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“How can you be so sure?”
“The receptionist told my wife that a car would be picking him up in the morning and bringing him straight to the lodge in time for breakfast. I could drive to Edinburgh tomorrow morning and double-check.”
“No need. Seb is off to King’s Cross again this evening to make sure he gets on the train. That’s assuming he’s not arrested for stealing a Raphael.”
“Did I hear you correctly?” asked Ross.
“Another time, because I’m still trying to work out what Plan B is.”
“Well, you can’t risk selling any of your own shares while Diego’s still in London, because if the price were suddenly to collapse, Don Pedro would work out what you’re up to, and wouldn’t place his shares on the market.”
“Then I’m beaten, because there’s no point in buying Martinez’s shares at full price. He’d like nothing better.”
“We’re not beaten yet. I’ve come up with a couple of ideas for you to consider—that is, if you’re still willing to take one hell of a risk?”
“I’m listening,” said Cedric, picking up a pen and opening his notepad.
“At eight o’clock on Monday morning, an hour before the market opens, you could contact all the leading brokers in the City and let them know that you’re a buyer of Barrington’s stock. When Martinez’s million-odd shares come on the market at nine, the first person they’ll call will be you, because the commission on a sale of that size will be enormous.”
“But if the shares are still at their high point, the only person who will gain from that will be Martinez.”
“I did say I had a couple of ideas,” said Ross.
“Sorry,” said Cedric.
“Just because the Stock Exchange closes for business at four on Friday afternoon, it doesn’t mean you can’t go on trading. New York will still be open for another five hours, and LA for eight. And if you haven’t disposed of all your shares by then, Sydney opens for business at midnight on Sunday. And if, after all that, you still have a few shares left, Hong Kong will happily assist you to get rid of them. So by the time the Stock Exchange opens in London at nine o’clock on Monday morning, my bet is that Barrington’s shares will be trading at around half the price they were at close of business today.”
“Brilliant,” said Cedric. “Except I don’t know any brokers in New York, Los Angeles, Sydney or Hong Kong.”
“You only need one,” said Ross. “Abe Cohen of Cohen, Cohen and Yablon. Like Sinatra, he only works at night. Just tell him you have three hundred and eighty thousand Barrington’s shares that you want off your hands by Monday morning London time, and believe me, he’ll stay up all weekend earning his commission. Mind you, if Martinez finds out what you’re up to and doesn’t put his million-plus shares on the market on Monday morning, you’ll stand to lose a small fortune, and he’ll chalk up another victory.”
“I know he’s going to put them on the market on Monday,” said Cedric, “because he told Stephen Ledbury that the reason he no longer wanted to sell them was because he now believed in the ‘long-term future’ of the company, and that’s the one thing I know for certain he doesn’t believe in.”
“It’s not a risk any self-respecting Scotsman would take.”
“But it is a risk a cautious, dull, boring Yorkshireman has decided to take.”
Friday night
Sebastian couldn’t even be sure if he’d recognize him. After all, it had been over seven years since he’d last come across Diego in Buenos Aires. He remembered that he was at least a couple of inches taller than Bruno, and certainly slimmer than Luis whom he’d seen more recently. Diego was a snappy dresser: double-breasted suits from Savile Row, wide colorful silk ties and black Brylcreemed hair.
Seb turned up at King’s Cross an hour before the train was due to depart, and once again took up his position in the shadow of the large, four-sided clock.
The Night Scotsman was standing at the platform waiting for its overnight passengers to board. Some had already arrived, barely a trickle, the kind of traveler who’d prefer having time to spare rather than risk being late. Diego, Sebastian suspected, was the type who left it to the last moment, not wanting to waste any time hanging about.
As he waited, his mind turned to Sam, and what had been the happiest week of his life. How could he have got so lucky? He found himself smiling whenever he thought about her. They had gone to dinner that evening, and once again he hadn’t paid; a swanky restaurant in Mayfair called Scott’s, where the guests’ menus don’t show the prices. But then, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan had clearly wanted to get to know the man their daughter had told them she was going to marry, even if she was only teasing.
Sebastian had been nervous to begin with. After all, in less than a week he had caused Samantha to be arrested and sacked. However, by the time the pudding was served—and on this occasion he did have some pudding—the whole “misunderstanding,” as it was now being called, had moved from high melodrama to low farce.
Sebastian had begun to relax once Mrs. Sullivan told him how much she was hoping to visit Bristol, so she could get to know the city where Detective Sergeant William Warwick worked. He promised to introduce her to “The Warwick Walk,” and by the time the evening came to an end, he wasn’t in any doubt that Mrs. Sullivan was far more familiar with his father’s work than he was. After saying good night to Sam’s parents, they had strolled back to her flat in Pimlico together, the way two lovers do when they don’t want an evening to end.
Sebastian remained in the shadow of the clock, which began to strike the hour.
“The train on platform three is the twenty-two thirty-five non-stop service to Edinburgh,” announced a strangulated voice that sounded as if he was auditioning to read the news for the BBC. “First class is at the front of the train, third class at the rear, with the dining car in the center of the train.” Sebastian wasn’t in any doubt which class Diego would be in.
He tried to put Sam out of his mind and focus; not that easy. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, and although a steady stream of passengers was now arriving on platform 3, there was still no sign of Diego. Sebastian knew that Cedric was at his desk, impatiently waiting for the phone to ring with confirmation that Diego had boarded the sleeper. Not until then could he give Abe Cohen the go-ahead.
If Diego failed to turn up, Cedric had already decided that the game wouldn’t be worth the candle, to quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t risk placing all his shares on the market while Diego remained in London, because if he did, it would be Martinez who would end up blowing the candle out.
