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It amused him to see that Rodin’s The Thinker had been priced at £150,000. He remembered only too well when Don Pedro had purchased it at Sotheby’s for £120,000, a record for a Rodin at the time. But then, Don Pedro had been under the illusion that the statue contained £8 million in counterfeit five-pound notes. That had been the beginning of Sebastian’s troubles.
“Welcome back, Mr. Clifton.”
“My fault again, I’m afraid. I forgot to pick up my sister’s picture.”
“Indeed. I’ve just asked my assistant to fetch it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian said as Sam’s replacement appeared carrying a bulky package which she handed to Mr. Agnew. He took his time checking the label, before passing it to Sebastian.
“Let’s hope it’s not a Rembrandt this time,” said Sebastian, unable to resist a smirk. Neither Mr. Agnew nor his assistant rewarded him with a smile. In fact, all Agnew said was, “And don’t forget our deal.”
“If I don’t sell a picture, but give it to someone as a gift, have I broken our agreement?”
“Who were you thinking of giving it to?”
“Sam. My way of saying sorry.”
“I have no objection to that,” said Agnew. “Like you, I feel sure Miss Sullivan would never consider selling it.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Sebastian. Then, looking at the Raphael, he said, “I’ll own that picture one day.”
“I hope so,” said Agnew, “because that’s the way we make our money.”
When Sebastian left the gallery, it was such a pleasant evening that he decided to walk to Pimlico so he could give Sam her “wait and see” present. As he strolled through St. James’s Park he thought about his visit to Grimsby earlier that day. He liked Mr. Bingham. He liked his factory. He liked the workers. What Cedric called real people doing real jobs.
It had taken Mr. Bingham about five minutes to sign all the share transfer certificates, and another thirty minutes for them to devour two portions of the finest fish and chips in the universe, eaten out of yesterday’s copy of the Grimsby Evening Telegraph. Just before he left, Mr. Bingham had presented him with a jar of fish paste and an invitation to spend the night at Mablethorpe Hall.
“That’s kind of you, sir, but Mr. Hardcastle is expecting me to have these certificates back on his desk by close of business this evening.”
“Fair enough, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other now that I’m joining the board of Barrington’s.”
“You’re joining the board, sir?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I know you better.”
That was the moment Sebastian realized that Bob Bingham was the mystery man who could not be mentioned until the deal had been closed.
He couldn’t wait to give Sam her present. When he arrived outside her block of flats, he opened the front door with the key she’d given him that morning.
A man hiding in the shadows on the other side of the road made a note of the address. Because Clifton had let himself in with his own key, he assumed that this must be where Clifton lived. Over dinner, he would tell his father who had purchased the Barrington’s shares, the name of the Yorkshire bank that had handled the transaction and where Sebastian Clifton lived. Even what he’d eaten for lunch. He hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken to Eaton Square.
“Stop!” Luis shouted when he spotted the placard. He jumped out of the taxi, ran across to the paperboy and grabbed a copy of the London Evening News. He read the headline Woman in coma after jumping from Night Scotsman and smiled before getting back in the cab. Clearly someone else had carried out his father’s orders, too.
38
Wednesday evening
THE CABINET SECRETARY had considered all the permutations, and felt he’d finally come up with the perfect way to deal with all four of them in one masterful stroke.
Sir Alan Redmayne believed in the rule of law. It was, after all, the basis of any de
mocracy. Whenever asked, Sir Alan agreed with Churchill that, as a form of government, democracy had its disadvantages, but, on balance, it remained the best on offer. But given a free hand, he would have opted for a benevolent dictatorship. The problem was that dictators, by their very nature, were not benevolent. It simply didn’t fit their job description. In his opinion, the nearest thing Great Britain had to a benevolent dictator was the cabinet secretary.
If this had been Argentina, Sir Alan would simply have ordered Colonel Scott-Hopkins to kill Don Pedro Martinez, Diego Martinez, Luis Martinez and certainly Karl Lunsdorf, and then he could have closed their files. But like so many cabinet secretaries before him, he would have to compromise and be satisfied with one kidnapping, two deportations and a bankrupt who would be left with no choice but to return to his native land and never consider coming back.
In normal circumstances, Sir Alan would have waited for the due process of law to take its course. But unfortunately his hand had been forced by no less a figure than the Queen Mother.
He had read in the court circular that morning that Her Majesty had graciously accepted an invitation from the chairman of Barrington Shipping, Mrs. Harry Clifton, to name the MV Buckingham at noon on Monday, September 21st, leaving him only a few weeks to carry out his plan, as he wasn’t in any doubt that Don Pedro Martinez would have something other than a naming ceremony in mind on that particular day.
