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“I’m also considering picking up a sizable holding in Thomas Cook, but only if we succeed in taking over Mellor Travel.”
“I never cared much for Desmond Mellor,” admitted Emma. “But even I felt sorry for the man when I heard he’d committed suicide.”
“Barry Hammond isn’t convinced it was suicide.”
“Neither am I,” said Harry. “If William Warwick were on the case, he’d point out that there were far too many coincidences.”
“Like what?” asked Seb, always fascinated by how his father’s mind worked.
“For a start, Mellor is found hanged in his cell during a takeover battle for his company. And at the same time, Adrian Sloane, the chairman of the company, disappears without trace.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Emma.
“You’ve had more important things on your mind,” said Harry, “than reading the Bristol Evening Post, and to be fair, I wouldn’t have known about Mellor either if the local rags hadn’t been obsessed with it. ‘Bristol businessman commits suicide in high-security prison’ was a typical headline. And whenever the chairman of Mellor Travel is asked to make a statement on behalf of the company, all we get is that he’s ‘unavailable for comment.’ Even more curious, Jim Knowles, who’s described as the interim chairman, keeps trying to assure any anxious shareholders that it’s business as usual, and that he’ll be announcing some exciting news in the near future. Three unlikely coincidences, and certainly William Warwick would want to track down Adrian Sloane in case he could throw any light on the mystery of Mellor’s death.”
“But the governor of Belmarsh was convinced it was suicide,” said Seb.
“Prison governors always say that whenever there’s a death on their patch,” said Harry. “So much more convenient than murder, which would mean setting up a Home Office inquiry that could take up to a year to report its findings. No, there’s something missing in this case, although I haven’t fathomed out yet what it is.”
“Not something,” said Seb, “someone. Namely Mr. Conrad Sorkin.”
“Who’s he?” asked Grace.
“A shady international businessman, who until now I’d assumed was working with Sloane.”
“Does Sorkin run a travel company?” asked Emma. “If he does, I’ve never come across him.”
“No, Sorkin isn’t interested in Mellor Travel. He just wants to get his hands on the shops and offices the company owns so he can make a quick profit.”
“That’s one piece of the jigsaw I wasn’t aware of,” said Harry. “But it might ex
plain another coincidence that’s been nagging away at me, namely the role played in this affair by a Mr. Alan Carter.” Everyone in the room stared at Harry in rapt silence, not wanting to interrupt the storyteller. “Alan Carter is a local estate agent, who up until now has only played a minor role in this whole saga. But in my view, his evidence might well prove crucial.” Harry poured himself another cup of coffee and took a sip before he continued. “So far Carter has only merited the occasional paragraph in the Bristol Evening News, for example when he told the paper’s crime reporter that Mellor’s Bristol flat was on the market. I assumed he’d done so simply to get some free publicity for his firm and a better price for his client’s property. Nothing wrong with that. But it was his second statement, made a few days after Mellor’s death, which I found far more intriguing.”
“Turn the page, turn the page,” demanded Seb.
“Carter told the press, without explanation, that Mellor’s flat had been sold, but that he had been instructed by his client to hold back part of the sale money in escrow. What I’d like to know is how much he was asked to hold back, and why he didn’t send the full amount to Mellor’s executors and leave them to decide who was entitled to the money.”
“Do you think Carter will be working on a Saturday morning?” asked Seb.
“It’s always the busiest morning of the week for an estate agent,” said Harry. “But that wasn’t the question you should have asked me, Seb.”
“You are maddening at times,” said Emma.
“Agreed,” said Seb.
“So what’s the question Seb should have asked?” said Grace.
“Who is Desmond Mellor’s next of kin?”
* * *
Sebastian was standing outside Hudson and Jones on the Commercial Road at five to nine the following morning. Three agents were already seated behind their desks waiting for the first customers.
When the doors opened, a neatly printed sign on one of the desks announced which agent was Mr. Alan Carter. Seb sat down opposite a young man wearing a pinstriped suit, white shirt, and green silk tie. He gave Seb a welcoming smile.
“Are you a buyer, a seller, or possibly both, Mr.—”
“Clifton.”
