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Sebastian gave Kelly a reassuring smile. For countless hours during the past week, he had prepared his protégée for this moment. She had turned out to be a quick study. No longer shabbily dressed and with a fading black eye, the young woman standing before them displayed the confidence of someone well aware of the power she now possessed as the majority shareholder of Mellor Travel. Few would have recognized her as the same woman Sebastian had first met in Chicago only a few days earlier.
Seb had quickly discovered just how intelligent Kelly was, and once she had been released from the shackles of 1532 Taft Road, she had immediately grasped the significance of owning 51 percent of her father’s company. By the day of the board meeting, she was more than ready to play her part in reclaiming her birthright.
Conrad Sorkin rose slowly from his place, and certainly didn’t appear intimidated. But then Seb suspected he’d been in far tighter spots than this in the past. He was staring directly at Kelly, as if daring her to open her mouth.
“Mr. Sorkin,” she said, giving him a warm smile, “my name is Kelly Mellor, and I am the daughter of the late Desmond Kevin Mellor, who in his last will and testament left me all his worldly goods.”
“Miss Mellor,” said Sorkin, “I have to point out that I am still in possession of fifty-one percent of the company’s shares, which I purchased quite legally from your father.”
“Even if that were true, Mr. Sorkin,” said Kelly, not needing to be prompted by Seb, “if I repay you your ten thousand pounds before close of business today, those shares automatically revert to me.”
Hardcastle stepped forward, opened his briefcase, and took out his client’s passport, Mellor’s will, and a banker’s order for £10,000. He placed them on the table in front of Sorkin, who ignored them.
“Before close of business today, if I may be allowed to repeat your words, Miss Mellor,” said Sorkin. “And as the banks close their doors in twelve minutes’ time,” he said, checking his watch, “I think you’ll find that your check cannot be cleared until Monday morning, by which time the contract will be null and void, and it is I who will own Mellor Travel, not you.”
“If you take the trouble to look more closely,” said Arnold, coming in on cue, “you will see that it’s not a check we’re presenting you with, Mr. Sorkin, but a banker’s order, and therefore legal tender, which allows Miss Mellor, as her father’s heir, to claim back her rightful inheritance.”
One or two members of the board were looking distinctly uneasy.
Sorkin counterpunched immediately. “Clearly you are not aware, Mr. Hardcastle, that I have already received the board’s approval to take over the company, as Mr. Knowles will confirm.”
“Is that correct?” asked Seb, turning to face the chairman.
Knowles glanced nervously at Sorkin. “Yes, the vote has already been taken, and Sorkin International now controls Mellor Travel.”
“Perhaps it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Clifton,” said Sorkin, “before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.”
Seb was about to protest, but he knew that if the board had voted in favor of Sorkin International taking over the company, he would have to abide by their decision, and although Kelly still held 51 percent of the shares, once Sorkin had sold off the company’s assets, they would be worthless.
Arnold was placing his files back in his briefcase when a lone voice declared, “No vote was taken.”
Everyone turned to look at one of the directors who had not spoken until then. Sebastian recalled Mellor telling him when he’d visited him in prison that he still had one friend on the inside. “We were just about to take the vote when you arrived,” said Andy Dobbs. “And I can assure you, Mr. Clifton, I may have been the only one, but I would have thrown my support behind Thomas Cook.”
“As would I,” said another director.
Knowles looked desperately around the table for support, but it was clear that even his carefully selected placemen were deserting him.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Sebastian. “Perhaps the time has come for you to take your leave, Mr. Sorkin. Or would you like me to put that to a vote?”
“Piss off, you patronizing git,” said Sorkin. “I’m not that easily threatened.”
“I wasn’t threatening anyone,” said Seb. “On the contrary. I was trying to be helpful. As you are no doubt aware, it’s June the twelfth, which means you’ve been resident in this country for the past twenty-nine days. So if you have not left these shores by midnight tonight, you will be subject to British taxation, which I’m pretty sure is something you would want to avoid.”
“You don’t frighten me, Clifton. My lawyers will be more than able to deal with a pipsqueak like you.”
“Perhaps. But it might be wise to warn them that I felt it was my duty to inform the tax authorities of your presence in Bristol, so don’t be surprised if the police board your yacht at one minute past midnight and seize it.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“I don’t think that’s a risk you’ll be willing to take, as I also understand Scotland Yard has opened an inquiry into the suspicious death of Desmond Mellor, while the French authorities, who recently recovered a body washed up off the coast of Nice, which they have reason to believe is that of Adrian Sloane, have issued a warrant for your arrest.”
“They won’t be able to pin anything on me.”
“Possibly not. But I have a feeling Mr. Knowles may want to assist Interpol with their inquiries. That is, if he doesn’t wish to spend the rest of his life in the same cell as you.”
Knowles, visibly turning pale, slumped back in his chair.
“I’d worry about your own life, if I were you, Clifton,” said Sorkin.
