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“Whatever sum was left over,” continued Carter, “after we’d deducted our fees, was to be deposited in his personal account at Barclays on Queen’s Road.”
Seb added, “Barclays Queen’s Rd” to his ever-growing list.
“I finally managed to get rid of the flat, but not before we’d lowered the price considerably. Once I had, I carried out Mr. Mellor’s instructions to the letter.”
“Are you still in possession of the document?” asked Seb, who could feel his heart pounding.
“No. But a lady rang this office, and when I confirmed I was holding ten thousand in escrow, she sounded very interested, until I added that I couldn’t release the money unless she could produce the document signed by Mr. Mellor. She asked if a copy would suffice, but I told her I’d need sight of the original document before I would be willing to release the ten thousand.”
“What did she say to that?”
“Frankly, she lost her cool, and started to threaten me. Said I’d be hearing from her solicitor if I didn’t hand over the money. But I stood firm, Mr. Clifton, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Quite right.”
“I’m glad you agree, Mr. Clifton, because a few days later the strangest thing happened.” Seb raised an eyebrow. “A local businessman turned up late one afternoon, just as we were about to close, and produced the original document, so I had no choice but to hand over the ten thousand to him.”
Seb wrote down “local businessman.” He now had to agree with his father—Carter was in possession of several pieces of the jigsaw. However, he still needed one more question answered.
“And the woman’s name?”
“No, Mr. Clifton,” said Carter after a slight hesitation. “I think I’ve gone quite far enough. But I can tell you that she was a lady like your mother, but not like your mother, because I doubt if she would remember my name.”
Seb wrote down the word “lady” on the back of his checkbook before rising from his place. “Thank you,” he said as he shook hands with Mr. Carter. “You’ve been most helpful, and I’ll pass on your kind comments to my mother.”
“My pleasure. I’m only sorry I can’t give you the lady’s name.”
“Not to worry,” said Seb. “But if Lady Virginia should call you again, do give her my best wishes.”
18
SEBASTIAN PLACED HIS checkbook on the table in front of him. Hakim Bishara, Arnold Hardcastle, and Giles Barrington were clearly intrigued, but said nothing.
“I’ve just spent the weekend in Somerset with my parents,” said Seb, “and I discovered that my father has been taking an inordinate amount of interest in the death of Desmond Mellor. Like Barry Hammond, he’s not convinced it was suicide, and once you accept that as a possibility, several options arise.”
The three men seated around the table were listening intently.
“My father advised me to visit a local estate agent on Saturday morning and have a chat with the man who was responsible for selling Mellor’s Bristol flat.” Seb looked at the long list of bullet points he’d written on the back of his checkbook during his meeting with Carter. Twenty minutes later he had explained to his attentive audience why he thought the lady in question was Lady Virginia Fenwick, and the local businessman none other than Jim Knowles.
“But how could those two have met?” asked Giles. “They hardly mix in the same circles.”
“Mellor has to be the common factor,” suggested Arnold.
“And money the glue,” added Hakim, “because that woman wouldn’t waste her time on either of them unless she could see a profit in it for herself.”
“But that still doesn’t explain why Mellor needed ten thousand in cash so quickly,” said Giles. “After all, he was a very rich man.”
“In assets,” said Hakim, “but not necessarily cash.”
“I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to fathom that one out,” said Seb, “but of course it was my father who came up with the most likely scenario. He thought that if Mellor needed that amount of cash urgently, you should look no further than the prison. He also wondered if the mys
terious disappearance of Adrian Sloane had something to do with it.”
“Maybe Mellor was being threatened,” said Arnold. “That’s not uncommon when it’s thought a prisoner has money.”
“Possibly,” said Hakim, “but if he urgently needed a loan of ten thousand pounds, he would have had to come up with something as security.”
“Like his flat in Bristol,” suggested Arnold.
