Sally said nothing for a few moments, suddenly aware why Dick considered this man such a formidable opponent. ‘Thank you for your offer, Mr. Townsend, but I’m not interested,’ she said firmly, and put the phone down.
Sally’s immediate reaction was to contact the accounts department at Armstrong House to try and find out why she hadn’t received her final paycheck. She was kept waiting for some time before the senior accountant came on the line.
‘When can I expect last month’s paycheck, Fred?’ she asked. ‘It’s more than two weeks overdue.’
‘I know, but I’m afraid I’ve been given instructions not to issue it, Sally.’
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It’s no more than I’m entitled to.’
‘I realize that,’ said Fred, ‘but...’
‘But what?’
‘It seems there was a breakage during your final week which you’ve been billed for. A fine bone china Staffordshire coffee set, I was told.’
‘The bastard,’ said Sally. ‘I wasn’t even in the room when he smashed it.’
‘And he’s also deducted two days’ wages for taking time off during office hours.’
‘But he knows very well that he told me to keep out of the way himself, so that he could...’
‘We all know that, Sally. But he’s no longer prepared to listen.’
‘I know, Fred,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault. I appreciate the risk you’re taking by even speaking to me, so thank you.’ She hung up, and just sat at the kitchen table staring into space. When she picked up the telephone again an hour later she asked to be put through to the international operator.
In Sydney, Heather put her head round the door. ‘There’s a reverse-charge call for you from London,’ she said. ‘A Mrs. Sally Carr. Will you take it?’
Sally flew into Sydney two days later. Sam picked her up from the airport. After a night’s rest the debriefing began. At a cost of $5,000, Townsend had employed a former head of the Australian Security Intelligence Organization to conduct the interview. By the end of the week Sally was drained, and Townsend wondered if there was anything else he could possibly know about Richard Armstrong.
On the day she was due to fly back to England, he offered her a full-time job in his London office. ‘Thank you, Mr. Townsend,’ she replied as he handed her a check for $25,000, but added, with the sweetest of smiles, ‘I’ve spent almost half my life working for one monster, and after a week with you, I don’t think I want to spend the rest of it working for another one.’
After Sam had taken Sally to the airport, Townsend and Kate spent hours listening to the tapes. They agreed on one thing: if he was to have any chance of purchasing the remaining shares in the Globe, he had to get to Margaret Sherwood before Armstrong did. She was the key to gaining control of 100 percent of the company.
Once Sally had explained why Armstrong had bid a million francs for an egg at an auction in Geneva, all Townsend needed to discover was the equivalent of Peter Carl Fabergé for Mrs. Margaret Sherwood.
Kate jumped out of bed in the middle of the night, and started playing tape number three. A drowsy Keith raised his head from the pillow when he heard the words ‘the senator’s mistress.’
25
Ocean Times
6 June 1967
Welcome Aboard!
Keith landed at Kingston airport four hours before the liner was due to dock. He checked through customs and took a taxi to the Cunard booking office on the dockside. A man in a smart white uniform, with a little too much gold braid for a booking clerk, asked if he could be of assistance.
‘I’d like to reserve a first class cabin on the Queen Elizabeth’s voyage to New York,’ said Townsend. ‘My aunt is already on board taking her annual cruise, and I was wondering if there might be a cabin available somewhere near her.’
‘And what is your aunt’s name?’ asked the booking clerk.
‘Mrs. Margaret Sherwood,’ Townsend replied.
A finger ran down the passenger list. ‘Ah, yes. Mrs. Sherwood has the Trafalgar Suite as usual. It’s on level three. We only have one first class cabin still available on that level, but it’s not far from her.’ The booking clerk unrolled a large-scale layout of the ship and pointed to two boxes, the second of which was considerably larger than the first.
‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Townsend, and passed over one of his credit cards.
‘Shall we let your aunt know that you’ll be joining the ship?’ the booking clerk asked helpfully.
‘No,’ said Townsend, without missing a beat. ‘That would spoil the surprise.’
‘If you would like to leave your bags with me, sir, I’ll see they are taken to your cabin as soon as the ship docks.’
‘Thank you,’ said Townsend. ‘Can you tell me how to get to the center of town?’
As he strolled away from the dockside he began to think about Kate, and wondered if she had managed to place the article in the ship’s paper.
He dropped into three newsagents on the long walk into Kingston, and purchased Time, Newsweek and all the local newspapers. He then stopped at the first restaurant he came across with an American Express sign on its door, took a quiet table in the corner and settled down for a lengthy lunch.
Other people’s newspapers always fascinated him, but he knew he would leave the island without the slightest desire to be the owner of the Jamaica Times, which, even with nothing else to do, was only a fifteen-minute read. In between articles about how the agriculture minister’s wife spent her day and why the island’s cricket team had been losing so consistently, his mind kept returning to the information Sally Carr had recorded in Sydney. He found it hard to believe that Sharon could be quite as incompetent as she claimed, but if she was, he also had to accept her judgment that she must be remarkable in bed.
Having paid for a lunch best forgotten, Townsend left the restaurant and began to stroll around the town. It was the first time he had spent like a tourist since his visit to Berlin back in his student days. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, but it didn’t help the time pass any quicker. Eventually he heard the sound of a foghorn in the distance: the great liner was at last coming into dock. He immediately began walking back toward the dockside. By the time he arrived, the crew were lowering the gangplanks. After the passengers had flooded down onto the quay, looking grateful for a few hours of escape, Townsend walked up the gangway and asked a steward to direct him to his cabin.
As soon as he had finished unpacking, he began to check the layout on level three. He was delighted to discover that Mrs. Sherwood’s stateroom was less than a minute away from his cabin, but he made no attempt to contact her. Instead he used the next hour to find his way around the ship, ending up in the Queen’s Grill.
The chief steward smiled at the slight, inappropriately dressed man as he entered the large, empty dining room being set up for the evening meal. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, trying not to sound as if he felt that this particular passenger must have strayed onto the wrong deck.
‘I hope so,’ said Townsend. ‘I’ve just joined the ship, and wanted to find out where you’ve placed me for dinner.’
‘This restaurant is for first class passengers only, sir.’
‘Then I’ve come to the right place,’ said Townsend.
‘Your name, sir?’ asked the steward, sounding unconvinced.
‘Keith Townsend.’
He checked the list of first class passengers who were joining the ship at Kingston. ‘You’re on table eight, Mr. Townsend.’