestures of forgetfulness. He waved back, notebook in hand. Fox frowned. If he were using a notebook to find a telephone number, it had to be one he did not know by heart.

Fox's gut instinct was that Larsen was phoning Erick Elgberg. But surely he would only know Elgberg's phone number if they were still friends? Not if he'd lost contact with him or only been in contact a few times a year.... But why? To warn Elgberg that the British police were on his trail? If that were true, it was Fox's best clue yet.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE  
_________________________

The Cave, Mallorca, Monday, 10th August 1987

At midday on Monday, 10th August, Erick received a phone call from Tim Larsen in Denmark. Larsen informed him of a visit by a British Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox, who was investigating suspicious stock market movements in England.

As soon as he'd put the phone down, Erick dialled John's secret number in France.

'Give me a day and I'll find out what's going on,' he said. Erick had no choice but to put down the phone and spend an anxious day wondering.

John immediately got in touch with Arthur, and put him in the picture.

'The Clarks have contacts in the force. I'll tell them to pull all the stops out, photograph whatever documents they can get access to in this office, so we can see exactly what kind of problem we're facing,' Arthur suggested.

'OK, but make sure there's no sign of any interference. We don't want this Fox to know he's on to something.'

Two days later, Erick was waiting for John in the Marseilles bar. He was half an hour late.

'Just had to be sure you weren't followed,' he explained when he finally arrived.

'Was I?' Erick looked nervously around.

'I don't think so, not this time, but be on guard from now on. The police are skilled in shadowing, as I know to my cost.' John lowered his voice. 'My people have found out how much this special squad knows. It's quite a lot, but because we haven't broken international laws or had any official complaints made against us, they can't make any link between us personally and the companies we control.'

'There should be no way they can do that,' Erick protested. 'We've covered ourselves pretty well. So are we still going ahead with the meeting in Cannes?'

'Yes.' John sat back, staring at the ceiling. 'We're only days away from achieving our goal, Erick. No Inspector Plod is going to stop us now.'

# CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR  
_________________________

London, end of August 1987

The day Malcolm Fox returned from his trip to Denmark, he felt sure that someone had been through his papers. He'd had his suspicions before, when some of them had been disorganised, but he'd thought perhaps another member of the team had had reason to go through them without telling him. Now he had the feeling that there was more to it than that. His file on Elgberg had been interfered with, he was sure. He decided to withdraw it and keep the latest information from his team.

He did not notice the tiny UIR receiver in the floorboard which made it possible for someone to listen in to conversations taking place in South London from as far away as Chiswick.

A few days later Fox delivered his weekly report to Sutcliffe, based on Tim Larsen's information.

'As you'll see, there's hardly anything about Elgberg's activities over the last three or four years. He's not been seen outside Mallorca, apart from holidays on his yacht, but seems to spend all his time with his wife in a rather strange house built into the side of a cliff.'

'We could be looking at something which is only the tip of the iceberg,' Sutcliffe said glumly. 'We estimate at least three hundred million pounds have been used to build up a controlling interest in these companies. It could go past a billion. Larsen told you Elgberg does not have that kind of money.'

'Yes, but he's our man,' Fox said impatiently. 'And through him, I might be able to flush out the identity of the real Mr Big. Go with me on this one, at least until I've investigated him further...I want to go out to Mallorca.'

'I don't pretend to understand much about all this,' grumbled Sutcliffe, 'but Higgins has a hunch it could be some big tycoon who's swanning around right under our noses. He could be doing this simply to shore up his existing business interest – there might be nothing political about it. This Elgberg could just be involved in some money laundering operation which isn't part of our brief at all.'

'No, I don't go along with that,' said Fox defiantly. 'I've a gut feeling on this one. Try to keep the Home Office off our backs for a few more weeks and I'll come up with something.'

Sutcliffe drew deeply on his stale smelling cigar. 'I hope you're not barking up the wrong tree with your gut feelings this time, Fox. There are at least twenty candidates for our Mr Big right under our noses, and you want to waste time on some Mediterranean holiday.'

'Sir, I want permission to spend just a few days on Mallorca. If I don't turn anything up within three days, I'll start looking into high profile financiers, you have my word.'

'Uhm,' Sutcliffe sighed. He began to go through the rigmarole of lighting his cigar while Fox waited, fists clenched. Eventually the Chief Inspector succeeded and took a deep puff, blowing thick blue smoke in Fox's direction. 'All right. Three days. But make sure you tell the Spanish Police and Interpol.'

# CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE  
_________________________

Cannes, France, Friday, 28th August 1987

Erick and John met at eight o'clock in the morning in a pavement café on the corner of Rue Buttura opposite the Cannes Film Palais des Festivals to discuss the coming meeting.

'Today the price of the Jensen shares will be finally agreed,' Erick began. 'The Jensens want two hundred and sixty five million. We've offered two hundred and fifty. It's a battle of nerves, but their representative wouldn't have come if they weren't prepared to negotiate.'

'That's still a huge amount.'

Erick grinned. 'It's only money, as you used to say. I've arranged loans to cover eighty per cent with various banks and have the letters of confirmation with me. The rest, depending on the final price agreed, will have to be paid into an account as soon as possible. I've moved Osov's payments over to Gibraltar, together with all other receipts. You personally will have to sign a transfer tonight for the agreed figure to be put in a special account with Jensen's Swiss bank so we can validate the payment with his legal people. The courier is already in Cannes, waiting to transfer the money when everything is finalised.'

'Where exactly is the meeting to be held?'

'The Carlton Hotel. Seven o'clock.'

'Very convenient.' Erick wiped his hands on a napkin, hiding a smile. 'But there's one snag. Jensen was suspicious about Purcell's financial backers as he realises his brother in law couldn't do it alone so Jensen had to be told it was me who backed it, supported by other investors. Jensen can't be at the meeting tonight. There'll be his son and their three lawyers, Purcell, Thomas Wren and his wife, the barrister. When we've agreed the amount and arranged to deposit it, Conrad Jensen will visit me on Mallorca. He wants to make sure his company will be in safe hands. And then you will have achieved your life's ambition.'

'Another delay,' sighed John. 'That's all we need! But we'll have to go along. Make this visit soon, and invite George von Fritzenberg as well. That might make Jensen believe your investors and the banks are backing the deal. All that's needed is the perfect setting and charming hosts.'

'What about Randolph Purcell?'

'As he's here today, you'll have to invite him also to Mallorca or he'll feel left out. Anyway, he and the Jensens are family.'

Erick suddenly shivered and looked up to see a solitary cloud in an otherwise blue sky. 'I hope nothing goes wrong.'

There was a moment's silence before John said, 'You're right. Sir Conrad Jensen's signature on that document will mean I've achieved everything I set out to. I suppose that's worth waiting a few days for.'

John squared his shoulders. 'Give me the papers and I'll sign them when you've got the final amount agreed. I'll be in the restaurant, waiting for your call. By the way, who is this courier?'

'Ann Dockett. You remember the helpful bank manager of Osov's? She's his wife, and rather attractive.'

'Then I can give her instructions direct as soon as it has happened. Ask her to join me at the Carlton.'

# CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX  
_________________________

Palma de Mallorca, 8th September 1987

On his motor bike Sam O'Sullivan followed Malcolm Fox's taxi to the Nixe Palace Hotel in Cala Mayor.

He waited outside while Fox checked in. When he saw the policeman disappear into the lift, he entered the foyer, waited until the receptionist's back was turned and glanced at the register. Fox had checked into Room 34.

After Sam had reported back to The Cave, Erick unlocked a small cupboard in his office and lifted out a telephone. The line was registered elsewhere on the island and a converter made sure that no one suspected its use. In the unlikely event that it was bugged, a scrambler had been attached so that conversations could not be understood.

He dialled a French telephone number, gave brief details of Malcolm Fox's whereabouts and listened to his instructions.

* * *

On the morning of Wednesday, 9th September, Malcolm Fox entered the police station in Palma. He waited outside the door of Sergento Branco's office on the third floor while a loud conversation in Spanish went on inside. Suddenly the door opened and a man strode briskly towards him.

Branco was a portly man wearing a sharply cut silver grey mohair suit. 'Welcome to Mallorca, Inspector Fox,' he said effusively, showing his visitor into an adjacent office.

Fox handed him a report, translated into Spanish, which summarised the investigation so far.

Branco waved it aside. 'I will read this later. For now, I am completely at your disposal.' He smiled. 'You may have heard my superior just now. He tells me the Spanish Police alone are to investigate any matters to do with Senor Elgberg.'

Fox sighed and gave him a brief run down on his investigations to date.

Branco shrugged. 'Okay. If you think there is something – how do you say – fishy in all this, how can we help?'

Malcolm decided to come straight to the point. 'What do you know about Elgberg?'

'Only that he has an unusual house and is hardly ever seen. He has some staff, but we have not found anything that could be of the slightest interest to you or to us.'

'I believe that house is the nerve centre for a criminal investment operation,' Fox said. 'At least three hundred million pounds worth. Surely that merits some display of interest from the Spanish Police?'

Branco smiled. 'But all this money cannot be coming out of our tiny island,'

'No, but it's being moved around by people who live here and are in Elgberg's employment,' Fox explained patiently. 'Namely a Mrs Ann Dockett and a Samuel O'Sullivan. I would like you to keep both these people under surveillance.'

Sighing heavily, Branco picked up the telephone and spoke

to someone in rapid Spanish, then turned back to Fox.

'This won't get you very far, you realise. Even if we keep an eye on them for the next couple of weeks, we won't find out much unless they do something very silly here.'

'I'd also like to look at Elgberg's house,' Fox persisted. 'Will you give me directions?'

Branco wagged one finger. 'Come now, Inspector, we both know you have no jurisdiction here. I cannot let you wander around on your own. As you heard, my superior is far from happy and I would lose my job, if I left you unescorted. Everything must be done through us.'

Fox knew he was up against a brick wall. His only chance was a bit of covert bribery. 'I have to go back with something. My department is under pressure from the highest authorities, not only the stock market institutions but even, and keep this quiet, the British government. If you help, your name will go down in my report as having been of the greatest assistance.'

Branco thought for a moment then asked Fox to wait. 'I will have a word with my superior, see if perhaps one of our men could be allocated to you for a day. Would that be of some help?'

'Definitely.'

The Spaniard lifted the phone. His conversation became more and more heated. Finally he threw down the receiver and shook his head. 'The answer's still no. If you want us to investigate, he wants all the papers sent here to Palma, together with a British policeman who knows the case, then he will appoint a Spanish team to do the work. That's only if your Elgberg has broken any Spanish laws or you bring an extradition order a Spanish Court can accept.'

'There's no time for all that,' Fox answered with rising frustration.

'That is hardly our fault.' Branco shrugged. 'And off the record, Inspector, my superior has also instructed me to keep an eye on you while you are here.'

* * *

Fox left Branco's office, seething. He checked a tourist map of the island. The name of the nearest town to Elgberg's house was Punto Verger. He went straight to the promenade and asked several taxi drivers to take him there. At last, by promising to pay double fare, he persuaded a driver to take him on the two hour drive.

Once in Punto Verger, the driver then had to ask the way to the Cave. Meeting blank looks, Malcolm looked at the map and ordered him to take a dusty track. After they had gone a few miles they came to a low metal gate and a man appeared in front of the car, forcing them to stop.

'This is a private road,' he said. 'Have you written authorization? If not, you must turn back. Comprende?'

The driver shrugged eloquently at his passenger. 'Senor?'

'Do as he says. Fox sighed and gestured to the driver to turn back. He thought it best not to draw attention to himself. At least he had found out that Elgberg's house was well guarded.

As they reversed, he noticed a small white car parked a little way off beside the track. A man sat in the front seat reading a newspaper.

When they finally arrived back at his hotel the same car drove past slowly. Fox went inside the lobby, waited a couple of minutes, then came out again. The car was parked a few yards down the road.

Back in his room, he telephoned Sutcliffe. 'I've been to Elgberg's house but it's guarded. The Spanish Police aren't going to be much help. If anything has to be done, it's got to be by a Spanish team and not us.'

The Chief Inspector started to bluster about bloody time wasting.

Malcolm cut him short. 'Sorry, sir, the line's pretty bad, I can't hear you. Anyway, I seem to have picked up a tail. Branco told me they'd be keeping an eye on me. And I just happened to see Ann Dockett at the airport when I arrived.'

'And that's all you've come up with?' Sutcliffe sounded despairing. 'Listen, I've had another run in with the Home Office. I've got to have a report ready by nine o'clock Monday.'

'I wonder if Mrs Dockett would be willing to talk to us in exchange for a reduction in her husband's sentence?' Malcolm had to think quickly to give his superior some hope. 'I'm flying back Saturday morning. I can meet you before the meeting and I'll think up something to keep the Home Office sweet.'

'We'll need the Commissioner's backing before we make any promises to the Docketts,' Sutcliffe said grudgingly. 'But it's worth thinking about, I suppose. See you on Monday.'

* * *

After his man had reported Fox's movements, Erick Elgberg used the secret phone once again. He dialled the same number.

'He's been to Branco, the local man in charge of fraud. Then this afternoon he came here... No, of course not, he was turned back before he even saw the place. But I'm worried. What about tomorrow? You know who's coming. We can't afford to have a policeman snooping round, tomorrow of all days...'

'Erick, take your people off the job. My own men have arrived on Mallorca and everything has been taken care of. Let me deal with this,' ordered John.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN  
_________________________

Mallorca, 10th September 1987

Sir Conrad Jensen arrived at the Cave with his entourage at eleven in the morning. He was a frail elderly man in failing health. He was accompanied by his wife Vanessa, their son, and grandson, Randolph Purcell and his wife Dorothy.

As the price for the shares had been agreed at the Cannes meeting, it only remained for George von Fritzenberg to explain, step by step, how the banks had supported the merger.

To Erick's surprise, Randolph Purcell behaved impeccably. Since his meeting with John in France there had been no demand for favours in return for the introduction. He was supportive, but did not try to push Jensen's forward into the final decision. It was left to him alone to take the most important step he had ever faced regarding his conglomerate. The papers were on the table in the meeting room, waiting for Conrad Jensen' concluding signature.

Andrea and Erick were the perfect hosts. After lunch on the terrace, they took their guests to the pool for coffee. During the break, Sam O'Sullivan caught Erick's eye by waving discreetly from the edge of the terrace.

Erick walked over to him.

'Look over my shoulder,' whispered Sam. 'There's a man in a dinghy taking photographs.'

Erick nodded. He had spent the morning taking several phone calls from John about the movements of Inspector Malcolm Fox.

Sam said urgently, 'I'm sure it's the man I followed from the airport. Is there anything you want me to do?'

Erick sighed and shook his head. He thought about John's last words which still echoed in his own mind.

'No thanks, Sam. Everything has been taken care of. Let's hope none of our guests notice him.'

* * *

Fox was hit by a rush of excitement that flooded through his whole body when he saw the profile of the man turning towards him.

He had to put the camera down and wipe his face.

Then he took up the camera. Now he could see the well known face in full. He shot picture after picture and continued until the film was finished.

It was clear to Fox, that the mere prospect of Elgberg and his unknown backer gaining control of Jensen Trust PLC would scare the Government of Britain and the United States and could upset the confidence in the security market.

Everything had fallen into place. As the Cave disappeared further behind him, his high excitement was replaced by a rush of euphoria. There was no way his team would be taken off the investigation now. Oh, yes, he was going to enjoy filing this report.

Malcolm Fox had been sailing for about twenty minutes when he noticed a speedboat bobbing idly on the water dangerously close to the cliffs. Its engine had stopped and a man was waving for his attention.

'Ahoy there!. I've run out of petrol,' he shouted in English. 'Can you give me enough to get me to the nearest beach?'

Malcolm steered his dinghy nearer. The man seemed genuine enough. The boat was full of diving equipment and he was wearing a one piece black wetsuit, a stabilizing jacket with an aluminum air tank built in. Around his waist he had a quick release weight belt.

'How come you ran out of petrol?' Malcolm stopped the dinghy a few feet away. 'We're not far out of Port d'Estellences.'

The man laughed and shrugged. 'Got too involved in what I was doing out there. I'm not used to speedboats – I'm a surgeon. Didn't realise how much petrol they used. I've only been out since this morning!'

Malcolm threw him the rope. 'You from Scotland?'

'Many years ago,' the man said, pulling Fox's dinghy nearer. He held out his hand for the petrol can. 'Thanks. You have been a great help. What do I owe you?'

His hand was now round Malcolm's wrist like a vice.

Malcolm Fox's euphoria was wiped away by an icy sensation of fear.

The petrol can fell into the water.

As Malcolm Fox tried to prise the diver's grip from his hand, he heard the hiss of rubber being punctured. Another diver bobbled up in the water and was slashing at one side of the dinghy. As Malcolm struggled, the man scrambled over the side into the sinking dinghy and threw the camera, films and Malcolm's bag into the speedboat.

Then the two of them pushed him into the water. An arm as rigid as a steel girder circled Fox's chest. He could barely breathe. He was being pulled down underwater. His ankles were gripped. He tried to kick but his chest was hurting. His lungs felt as if they were about to explode.

Then all was calm. He was floating away in a brilliant blue tide, soundless and serene. Slowly it turned black.

A few minutes later the speedboat roared off, leaving the sea empty except for a collapsed rubber dinghy which was slowly being pulled down by the weight of Fox's lifeless body entangled in the mooring rope.

# CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT  
_________________________

Cala Vinas, Mallorca, Thursday, 10th September 1987

Ann Dockett piled her clothes neatly on the dining table of her apartment, ready to be packed into her suitcase next morning. She had packed suitcases so often over the last months, she felt she could do it blindfold.

Everything on the table was new. She had bought various items in shops all over the world and now here they were, ready to be packed for her holiday aboard the Elgbergs' yacht.

She had not been told anything about the trip, not even if there were to be other guests. She knew only that an important meeting was taking place at the Cave and tomorrow she would be picked up by Sam O'Sullivan, who would not be joining them on board.

She had met the Elgbergs only a few times since she'd started working for them. They had been very pleasant, saying they wanted to get to know her better, but had always been surrounded by guests and staff. There had not been another approach like Andrea's kiss on the first day and Anne felt torn between relief and disappointment.

I'm not a kid, she thought, I'm a mature woman. Nothing should shock me now.

That night she slept badly. At seven she got up, had a cup of coffee, packed the clothes in her case and dressed in a light blue bikini, which she wore under a matching summer dress. By the time Sam arrived at ten, she was in a state of nervous excitement.

* * *

'Come on, Ann, let's get you settled in.' Andrea was on deck to welcome her aboard. 'Don't worry, we have no other guests. This is our holiday, a couple of weeks away from everything. Erick needs it, after all his hard work.'

'Oh, but won't I be in the way? Surely you don't want me in tow!' Ann felt suddenly unaccountably alarmed.

Andrea pointed to the shore. 'We're already sailing so it's too late to change your mind. And we'll love having you on board.'

In her cabin, Ann unpacked. Half an hour later she met Andrea on the sun deck and was handed a cold glass of innocuous seeming fruit cocktail. They lay side by side on loungers.

'Be careful. The sun is stronger at sea than ashore,' said Andrea, looking at Ann's already tanned body.

'Isn't your husband going to enjoy the sun?'

Andrea shrugged. 'It doesn't look like it. Five minutes after we sailed he got a phone call and since then he's been deep in conversation. I guess something's has gone wrong somewhere. I can't be bothered asking. A man like Erick loves his power games. We'll see him at lunch.'

'Where are we going?'

'St Tropez. It's my favourite place. Although it's full of tourists, I love visiting the shops and restaurants and mixing with the smart people. Let me get you another drink. Another of these, or something else?'

'Another of these, please. What is it?'

'Fruit juice, brown sugar and lots of rum.'

At lunchtime, Andrea went to look for Erick, but came back alone. 'He sends his regards, but there is a problem he has to sort out first. Men!'

Ann sat up too quickly. Her head swam. She decided to ask for water from now on.

Andrea smiled. 'I've ordered two seafood salads. Is that all right?'

'Lovely.'

'Let's have a swim first.' She picked up a telephone and spoke to the Captain. Immediately the speed of the yacht slowed and two of the crew reeled out a large shark net so they could swim in safety.

After lunch, Andrea said, 'You must excuse me but the sea air makes me tired. I think I'll have a nap.'

'I think I'll do the same,' said Ann, her eyelids drooping.

'Good. You lie down and I'll join you as soon as I've seen what my hopeless husband is up to.'

Ann was almost asleep when Andrea came back and lay down beside her. A moment later she felt something touch her lips so lightly that in her drowsy state she was unsure it had actually happened.

* * *

At ten in the evening they were both dressed for dinner, waiting for Erick. After a while Andrea disappeared. She came back again a few minutes later frowning.

'Erick can't join us. There's a big problem but he says he can sort it out from here. All I can do is to let him get on with it.'

After dinner, the steward asked if there were anything more they wanted. Andrea ordered a bottle of champagne on the private deck. She and Ann went upstairs, sat down on each side of the table and sipped the champagne. Over the music system Boy George was singing Everything I Own. Lights along the coastline glinted like strings of fine diamonds.

'We could ask some of the crew to take us back to town. Or you could come over here,' Andrea said, stretching out one hand to Ann.

She hesitated then rose and walked over. Andrea, still sitting, pushed her chair back and pulled Ann between herself and the table. She placed her hands under Ann's skirt. Ann gave a little jump. The hand moved up her leg and she felt her panties being pulled down. Andrea carefully folded them up, leaned forward and laid them on the table like a trophy.

Then her hand was on Ann's thigh, moving up towards her triangle of blonde hair. One finger started an unhurried regular movement between her legs.

Embarrassed, Ann leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling excitement stir within her body. Then, unexpectedly, the movement stopped. For a second she stood motionless, wondering what was going to happen next. Why had Andrea stopped?

'I like to savour the submission of a beautiful woman,' she whispered. 'Go and sit down.'

As if in a dream, Ann walked back round the table, sat down and drank some more Champagne. She could not speak, knowing that whatever she said would sound trite.

Andrea broke the silence. They talked until midnight, finishing the champagne. Then Andrea ordered, 'Come back.' Ann immediately obeyed, excitement tingling through her once more. She walked over to where she had been standing before, leaning against the table.

Andrea took off her skirt, folding it neatly and putting it on the table next to the panties.

'Take off the rest dead slowly and give it to me,' she ordered, and Ann unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra which were added to the neat pile on the table.

What a curious, luscious, awful yet wonderful sensation it was, Ann thought, to stand naked on the deck of a yacht, in the darkness, far away from everything and everyone.

Andrea pushed her chair back, sank to her knees in front of Ann and pushed her legs apart. She put her lips just barely against her hair. 'You smell sweet,' she said without moving.

Ann could feel her warm breath. Andrea kissed her as if she were kissing a mouth. With her tongue, lips and teeth Andrea brought her close to climax, then got up and pushed her back on the table, one hand between her legs.

Weak and dizzy, Ann rocked her head from side to side. It was all new for her. She wanted just a bit of time to determine her feelings, but she was given none as Andrea's two fingers started whipping her secretion to a froth.

Andrea's hand brought her to orgasm and Ann made a piercing shriek.

And froze.

Erick was sitting on a chair a few yards away, watching them, smiling.

She lay, panting, while her vision steadied. When she finally looked once more towards Erick, she saw that he was naked. He came over and kissed her lightly taking one of her breasts in his hands. 'You are gorgeous,' he said while taking her hand and letting the tip of her fingers touch him.

He walked away. She noted his tanned shoulders and chest, his hard buttocks and strong brown legs. She had a sudden urge to touch him again but could not move. He pulled several sun mattresses in a line against the wall and threw pillows on them, then came back towards her. She closed her eyes as she was lifted and laid gently down.

He went back for Andrea, also naked now and laid her next to Ann. Andrea put an arm round her and kissed her. The other hand went between Ann's legs pushing her hips back towards Erick. Her buttock fitted the hollow of his groin. Startled she felt Andrea leaning over her, opening her and guiding Erick into her. She was being pushed against Andrea in deep thrusts from behind while Andrea's hand was again moving between her thighs, her tongue searched Ann's mouth, licking her teeth, letting her salvia drip into her throat. Ann moved her head biting Andrea's lips. Nothing had ever felt like this before. It was like an fixation. She wanted it to stop now. She wanted it to continue for ever. Then she cried out, could not stop herself, in a thin but loud wailing moan. She felt Erick suddenly holding her still, shaking, while he came deep inside her.

Ann stirred only once during the night when a plane passed low above them, but did not move.

After that they spent the nights together. Ann was aware that to the Elgbergs, she was merely a plaything but did not protest. For the first time in years, she felt truly desired.

The day before their return to Mallorca, Erick and Andrea asked her to join them on deck as there was something they needed to tell her. It sounded serious, and her first thought was that something had happened to Paul.

Erick put her mind at ease about that but explained that the man she had followed at the airport had been found drowned close to the Cave. She might be asked by the police to make a statement about her presence at the airport on the day he arrived as it would probably have been noted. It would be best, Erick said, if she told them she had gone there to buy the new paperback by Anita Brookner, which was being sold in the airport bookshop. He said that public interest in the drowning would soon die down, it had obviously been an unfortunate accident, but to be on the safe side there would be no work for her for a month. Her only trips from Mallorca would be to visit her husband and daughter.

At first, Ann felt relieved that the news had nothing to do with her family. But then she started to think about the poor man's death. She was the one who had been asked to follow him in Palma airport and give the signal to Sam on the motorbike. His body had been found close to the Cave. Surely that was more than mere coincidence?

# CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE  
_________________________

Lodeve and London, Monday, 21st September 1987

As soon as he was back from his yachting holiday, Erick made arrangements to see John.

Winston barked angrily when he walked into the farm yard.

John did not hide his displeasure that Erick had arrived unannounced, but as Cecilia was there did not say anything outright.

'We're getting married in the local church the 11th of October,' he told Erick.

'That's wonderful news.' Erick struggled to sound enthusiastic, unwilling to be swayed from his purpose in coming here by John's wedding announcement.

With Winston following them they walked down the orderly rows of lavender, the violet blue coloured flowers washing around their legs, releasing the distinct smell in waves. There was no wind and the heat was intense. It was only a few days away from harvesting.

'I have come to get a straight answer, John,' said Erick facing him squarely. 'You have to level with me.'

'Just say what it is that's bothering you and why you've come all this way without benefit of an invitation.'

'What happened to Fox? Was he killed by your men?'

John did not answer but swiped one foot idly at the lavender. Erick waited. He was determined not to ask twice.

'What do you think?' John asked him finally.

'You told me on the phone that you would take care of it. I think you had him killed.'

'If I'd had him murdered,' John said slowly, 'I can assure you I wouldn't have let him be found. I would have had him shot and got rid of the body so no one could ever find it. As it is every forensic expert in Europe will study his corpse and they'll come up with the same verdict. Accidental drowning. Which is the truth.'

'You said your people were on the island and that I should withdraw my men. You knew he was taking photographs of Purcell, Jensen and me. You realized what that would mean for Fox's investigation. Just the publicity would finish us all. John, don't take me for a fool'

'It was all under control. My men knew where he was and what he was doing. They were going to wait until he got back to his hotel then steal the camera with the films from his room – make it look like a straightforward burglary. But it never came to that. Fox didn't show up at the hotel because he'd already drowned.'

Erick stared at John, who stared unflinchingly back.

'You're lying,' said Erick at last. 'You could at least be honest with me. To have a police officer killed is rank stupidity. It has put us all at risk as now they are not going to leave us alone. I can't work with you any more. I'll cover up for you but that's all. Andrea and I will leave the Cave within a week. I can transfer all the documents to Thomas Wren, if that's what you want. I expect you'll send your thugs after me, but at the moment I just don't care.'

John took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. 'Erick, ' he said in a low voice. 'Look me in the eye. You've hurt me badly. I did not have Fox killed. Please believe that. But if you feel that way, you can at least stay at the Cave. You don't have to work for the Company but the house will still be yours. I would never take revenge against you. But, Erick, I want you to believe me, I had nothing to do with Fox's death. Nothing.'

Erick shook his hands away and started walking back to the house. John followed a yard or so behind. Winston shadowing him.

'You can meet the men who were on Mallorca,' John offered, when they reached the yard. 'Any time you like. They'll tell you exactly what I've just did, but if it'll make you happy...'

'Save your breath, John, they will only say what you want them to say. I'll call you when the Spanish police have called on me. I'm expecting them any day.'

Cecilia had come out of the house at their approach. She ran to John and circled his waist with her arm, leaning her head lovingly on his chest. It was painfully obvious to Erick that she was very much in love with him.

'So you will come to our wedding?' she asked, smiling at him.

'Time will tell,' he said stiffly. Not looking at John, he strode quickly back to his car.

* * *

'An investigating police officer is dead.'

Chief Inspector Lawrence Sutcliffe looked sombrely first at DCI Sarah Wilson, then at Graham Higgins of the Home Office. They were sitting in the meeting room at Scotland Yard. 'Fox was followed every minute of his stay on the island, but not by the local police as he believed. We can't handle this as if it were just an accident.'

'I agree with the Chief Superintendent,' said Sarah, sitting next to him. 'It would be a betrayal of Foxy's memory.

'All I'm saying is that the government emphatically does not want any scandal. The financial market is very vulnerable at the moment. We've already had the Westland problem and Guinness scandal to contend with. If it became known that Scotland Yard has, for over nine months, been investigating a covert criminal organisation which deals on the stock market in a big way, and that the police officer in charge of this investigation is now dead under suspicious circumstances, it might trigger off a serious downturn. Yes, the stock market will bounce back one day, it always does, but that could be after a long trial two years down the line. London also influences over other markets in the world, all of whom will start similar investigations. The implications are frightening.'

Sutcliffe drew on his cigar. 'I hope you're not asking us to disregard the probable murder of a valuable officer like Malcolm Fox? I won't accept that.'

'You and DCI Wilson will be receiving written orders shortly to the effect that the investigation is to continue but under no circumstances is any action to be taken which may result in bad publicity. Have I made myself clear?'

Sutcliffe nodded reluctantly. 'Quite clear. It's sweep the crap under the carpet time.'

'And this conversation has never taken place.'

'I understand.'

Higgins looked satisfied. 'All right.. 'For the moment we leave everything as it is. Increased security, that's the watchword from now on. Nothing must get out. Absolutely nothing.' He gathered up his umbrella and briefcase, too economical with his words to say goodbye.

Sutcliffe was too annoyed to tell him the final suggestion Fox had made before his death. He was still considering it.

# CHAPTER SIXTY  
_________________________

Ford Prison, West Sussex, Monday, 5th October 1987

It was a few minutes after nine o'clock in the evening and the night watchman had just said good night while checking the roll call. 'A' wing of Ford Open Prison was very quiet.

Paul Dockett stared at the calendar on the wall of his room. He crossed off the days religiously but still had two thirds of his sentence left. His release date of June 1991 looked a very long way off. He had hardly made a dent in his sentence.

A seven year stretch was longer than usual for an inmate of Ford. It was only because someone had pulled strings that Paul was here at all. Most prisoners stayed less than a year, which meant that he was always saying goodbye to new friends, realising he would never see them again.

Television and the news did not concern him anymore. He was no longer part of normal life so there was no need to follow it. Besides the TV rooms were filled with the smell of tobacco and loud, raucous comments from a few jokers hungry for attention..

A preference for his own company, which is quite normal in the more intelligent prisoner was creeping up on Paul. He was happier sitting alone in the cinema, watching films every morning and evening. Some nights he would stand in the tiny projection room to watch, not wanting to join the rest of the inmates. It suited him fine that he could shut his door at nine.

For reasons he did not understand, he had struck up a sort of friendship with a young man called Bradley who was in his early twenties, a rather rough and ready character but able to express himself well. The young man was interested in films and actors. Paul would let him watch with him and a sort of friendship had gradually built up over the nine months Bradley had been at Ford. He could arrange to get most things over the fence; a professional petty criminal with no intention of ever changing his life style.

When Bradley was released from Ford, Paul felt even more lonely. But kept in contact by letter and Bradley visited him once a month.

Paul got abruptly to his feet and pulled down the calendar. Crossing out the dates only made him more depressed. Tearing it up into small pieces, he tossed them into the wastepaper basket.

At this time of the evening, his thoughts often wandered back to the past. He accepted that technically he had broken the law and was responsible for the bank's losses. The law had legitimately found him guilty. But that was no longer the point. His first remorse was being replaced by anger, an insidious rage building inside him which he did not fully understand.

It was not directed at Aaron Nicholstein, or whatever his real name was. He had probably been just another cog in the elaborate operation. Today, knowing rather more about the professional criminal community, Paul realised there had to other be people above Nicholstein who were ultimately to blame.

Paul jumped at a loud knock on his door. A man put his head round. 'Want anything tonight?'

'OK. Why not?'

'I'll put a fiver on your account with me.' The inmate placed a small spliff of hash on Paul's table. 'Sweet dreams.'

Thank God Ann couldn't see him. She would never understand why the smoking of hash was becoming a pleasant habit. It dulled his pain. Paul smoked it every second day.

* * *

The next day he was handed a visiting order. Ann never told him in advance when she was coming and this time had left a longer interval than usual between visits. Last time she'd told him she was going on a yachting holiday. That was a month ago.

When he saw her walking towards him, he was startled. She looked stunning, tanned and bare legged, her hair lighter and lovelier. His stomach tightened.

He forced himself to say. 'Tell me everything about your holiday.' Surprised by how normal his voice sounded.

'It was quite an experience,' Ann shrugged. 'But there are limits to what you can do on a yacht. After a while it starts getting a bit monotonous.'

'Who else was on board? Anyone interesting?'

'Oh, just wealthy middle aged couples.'

Was she keeping something back from him? She didn't meet his eyes but kept them fastened on her hands, folded neatly in front of her.

'I read in the paper that someone drowned recently on Mallorca,' Paul said. 'An English policeman.'

'Yes, I heard about it when I got back.' Ann was twisting her wedding ring round and round. He was noticing little things like this more and more. Was it just creeping paranoia?

'Still a long time left,' he said. 'Will you wait for me, Ann?'

She looked up, her turn to be startled. 'Of course! How can you say... Things will be back to normal when you get out.'

But would they? Paul wondered. He was only now becoming aware that his real problems could start on his release. During her visit he had studied Ann for any sign of sadness, despondency, but her responses had been smooth and automatic. Ann could obviously manage by herself. She had grown into someone who could handle responsibility. She had a pleasant, easy lifestyle. She was better off without him.

Back in his room, Paul sat on the bed gazing at the spot where the calendar had been.

From now on he would fill his empty days with planning what he would do when he got out.

He would find the person responsible for his downfall. It had to be possible, if he concentrated on it.

Then he would make that person pay for ruining his life.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE  
_________________________

South West London, 6th October 1987

Lawrence Sutcliffe parked his car down a small road opposite Southfield's Police station, walked through the main door and went upstairs to one of the first floor offices.

Pinned on the wall were maps of Europe and North America, flagged with the names of shareholders and banks in various countries. On another large board were the names of various companies and how the ownership of the shares was distributed.

It seemed that over forty thousand people were working for a criminal organisation. If the profits from all these companies were reinvested, which no doubt they would be, they would grow exponentially at the rate of hundreds of millions of pounds each year. It was like a cancer, growing and spreading – and the police were helpless to prevent it.

From Randolph Purcell's interview with Sarah Wilson and a detailed scrutiny of the share register, Sutcliffe knew that there were still months of work ahead abroad if they wanted to get closer to the real ownership of Purcell Industries. The Zurich Bank of Industry and Commerce was obviously central to the scheme, was not legally allowed to inform on its clients. And even if Erick Elgberg were proved to be behind the share dealings, they were still up against a complicated legal situation because of the many different jurisdictions involved. Freezing the ownership of the shares was impossible because of Higgins's paranoia about secrecy. The whole thing was a nightmare.

Sutcliffe felt a new approach was needed. By offering Paul Dockett an early release, they might be able to secure his co operation.

Sarah Wilson came in while he was pacing the room. He smiled at her. Sarah had been unremitting in her efforts to push the investigation along since Fox's death.

'We received these photos today from Box 850 – MI6,' she said, placing an envelope in his hand. Sutcliffe had seen photographs of Elgberg's yacht once before and had given up expecting anything worthwhile. He opened the envelope reluctantly. 'I think you'll find these interesting.' She smiled. 'They certainly show a new facet to our friend Elgberg.'

He drew out a large glossy A3 sized photograph and stared at it. 'Jesus Christ!' he gasped. The three naked people indulging in group sex were none other than Erick Elgberg and his wife – and Ann Dockett. 'What time was this taken?'

'Just before two in the morning,' said Sarah, 'so they weren't trying to get a suntan. It was taken by a plane very high up using special night lenses.'

Sutcliffe beamed. 'Excellent! Not only does it establish a link between Ann Dockett and the Elgbergs, it places her right in the middle of the action, so to speak. I wonder what our bank manager will make of this!'

'Shall I arrange a visit to Ford?'

'Quick as you can. This could be just the in we need.' Sutcliffe plonked himself heavily into a chair, still staring at the photograph. Sex, he thought wryly, was usually the key to opening most cans of worms.

* * *

Sutcliffe and Sarah Wilson had been given permission by the governor of Ford Open Prison to use his office for a couple of hours after he'd been shown a letter from the Home Office.

The administration building was on the other side of the main road, close to the shirt factory, the metal workshops and the large garden nursery, completely separate from the rest of the prison camp. Sutcliffe did not want Dockett to know that this was a police visit, as then he might refuse to see them.

Sarah Wilson had left nothing to chance. First she was going to chat to Paul informally, then she would shock him with the photographs. They had been lucky in obtaining another picture of the Elgbergs' roof garden at the Cave, showing the same three people having dinner. In addition to the photographs, technical experts had taped voices of people who had telephoned Elgberg. Nothing relevant had been said in these calls, which led Sarah to believe another unregistered telephone existed, but there was always a chance Paul Dockett would recognise a voice on the tape.

Paul walked alone to the administration building. He knew that a summons to the governor's office could only mean trouble and prayed that nothing had happened to Ann or his daughter, Elizabeth.

'Please sit down.' Sarah pointed to a chair and Paul sat, wondering who these people were and why the governor, to whom he said hello every day, wasn't present. She continued, 'I am Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Wilson and this is Detective Chief Superintendent Lawrence Sutcliffe of Scotland Yard. We're here to see if we can organise your early release.'

Paul was bewildered. Prisoners usually knew about legal visits within minutes of the police's arrival. Anyway they had nothing to do with setting a release date, Paul knew that.

'Mr Dockett, we know you're a decent man who got into trouble because of others,' Sarah began while Sutcliffe smoked a cigar. 'Mr Sutcliffe and I can help you if you will help us.'

'You want me to turn informer? Well, you're wasting your time. I wouldn't be able to stay at Ford if I grassed on anyone here.'

Sarah smiled. 'Take a look at this, Mr Dockett. It might change your mind.'

She handed him an enlarged photograph. He hesitated, knowing that if he looked at it he might be committing himself, but curiosity got the better of him.

At first he felt embarrassment on Ann's behalf, that she should have been seen naked and in such a compromising position. Then he realised that she'd been deceiving him. The concern and solicitude she'd shown during her visits were just play acting. Ann had other things to occupy her now. He slammed the photo face down on the table. 'Who are they?' he snarled.

'Erick Elgberg, your wife's employer, and his wife, Andrea. It was taken on board Elgberg's yacht. This one,' Sarah said, passing over another print, 'was taken only a few days ago. I'm sorry we have to show you these, but we need your help.'

Paul sat, breathing heavily. He clutched at straws. Surely Ann wouldn't willingly have gone along with this filth? She must have been coerced, even blackmailed. 'It's my wife who needs help.'

'Why?' Sutcliffe leaned forward. 'Judging from these, I'd say she was having the time of her life.'

'No! She wouldn't do that from choice. She was forced... Oh God, it's all my fault. I put her into that situation...'

'What do you mean?'

Paul shook his head. 'I need time to think.'

'I understand.' Sarah picked up the photographs. 'But before we go, see if you can recognise any of these voices.' She switched on the tape recorder.

For five long minutes Paul listened blankly to the tape. Then he asked her to run it back. The accent of Aaron Nicholstein was unmistakable.

'Thanks, I've heard enough.' He stood up, almost suffocated by jealousy and rage. His own wife sleeping with the enemy. 'I'll think about what you've told me. I'll get back to you,' he said in a dead voice.

Sarah opened her mouth to speak to him, but Sutcliffe stopped her. Better to let Dockett stew for a while. Then he'd be desperate to talk, Sutcliffe could feel it.

Paul shed silent tears all that night. There was no relief from seeing the evidence of his wife's infidelity. It was branded on his eyes.

Now more than ever before, he wanted revenge on the man who had robbed him of her.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO  
_________________________

Lodeve, France, Sunday, 11th October 1987

Cecilia had insisted that the wedding should be very simple. She had had difficulty arranging a Church dispensation for John, who had eventually signed a declaration that he would convert to Catholicism and that any children of the marriage would be brought up in the faith.

On the morning of the wedding she and John drove from the farm to the small village church next to her own house, where they had mourned the death of Michael. The service was simple but memorable. Afterwards they went back to the farm with their guests, where Madame Popougnot had prepared a feast which was set out on a long table in the yard, with Winston sleeping under it.

The guests included the priest, Monsieur and Madame Lebrun with their four children, Erick and Andrea Elgberg, Arthur and Diana Black, Randolph and Dorothy Purcell, Bertrand Boucher with his brother and mother, William and Vera Webster, and the eight men who worked on the lavender all year, together with their wives and ten children. John's connections all arrived by different routes and means of transport. Surveillance of the village and the lavender farm had been discreetly carried out by Jim and Neil Clark who by now knew the area better than most and were able to spot any car which was not local. They had informed John that the security would never be 100% which he accepted. Cecilia was not in any way aware of the precautions taken.

At the end of the table sat a beaming Madame Popougnot who had looked forward to and prepared for this day for months. At last Le Patron had made an honest woman of his mistress and Madame could now look forward with a clear conscience to the arrival of the little one.

When Monsieur Lebrun brought out his guitar and started singing some of the regions gentle songs, they all joined in as best they could.

* * *

The next day, John and Cecilia drove to Paris for a week's honeymoon. Cecilia had never been there. She had wanted no expensive gifts, just to be alone with John. Only after some argument had he bought a new but unpretentious Peugeot for the trip. Cecilia despised any form of ostentation.

'Mangez, abimez, suffire. Pas bosoir.'

"Eat it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Or do without," Cecilia had told John. 'Happiness comes only with a simple life.'

He did not comment, but smiled, while stretching out his hand to her.

They arrived in Paris late on Monday evening, after having stayed one night in a hotel outside Lyon. On Tuesday morning John sat drinking coffee outside their small hotel in the centre of the city. A kiosk a few yards away sold English newspapers, so he wandered over to buy the Daily News and The Telegraph.

On the front page of the News was the story of Purcell Industries' friendly takeover of Jensen Trust PLC, the huge conglomerate trading in Europe and America, one of the world's ten largest.

It had started with the theft of a single small pistol. And now he was sitting here, unnoticed, having achieved exactly what he had set out to do. A glow of pride filled him. Then, just as suddenly, he felt drained of all energy.

He went and bought all the English papers. Drinking his coffee, he picked up the Financial Times and read the three column front page report thoroughly. Only now did he realise the full implications of the merger, and the impact this could have.

He realised he must immediately take decisive action to permit Bertrand Boucher to assume complete control over the criminal operations. He should have done this much earlier, instead of prevaricating. Why couldn't he let go of the past? Was he afraid that the new power he had just achieved could not match his criminal pre eminence? Was it because it was his past, the base on which he had founded his legitimate power? Was he afraid of stripping himself of this power? Did he still crave power for its own sake?

Cecilia suddenly appeared beside him, making him jump.

'What has happened?' She glanced at all the papers. 'Business again! What's so interesting today?' She picked up one of the papers and looked at it.

'Nothing special,' John answered evasively.

'Non mon cher, pas de secrets. You are my husband. I want to know what is so interesting that you bought so many papers and did not even notice me? You think I am just a stupid little farm girl who will not understand.' She pinched him playfully on the arm. 'Tell me right now or all Paris will see my Languedoc temper!'

'OK, OK, if you insist. Read the story, not just the headlines.'

She shrugged, frowning with concentration as she read, then pointed at a photograph of Randolph Purcell. 'Monsieur Purcell! It is his company, n'est ce pas?'

'Non, c'est la mienne.'

She threw down the paper. 'Yours. What do you mean? I see no pictures of you.'

'I own Purcell Industries and now Jensen Trust, and many more companies besides.'

She stared at him in horror.. 'La croix que les femmes doivent porter.' What have I married?'

It took John hours to calm her down. Cecilia insisted on reading every English and French newspaper that carried news of the merger. In the end he convinced her he had made this investment so that he could sit back and concentrate completely on his new life with her, the lavender farm and their expected child.

'I understand when you say this, but don't expect me to believe it,' she said unhappily. 'I love you so much that it is a torment to me, but I realise I do not know you at all. Perhaps, mon cher, I never will.'

# CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE  
_________________________

Lodeve, France, Black Monday, 19th October 1987

Erick phoned at seven o'clock the morning after they got back from Paris.

'Hope you had a good honeymoon,' he said, and without waiting for an answer rushed on 'The stock market in New York suffered a 20% fall in one day, starting at two o'clock yesterday. They're saying it's worse than Black Tuesday in 1929. There's bound to be a knock on effect on the London Exchange in a couple of hours. We could have a major disaster on our hands. We have borrowed heavily to support the Purcell Jensen merger.'

John was silent for a few seconds. Then he said calmly, 'What's caused it?'

'No specific reason I can pinpoint. A bit of everything from the hurricane to computer driven speculation. If there had been the slightest indication of a drop in share prices, the markets would have been falling steadily over the past few days. In my opinion it's general lack of confidence with all this news about the Guinness affair, Irangate, Lloyds of London, insider dealing here and in the States. The Purcell Jensen merger may have played a part. I don't know.'

John's first thought was that the police investigation had set off a rumour about criminal involvement in Purcell Jensen and other quoted companies. Would they risk making their suspicions public? Surely not.

'I'm trying to work out what would happen if we started selling our shares,' he said slowly.

'Listen, Erick. Ask George von Fritzenberg to check with his contacts if they've heard the slightest rumour about a suspicious enterprise entering the market. Then look back over the last couple of weeks and see if anyone in the States has significantly unloaded Purcell or Jensen shares. Phone me back right away.'

John leaned back in the chair. Winston came in from the yard and slumped down at his master's feet, falling quickly asleep.

John and Erick had foreseen the risk of investing all available funds and their full borrowing capacity in shares, but John had been convinced that, because they were not in the business of speculation but were committed to long term share ownership, the vagaries of the market did not really affect them. But a downward spiral in share prices at this rate was a different matter entirely. Millions could be wiped out if the market continued to drop. The banks which held their shares as security for loans could start selling if they felt that security was no longer good.

He switched on the television and watched the news until Erick called back.

'In London it's sell, sell, sell. This ball will roll and roll. But George assures me there are no rumours about the Purcell Jensen merger being anything other than above board. There was some trading in our shares at the end of last week but nothing big.'

'Right,' said John, satisfied. 'Don't sell. I repeat, don't sell a single share. Hang on to everything we've got. Keep the banks with Purcell Jensen shares as security happy, and let it be known that we're buying shares.'

'That's impossible!' Erick gasped. 'I can't borrow a penny more with the prices expected to fall by twenty per cent here as well.'

John continued unperturbed. 'Tell Sam and Ann Dockett to be ready to travel. I'll instruct you later today where to locate funds. Pay them into the banks where they are most needed. I'm prepared to bet everything on the market bouncing back. And ask the banks to tell us the name of a prestigious, high profile company we can buy.'

'Buy!' Erick echoed in disbelief. 'What kind of money are we talking about here?'

'At least twenty five million which is available now. If it comes to it I can borrow from Italy four or six times that.'

Erick sighed. 'All right. Karen's just told me that Purcell's on the other line.'

'Come back to me as soon as you've got some news.' John put the receiver down and looked at the television screen, where a special news programme about share prices had just begun.

'Cecilia, come here,' he shouted. 'Please translate this for me!'

* * *

Erick phoned back later and conveyed a suggestion from Purcell.

During Tuesday night Purcell Jensen PLC bought the share majority in a subsidiary owned by various banks. It was called Bower Venture Capital PLC, and had invested money in 76 start up high tech companies. The banks felt that, in the present financial climate, this commitment was far too risky. Purcell Jensen bought the Bower shares as a gesture of good faith against the bank's promise not to sell any of the conglomerate's shares and to advise their clients to do the same, which should help stabilise the market. Purcell Jensen bought the shares in Bower Venture Capital at half the price they would have been a few weeks before and were given five years to pay.

'We're going public at a press conference at ten this morning,' Erick explained. 'We'll take that opportunity to present our new Group Managing Director, James Fisher, who will work closely with Randolph Purcell.'

'That's perfect, Erick. The press should like it. They can say a lot of positive things about the rescue of seventy odd new high tech companies.'

John was well satisfied, and not only with what Erick had told him. News of the rescue package would send a clear message to the team of Operation Vagabond to forget any high profile investigation into the death of Malcolm Fox. The government could not afford a scandal, particularly at this time. Any whiff of dishonest share dealings and it could be forced to resign and call a general election.

By the end of the day, shares in Purcell Jensen PLC had stabilised while other FTSE 100 companies were still in free fall.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR  
_________________________

Arundel, West Sussex, Friday, 22nd January 1988

Paul Dockett still had the job of cinema orderly. In his long solitary hours in the dark office behind the projection room, he considered his various options. Prison was a waiting room where time stood still, the perfect place for considering every detail of a plan. It was his only remaining pleasure.

Without wife, career or house, life as he'd known it was over for him. But he had one remaining purpose, one goal. The more methodically, but realistically, he planned, the more confident he felt, that it was going to happen. He knew that in the closed prison world dreams and plans could often get confused. He had to avoid that at all cost.

Paul had come to terms with what he had seen and been told by Sarah Wilson. The voice on the tape recorder was without doubt Aaron Nicholstein's. He had long suspected a link between Nicholstein, the man who had been instrumental in his downfall, and Erick Elgberg, his wife's employer, and now he had proof.

He had accepted that Harold and Jeffrey had links with Aaron Nicholstein, and Nicholstein was linked to Elgberg – but that Elgberg had blatantly used Ann as a plaything after having ruined her husband's whole life was unforgivable.

That photograph of them together still haunted him. That man, lying on his back, with his wife on one side and Ann on the other. The wife on his right, her head turned away. Ann facing Elgberg, her head on his shoulder, her hand between his legs...

The other photo, the one of them all having a meal on a roof garden, was just as wounding – perhaps even more so. The date showed it had been taken after the one on the yacht so Ann obviously enjoyed being with them. It had been entirely voluntary.

He had no confidence in the promises of the police.

They didn't want to help him; they wanted Elgberg, and at any cost.

The early release they had spoken of would at the best be a mere six month reduction of sentence. Elgberg would inevitably get to know about it and wonder why. It would need no great leap of the imagination to work out that Paul Dockett had made a pact with the police, told them all he knew. Then he would be a marked man. He would end up in a ditch with his throat cut, or drown accidentally like Inspector Fox.

Paul was in no hurry to be released. His marriage was over. He had nothing to go to. He would not cooperate. But, when he eventually did get out, he would live with Ann for a while so as to get close to Elgberg. He would choose his moment carefully and then he would strike.

* * *

Paul was called to the governor's office one morning a week later and found DCI Sarah Wilson waiting alone.

'I've decided to decline your offer,' he said. 'I like it here.'

'Then you'll have to serve another two and a half years,' she snapped. She could see he had made up his mind but she had one last card to play. 'Actually there is another set of photographs I didn't show you. I have them here. Take a look at them.'

Paul felt strong enough to see them. The more he knew, the better he could plan his strategy. He took the first photograph she held out, but at first could not recognise anyone. Then he realised that the woman lying on her back, with several pillows under her head and her legs spread wide, had to be Andrea Elgberg. Ann was the one on top. He recognised her hair. Her head was buried between the other woman's legs, her bottom slightly raised, half obscuring Andrea Elgberg's face. On the edge of the picture was Erick Elgberg, watching.

Paul screwed the photo up in his fist. Then he looked at the others. They showed Ann coming out of hotels, offices, restaurants. He was amazed at how elegant and sophisticated she looked. She had never dressed like that when she had visited him.

'Nice holiday shots.' He threw the pile across the table, pushed back his chair and walked towards the door. He was not giving in to blackmail. If anything, this last lot of photographs had made him even more determined to exact his own revenge on Erick Elgberg and his bitch of a wife.

Sarah tried one last time. 'If you don't cooperate, it could mean the end of our investigation into Elgberg. Surely you want to see him come to grief? I certainly would, if I were in your shoes.'

'But you're not, are you?' said Paul, leaving the room.

* * *

From Ford, Sarah Wilson went directly to a prearranged meeting at Scotland Yard with Higgins and Sutcliffe. She told them that Paul Dockett had refused to cooperate.

'I've had a word with my Minister,' said Higgins, 'who in turn has spoken to Number Ten. We think the time has come to wind up Operation Vagabond.'

Sutcliffe showed his feelings by decapitating a cigar.

'The Purcell Jensen merger,' Higgins went on, 'has shed a different light on the investigation. It's my Minister's view that nothing in the public interest can be achieved by continuing this exercise.'

'You want us to close down completely, sir?' asked Sarah.

'Personally, no. If something relevant happens on the stock market, we'll still need to investigate. So it's been decided that you, Miss Wilson, will continue alone for a time, concentrating purely on anything you can find that's relevant to Fox's death. You will report directly to Mr Sutcliffe.'

Sarah exchanged glances with the Chief Inspector who struck a match and lit his cigar, inhaling deeply. When he exhaled, he deliberately enveloped the man from the ministry in a cloud of evil smelling smoke.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE  
_________________________

Lodeve, France, 2nd March 1988

Push! Push! The child is close now!' shouted Madame Popougnot upstairs. In the kitchen John sat on a hard chair out of the way but not out of earshot. He had wanted to stay with his wife for the birth but she and Madame had been outraged by the thought. Then everything went quiet. A few minutes later, a furious howl cut straight to his heart. He had another child. He was a father once more.

'Une petite demi Anglaise!' Madame Popougnot gave him his newborn daughter wrapped in a blanket then returned upstairs to Cecilia.

John looked down at the tiny bundle in his arms. Her skin was soft and white, and she had a startling crop of black hair. Her blue eyes stared up at him, as if searching for recognition. She was perfect. They had already decided what they would call a girl.

'Hello Alina,' he said and gently kissed the top of her tiny head.

These days John hardly ever left the lavender farm. He had arranged for various taxi companies to pick up his mail from a constantly changing list of poste restantes.

Cecilia was worried that he was withdrawing completely into himself. He spent hours playing with Alina, but seemed to become easily tired. He read a lot and listened to classical music. When alone, he played the piano. His repertoire was becoming wider and he knew his playing continued to improve. Alone in the late evening Cecilia sometimes asked him to play.

Often he was still tired when he awoke, having slept badly. In the early hours he would twist and turn and Cecilia would roll against him, pressing her body into his as if she sensed his desperation. She said nothing, just held him close.

On other mornings, he awoke revitalized and full of energy and ideas for the lavender farm. On these days he felt confident in the future and went for long walks with Winston trotting along by his side.

Despite his resolution he still had not formally relinquished control over the criminal operations. Bertrand Boucher was nominally in charge, but the final decisions still rested with John. He knew Bertrand kept the details of occasional arrests and daily vicissitudes within the criminal enterprise. Large sums of money were accumulating in the Company's various holding accounts and only when he felt like it did he tell Erick to convert the money into more shares.

John had built up a huge Invisible Company, was able to control every aspect of it. But now he felt powerless to begin to dismantle it.

More than anything in the world he longed to be free of it, to live the quiet uneventful life of a Languedoc lavender grower, filling his days purely with thoughts of his farm, his wife and daughter. After twenty five years of controlling every aspect of the Company, John was ready to leave it behind. But how?

After months of reflection he had been forced to the reluctant conclusion that there are some positions which are not lightly abandoned. In the company his power was absolute, his word law. He was its uncrowned King.

And in the darkest reaches of the night he had come to suspect that there was only one way for this King to leave his Invisible Company – when another was ready to assume his mantle and strong enough to push him aside. Did he want Bertrand to demand or just take control? If that happened and John had outlived his usefulness, he could imagine his fate.

The King is dead... long live the King.

* * *

'Good to see you, Arthur,' said John, entering Black's of Mayfair. 'I just wanted to say hello. I'm only here for the day. How's Diana?'

'What a surprise!' Arthur took him upstairs to his elegant but untidy office. 'She's fine, as am I.'

'And how's the shop?'

'Wonderful. We're mostly open only to selected clients, by the way. I've become a highly regarded expert whom other dealers pay to consult.' He poured coffee, then raised one eyebrow at John. 'Anyway, enough of me. What brings you to London?'

John took his coffee and sat back. 'As you know, I want to relinquish the criminal operations but it's more difficult than I'd anticipated, just handing them over. Different loyalties at stake, that sort of thing. I want your advice.'

'Are you sure!' Arthur stirred his coffee, shaking his head. 'The drugs operation alone is worth millions and millions every year. You could agree a price and have it paid in property, shares, whatever, over quite a time.'

'If I do that, then I'm still involved until the end of the settlement period. And my name would be drawn into the negotiations, however careful we are. We both know that if something happened higher up in the organisation to alert police attention, I could find myself back in jail. I'm too old for that now. Since Michael died, I've even begun to question the morality of it all.'

Arthur studied him seriously. 'Old friend, I can only tell you what you already know. Even if you gave the entire criminal operation over to Bertrand, if in five years' time the whole thing collapsed, I'm afraid to say that in all probability you would still be dragged into any investigation, implicated and suffer the consequences. You've built up a large and highly diversified secret organisation, and it's taken over your life. You've been able to control, however remotely, the overall objectives of that organisation. You can foresee and defuse any possible danger. You have kept the power and no one has ever dared question that. But if you let go, anything could happen without your knowledge, and you would be helpless to take action.'

'But I have to get out. Surely there must be a way?'

Arthur shrugged. 'The only way I can see would be to dismantle the operations, one by one. But that could take years.'

'I haven't the time or the strength to do that. Closing down the operations might make enemies of friends, and I don't want that.'

'I agree.'

The two men looked at each other.

'John, when you created your group of groups, you created a power base which cannot continue in a vacuum. Take away the one central guiding hand and the whole gigantic concern could go under with devastating consequences for you as well as for everyone else.'

'I'm not sure you're right.' John understood Arthur's argument, but this was definitely not what he wanted to hear.

'Erick is in daily charge of his part and you don't have any problems there. If things went wrong, who knows what would happen? But why should they? You're in the background. Bertrand is very astute in business matters and ruthless in other ways. You couldn't have picked a better man to be in nominal control. But, John, you have to hang on in there as well.'

'Ruthless in other ways? What do you mean?'

Arthur could not quite meet his eyes.

'He uses the Clark brothers from time to time with my approval. They still work only on my or your instructions. And you've never queried it when he's asked for their services. What I'm trying to say is, maybe he uses them too often.'

'I see. Yes. But I trust him to do what's necessary.'

'He's a very strict disciplinarian. For further details you'll have to talk to him or the twins directly.'

'I'm meeting them later today,' John said, frowning at the prospect. He'd been hoping to talk to them about a handover of power but it didn't look as if the time was right.

* * *

For lunch, John had arranged to meet Catherine in the Dorchester Grill. This was the first time they had met since the divorce.

He had not looked forward to seeing her, fearing that the memory of Michael would be hanging over them. But when she walked towards him, he was glad to see that she looked well and happy.

'Thanks for coming,' he said. 'I wasn't sure that you would.'

She smiled. 'What's past is past, John. Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. Diana told me. I'm so pleased for you.'

'Thanks, Catherine,' he said earnestly. 'That means a lot to me, coming from you.'

'So what are you doing in London?'

'Oh, just having a couple of days off.'

She sighed and smiled. 'Ever mysterious! Never mind. I'm glad we've had this opportunity to meet, because I need your advice.' She took some papers from her handbag and gave them to him.

They were last year's accounts for the Cerne Estate and showed a loss of several hundred thousand pounds.

'What's this, Cathy? I told you I'd pay off all debts.'

'I want to sell,' she said firmly. 'I've thought about it for months, but your invitation today meant I could discuss it personally with you. I once promised you I would offer it to you first, remember?'

'Where would you go?'

'A house in London. Maybe Chelsea.'

'OK. I'll buy the Estate and get someone else to run it. Erick can arrange it.'

Impulsively, she took his hand and kissed it. 'I hoped you'd say that! Thank you, John. I've loved it for so long but finally I need to be free of it. To begin again, as you have done.'

'There are more new beginnings in the pipeline.' He took a deep breath. 'Nothing settled yet and it may be difficult to arrange, but I'm planning to get out for good – just a simple farmer from now on.

'Oh, John.' She slid her hand across the table to take his. 'You don't know how long I....' With a stab of guilt he realised he had hurt her again.

Throughout their marriage she had longed for him to leave the life, turn his back on crime, and stubbornly he had gone his own way, no matter what the cost.

Catherine wiped the tears from her eyes, stiffened her shoulders.

'I'm very pleased for you and Cecilia.' she told him in a more collected voice. 'Maybe one day I could be allowed to visit Michael's Place at the river? Would Cecilia mind, do you think?'

'Of course not. You are welcome any time. She understands these things.'

'Thanks, maybe after I have moved out. Now, won't you show me some pictures of Alina? I'm longing to see them.'

* * *

Jim Clark was waiting at Kingston Gate, Richmond Park, at four o'clock as arranged. To ensure he was not followed, John had taken buses and the train to Kingston, and then a taxi.

'Hello, Jim. Where's Neil?'

'He'll join us in a minute.' 'He's just making sure we've no uninvited guests.'

Jim led the way over the park and up a hill towards the edge of the plantation where Neil appeared and joined them. He confirmed that no one had followed John.

'So how's life?' he asked them.

'Fine,' said Jim, and Neil nodded. 'It's good news that the police have wound down Vagabond.'

'Is the bug still under the floorboards?'

'Yes. We can hear everything that goes on loud and clear, but there's not much to report now.'

'Then I think you'd better take it out.' As they walked along together, John remembered the first of these walks on Epsom Downs. It seemed a long time ago now. 'How do you get on with Boucher?' he asked, coming straight to the point. 'Can you handle what he asks you to do?'

Jim and Neil exchanged glances. 'Times have changed, Mr Forbes,' said Neil. 'I must admit we preferred the investigative work we did for you. Even the odd elimination was OK, when we knew it was part of a bigger picture.'

'So what do you do now that's different?' As soon as John had asked the question, he realised he had let slip that he did not know what work they had carried out for Boucher. That could be a mistake. For twenty years they had taken orders only from him, if sometimes through Arthur. Now they might realise that, although he had sanctioned their actions, it was only Boucher who knew what they were actually required to do.

'What's different, Mr Forbes,' Jim said slowly, frowning, 'is that now we only carry out eliminations. Six to ten a year on average. Mostly abroad, but it's getting dangerous for us personally.'

John tried not to show his alarm. 'I have every confidence in Bertrand,' he said finally, keeping his voice neutral.

'And the business has changed. Things go wrong all the time and we're called in to clear up the mess. Mr Boucher prefers to eradicate his mistakes rather than adapt to them.'

John was silent for a few minutes. 'I'm glad we've had this conversation,' he said at last. 'Do you want to get out altogether?'

'No,' said Neil firmly. 'But we can't continue like this for much longer.'

'We're both married now, and fathers,' Jim put in. 'We're not Gorbals thugs anymore, Mr Forbes, but respectable married men with children. We've our families to think about.'

'Leave it with me,' he said. 'I'll see what I can do.'

* * *

John phoned Bertrand Boucher from Heathrow Airport and asked to be picked up from Charles de Gaulle airport. They met that same evening in a flat close to the L'Etoile.

After Boucher had brought him up to date regarding the various operations, John said, 'The Clark brothers tell me that they're principally hit men now. Apparently they're quite frequently employed.'

'Is that a problem, John?'

'With so many eliminations every year, there is a danger of building up a pattern which the police could trace.'

'I don't think so.' Boucher sounded as calm as ever. 'We are extremely discreet. And elimination is always a last resort. Maybe more frequent because the organisation is bigger.'

John was silent. Deep down, he felt uncomfortable. He was being forced to make a decision as he was still in overall charge of the Company. He remembered Arthur's advice about keeping control but was sorely tempted to hand everything over to Boucher right this minute.

'If we don't keep strict control, it will be all over the place and increase our personal risk. I'm sorry if I have used your men too often. But it was necessary, as I say. I could recruit my own specialists for these tasks, if you agree?'

'I think that would be a good idea,' said John, realising that this was the only way of ensuring that the Clarks were released from their obligation to Boucher. 'But please limit the eliminations as much as possible.' He glanced round at the beautifully decorated sitting room. 'Have you moved from Montmartre?'

'No. But I also have a private life,' Boucher smiled. 'I adore beautiful homes, women, antiques and good food. My brother is still living in the old flat.'

John nodded, remembering Mona. So this was Boucher's retreat. He was human after all. 'And is the beautiful violin an investment or do you play?'

'I have taken lessons since I was five. Still do.' John thought about mentioning his interest in the piano, but decided not to say anything. Bertrand would probably know anyway.

'May talent is as a chef, not playing the violin,' the Frenchman went on. 'I took the liberty of starting dinner for us. I also made the guest room ready for you. It's too late to find a hotel. Come and sit in the kitchen and watch me, the master chef at work.'

'That sounds very pleasant,' John said, suddenly tired and disarmed by his casual and friendly approach. ' It seems you've thought of everything.'

'That's right,' Bertrand said. He put on a long white chef's apron and started to fillet a couple of plaice. Working deftly with a long slim blade.

An ex. magistrate and a man without scruples, how thoroughly at home he looked.
PART EIGHT

NEMESIS

# CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX  
_________________________

Arundel, West Sussex, England, Thursday, 7th March 1991

'Bloody hell! What a stench.' The warder stood looking at Paul Dockett from the doorway of his room.

He sat at the tiny desk, smoking a joint before going to bed. He did not bother to stub it out, realising there was nothing he could do to hide it. He would go on report and lose his job as cinema orderly, but so what?

'I want you at the gate tomorrow at seven.' The warder went to close the door.

'Why? You can't send me back to a closed nick without the governor's say so.'

The warder laughed. 'You fool, Dockett! You're being released. The parole board in their wisdom have knocked months off your sentence, so you'd better put out that spliff and get your bags packed.'

Paul could hardly believe his ears. Released? The word sounded almost foreign.

'You want me to phone your wife tonight?'

He shook his head. 'No, thanks. She's abroad.'

* * *

At exactly five minutes past eight the next morning, Paul walked out of the newly built reception building, not listening to the usual jokes and advice. He looked back for the last time at the cricket pitch then began walking the two miles towards Ford railway station. It was raining and a strong wind cut through his ill fitting clothes which smelled of mothballs and did not fit after years of prison food.

He had made a few acquaintances in prison, but intended to contact only Bradley.

After spending three hours at a probation office in the centre of London, arguing that if he were not allowed to work abroad he would without doubt be jobless for years, having no place to live and loose his wife, they finally agreed to give him special permission to leave the country.

He went to a travel agent selling cheap air tickets and bought one for Palma de Mallorca.

The same evening, on his arrival in Mallorca, he took a taxi to Cala Vinas where he found a telephone box outside Ann's apartment block. He dialled her number.

'Hello, Ann.'

There was silence for a moment, then a small, stifled gasp. 'Paul! Where are you? You've never phoned before. You sound very close....'

'I'm in the phone booth across the road.' Looking up at the block of luxury flats, he saw a hand lift a blind at one of the windows. Smiling grimly, he said, 'Yes, that's me.'

'Oh, my God! Why didn't you tell me you were being released? I'm not prepared...'

'I thought it would be a nice surprise, after all these years.' He hung up and walked across the road with a measured stride, arriving at the door to the building at the precise moment Ann opened it. She looked flustered, he noted with satisfaction. He kissed her, tilting her face with his hand, and followed her in to the lift.

He walked round the flat, admiring the furniture and the view from the balcony.

'Why don't we go out for dinner somewhere nice? I haven't had a decent meal for years,' he said, turning to her at last. This was what he had decided on doing, when sitting in his small prison room planning, planning, planning.

'What a good idea,' Ann said, sounding relieved. 'Let's do that.'

They drove to Palma and made small talk over the meal. Paul enjoyed keeping her in suspense. He knew she wanted to ask why he had been released early, but had no answer to give her. They arrived back at the flat about eleven o'clock.

'Let's have a drink out here,' he said, standing on the balcony. 'I know this has been a big surprise for you, but go on with your usual routine. After a week or two I'll probably go back to London to look for a job.' He paused, taking a sip of the brandy she had handed him. 'If you want us to sleep separately it's fine with me. I'll understand. I'm probably not up to much anyway.'

'What nonsense!' Ann sounded almost offended. 'Of course we'll sleep together! I wouldn't have it any other way.'

She hoped against hope that her voice sounded less hollow to him than it did in her own ears. After Erick and Andrea, sleeping with her husband held few attractions for Ann but dutifully she feigned enthusiasm. In her eagerness to fool him she did not realise that Paul was equally unenthusiastic.

* * *

The next afternoon they went for a drive. Parking beside a spectacular view of Palma bay, Paul suddenly said, 'Tell me about your life here. What do you actually do?'

Ann hesitated. She had known he would ask sometime and had decided to tell him exactly what she did. There was no reason to keep up the pretence.

'I travel as a courier for the Company.'

'Really?' He did not ask anymore, not even enquiring as to the business's name, but began reading a guidebook he picked up from the seat beside them.

She went on brightly, 'I'll phone the Elgbergs tomorrow and let them know you're here. Would you like to meet them?'

'Of course,' he replied, absent mindedly. 'They've been very good to us, haven't they?'

When Ann phoned Andrea, it was arranged that she and Paul should come for lunch at the Cave on Friday. Sam picked them up and drove them there. Although impressed by the Elgbergs' house, Paul tried to keep a noncommittal expression on his face.

'I'm very pleased to meet you at last.' Erick Elgberg, a big, admittedly handsome man, Paul thought, held out his hand. He took it briefly, gritting his teeth into a smile. It felt warm and solid, that hand that had touched every inch of his wife's body... God, he must stop thinking about it!

Elgberg was ushering him towards a sun filled patio, pulling out a chair for him. Paul looked round. Blue parasols matched the sun beds and tablecloth. The pool was almost the same colour. The yacht, the same one where Ann had been photographed, was anchored close to the shore, a gleaming white monstrosity.

The whole place was artificial, insulated from harsh reality by money and closely guarded privilege. He could not believe Ann would have allowed herself to be taken in by its showy glamour. Elgberg himself, although friendly, was all surface.

Underneath was a hollow, amoral man who had taken advantage of an innocent woman...

'Now, Paul,' his host was saying as he waved his hand to the waiter at the bar. 'What will you have? We must celebrate your release and drink to the future.'

'Thanks to you, it wasn't so bad,' he forced himself to say.

'Ah.' Elgberg placed in front of him an ice cold Tequila drink in a tall glass, frosted with salt round the rim and a slice of lemon stuck on the side. 'That topic is closed. I'm glad I was of some help. And I must say that your wife has been more than useful to us.'

It was as much as Paul could do to stop himself from circling the man's throat with his hands and slowly squeezing the life out of him. 'That's good,' he heard himself say. 'And I'm very grateful to you for looking after her so well. So here's to us!' He lifted the glass and poured the drink down his throat. He could see Elgberg watching him through narrowed eyes, slightly bemused by his attitude.

Paul replaced the empty glass on the table and said with a smile, 'You have a beautiful place here, Mr Elgberg.'

'Oh, please, call me Erick.'

'OK, Erick. Is this where you carry on your business activities?'

'Yes. I'll take you on a tour in a minute.' Elgberg had relaxed back in his chair. 'What did you do in Ford?'

'I was the cinema orderly. I've seen exactly two thousand, two hundred and fifty four films in there.'

Elgberg laughed. 'And what are your plans for the future?'

'Nothing at the moment.' Paul hesitated then added casually, 'When I worked at the bank I specialised in investments, but there's not a chance in hell of getting a job like that now.'

His ploy worked. Elgberg leaned forward. 'I could offer you work here for a month or so, if you're interested? Unfortunately there's no permanent post, but once you've updated yourself, we might find you a position in London.'

Paul tried to keep his rising excitement under control. His plan was working better than he'd dared to hope. Elgberg explained that he would be helping their companies' analyst.

'What you'll be doing is looking for companies which are asset rich and have a turnover of more than ten million pounds. You will go through the accounts and balance sheets and sift through the figures. Anything further you need to know, Karen Knudsen will be able to explain.'

'You're being extremely generous,' Paul said with a show of sincerity. 'I can assure you I'll carry out my duties to the letter.'

Elgberg smiled, looking satisfied. 'We'll give it a month and see how it goes. Oh, sorry, I forgot the most important thing. Is five hundred pounds a week all right? After tax, of course.'

'Well, thank you!' Paul forced himself to sound grateful, all the time actually conscious, that nothing Elgberg offered him could ever repay him for the theft of his wife.

Their business concluded, they walked slowly towards the house. Ann came towards them together with a slim, striking woman in a bikini who held out her arms.

'So this is Paul! I've heard so much about you! Welcome to Mallorca!' Before he could step aside, she had taken his head in her hands and kissed him on both cheeks.

'Pleased to meet you,' he heard himself say. Andrea Elgberg was certainly an attractive woman, but that was no excuse. The photograph swam in front of his eyes again. It represented a fraction of a second, but for how long had their sex sessions gone on? He felt himself begin to tremble with rage, but self control honed by his years of incarceration came to his rescue. Erick Elgberg had taken his elbow and was steering him away from the women.

'I'm going to show Paul round the offices. Back in a minute.'

As he was taken round, he made knowledgeable remarks about investments and interest rates, to show Elgberg that he had kept in touch with the financial world while he'd been imprisoned. He noted the wall charts on the Purcell Jensen group, and remembered the stock market crash of October 1987. Slowly he was piercing together the jigsaw in which he had been one tiny and insignificant part.

'As an ex bank manager,' he said, 'may I ask you why your investors come to you? Have your investment plans been more prosperous than others?'

'We don't invest only to get the highest return. We invest to gain control. You'll soon find out our methods.' Erick then introduced him to Karen, an elegant Dane who answered his questions guardedly.

'I think you can afford to forget about business today, Paul,' Erick told him eventually and led him back to the terrace. They spent some hours together and were driven back to Cala Vinas by Sam.

'I've been asked to arrange a trip abroad tomorrow,' Sam said before leaving them. 'I'll do it if you want.'

'No, it's all right,' said Ann. 'Where to?'

'It's an anywhere trip.'

She turned to Paul. 'You don't mind spending the day alone, do you?'

He smiled. 'Of course not, darling.'

Sam handed her a denim shoulder bag. When he had gone, Paul casually asked what an 'anywhere trip' entailed.

Ann explained that all she did was take any plane from Mallorca and post letters abroad. 'It's faster that way,' she explained, placing the bag on top of her own in the lobby.

During the night Paul tiptoed out of bed and took the denim bag into the toilet. Its fastening was just a leather string. Inside were five manila envelopes. He made a note of the names and addresses written on the envelopes. Of course they had to be posted abroad for security reasons, not because it was faster. Ann would know that.

The largest envelope was heavier, as if it contained a report. It had no name on it, only a PO box number in France.

Ann was fast asleep when he returned. Paul stood looking down on her. Her head was turned in exactly the same way as in the first photograph, her arm lying on the bed cover in the same manner as it had been draped over Elgberg.

He knew he would never forgive her. It was not jealousy that made the bile rise in his throat. It was disgust at the depth of her deceit.

* * *

Some days after Ann arrived back from her trip they went for a drive round the island, staying a night in Cala San Vincente and driving back along the west coast. Paul recognised the area they had passed through when they had gone to the Elgbergs. A bit further on, he stopped the car beside a harbour wall and turned off the engine.

'What's this place called?'

Ann consulted her map. 'Port d'Estellence.'

'That rings a bell! Wasn't that the place that policeman – what was his name, Fox – hired the dinghy? You know, the chap who drowned.'

He kept his face turned towards the sea, but out of the corner of his eye he watched his wife. She folded up the map, her face averted.

'Was it? I don't remember....'

'That's funny. It happened near Elgbergs' place. You must have heard about it?'

'I meant, I don't remember where he hired the boat. Of course I remember the accident. I was even questioned by the police about it.'

'Were you? Why?' This was more than Paul had hoped for. The plan was moving forward.

Ann shifted uncomfortably in the seat. 'Because I work for Erick, I suppose. And...' She drew a deep breath. 'And I saw Fox at the airport the day he arrived.'

'You were there on one of your trips, I suppose.' Paul started the car. He did not want to seem too interested.

'No.' She hesitated. 'I was given a photo of him. I had to follow him out of the airport.'

'Why?'

'I don't know.' She took his hand and played with his fingers. 'Does it matter now? He drowned. It was an accident. The police were perfectly satisfied.'

Paul started the car and shifted into first gear, driving off along the coast road. 'He shouldn't have gone out by himself,' he said idly. ' It looks dangerous out there.'

* * *

Paul worked at the Cave for six weeks. His job was to produce detailed analyses of companies which may or may not be selected by Erick and Karen. He realised that it would take years for him to be trusted with information about where the funds came from or how they were invested. What he could do was to study the two large wall charts and memorised the company details and their secret investors often mentioned only in codes, including finance houses and foreign banks. He had to memorise and write it down daily in small parts as soon as he was back at the flat. The only significant bit of information that Karen let drop was to mention a 'man in France', a few times. He wondered why she did not call him a Frenchman.

After six weeks, Paul felt he could no longer keep up his friendly facade towards Ann and the Elgbergs any longer and accepted Erick's offer of a job in London. He knew that Elgberg was satisfied with his work and that he could probably gain more information by working in one of the other companies which had to be less security conscious.

Paul had to break the news to Ann. He chose his time carefully. She was swimming in the pool in front of the flats and he was sunbathing on a lounger. Now could be as good as any other time. A copy of The Times lay beside his chair and idly he picked it up and his timing changed.

On the front page was the headline THE GREAT CHEQUE FRAUD, and underneath,

'Will confidence in the banking system be fully restored?'

Paul read it, his heart thumping. The story told how printed cheques, exact copies of large international companies' originals, with correct signatures and cheque numbers photographically transferred, had been banked all over England on the same day. Each cheque was for an amount of between forty to sixty thousand pounds.

Around five hundred such cheques had gone through the banking systems of four major banks. After the normal internal clearance procedures, the amounts had been paid into recipient's accounts opened months before, all with standing orders made out for that date, to ensure that the money was transferred abroad within hours of clearance.

Paul knew that from there the money would be transferred from bank to bank, country to country, until it was nearly untraceable, finally buying Krugerrands, gold bars, art, drugs, diamonds, stamps, jewellery, expensive antiques, untraceable Government bonds and similar items. He quickly worked out that up to thirty million pounds had been siphoned off in this way, without anybody noticing until it was too late. How simple. To forge cheques was a hundred times easier than forging money, he thought.

He sat back. To be able to carry out such a vast fraud, the perpetrators had to have had inside information.

The very information he had given Harold and Jeffrey at Ford.

And from them the information could have gone to Aaron Nicholstein – and from him to Erick Elgberg?

For a moment Paul felt as if he could not breathe. His heart skipped a beat. He could go back to prison when the police started their investigation. No one would help him. He knew that from the previous time. He had been used again.

Ann was climbing out of the pool and coming towards him, rubbing herself with a towel. Paul looked at her through half closed eyes.

'This company we work for,' he murmured. 'I've been wondering... There must be someone in overall control?'

'There is.' She stopped drying her hair. 'He's everywhere and nowhere.' She laughed dryly. 'Invisible.'

'I don't know what you're on about.' But Paul had got his answer. He picked up The Times again and began to reread the front page.

'Are you listening to me, Paul?' she asked.

He looked up, frowning. 'Sorry. What did you say?'

'I've met him.'

'You met an Invisible Man?'

'Yes.' Ann lay down on the next lounger. 'In the most magnificent restaurant in Cannes. We had dinner together. He made me feel like the most important person in the world, but he had the most sorrowful eyes I've ever seen.'

'Should I be jealous?' He tried to make his voice sound light and easy.

'Of course not! He would have been the same with anyone else. He was only killing time with me. We kept being interrupted by telephone calls. Then he tore an important man apart, with a few words, signed some papers and sent me on my way to Gibraltar.'

'Really?' Paul turned a page, casually.

'An unusual man,' she murmured. 'Knew a lot about wine. I got the feeling he owned an estate somewhere in France.' She did not give John Forbes name, not even to her husband. John's warning had made an impression on her.

'Lucky him,' remarked Paul, heart thudding.

The French PO box number – Karen's 'man in France' – Ann's meeting with this enigmatic stranger in France – her connection with Malcolm Fox – and now the cheque fraud.

It was all coming together.

* * *

The next day Erick told him that there was a job as financial manager at the Purcell Jensen head office in London, in charge of checking the collateral various banks were holding for the group all over the world. The job was exactly right for Paul; so right, in fact, that he suspected Elgberg had manoeuvred him from the Cave because he still had designs on Ann.

She herself had decided to stay on in Mallorca, but promised to visit him often. Well, that was all right with Paul. Their life together had been strained, their sex life mechanical, loveless, and less and less frequent.

He did not even look on her as his wife anymore. She was someone else's now. It would be good to get back to London and concentrate on his plan.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN  
_________________________

Lunch time, London, Friday 5th July, 1991

'Have you heard the news?' one of the women working in Paul's section asked, while giving him the tuna sandwich he'd ordered, a Seven Up and some change. 'It just happened.'

'I don't know what you are talking about?'

'You were a manager at BCCI bank once, weren't you?' she asked.

'Yes, I've told you that.'

'The authorities have just closed down all their branches, fraud and laundering drug money, they said.'

'Closed the branches all over the world?' Paul was taken by utter surprise.

'That's what they said,' the women confirmed. 'You can hear it on the radio.'

Walking angrily towards his rented flat in Surbiton from the station the same evening, he could think of nothing but the way the disgraced bank had behaved towards Ann and him. They were the real reason she had been forced to work for bloody Elgberg and his mob; they had not given the Docketts a chance, just demanded the house to be sold and loans repaid. They must have been involved in all kinds of fraud and given badly secured loans to associates for large back handers at the exactly same time as they went to the police regarding him.

But Paul could not take revenge on a failing bank. He had already seen the queues of people standing outside BCCI branches, hoping their saving were not lost.

Then he thought of Erick Elgberg.. He had wasted enough time. It was time to act.

* * *

As soon as he was inside his flat Paul phoned Bradley. After handing over £800, that same evening he possessed a gun and ammunition.

Next day he phoned work and explained he was sick. Instead of going in to St. James's he went by train to the New Forest and practised. The noise was incredible, but at least he learned how to load and unload the gun.

He usually telephoned Ann once a week, but had not so far returned to Mallorca to see her. On his next call he said casually, 'I've decided to buy a flat. The mortgage company need your signature on some papers. Is it OK for me to come at the end of next week?'

'Actually, Paul,' she said, 'Erick, Andrea and I will be having a party that Saturday on the yacht. We will be sailing at four in the afternoon and be back late. Bring a dinner jacket.'

This was a stroke of luck! He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he answered, 'That's terrific. I'll phone you before I leave.'

In the meantime Paul wrote down every detail he had found out about Erick Elgberg, the Invisible Company, the man in France, the Purcell Jensen ownership, the companies which invested on Erick's demand, Malcolm Fox's murder and his own connection to the recent cheque fraud scandal.

That evening he typed it out as neatly as he could. There were 28 pages altogether, the information backed up with enough facts to satisfy the most pedantic of investigators. The next morning he found a print shop which would let him copy and bind the report himself and bought six large envelopes. Back in his flat he addressed them to DCI Sarah Wilson, Morris Green his solicitor, and one each for the Sunday Times, the Telegraph and the Financial Times. The sixth he addressed to Erick Elgberg and placed it in his holdall..

Paul worked as normal throughout the week until Friday. On his way to work that morning he posted all the reports.

That evening, Bradley and he were on a plane en route to Palma. Neither of them was stopped in Customs. In Palma airport's toilet Bradley removed with a tool the metal plug he had placed in the gun barrel, to be able to argue that it was just an innocent toy, which could be bought anywhere in London. He had brought a catalogue with him as proof.

Outside the airport Bradley looked at Paul and held the gun back from him wanting to argue with him, but seeing his friend's expression he handed it over. Later the same evening Bradley was on a plane out of Palma. He did not like what Paul might be up to. Anyway, he had done what Paul had paid him for.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT  
_________________________

Palma, Saturday, 6th July 1991

Captain Pedro, L'Acquisition's skipper recognised Paul and welcomed him aboard, leading him to the aft deck.

Elgberg, in his customary white tracksuit, was sitting in a lounger. Ann and Andrea sat at a table nearby under a large blue sun umbrella.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Two hours before the other guests were expected. Paul had not been told who else was coming, and it made little difference to him anyway.

'Make yourself comfortable,' Erick told him in a laidback way. 'It is a very hot day. Shall I get the steward to take your things to a cabin? Do you want to change?'

Paul noticed the emphasis on 'a cabin' and glanced at Ann who did not meet his eyes. Obviously he was not intended to share hers – not that it had been on Paul's agenda, but was this Erick's, Ann's or Andrea's idea?'

'I'm fine,' he answered. 'I'll take my things myself in a minute. Thanks for inviting me.'

'We'll be cruising north this evening, past Puerto de Valldemosa, a beautiful village. As the tourists can't get to it, since there is only one tiny road leading there, it is still very much an original fishing village.'

'Interesting,' mumbled Paul. Elgberg was just showing off. Showing who was in control, or so he thought.

'From there we will sail slowly on to Puerto de Soller,' Erick continued. 'It's a natural circular harbour. With the light and mountains behind, it's a magnificent sight. I take it you haven't been there?'

'No. No, I haven't. Sounds great.' Paul wished he would just shut up. 'I think I will go and leave my things in a cabin.'

'Good idea,' Erick agreed. 'Maybe take a nap for an hour or so.'

Paul nodded. He was in no hurry. Now the time had come it would be even more satisfying with an audience.

* * *

At nine o'clock, fourteen people were seated around the dining table, which was beautifully decorated with a pink tablecloth, long pink roses and fine Limoges porcelain. After sundowners followed by champagne, the party was in a light hearted mood. The men were wearing dinner jackets, women wore their best evening dresses. A lobster and calamares salad had just been served.

Paul had not drunk anything other than sparkling water.

To his right sat Ann. To his left, Dorothy Purcell. Randolph Purcell had not even said hello to him. James Fisher, the new managing director of the Purcell Jensen group, he knew from the newspaper coverage. He'd been far too lowly to come into direct contact with him in the St James's office. Erick and Andrea were sitting at either end of the table. Paul recognised George von Fritzenberg, even if he had not met him or his wife before. The company solicitor and his barrister wife he had been introduced to previously.

But the person who interested him most was the Frenchman, Bernard Boucher. He was accompanied by a stunning tall blonde in her thirties. He understood from the conversation she was a respected professor of psychology from Paris.

Was this man Boucher, the real boss? It was too late for him to find out. The police would have plenty of time by investigating after this evening.

The main dish of roasted suckling pig was served. Paul looked down at the glazed and shining carcass so undignified in death, its mouth set in a rictus of a grin around the apple that filled it... If only Erick Elgberg could be brought so low.

Now or never, he told himself. There was no way back. It would all start happening if he just got up...

Before he realised it he had pushed back his chair and stood up, sliding an envelope out of his breast pocket.

Conversation gradually died down. The stewards had left them to serve themselves. All the guests looked at him. He coughed, as if he was preparing to make a speech.

'I've come to give you this.' He pushed the brown envelope across the table towards Elgberg, feeling more at ease now he had set the wheels in motion.

'What's this, Paul?' Erick got up and reached out, turning it over in his hands.

'Open it.'

Erick tore it open and took out the report. As he read the first page, then flicked the others, his eyes narrowed. A vein started to throb in his temple.

'Who wrote this?'

All conversation had stopped. Only the engine could be heard together with the water churning against the sides of the slowly moving yacht.

'I did.'

Every eye was on Erick, registering his reaction to what was written in the report. He said quietly, 'What do you want, Paul? Money? Is that what this is about?'

'What I want,' he said with an oscillating voice, 'is for the captain to sail close to the shore.'

'I don't think so.' Erick smiled, an icy, humourless expression.

Paul slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and brought out the gun, pointing it directly at Elgberg. 'Now what do you think?' He noted with satisfaction that everyone round the table was starring at him, paralysed in horror.

Ann rose, her eyes like saucers. 'Please, Paul...'

He took a step back.

'Sit down,' he commanded. 'Now you,' waving the gun from Erick to Andrea, 'do as I say or I'll kill that fucking cow.'

'Tell us what you want, Paul. We can set you off at Puerto de Soller or more or less anywhere if you use one of the smaller boats we have onboard. How can we help you if you don't say what you want?'

The two men faced each other across the table.

'Sit!' Paul shouted as loud as he could. A bullet struck the table with a thundering blast that deafened them.

Erick sat down, horrified. He could tell Paul was serious. And undoubtedly mad.

Bertrand put his arm round his companion. Dorothy Purcell started crying quietly. No one dared make a move to comfort her as Paul continued to address Erick.

'This morning I posted various copies to newspapers in London. You can guess what's in it. The Invisible Company will die a quick death. You'll all be arrested and spend years in prison. Just like I did.'

'Whatever it is you want, this is the wrong way to go about it.' Erick broke in. 'I know you are serious, but Paul, I thought we were friends...'

He snorted. 'Friends? A friend doesn't do what you did to me. You were involved with Aaron Nicholstein and that fraud at BCCI, weren't you? I spent more than four years locked away in a stinking prison, because of you and your greed.'

'I swear I had nothing to do with that. But I certainly helped you once I knew of your predicament.'

'Oh, yes, you helped. You were more than friendly with Ann. You and your wife.'

He had rattled Erick at last. 'What are you talking about?' he demanded.

'You know exactly what I'm talking about. I've seen police photographs.' He let this information sink in, watching Ann out of the corner of his eye. She had gone deathly white and sat quite still.

'A relationship did develop between us,' Erick said carefully. 'But when you came back we put an end to it. Don't blame Ann. It wasn't her fault.'

Paul shrugged. 'I'm going to take her with me,' he said. 'I want her off this ship, and I want to deal with you personally.'

'Nothing can possibly be gained...' Andrea tried.

'Just shut up, you lesbian cow! Yes, if you all want to know,' Paul swivelled his head so as to include the other guests in the conversation, 'both our hosts have entertained themselves here on the deck with my wife. If you don't believe it, I'm sure the photos I've seen will be all over the front pages once the police leak them.'

He steadied his hand and pointed the gun straight at Andrea again.

'We can arrange whatever you want,' Bertrand Boucher told him in a calm, steady voice.

'Are you going to kill us all?' challenged Erick. 'And drag Ann off against her will? You'll never get away with it.'

'She has no choice,' Paul snarled. 'She's been hypnotised by you and your bitch of a wife. I want her off this yacht so I can tell her the truth about you and this whole stinking set up.' He waved the gun towards Erick. 'Stand up and turn around.' When he obeyed. Paul walked round the table and pressed the gun hard into the small of his back. 'One wrong move and I'll kill you.'

He waved the others towards the gangway. 'Don't try anything, any of you. Go up to the bridge.'

Ann was making small mewing noises of pure fear. It annoyed him. 'Shut up and lead the way.'

As Andrea passed, following Ann up to the bridge, she threw Paul a cold, hate filled glance.

'You bloody Danish dyke,' he said to her, 'tell the captain not to do anything stupid or your husband's dead.'

'This won't get you anywhere,' she started, but Paul pulled Erick's head back and rammed the gun to his forehead.

'All right! All right! I'll do as you say.'

Ann opened the door to the bridge and entered, followed by Andrea and the other guests with Paul and Erick at the rear. There were only two people on the bridge, thank God, the captain and the helmsman.

'Stand against the wall. Do as I say and nobody will get hurt. But you, Mr Erick bloody Elgberg, are going to pay for what you've done.' Paul waved the gun at Captain Pedro, who was gazing at him in astonishment. 'Tell your captain to take the yacht closer to the shore so Ann and I can get off. Do it. No arguing.'

The captain looked helplessly at Erick. 'If I take her closer, we'll run aground. There are rocks everywhere.'

'So what?' Paul yelled. 'Who cares what happens to your bloody boat? Just take us closer so we can jump. Ann, get out on deck.'

The Captain closed his eyes and gave his crewman the order to get closer to shore as Paul instructed.

'Jesus, Dockett!' Erick tried to straighten up, but Paul had bent his arm behind his back. 'What are you trying to prove? She doesn't want to go with you.'

Paul glanced out over the side. They were nearing the shore. Jagged cliffs loomed up before them. 'Closer!' he ordered.

'We'll be holed...' the captain began to protest, but Paul waved the gun towards him, for a moment taking his eyes off Erick.

Andrea threw herself at him, clutching at his wrist. He fought her off cursing and trying to regain control. Suddenly a shot rang out, followed by two more. Andrea fell backwards, and then Paul was grabbed from behind and swung round to face the captain. Two more shots were fired and Captain Pedro stumbled back, blood pulsing out of his chest.

Paul staggered forward, panting. He saw his wife slumped against the wall, blood trickling down her face. 'Ann!' he shouted, then Erick sprang at him and Paul dodged through the door and jumped for the shore.

He heard shouting behind him as he hit the water.

Back on board, there was chaos. Erick held Andrea, who had been shot in the leg. Captain Pedro was lying on his stomach, blood widening in a pool round him.

Suddenly they were all thrown sideways and there was a deafening sound of metal scraping against rock.

'Take care of your wife, Erick.' Bertrand Boucher struggled to keep on his feet. 'Listen everyone. Get off now, while there's still time. Purcell, try to get the captain to the shore. I'm going to take care of Dockett.'

Erick turned back to his wife. There was blood trickling down her left leg. He took off his shirt and tore it into strips, tying them round the wound. Andrea moaned, clinging to him. Lifting her gently, he carried her out on deck where the crew were trying to free the lifeboats. The towering cliffs were near enough to touch, and treacherous rocks all around.

One of the crew spoke over the loudspeaker. 'Abandon ship now! Abandon ship!'

Erick held Andrea against his chest and jumped over the rail. He narrowly missed a rock as he plunged into the water. Andrea, who had fainted, slipped from his grasp. Desperately he clutched at the rock while he regained his breath, then dived down after her. He felt he was falling through space and time reaching out for Andrea, but unable to touch her. He surfaced for air, and dived again.

Then he saw her. He grasped her arms and pulled. Blood poured from the wound in her leg. Erick's lungs were bursting. A moment later he was holding her and kicking for the surface, dimly lit by the moon. He swam strongly towing her towards the rock, praying the tide would not hurl him against them. Gasping for air, Erick pressed his mouth over hers, forcing breath into her lungs. After what seemed an eternity she gave a cough, rolled over and vomited sea water.

He fell back gazing at the dark sky, oblivious to the cries of distress and alarm all around him.

# CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE  
_________________________

Palma de Mallorca, Sunday, 7th July 1991

'How's my wife?' Erick asked the doctor as soon as he reached the hospital. Andrea had been taken there by helicopter, together with Ann and the Captain. Erick had followed by ambulance.

'She's in theatre. They're going to operate any minute now.'

'What about Mrs Dockett?'

The doctor shook his head. 'I'm very sorry. She and Captain Pedro were dead on arrival.'

'And Paul Dockett?'

The doctor frowned 'I'm sorry we've admitted no one of that name tonight. Everything is rather chaotic here.'

Erick waited all night for news of Andrea. It was seven in the morning when the same doctor reappeared, looking exhausted. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Erick.

'Your wife will be all right, but we've have had to amputate her left leg under the knee. She would have died otherwise. The high velocity bullet pulverised the bone and I believe she hurt the leg further when both of you jumped from the yacht.'

'Then you did the right thing.' Erick closed his eyes, unable to hold back his tears.

Late that day he was allowed to see her. Andrea looked fragile and tiny in the hospital bed.

'What happened to Ann?' she murmured, after he had sat beside her and taken her hand.

'Dead.'

Andrea closed her eyes wearily.

'Captain Pedro too,' Erick told her in a broken voice.

'How will we survive?'

'We just have to.'

For a long moment they just clung together.

'I wish I were dead. Do you know what they've done?'

'Yes.'

'How will I manage? Never to walk again, to dance, to ski...'

He was determined not to give way to despair. 'At least you're alive, Andrea. And you have me to help. We'll face every problem together, I promise. Do whatever it takes. Don't you know how much you mean to me? When I think I could have lost you...'

Tears streamed from her eyes. She started to shake.

'Andrea,' he continued urgently, 'I love you and we'll always be together. You've always supported me. Now it's my turn.'

She closed her eyes and fell asleep. Erick sat holding her hand.

* * *

Later that day he called the Cave where they had heard about the disaster from a special news bulletin.

'Hello, Karen. Det er mig.'

'Thank God! We heard on the news you were alright, but I wasn't sure if I should come or stay here. What happened...'

'Are you alone?' he interrupted her.

'No. I have some staff here.'

'That's good. You'll have a lot to do. Listen, Karen. Please do as we planned in case of an emergency. I'd be there with you but Andrea had to have her leg amputated. Can you manage alone?'

He heard a strange sound. If this hadn't been cool withdrawn Karen Knudsen he was talking to, he'd have sworn she was crying.

'Of course,' she told him shakily. 'And, Erick... I just thank God you're alive.'

* * *

Next morning the local police took statements from the Elgbergs. The crew and all who had escaped the yacht safely had already made theirs. The police were in no doubt as to what had happened.

As the Elgbergs had Danish passports, the police report was faxed to the Politigaarden in Copenhagen where, shortly afterwards, it arrived on Tim Larsen's desk. He read it several times, considering the information, before dialling Detective Chief Superintendent Lawrence Sutcliffe at Scotland Yard.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY  
_________________________

Victoria, London, Monday, 8th July 1991

Detective Chief Superintendent Sutcliffe, DCI Sarah Wilson, Graham Higgins, the Assistant Commissioner of Police for Specialist Operations, a well known barrister and two Branch Crown Prosecutors sat around a table at Scotland Yard. It was seven o'clock in the evening.

Sutcliffe explained in detail what had happened on the yacht in Mallorca the Saturday before. He had the Spanish reports in front of him.

'So at the moment we don't have a prosecution witness?' The barrister looked displeased. 'We may not be able to rely on Dockett's report in Court either. Maybe it will not be admissible. The information it contains is the key to your whole case against Elgberg. Surely the Spanish Police must be able to find him? Mallorca's comparatively small.'

'What can we charge Elgberg with?' asked Higgins.

'Conspiracy to murder Malcolm Fox! We have Dockett's evidence that he knew when Fox arrived in Palma, had him followed. His appearance in the boat, must have been disastrous for Elgberg,' Sutcliffe said, promptly and angrily. 'Conspiracy to defraud. Laundering of money and the financing of crime. Buying shares without declaring the true owners' identity. Insider trading. The blackmail of Randolph Purcell and Sir Conrad Jensen is a possibility. And that's just for starters.'

Higgins busily made notes.

'What about the Englishman in France whom Dockett mentioned?' Sarah put in. 'Do you believe he could be behind it all?'

'We'll find him,' Sutcliffe said reassuringly. 'We've asked the French Police for assistance. However, at the moment I can't see we have anything on him.'

'Shall we get statements from Purcell and Jensen?' Sarah asked.

'Soon. Let things develop. I expect they'll be only too happy to cooperate to save their own skins once the shit starts hitting the fan.'

Higgins shuffled his papers together. 'I'm still concerned about the stock market reaction if this story breaks.'

'Not much we can do about that. We've waited too long as it is.' The Deputy Chief Commissioner looked round at them all in turn. ' As soon as the CPS have confirmed the charges, we'll arrange for the Spanish Police arrest both the Elgbergs. I suggest we bring them back from Mallorca asking for extradition. As soon as we know when they can travel, get a private plane for top security.' He brought his gaze to bear on Sutcliffe. 'The offices of all companies involved must be searched. That includes Hamlet Accountancy, Higginson Investments, Auto Trade Factors, Mirage, Thomas Wren's and Elgberg's premises on Mallorca. I don't think we will have any more problems with the Spanish police, so let them do it, but send someone there to overlook. We want simultaneous operation on Wednesday, tenth of July. I'll authorise the necessary manpower. And that,' he said decisively, getting to his feet, 'concludes this meeting.'

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE  
_________________________

Palma de Mallorca, Thursday, 11th July 1991

'Erick Elgberg?' Plain clothes British and Spanish policemen appeared besides Erick as he sat in a hard hospital chair next to Andrea's bed. The British policeman flashed his ID and continued.

'We have an arrest order for you and your wife. You're wanted to face criminal charges in the United Kingdom. You and your wife will be flown to UK as soon as the Spanish Court has sanctioned these papers and the doctors give their permission.'

'This is an outrage,' said Andrea, fighting to sit up.

'We're Danish citizens!' Erick protested. 'We'll have to take legal advice.'

'Denmark very seldom extradites its own citizen. So if you return you'd be tried there, as I'm sure you know. Denmark has not asked for you and does not intend to, so you are going to London. If you object, it can be dragged out for a long time but, believe me, it will happen in the end. Ask any solicitor.'

'What are the charges?'

'These. Read them yourself.' The policeman handed over a lengthy legal document.

Andrea clutched at him. 'Tell me what it says, please, Erick?'

'They are charging me with conspiracy to murder Malcolm Fox,' he said in disbelief. 'It's completely absurd! I never even saw the man. I have a cast iron alibi. The rest are mainly conspiracy to defraud. You're named as an accessory but don't worry about it, please. It's nothing but a try on, we all know that.'.'

'Get a solicitor flown to here from London or Madrid,' his wife urged him. 'You don't expect us to pack our things and come with you today, I take it?' she addressed the policeman.

'Of course not. We won't do anything before the doctors give us permission and that won't be for some time, apparently.'

'Any news about Paul Dockett?'

'No, we have called in extra men from Barcelona to help,' the Spanish detective said.

'Can I make some private telephone calls?' asked Erick.

'As many as you want, but please do not try to arrange an escape. The hospital has been surrounded by armed police and all other patients have been moved from this floor.'

* * *

Erick dialled John's special number.

'Get someone to represent us. We're in no hurry to go to London. Better if it all cools down first.'

'It's already in hand,' John coolly confirmed and instantly rang off. Erick knew about the need for security, but could not help feeling hurt that John had not enquired after Andrea or himself. He probably knew all there was to know. His intelligence gathering was always second to none. Maybe his people were already in the hospital or at least close by?

But the personal touch wouldn't have gone amiss.

Erick and Andrea were astonished to see Arthur and Diana on the Friday after the disaster.

'Did you think we would just leave you to cope alone?' Arthur said.

Diana perched on Andrea's bed and listened sympathetically as she described what the doctors had done and her anticipated schedule for recovery.

At the end of an hour, Arthur said, 'Rubinstein's waiting outside with a couple of barristers. I think you'd better talk to them.'

Erick leapt out of his chair. 'Why didn't you say so?'

'We pay them, they can wait a bit.' Arthur made him sit down again. 'Rubinstein thinks it best if you agree to go to London to answer these charges, rather than trying to fight them. You'd never succeed and then when you did arrive in England you'd be kept on remand for years. If you both agree to go voluntarily, I will arrange someone to stand surety to the tune of a million pounds. You'll have a good chance for bail after a while. Say six months or so. Andrea will be allowed to stay in a London hospital. Anyway, I believe a cosy English prison is better, than being forced to learn to speak Spanish here in God know what kind of conditions. Both the English and the Spanish barristers waiting outside agree.'

'What a mess!' Erick slumped in his chair and rubbed his face wearily. 'And it's all happened so suddenly. It will take years to repair the damage, even if we manage to scrape through this. And to think I actually believed the Company had pulled it off. We were so nearly legitimate. It must be nemesis, as we always say in Denmark.'

Arthur wandered over to the window and looked out. 'At least you're still alive and in the safest possible place surrounded by both Spanish and English policemen. I know that John has had moral scruples over the last few years, but it's difficult to live on the wrong side of conventional morality, even if it's the right side of criminality, without disaster surfacing.'

'I wonder where that blasted Paul Dockett is?' asked Erick, looking at the back of Arthur, still standing looking out.

'I don't think he's going to surface.' Arthur turned round, looked at Diana and Andrea who were still talking, put a finger on his lips and then made a horizontal move across his throat with the same finger.

Erick closed his eyes.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO  
_________________________

Lodeve, Friday, 12th July 1991

Randolph Purcell flew to Montpellier, where John met him and drove back to the farm.

Purcell was looking jittery and had lost weight.

'I don't want to find myself in the middle of the firing line,' he said. 'That accident on the yacht and rumours about the report, that madman wrote have shaken me. It's strange, but the police didn't question me about the share dealings after they inspected the files months ago. Now they'll obviously also want to hear my version of how the Jensen Purcell merger was financed.'

'They will be knocking on your door, be sure of that,' said John. 'Just before you're called as a witness, if it comes to that.'

Purcell paled. 'I can't afford to be involved! The whole Purcell Jensen group would suffer and your investment would be severely compromised. It might be too late even now. Aren't you concerned about that?'

'Believe me, I'm taking this very seriously. We'll talk it through tonight. Before tomorrow we'll have a solution worked out.'

Cecilia had a meal ready for them, and afterwards John and Purcell walked in the lavender fields.

Purcell looked around him, frowning. 'You could build a swimming pool here. I'm sure Alina would like that.'

John smiled. 'I am sure she would but my daughter will know only the simple life. As a boy I hungered to be rich, to buy the Cerne Estate, marry the lady of the manor and all it ever brought me was unhappiness. Besides, Cecilia hates any form of ostentation. Happiness for her is the simple life. To be married to someone she loves, to have a child, to own a house and work the land. She's happy to let God take care of everything else.'

'Maybe she could have a word with Dorothy some time?' joked Purcell.

John shook his head silently. They walked on down to the river and sat down on a bench. 'This was my son's favourite spot. We call it Michael's Place.'

'A terrible loss.'

'Yes. I still find it difficult to talk about him.' John gazed out over the water, then shook himself. When he spoke again, his voice was businesslike. 'I think we need help from higher sources to avoid the Purcell Jensen group's being implicated further. There are two MPs on Purcell Jensen's payroll, but I don't know if they've enough clout to approach the Prime Minister about this. We must tread very carefully. Through Thomas Wren, our solicitor, we have financed I don't know how many politicians campaign funds. Time can come to call in support from them.'

Purcell nodded.

'But your reputation is still intact. That's very important,' John went on. 'Why don't you ask through the two who are officially involved with Purcell Jensen for a private meeting with the Home Secretary? If he refuses, then we have bigger problems, even than we thought and we can consider using the others for a meeting with the Prime Minister. However if the Home Secretary agrees I think we can take it that the government wants this case discreetly buried. It can't be in the national interest to wreck one of the largest conglomerates in the country by dragging it and its investors through the criminal courts. They can still continue with the charges against Erick, which is another problem. This is the best card we have left to play.'

'I'll do it right away.'

'And it goes without saying that my name should not come into this. Anyway, how were you to know where Erick's finances came from?'

'Of course.' Purcell heaved a sigh. 'I hope we're doing the right thing.'

John picked up a stone and threw it into the river. Both men watched the ripples spreading in ever widening circles.

'Time will tell.'

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE  
_________________________

Gatwick Airport, Monday, 15th July 1991

The specially chartered plane arrived at Gatwick at three o'clock in the morning. Its passengers did not disembark until Ann Dockett's coffin had been unloaded on to a high stainless steel barrow with black rubber wheels.

A uniformed nurse carefully pushed Andrea's wheelchair down the passenger ramp. Erick followed, surrounded by four police officers. His light overcoat disguised the fact that he was handcuffed.

At the front of the procession came the coffin, attended by two men wearing black hats and suits, followed by Andrea in the wheelchair pushed by the nurse, then Erick walking alone wearing the long black coat like a cape. Four bulky policemen followed him, then the three lawyers each carrying heavy briefcases. At the end of the cortege came Arthur and Diana.

The sombre procession was clearly visible against a gradually lightening skyline.

Just before they entered the air terminal building, a flash bulb went off.

* * *

The next morning, most of the newspapers carried the picture on their front pages, underneath the caption:

THE DEAD LOVER – WIFE – NURSE – CRIME BOSS – LAWYERS AND THE FRIENDS.

The scene it showed, as evocative as any from a Bergman film, caught the public imagination. It was reproduced on the television news, a few days later on posters and T shirts, and became the instantly recognisable emblem of the whole matter.

Andrea was taken to St. Ann's Hospital in London. Erick spent the night in the security unit, specially built for terrorists, inside Brixton Prison. He was designated a category 'A' prisoner and told he could only exercise in the yard outside usual association hours and escorted by six officers. As soon as he began walking round, shouts came from the barred windows, gaining momentum. After a few minutes hundreds of prisoners were calling encouragement to him and hammering on the bars. Fearing further trouble, the officers cut his exercise short and escorted Erick back to his cell.

Next morning he was introduced to DCI Sarah Wilson who told him that the police on Mallorca had been unable to find Paul Dockett and he was presumed dead. For Erick's own safety, he was to be moved to a prison outside London. The court hearing the same day would take place in a provincial magistrate's court, where bail would be refused.

'When is Ann's funeral?' he asked, knowing it was useless to argue against his transfer. 'I'd like to attend, if possible.'

'I'm sorry, but I can tell you now that your application will be refused. The funeral would become a media circus and we couldn't manage the security. Let her be buried in peace.'

* * *

Erick was taken from Brixton to Cardiff in a van designed to transport only one high security prisoner. There was an escort of police cars and anonymous vehicles containing armed officers. The police knew that their prisoner had access to unlimited funds and connections in both the criminal and legitimate worlds, perhaps even among the highest ranks of the judiciary and government. Assassinating him to put a stop to this embarrassing case was a distinct possibility. Every precaution had to be taken to ensure his safety.

When they arrived at Cardiff Prison, Erick gazed out of the barred window in the van. He could see a railway track running close to the walls of the old Victorian building. One of the Brixton warders had called it 'a cosy little nick' which held only five hundred prisoners.

He was treated like any other new arrival, left to sit on the floor of a stuffy reception room with ten men all aged less than twenty, most of them heavily tattooed. They had no idea who he was. After three hours he finally went through the reception procedure. He protested when he was given a uniform as he was only on remand, but nobody took any notice. They did not even answer his questions.

It was late in the afternoon when he was taken to Wing D1, a special run of cells built into a basement, half underground. It was regarded as the safest place in the prison. Erick was told that everyone here was expected to work for eight hours a day. If unhappy, he could lodge a formal complaint. After dinner, on alternate evenings he was allowed to watch television until nine.

The metallic slam of the cell door was strongly reminiscent of Vestre Faengsel in Copenhagen. He started shivering, feeling dizzy and sat down on the bunk bed. The walls were covered in crude drawings of women's genitals and the whole cell stank of prison: that well remembered reek of sweat, urine and cleaning materials.

When the cell door was unlocked Erick joined the rest of the inmates of D1. He realised quickly that they were mostly less than twenty five and all on drugs. He decided to keep himself to himself as much as possible.

Next day before nine o'clock, still in his prison uniform, he was taken to the Magistrates Court, presented before the Magistrate, who had obviously been well briefed and rushed back again after only a few minutes. In the prison once more he was allocated work in the tailor's shop and told to sew seams on kitchen trousers. When explaining that he was a remand prisoner and did not have to work, he was told to put in a written complaint to the Home Office.

If he had learned to cope with Vestre Faengsel, he thought, he could handle this. He sewed seam after seam, all perfectly straight and neatly finished. After two days the work officer promoted him to checking the other prisoners' work. God must have a droll sense of humour, he thought. This was Giant all over again, but now he was learning the basic.

The governor refused extra police security inside and around his prison, insisting that all supervision was to be carried out by his own staff. Presence of uniformed policemen had previously shown to antagonise the other inmates to the state of riots. Legal visits were to be conducted in the room allocated for these in the visiting hall and only during official hours.

Erick's legal team put in a complaint that they were not allowed proper access to their client and that he had been refused permission to make telephone calls to his convalescent wife. The Governor refused to give way, or to agree to Erick's request for a personal interview with him.

A few days later Erick was summoned for a police visit. DCI Sarah Wilson and Chief Detective Superintendent Sutcliffe were there, waiting for him.

'I really don't have time for this,' he said, indicating his blue overalls. 'You're holding up production in the tailor's shop.'

'We need to talk to you,' said Sutcliffe. 'With or without your solicitors.'

'Not here. You can't expect me to talk in a place like this.' Erick had already thought out his response to any communication from the police and stayed icy calm. 'I'm surrounded by five hundred drug addicts, permanently stoned out of their minds. There are all kinds of weapons here, including knives which are easily procured. I'm in fear of my life. To have me killed and let it be blamed on some sad sod, would be very easy here. To bring me here from Brixton for security reasons is a sick joke. A grave mistake. It's supposedly your responsibility to protect me.'

He waited for a response but they did not answer. 'I haven't seen my sick wife for days. I can't phone her, only write. Anyway, if you don't drop the charges against her, I certainly won't be talking to you.'

Sutcliffe and Wilson exchanged glances and got up. Nothing further was said at this interview but the same afternoon Erick was secretly moved from Cardiff Prison to the Salvation Army Hostel just outside the city, the top floor of which was completely given over to him and his armed guards. Only unmarked cars were allowed to enter the area and the police staked out the roof and the street surrounding the hostel.

Erick's new quarters had the look and smell of prison, but at least there were no bars on the windows. His room was clean and newly painted, with a bed, washbasin and cupboard.

After a week he was taken to the Magistrates' Court for a second time. Again the police objected to bail.

The next day Sarah Wilson came to see him. 'We've arranged for your wife to visit you, and all charges against her have been dropped,' she announced.

'Thanks,' said Erick, relieved. 'When she's been here, we can talk again. Have you found Mr Dockett?'

'No. We're confident he's dead. Either drowned or murdered.' She did not say by whom and Erick knew better than to comment on this.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR  
_________________________

Cardiff, Tuesday, 30th July 1991

Andrea made several visits, DCI Sarah Wilson always accompanied her, and on the four hour drive from London and back from Cardiff the two women got to know each other. Soon they were on first name terms and gradually an understanding grew between them.

On Andrea's fifth meeting with her husband she did as she and Sarah had agreed.

'Could you do me a favour?' she asked the policeman standing guard. 'Could you ask Inspector Wilson to come in?'

The man looked surprised but agreed and went to find her.

'Why do you want her?' Erick asked.

'She's a decent sort,' his wife said. 'Erick, we've talked about this a lot, Sarah and I, and I've got something to say to you.'

When the Inspector came into the room, Andrea said to her, 'I've decided to do as you suggested on the way down. Can I be alone with Erick, with the door closed?'

Sarah nodded in agreement. 'Of course.' She indicated to the policeman to leave the room and then went out herself, closing the door behind her.

Erick turned to his wife in amazement. 'What's all this about?'

'Erick, this has gone far enough. The police are insisting that you were in on this plot to kill Inspector Fox because he suddenly knew too much. John's name has been kept out of it and they seem to think you gave the order. Tell me the truth – were you involved? I want to know if it's true.'

Erick shook his head. 'Of course not. I swear I never gave such an order. I knew John's men were on Mallorca and assumed they were there to ensure Fox didn't find out anything. I saw him taking photographs of the Cave and thought they'd somehow procure the film and camera. That's all.' He looked directly into her eyes. 'Andrea, you must believe me.'

'I do.' She returned his look. 'I wouldn't be here if I didn't. But that doesn't make it right. John Forbes is a ruthless, amoral man. Maybe we've always known that, but after Ann's and Pedro's deaths I don't want us to continue in this business any longer. That is, if you ever get out of here. There's only one way you can: You'll have to come clean and tell the police everything they want to know. That includes confirming the identity of John Forbes and all you know about him.' Andrea hesitated. ' I'm not begging you. I am demanding it. For the sake of our marriage.'

She waited for his response but Erick didn't speak. Andrea went on persuasively. 'If you do that, Sarah and her bosses have given me their word that they'll make a plea bargain. The murder charge will be dropped. We'd still have some good years left together.'

Slowly he shook his head. 'If I do that, Andrea, John would know I'd talked. It's not only him we'd have to reckon with. He's arranged for all sorts of people to invest in the Invisible Company who wouldn't take kindly to being betrayed. Money they'd invested would be lost. They have all, as John, their own interest to protect at any cost whatsoever. We would be up against one of the most powerful criminal fraternities in the world. Certainly the most intelligent. Even with John in a prison cell, our lives would be worthless. I'm sorry, Andrea., I'm not involving him. It's not realistic. We both have everything to lose by doing that. Something's going to break soon.'

Her pale eyes narrowed. 'If you don't, you'll lose me. I warn you, Erick, this time I'll not be waiting when they finally let you out of jail.'

It was the cruellest thing she could find to say and the one he most dreaded to hear. Andrea and her love had kept him sane through his previous spell in prison.

'I – I'll think about it.' he said lamely. Please, let's talk about something else now. How are the children getting on? Maybe they could visit...'

Andrea allowed herself to soften towards him, confident she had planted a seed, but she was furious when she visited him three days later, having been to the Cave and met Karen there.

'You're not going to fob me off any longer,' she raged. 'The police have wrecked our beautiful home looking for evidence. They're after you on another murder charge, would you believe? Someone I've never even heard of: David Kennedy. He disappeared several years ago apparently. There's not much doubt that Paul Dockett is dead and we both know he didn't die jumping from the yacht. So where is he? I know, you know who's responsible. You must see this can't go on. Our lives were never meant to be like this. It's in your power to stop it.'

Suddenly she calmed down, needing to get her breath back.

'If you don't speak out in your own defence, I will be going back to Denmark after giving Sarah Wilson a complete statement.' His wife was tough and determined. Erick knew she meant it.

'I wish I could do as you say, Andrea, but I can't. The consequences don't even bear thinking about,' he said wretchedly. 'Don't go to Denmark yet – and don't give any statements. It's too dangerous for you and the children. Give me time to think. One more week, please.'

'All right.' She sighed. 'I suppose, after thirty years of marriage, I can wait another week.' Then either you come clean or I go back to Denmark and file for divorce.'

Erick's choice was simple: betray his friend, save his marriage and risk being killed. Or stay loyal to John and lose the one person he loved above all.

* * *

A long time ago John Forbes had mentioned with surprise the extent of Andrea's power over her husband.

Erick knew that his friend had filed away the information in his usual methodical way, for use another time, in another situation.

John had to be worried about Andrea more than anyone else.

Erick knew that Denmark and a divorce would not offer Andrea, Christian and Lisette any protection whatsoever.

He had to act, whatever the consequences.

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE  
_________________________

The Water Garden, Edgware Road, London, Thursday, 8th August 1991

'What's happened?' Diana asked. Arthur had just finished talking on the telephone.

'It's the end of an era.' He had just been told the outcome of the Magistrates hearing by his contact who had been in the public gallery. 'Erick's free.'

Diana gasped. 'But that's not what you expected... Start from the beginning and tell me everything?'

'Erick has obviously done a deal,' Arthur said slowly. 'His freedom in return for giving the authorities information about John. All charges against him have been dropped.'

'No? He wouldn't do that. Not Erick!'

'Perhaps.' Arthur sat down heavily and gazed at her. 'Who knows? Erick, Andrea, Karen, Sam – any one of them could have been put under intolerable pressure.'

Arthur's face had gone grey. He seemed to be ageing in front of her eyes, unable to comprehend what had happened.

'We're known associates of John's,' he finally said. ' To be on the safe side we must distance ourselves from him. If we don't, we won't be of any help when this all explodes.'

Diana put her arm around him comfortingly. She knew that to him John was much more than a business associate. He was like a brother. Personally she had always found John cold and calculating, but Arthur had a genuine affection for him which had grown over the years.

'You ought at least to phone John,' she said. 'John knows you have a contact in the Magistrate's court. Give him a call, he'll be expecting it. Then you can explain to him that you'll need to be careful about getting in touch from now on.'

'Of course.' Arthur sat staring into space. 'You know, I don't even blame whoever it was who grassed. Things were getting out of control. Had been for a long time. I wonder what John will do now? What can he do?'

'Nothing,' said Diana. 'Now his identity's been disclosed, he's powerless to do anything.'

'He'll be thinking of cutting his losses,' Arthur continued. 'He might even find a way of silencing Erick.'

'If he lays a hand on Erick, then even we would turn against him. You'd better tell him that.' She was growing impatient. 'Phone him now.'

Slowly Arthur got to his feet and took the telephone out of a small antique cabinet. He dialled John's number, eyes fixed on Diana.

When John answered, Arthur explained what had happened. He finished by saying, 'I want your solemn promise that nothing will happen to Erick and Andrea, or Karen and Sam?'

Diana waited while he listened to John's reply, then put the phone down.

'He can't make any promises. He's not sure what to do. But I am, Di. We're getting right away from all this. I'll have to turn my back on his grand concept. You and I will perform "good works in miniature" somewhere else, as Rousseau once wrote. How would you like to live in Paris or Rome? Madrid or New York? I think we should go abroad. We need a change of scene.'

'You're not going to see John?'

'No. He'll be under surveillance soon, if he isn't already. I'll be of more use to him at a distance. But, I'll never abandon him. I knew John at the beginning and if anyone understands how his mind works, it's me. I think I know which way out he'll choose.'

* * *

In Kew, Jim Clark watched the ten o'clock news on the BBC in his large Victorian house in Lawn Crescent. His two children were asleep and his wife Shelley, irritated by his taciturn responses to her tonight, was banging around in the kitchen.

The outcome of Erick Elgberg's hearing had been mentioned briefly. Pictures of him being driven away, a free man, were shown.

There could be no doubt that Elgberg had made a deal with the authorities. What might he have that the police would accept in exchange for his freedom? Jim thought he knew the answer to that.

Elgberg had detailed knowledge of John Forbes and the Invisible Company.

Jim walked out into the garden. It was a warm night and the sky was clear. Watching the planes approaching Kew Garden Tower, aiming for Heathrow at two minute intervals, he thought about his last meeting with the boss. He had been taken aback to realise that John Forbes had been unaware of the dangerous assignments he and Neil had been ordered on by Boucher. He'd thought all along that he and Neil had been under Forbes's protection, and it had come as a shock to both of them to realise that they had been risking their lives for a man who had no knowledge of what they were doing. A man dangerously out of touch.

They had never telephoned the boss except for explicit instructions during an operation. Jim knew there would be no telephone call from him tonight though doubtless he would have been told the outcome of Elgberg's court appearance.

Jim thought of his family and how he had always carefully protected them from knowing anything about what he really did. He had never worried about this before, feeling that he and Neil had always been in complete control of the situation.

But now, if no more instructions were forthcoming, if John Forbes himself were under police observation, what would happen to his and Niel's carefully constructed lives?

He felt edgy and restless, unsure how to handle this unfamiliar situation. After sitting in the dark for half an hour, he telephoned his brother in Chiswick.

Neil, too, had been watching the news and thinking about the way his life would be affected by this turn of events. They agreed to meet and discuss the steps they would have to take to ensure their own safety.

* * *

Bertrand Boucher stood at a tall window behind white voile curtains with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the busy Paris traffic.

An hour ago he had been informed by phone of the court's decision.

He fully understood what had led to Erick Elgberg's release. He would speak to the Clarks but tomorrow would do. Tonight he had tickets for the Opera and a distinctly chilly professor of psychology to win over.

All Dockett's fault. But he had paid for it in the end.

'Monsieur.' Standing at the door to the living room, the butler interrupted his thoughts. 'Your car has been waiting for some time. Do you want me to cancel the evening's arrangements?'

For a moment Bertrand did not answer, then turned.

'No. Definitely not.'

# CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX  
_________________________

Lodeve, France, Friday, 9th August 1991

Erick walked into the empty farm yard and knocked on the front door which stood slightly open. Winston came towards him threateningly.

'Monsieur Erick! Quelle surprise!' Madame Popougnot hurried up to him, drying her hands on a cloth. She gave him a big wet kiss on each cheek and pushed the dog aside with one booted foot.

'Hello, Erick.' John followed close behind her. For a moment the two men looked at each other without speaking. Then John held out his hand and Erick shook it. Madame Popougnot disappeared back into the house.

'Cecilia has taken Alina to the supermarket. They'll be back soon. Let me get you a drink, and something to eat...'

'I don't want anything. We need to talk. Now.'

John sighed. 'I heard you got out.'

'Can we go for a walk?'

'OK,' he answered, then shouted to the others, 'I'll be back in an hour.' Taking his old panama hat from the table and putting it on, he led Erick out of the yard. Winston followed three yards behind. In silence they walked along the edge of the lavender field. Today the leaves were solid green and the flowers a deep intense violet blue. Maybe it was a trick of the light but Erick could almost have described the colour as threatening. The lavender stretched ahead as far as the eye could see and closed around his feet trapping them in its wiry livid growth.

'So you made a deal.' John sat down on the bench when they reached Michael's Place. 'And I was the price.'

'No.' Erick sat beside him. 'Andrea, Karen and Sam gave statements – I merely confirmed they were correct. They didn't want to be associated with the killings.'

'Ah.' John turned his gaze towards him, and Erick knew he'd been believed.

'I've come to help you,' he said in a low, flat voice. 'There's not much time before things start to happen. The police could be on their way here at this very moment. Through Interpol in Lyon they have an extradition order so they can get you back to England right away.'

'I still regard you as my friend, if that means anything, but I need some honest answers. What happened to Malcolm Fox, David Kennedy, Duncan Grace, Paul Dockett... I have to know the truth or I won't lift a finger to help you.'

John said nothing.

'Did you have Fox killed?' Erick pressed him.

'Yes.'

'So you lied to me before?'

'Yes.'

'Did you have David Kennedy killed?'

'It was a terrible decision. I regarded him as a friend, but the team members all made a solemn undertaking to me when they joined... Believe me, if there is one thing I regret today, it's the killing of David. I handled it very badly.'

'Did you have Duncan Grace killed?

'That was strictly business.'

'And Paul Dockett?

'Boucher saw to that. Dockett made a fool out of him in front of his fiancée. And besides he had no choice. With Dockett alive we would all have been finished and you wouldn't be here today.'

'Is there anything else I should know about?'

John shrugged. 'Depends what you mean. You're not my confessor.'

At this confirmation of what he had already suspected, maybe even ought to know, Erick felt stricken and empty. The answers had come so fast. John showed no remorse except in the case of Kennedy. Erick knew time was running out and had to force himself to go on talking.

'Andrea, Sam and Karen gave detailed statements to the police. Together with Paul Dockett's report, they have enough. You'll be arrested as soon as the French Police arrives.'

John was silent. The only sound was the breeze in the rushes and the movement of the river.

'I came to warn you. But also to see if I could help.'

John sighed and turned to him. 'When Arthur told me about the hearing, I understood what had happened. Now I'm trapped by the life I created for myself. I could run but what's the point? All I want is to be here on the farm with Cecilia and our child... But nobody can control their own destiny, can they? I'm doomed.'

'You'll have to give yourself up. I've come to plead with you to do that. The Invisible Company can be used as a bargaining tool. The British government has made it perfectly clear they'll do anything to avoid a scandal. That's why they let me go. They'd settle for a reasonable sentence, I'm sure of it. You've come through worse before now.'

'I can't face prison.' John sounded very tired. 'To end my life that way would be pathetic. I don't want to spend ten years or so wishing every day away.'

'You don't have any choice, John. Think of Cecilia and your daughter. They're all that matter now.'

'There's always another way.' He was directly into Erick's eyes. 'Suicide seems very tempting at this moment. I've come prepared.' As he spoke, he put his hand into his pocket and brought out a small gun. For a split second Erick was aware that he could easily kill both of them. He was under no illusions now. His friend had admitted to several killings and they both knew there had been others. One more death couldn't make much difference before he killed himself. Erick felt the blood thunder in his ears. He fixed his thoughts on Andrea. It was for her sake he had acted to betray John and now he would have to face the consequences.

John slid the gun out of sight, looked back to the river. Erick breathed out in relief.

'You've brought some documents, I suppose.' John's tone was cold and matter of fact.

'Yes.' Erick was relieved that the conversation had taken another turn. 'If the Company falls apart, we're both finished. You must sign the whole thing over to me, give me authority on all the bank mandates. I swear I'll always look after you and Cecilia.'

'I'll sign anything you put in front of me.' Without even reading the documents Erick handed over, which had been speedily prepared by Thomas Wren, John signed in the places indicated.

'Let Bertrand Boucher take absolute control over all the criminal enterprises,' he said, laying down the pen. 'Don't touch them, Erick. I want your promise? Last week Boucher was on the island of Aruba. A worldwide criminal alliance has been formed to arbitrate confrontation between organisations, overcrowding of drug routes, market share, high tech resources and intelligence gathering, the hiring out of specialists to each other. That's the way the future is going and I don't like it. Not your scene either. But Boucher can take it in his stride. He must have total control of the criminal operations or the Invisible Company will implode. It's vital you listen to me about this. Promise me you won't get involved?'

'I'll talk to Bertrand,' Erick agreed. 'Work out some plan where we agree a target for the next year and how he meets the figures is up to him. God knows, I don't have the stomach for that type of operation, whatever the level. You must promise me that your hit squad, or whoever carried out the killings, will retire far away from England?' When John nodded, Erick continued, 'Let's go back to the house now. I want to phone Rubinstein. And please, John, give yourself up to the police. Don't let them come for you.'

John put the gun down on the bench. He made no move to get up. 'You're now a very rich, very powerful man. Funny how things turn out, isn't it?'

'Come back to the farm with me. I think we both could need a stiff Cognac.'

John turned away. 'Just give me a few minutes alone. I'll catch up with you.'

Erick began walking away. He did not like leaving John alone with the gun but perhaps that was the best way for him to end things. When he reached the path through the lavender, he stopped, expecting at any second to hear a gun shot. When there had been nothing for ten minutes, he hurried back towards the river, his heart thudding. He could not let John end his own life What had he been thinking of?

John was still sitting where he had left him, nursing the gun in one hand, patting the dog with the other.

'Please come back with me. You can't do it. Think of Cecilia and your daughter. John for pity's sake...'

Slowly he rose to his feet. He put the gun back in his pocket and walked a few steps to the river bank. There he bent down, took off the panama hat and carefully placed it on the water. Both men watched it float away until it passed out of sight. Then they walked in silence back towards the house, Winston following a few steps behind.

* * *

'It seems we have visitors already,' John commented, seeing two black sedans parked in the farm yard. 'Did they come with you?'

DCI Sarah Wilson and six uniformed French police men were talking to Cecilia.

'Of course not. I would have told you,' Erick protested.

'Then let's get this over with quickly.'

Cecilia had broken away from the visitors and was running towards him. Erick pushed past the police brusquely and went to make a phone call to Rubinstein from the phone in the hall.

When he came out again, John was handcuffed between two French officers.

'We will be taking Mr Forbes to Montpellier Police Station,' Sarah Wilson said to Erick. 'He'll be kept there until the extradition papers arrive.' She held up John's gun. 'Did you come to warn him?'

'I came to tell him about the statements that we'd made. I owed him that.'

She lifted her eyebrows slightly then issued orders in French to three of the policemen, who went inside the house to carry out a search. John was bundled into the back seat of a car, flanked by his two escorts, and Sarah ordered them to leave.

Erick realised Cecilia was not fully aware of what was happening. He made her sit down outside and put his arm round her. Madame Popougnot sat on the other side of her, wringing her hands.

In silence, they watched the police car receding into the distance through the lavender fields, towards the heavy open iron gates.

Winston had tried to follow the car but eventually gave up, turned round and walked slowly back towards the farm.

Just before the police car reached the gates, they saw a black Citroen car outside them suddenly reversing fast, forcing the police car to a halt. With a cry of alarm Erick stood up. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

* * *

John instinctively ducked when the back window was smashed. The policeman on his left slumped over him, blood pouring from the side of his head. The driver had opened his door and begun to climb out when a hail of bullets cut him down.

The officer on John's right managed to force open his door but was unable to get out as the prisoner had been pinned down by his colleague's dead weight. As he fumbled for the key to the handcuffs, he was shot several times. He fell out of the car dragging John along the seat.

Then everything went deathly quiet.

John looked and found himself facing the barrel of a semi automatic. A finger moved the catch from automatic to single rounds.

'I'm sorry, Mr Forbes,' said a familiar Glaswegian voice. Beneath the black balaclava pulled over his face, John caught a glimpse of a pair of grey eyes, ruefully appraising him. Jim or Neil? Not that it mattered. They were equally deadly. He had seen to that. At last this way he would not have to face the slow torture of prison. And he would die well. No pleading, he could still determine his fate. Just one final command.

'Do it. Just do it.'

The first bullet shattered his jawbone, passing through his tongue and lifting him backwards.

The second smashed into his right side.

John Forbes died moments after the third, fourth and fifth had shattered his skull.

A warm breeze blew over his bloodied face, bringing with it the distant wailing of women and the strong clear scent from the lavender fields.

#  EPILOGUE  
_________________________

With the help of le Maire, John Forbes's funeral took place four days later.

Cecilia, Alina, and Madame Popougnot, together with Arthur and Diana Black and Erick and Andrea Elgberg, attended the service in the village church where John and Cecilia had been married.

At a short ceremony the following day his ashes were scattered on the river at Michael's Place.

Cecilia moved back to her own house in the village close by. It took Madame Popougnot many months of persuasion before John's wife and child came back to the lavender farm.

'No one understood John better than me,' Cecilia repeatedly tells her. 'I knew my husband and he was a good man.'

* * *

Catherine Forbes was in shock for several months after John's death and spent some time in a private clinic.

Not a day passes now without her thinking of him and Michael.

She lives alone in a house in Flood Street, Chelsea, and visits Michael's Place every year in June.

* * *

Mona Hobson has started drinking heavily and lives a recluse's existence in her flat in St. John's Wood.

Today she is recognised as a major artist, her paintings exhibited in the most prestigious galleries in the world.

* * *

Arthur Black put a manager in charge of Black's of Mayfair and he and Diana have bought a home in Rome, where they now live permanently.

A travelling exhibition of their collection of ancient art has been gratefully welcomed by several countries. They bear the expense themselves, letting it be known that they do so in the memory of a dear friend, who helped make it all possible.

Since John Forbes' death they have never had any contact with the Elgbergs.

* * *

Ivan Fyodor Osov and his wife Petra have moved permanently to a palatial penthouse overlooking the harbour in Cannes.

The climate there is better for Ivan's worsening arthritis.

He has a dedicated team taking care of his activities in Russia.

* * *

Rudi Grattini died in his sleep, sitting in a chair in the summer sun outside his villa in Rome. He had arranged that the laboratories producing the Serissa capsules could continue under Bertrand Boucher's supervision after his death.

Both Bertrand Boucher and Erick Elgberg were at his funeral.

* * *

Jim and Neil Clark moved to Australia with their families. Jim lives in Brisbane, where he owns a detective agency specialising in divorce investigations.

Neil lives in Tweed Heads, Queensland, where he works as a security consultant for hotels in Surfer's Paradise.

The two families have never met, though the brothers keep in touch by phone occasionally.

* * *

Karen Knudsen lives in Wilton Street, Belgravia, in a top floor flat. She works for Erick Elgberg three days a week and is a board member of Purcell Jensen. The rest of her time she devotes to the Samaritans.

* * *

After Randolph Purcell's retirement, a highly respected and well connected former politician accepted the position of chairman of the Purcell Jensen Group. The Government recently conferred The Queens Award for Industry on it.

* * *

Bertrand Boucher took over absolute control of all John Forbes's criminal enterprises.

He has continued to expand the Company's activities and to foster international cooperation between criminal organisations.

He meets Erick on the first Monday of each month at changing locations outside Europe to discuss further investment between the two enterprises.

* * *

Erick and Andrea Elgberg bought the Cerne Estate in Dorset in memory of John and Michael and live there permanently. They use the Cave for holidays. Erick has purchased a second yacht and named it L'Acquisition 2. Sam O'Sullivan has continued as his personal assistant.

A team of skilled public relations and image experts have been employed to raise Erick's profile in the media and redeem his damaged reputation. In this Andrea helps him by arranging weekly dinners at Cerne, which have gradually expanded to include people from the highest spheres of the art, cinema, television, industry and politics.

Mr and Mrs Erick Elgberg are occasionally to be seen at gatherings of the very richest and most influential people in Europe.

#  THE CAST  
_________________________

31 August 2000

A.

Adrians Police inspector C11

B.

Ben Bancroft –Struck off solicitor, MD Mirage

Pedro de la Barca – Captain L'Acquisition

Knud Bechman – Managing Director of CDCM in DK

Bertrand Boucher – French Investigating Magistrate

Arthur Black – Friend of John Forbes

Diana Black – Arthur Black's wife

Elisabeth Blackwood – Paul and Ann Dockett's daughter

Bradley – Paul Dockett's prison friend

Cecilia Brassac – French housekeeper –

Branco – Police officer Palma de Mallorca

C.

Carlo Cantour – Associate of Grattini

Knud Carlsen – Owner Danish pen company

Cathy – Virginia Water police officer

Alex Chartwin – Glasgow gangster

Jan Christensen – Managing Director GIANT group

Lise Christensen – Accountant, Jan Chr. wife

Pernille Christensen – Daughter of above

Jim Clark – One of the twins

Shelley Clark – Married to Jim Clark

Neil Clark – One of the twins

Vivian Clark – Married to Neil Clark

Phill Collaby – Board member of various companies

Lord Carven – Owner of Cerne Estate, Father of Catherine

Lady Carven Owner of Cerne Estate, Mother of Catherine Forbes

D.

Per Densby – Chairman, Danish Stock exchange

Paul Dockett – Bank Manager

Ann Dockett – Wife of Paul Dockett

Elisabeth Dockett – Dockett's daughter (Mrs Blackwood)

Roger Doubtree – MD Mirage Consulting

E.

Erick Elgberg – Main character, with John Forbes

Andrea Elgberg – Wife of Erick Elgberg

Christian Elgberg – Elgberg's son

Lisette Elgberg – Elgberg's daughter

F.

Faberson and Jeppesen – Danish solicitors

Howard Femberley – MD Crown Bike

James Fisher – MD Purcell Jensen PLC

John Forbes – Main character, with Erick Elgberg

Catherine Forbes – Wife of John Forbes, born Lady Caeven

Michael Forbes – Son of the Forbes

Alina Forbes – Daughter of John and Cecilia Forbes.

Rosemary Forbes – John Forbes' mother

Malcolm Fox – Police Officer

Lisa Fox – Wife of Malcolm Fox

George von Fritzenberg – Zurich banker

G.

Duncan Grace – South London gangster

Ruddi Grattini – Italian diamond dealer, entrepreneur

Morris Green – Dockett's solicitor

H.

Harold and Jeffrey – Wealthy criminals

Dereck Harvey – Assistant to Duncan Grace

Graham Higgins – Home Office Minister of State

Alexander Higginson – Managing Director, Higginson Investment

Philip Higginson – Established Higginson Investment

Philip Higginson – Grandson of original owner

Mona Hobson – Painter, John Forbes' mistress

I.

Ray Immerman – Manager Forbes activities

J.

James – Nicholstein/Osov assistant

Sir Conrad Jensen – Chairman Jensen Trust PLC

Vanessa Jensen – Wife of Conrad Jensen

K.

Muhammed Kazir – Supplier of hemp

Yo Wing Kin – Friend of David Kennedy

David Kennedy – Managing Director Hemp Import

Doreen Kennedy – Wife of David Kennedy

Karen Knudsen – Personal assistant to E. Elgberg

L.

Tim Larsen – Danish Police barrister

Magnus Lergaard – Erick's friend, MD Mirage DK

M.

Aage Madsen – Chairman GIANT UDCM

Claus Mikkelsen – Married to Valerie

Valerie Mikkelsen – Married to Claus

Rose Miller – Diana Black's sister. MD Auto Trade Factors

Chris Mills – Police Inspector C11

N.

Aaron Nicholstein – Alias for Ivan Foydor Osov

O.

Ivan Foydor Osov – See Aaron Nicholstein

Sam O'Sullivan – Assistant to Erick Elgberg

P.

Paulson – Prison Baron

Janus Perk – Danish barrister

Lina Pinto – Managing Director Pinto Publishing

Madame Popougnot – Housekeeper, the lavender farm

Randolph Purcell – Chairman Purcell Industries PLC

Dorothy Purcell – Wife of Randolph Purcell

R.

Ramona – Forbes' team member

Rasmussen – Danish Prison Officer

Robinson – Police Inspector

Robert – Osov's assistant

Ernst Rubinstein – Forbes' solicitor

S.

Shastri – Forbes' team member

Henry Smith – Captain of the Yacht

Lawrence Sutcliffe – Detective Chief Superintendent

Shashikala – Surname for Shastri + Ramona

W.

Winston Cecilia and John's dog

William Webster – Kennedy's personal assistant

Vera Webster – Wife of William Webster

Sarah Wilson – Police Inspector

Thomas Wren – Commercial solicitor

John Forbes' Team:

David Kennedy – Managing Director – Military

Ray Immerman – Organiser – Insurance

William Webster –Kennedy 's assistant – Business degree

Francis Morell – All rounder – Married to Jackie

Jackie Morell – Married to Francis

Shastri – All rounder – Brother of Ramona

Ramona – All rounder – Sister of Shastri

Robert – All rounder

Stuart – All rounder

Gordon – All rounder

Eugene – All rounder

Peter Haydn –All rounder

Brain – All rounder

_________________________

COMPANY NAMES ETC in alphabetical order

ALEPPO COMMUNICATION LTD

Hong Kong

AUTO TRADE FACTORS LTD

Finance for car trade – Investor in crime

BOWER VENTURE CAPITAL PLC

Owner of 76 High Tech Companies

The City, London

BLACK'S ANCIENT ART – MAYFAIR

Mount Street, Mayfair, London W1

Arthur Black's shop,

BLANTYRE HOUSE,

Prison in Kent.

CDCM A/S

Combined Danish Cotton Mills A/S

Aalborg, Jytland, Denmark

CROWN BICYCLE COMPANY PLC,

Sheffield, England.

DAZZLING FASHION

Kings Road, Hampstead, Kingston, Croydon

Fashion shops.

FORD OPEN PRISON

Near Arundel, West Sussex

GIANT OF SCANDINAVIA

Group of menswear companies

HAMLET ACCOUNTANCY Jan Christensen's company

Chartered accountants

Old Queen Street,

Victoria – London SW1

PHILIP HIGGINSON INVESTMENT LTD

Sun Court, 67 Cornhill,

City of London

L'ACQUISITION

Yacht

MIRAGE CONSULTING (UK) LTD

49 Cheval Place,

Knightsbridge,

London

MIRAGE CONSULTING (SCANDINAVIA) LTD

MIRAGE CONSULTING (FRANCE) S.A.

MIRAGE CONSULTING (IRELAND) LTD

MIRAGE CONSULTING (AUSTRALIA) PTY

MIRAGE CONSULTING (NEW ZEALAND) PTY

MIRAGE CONSULTING (USA) LTD

Erick Elgberg's companies.

NICOLSTEIN'S PROPERTY COMPANY LTD

Mayfair, London W1.

Aaron Nicholstein's, alias Ivan Foydor Osov's company.

PINTO PUBLISHING

Watford

PURCELL – JENSEN PLC

Large conglomerate in Europe and USA

SEAGRAM AND COLLINS

Worldwide Chartered Accountants

Branch in Copenhagen

SILVERDALE

Los Angeles, USA

TOUT D'ABORD INDUSTRIE SOCIETE

Swiss based investment company.

THOMAS WREN, SOLICITORS

Cutlers Gardens,

3 Devonshire Square

City of London.

ZURICH BANK OF INDUSTRY AND COMMERCE

Zurich

Switzerland

_________________________

General information:

Rules for parole – and the actual time spent in prison, were changed several times during the years covered by the book.
