“Now listen, clever boots, I’m going to teach you how to feint a pass so that your opponent goes one way while you go the other.”
“Sounds just like politics to me,” muttered Louise, watching them out of the kitchen window.
27 Eaton Square,
London, SW1
23 April 1974
Dear Derek,
Thank you for your letter of 18 April and your kind invitation to rejoin the board of Seymour’s. I am delighted to accept and look forward to working with you again.
Yours sincerely,
Fiona checked the wording and nodded. Short and to the point. “Shall I post it?”
“Yes, pleas,” said Charles as the phone rang.
He picked it up. “730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.”
“Oh, hello, Charles. It’s Simon Kerslake.”
“Hello, Simon,” said Charles, trying to sound pleased to hear from his former colleague. “What’s it like out there in the real world?”
“Not much fun, which is exactly why I’m phoning. I’ve been short-listed for Pucklebridge, Sir Michael Harbour-Baker’s seat. He’s nearly seventy and has decided not to stand again at the next election. As his constituency touches the south border of yours, I thought you might be able to put in a word for me again.”
“Delighted,” said Charles. “I’ll speak to the chairman tonight. You can rely on me, and good luck. It would be nice to have you back in the House.”
Simon gave him his home number which Charles repeated slowly, as if he were writing it down.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Charles.
“I really appreciate your help.”
Simon put down the phone.
Elizabeth looked up from her copy of The Lancet.
“I don’t trust that man,” she said.
“A woman’s intuition again?” said Simon, smiling. “You were wrong about Ronnie Nethercote.”
“That’s yet to be proved.”
It was several days before Kate Garthwaite agreed to see Raymond again. And when she eventually joined him for dinner at the House she was not overwhelmed or flattered and she certainly didn’t hang on his every word.
She was lively, fun, intelligent, and well informed and they began to see each other regularly. As the months passed Raymond found himself missing her at weekends when he was in Leeds with Joyce. Kate enjoyed her independence and made none of the demands on him that Stephanie had, never once suggesting he spend more time with her or that she might leave clothes behind in the flat.
Raymond sipped his coffee. “That was a memorable meal,” he said, falling back into the sofa.
“Only by the standards of the House of Commons,” replied Kate.
Raymond put an arm round her shoulder before kissing her gently on the lips.
“What! Rampant sex as well as cheap Beaujolais?” she exclaimed, stretching over and pouring herself some more coffee.
“I wish you wouldn’t always make a joke of our relationship,” said Raymond, stroking the back of her hair.
“I have to,” said Kate quietly.
“Why?” Raymond turned to face her.
“Because I’m frightened of what might happen if I take it seriously”
Raymond leaned over and kissed her again. “Don’t be frightened. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in my whole life.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Kate, turning away.
Charles sat through the Annual General Meeting in silence. The chairman made his report for the year ending March 1974 before welcoming two new directors to the board and the return of Charles Seymour.
There were several questions from the floor which Derek Spencer had no trouble in handling. As Charles had promised, there was not even a hint of Miss Janet Darrow. Miss Trubshaw had let Fiona know that the payment had been stopped and also mentioned that she was still worried that her contract was coming to an end on I July.
When the chairman brought the AGM to a close Charles asked courteously if he could spare him a moment.
“Of course,” said Spencer, looking relieved that the meeting had gone through without a hitch. “What can I do for you?”
“I think it might be wiser to talk in the privacy of your office.”
The chairman glanced at him sharply but led him back to his room.
Charles settled himself comfortably in the leather chair once more and removed some papers from his inside pocket. Peering down at them he asked, “What does BX41207122, Bank Rombert, Zurich, mean to you?”
“You said you would never mention—”
“Miss Darrow,” said Charles. “And I shall keep my word. But now, as a director of the bank, I am trying to find out what BX41207122 means to you?”
“You know damn well what it means,” said the chairman, banging his clenched fist on the desk.
“I know it’s your private” — Charles emphasized the last word — “account in Zurich.”
“You could never prove anything,” said Derek Spencer defiantly.
“I agree with you, but what I am able to prove,” said Charles, shuffling through the papers that were resting on his lap, “is that you have been using Seymour’s money to do private deals, leaving the profit in your Zurich account without informing the board.”
“I’ve done nothing that will harm the bank, and you know it.”
“I know the money has been returned with interest, and I could never prove the bank had suffered any loss. Nevertheless, the board might take a dim view of your activities remembering they pay you £40,000 a year to make profits for the bank, not for yourself.”
“When they saw all the figures they would at worst rap me over the knuckles.”
“I doubt if the Director of Public Prosecutions would take the same lenient attitude if he saw these documents,” said Charles, holding up the papers that had been resting on his lap.
“You’d ruin the bank’s name.”
“And you would probably spend the next ten years in jail. If, however, you did get away with it you would be finished in the City, and by the time your legal fees had been paid there wouldn’t be much left of that nest-egg in Zurich.”
“So what do you want this time?” demanded Spencer, sounding exasperated.
“Your job,” said Charles.
“My job?” said Spencer in disbelief. “Do you imagine because you’ve been a junior minister you’re capable of running a successful merchant bank?” he added scornfully.
“I didn’t say I would run it. I can buy a competent chief executive to do that.”
“Then what will you be doing?”
“I shall be the chairman of Seymour’s which will convince City institutions that we wish to continue in the traditions of generations of my family.”
“You’re bluffing,” stammered Spencer.
“If you are still in this building in twenty-four hours’ time,” said Charles, “I shall send these to the DPP.”
There was a long silence.
“If I agreed,” said Spencer at last, “I would expect two years’ salary as compensation.”
“One year,” said Charles. Spencer hesitated, then nodded slowly. Charles rose to his feet and put the papers resting on his lap back into his inside pocket.
They consisted of nothing more than the morning mail from Sussex Downs.
Simon felt the interview had gone well but Elizabeth was not so sure. They sat huddled in a room with five other candidates and their wives, patiently waiting.
He thought back to his answers, and to the eight men and four women on the committee.