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Giles wrote out a second check and handed it across.
“But it’s only for one thousand,” Virginia protested.
“That’s because I think I already know who it is. The only mystery is how he got his hands on it.”
“Tell me the name, and if you’re wrong, I’ll tear up this check and you can write out another one for five thousand.”
“Jim Knowles collected it from Carter on behalf of Conrad Sorkin.”
The second check joined the first in Virginia’s handbag, and although Giles pressed her, it was clear she wasn’t going to let him know how Sorkin had got his hands on the original, not least because, like him, she suspected that Desmond hadn’t committed suicide, and she didn’t want to become involved.
“Tea?” suggested Giles, hoping she would decline so he could get back to the bank where the other three were waiting for him.
“What a nice idea,” said Virginia. “Quite like old times.”
Giles hailed a waiter and ordered tea for two, but no cakes. He was wondering what they could possibly talk about, until Virginia solved that problem. “I think I’ve got something else you might want,” she said, displaying the same mischievous smile.
Giles hadn’t been prepared for this. He sat back, trying to appear relaxed, as he waited to find out if Virginia was just enjoying herself at his expense, or if she really did have something worthwhile to offer.
The waiter reappeared and placed a pot of tea and a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches in the center of the table.
Virginia picked up the teapot. “Shall I be Mother? Milk and no sugar, if I remember correctly.”
“Thank you,” said Giles.
She poured them both a cup of tea. Giles waited impatiently while she added a splash of milk and two sugar lumps before she spoke again.
“Such a pity the coroner concluded that poor Desmond died intestate.” She took a sip of her tea. “Earl Grey,” she remarked, before adding, “It’s going to be difficult for anyone to prove otherwise before June twelfth, when the company will fall so conveniently into that nice Mr. Sorkin’s hands, and for a mere ten thousand pounds he’ll be entitled to fifty-one percent of Mellor Travel, which I estimate to be worth at least a million and a half, possibly more.”
“The board of Farthings has already considered that problem,” said Giles, “and the question of who might be judged by the court to be Mellor’s next of kin. Arnold Hardcastle concluded that with two ex-wives, one daughter he’s lost touch with, and two stepchildren, the legal battle alone could take years to be resolved.”
“I agree,” said Virginia, taking another sip of tea. “Unless, of course, someone came across a will.”
Giles stared at her in disbelief as she returned to her handbag and extracted a slim manila envelope, which she held up for Giles to see. He studied the neat copperplate handwriting that proclaimed, The last will and testament of Desmond Mellor, dated May 12th, 1981.
“How much?” asked Giles.
19
SEBASTIAN STEPPED OFF the plane and joined the other passengers making their way into the busiest terminal on earth. As he only had an overnight bag, he headed straight for customs. An officer stamped his passport, smiled, and said, “Welcome to America, Mr. Clifton.”
He made his way out of the airport and joined a long taxi queue. He had already decided to go straight to Kelly Mellor’s last known address on the South Side of Chicago, which had been supplied by Virginia, but not before she’d extracted another £5,000 from Giles. If Kelly was there, the chairman considered it would have been worth every penny, because he wanted Desmond Mellor’s heir back in England as quickly as possible. They needed to have everything in place for the crucial board meeting in ten days’ time, when it would be decided whether it was Thomas Cook or Sorkin International that would take over Mellor Travel, and Kelly Mellor could be the deciding factor.
He climbed into the back of a yellow cab and handed the driver the address. The cabbie gave Seb a second look. He only visited that district about once a month, and that was once too often.
Seb sat back and thought about what had taken place during the past twenty-four hours. Giles had arrived back at the bank just after five, armed not only with a copy of the legal agreement showing that Mellor had risked losing 51 percent of his company to Sorkin for a mere £10,000, but with the bonus of the only letter Mellor had ever written to his daughter, supplied by Virginia. No doubt acquired after the threat that if Giles didn’t pay up, she would burn the letter in front of him. The singed bottom right-hand edge suggested that Giles hadn’t given up bargaining until the match was struck.
“We’re going to have to move quickly,” Hakim had said. “We only have eleven days left before Mellor Travel’s next board meeting, when it will be decided who takes over the company.”
This time it was Sebastian the chairman selected for the unenviable task of flying to Chicago and bringing back to London the only person who could stop Sorkin taking over Mellor Travel, although there was a Plan B.
Seb had boarded the first available flight from Heathrow to Chicago, and by the time the plane touched down at O’Hare, he felt he’d covered every possible scenario—except one. He couldn’t actually be certain that Mellor’s daughter was living at 1532 Taft Road, because he’d had no way of contacting her to warn her he was coming, although he was confident that if she was, what he had to offer would make her feel like a lottery winner.
He glanced out of the taxi window as they drove into Taft, and was immediately aware why this wasn’t an area taxis would choose to hang around at night looking for fares. Row upon row of dilapidated wooden houses, none of which had seen a lick of paint for years, and no one would have bothered with a double lock because there wouldn’t have been anything worth stealing.
When the cab dropped him outside 1532, his confidence grew. One and a half million pounds was certainly going to change Kelly Mellor’s life forever. He checked his watch; just after six p.m. Now he could only hope she was at home. The taxi had sped away even before he’d been given a chance to offer the driver a tip.
Seb walked up the short path between two scrubby patches of grass that couldn’t have been described as a garden by even the most creative estate agent. He knocked on the door, took a step back, and waited. A moment later the door was opened by someone who couldn’t have been Kelly Mellor, because she only looked about five or six years old.
