Vicious Circle Page 7

  ‘She was delivered by Caesarean before Hazel…’ Hector checked. He didn’t want to say the word. It was too final. He hurried on. ‘Her name is Catherine. She’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Takes after Hazel, then. Not you.’ Hector’s laugh was more like a croak, and Paddy went on. ‘We’ll have to hide her, Heck. If the Beast finds out about her they’ll come back for the both of you.’

  ‘That’s something that has been worrying me, Paddy. They were not after me. They were targeting Hazel only.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Paddy encouraged him.

  ‘They had a clear shot at me, but they didn’t take it. They deliberately fenced me off from the action. They dropped a load of bricks in the road to block my way to her.’ Hector and Paddy were both silent, pondering the conundrum.

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that. It doesn’t make sense,’ Paddy admitted at last. ‘Maybe they had been warned not to tangle with you. I just don’t know. It will become clearer as we work through the rest of it. But we dare not take any chances with your Catherine. We have to hide her away where they can’t find her.’

  ‘Okay, Paddy, before you leave Abu Zara I want you to set up a safe house there for Catherine. Try to get the top floor of one of the new skyscrapers the Emir is building on the waterfront; something that we can defend easily.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Prince Mohammed himself. No problem. But it might take some time. Perhaps even a couple of weeks.’ The prince was the brother-in-law of the Emir and he controlled not only the treasury, the army and the police force but the state building programme as well. He was indebted to Bannock Oil, the company which had drilled the hole that made Abu Zara one of the most prosperous of the smaller states on the globe.

  ‘Good man, Paddy! Let me know what you can find for us. I’ll meet you.’ He rang off and pressed the intercom button. In the office at the end of the long passage Agatha, Hazel’s secretary, answered at once.

  ‘Agatha, please come to my office.’

  ‘Is Mrs Cross with you, sir? I have some letters for her to sign.’

  ‘Come to my office, and I will explain everything.’

  When Agatha knocked, Hector pressed the electrical release for the door under the panel beside his knee and the door clicked open. Agatha entered. She was dressed in a sober grey business suit. Her grey hair was neatly coiffured. She had worked for Hazel since her marriage to Henry Bannock.

  ‘Take a chair, please,’ said Hector.

  She sat in the chair facing him and smoothed her skirt over her knees.

  ‘I have tragic news, Agatha.’

  She half rose from the chair, her face distorting with dread. ‘It’s Mrs Cross, isn’t it? Something terrible…’

  ‘Sit down, Agatha. I rely on you to be calm and strong, as you always are.’ He drew a deep breath and said the fateful words. ‘My wife is dead.’

  She began to weep silently and softly. ‘How did she die? She was so young and vital. It doesn’t seem possible.’

  ‘She was murdered,’ he said, and she stood up abruptly.

  ‘May I use your toilet please, Mr Cross? I think I am going to be sick.’

  ‘Take as long as you need.’ He listened to the soft sounds of her distress. Then at last the toilet flushed and she came out. Her eyes were red, but every hair on her head was in place.

  She sat down on the chair and looked at him. ‘You have been crying also.’ He inclined his head in assent, and she went on. ‘What about your baby?’

  ‘It’s a girl,’ he replied, and she smiled sadly.

  ‘Yes, Hazel and I knew that. Is she well?’

  ‘She is very well. But we have to be extremely careful not to let the fact of her birth and survival become public. If that happens she will be in as great a danger as Hazel was. We have to hide her. I will need your help.’

  ‘You shall have it, of course.’

  ‘First things first. I want you to find a firm of undertakers in Winchester. As soon as the police have conducted their investigations and released her body, the undertakers must take my wife from the mortuary at the RHCH and prepare her for cremation. Then they must make arrangements at the crematorium for it to be done as soon as possible.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘There is a large buff envelope with red wax seals in my wife’s safe. Please bring it to me.’

  ‘Very well. I know the envelope you are talking about.’ She stood up and looked at him steadily. ‘We must both be brave,’ she said. ‘She would have expected that of us.’

  Agatha left the room but returned within a few minutes and laid the buff envelope on Hector’s desk.

  ‘Thank you, Agatha. Now, one other thing. We must inform all those who need to know of what has happened to my wife. Please go through Hazel’s contact book and make a list of their names for me. I will compose a message to go out to all of them.’

  Hector waited until she had left the room before he studied the envelope. It was addressed to him in her hand. He turned it over and made sure the seals were intact.

  Hazel had written on the back of the envelope in her bold script: To Be Opened Only In The Event Of My Death.

  Then he split the flap of the envelope with the curved Arabian dagger he used as a paper knife. He slid out a thick sheaf of documents. To the top of this pile a letter was appended by a paper clip. He recognized her handwriting and felt a sharp pang as he read the salutation:

  My darling Hector,

  I hope you will never read this, because if you do it will mean that the unthinkable has happened and you and I will be parted for ever …

  Then the tone of the letter became more business-like. She was detailing for him the extent and the disposition of her estate.

  … Most of the property that has been at my disposal during my lifetime is in fact owned by the Henry Bannock Family Trust. This includes the ranch in Houston as well as the one in Colorado, the apartments in Washington and San Francisco, the house in Belgravia and Brandon Hall in Hampshire. All of these will revert to the trust on my death …

  Hector grunted. None of this surprised him. He would never have contemplated continuing to live in any of those grand homes. Not with Hazel’s ghost walking beside him through the empty rooms.

  All I truly hold in my own name is the island in the Seychelles and 4.75% of the market capitalization of Bannock Oil. In terms of Henry’s will I administered and voted the other 48%, but those stocks also revert to the Trust on my death.

  If you and I have any children of our own they will be generously taken care of by the Trust. Henry was a good and saintly man. He knew he would almost certainly go first, and that I would probably marry again. He did not want me and my still unborn children to be punished for that. I am certain he has made arrangements for any of my children, whether he is the father or not.

  You are really and truly going to love dealing with the trustees, but you will have to do so on our children’s behalf. I will use your own idiom to describe these gentlemen to you.

  A bunch of tight-assed lawyers with faces like piss-pots.

  Please be gentle with them, darling, even if they drive you mad with frustration. Henry bound them to a vow of silence. They can’t and won’t tell you anything about the Trust. They won’t tell you the names of the other beneficiaries or what assets the Trust owns. Henry deliberately chose the Cayman Islands as a base for the Trust, because that little state enforces a non-disclosure rule. Not even an order from the Supreme Court of the USA will make them budge.

  However, you can rest assured that our children will get everything they need and a lot they don’t really need, without a quibble from the trustees. Henry was always very generous. One of his stipulations is that every dollar earned by a beneficiary will be supplemented by the Trust with three dollars. So when Cayla earned $100 baby-sitting for a neighbour the Trust paid her out another $300. When I collected a few million dollars in director’s fees from Bannock Oil … Well, need I say more?

  The chief trustee of the Henr
y Bannock Family Trust is Ronald Bunter of Bunter and Theobald Inc., a law firm in Houston, Texas. Agatha will be able to give you his address and telephone numbers.

  What else is there? Oh yes! In addition to the above I have a few roubles and shekels and other loose change placed with sundry investment banks and financial institutions in various parts of the world. I am not entirely certain how much there is, but at the last count it was roughly five or six hundred million dollars. There is a list of these banks attached to this letter together with the names of the officials that handle my accounts and the appropriate passwords to give you access. These are all numbered accounts so you will have access to them immediately without having to jump through any hoops. Nor will you have to pay any taxes on them, unless you want to. If I know you as I think I do, my silly darling, you will want to do just that.

  What was the Gospel according to St Hector that you preached to me?

  ‘Pay all the taxes that you owe. Not a penny less and not a penny more. That is the only way you will sleep well at night.’

  You always knew how to make me laugh.

  The G5 belongs to Bannock Oil, and the Boeing Business Jet belongs to the Trust. But as you are a director of Bannock Oil you will always have one of the other company jets at your disposal. Okay, I know you prefer flying commercial, plebeian that you are. All the cars and race horses are mine. So drive them carefully and bet on them wisely. Sadly, the paintings belong to the Trust; all those lovely Gauguins and Monets (Sigh!). The clothes, shoes and handbags, the furs and all the jewellery are mine; as are all the other odds and ends lying around. That’s just about it.

  I leave all of this to you in my will, to which this epistle is attached.

  Goodbye, Hector, my true love. I really didn’t want to leave you; I was having so much fun.

  I will love you through eternity,

  Hazel

  One last thought, my dearest darling. Do not pine too long over my departure. Remember me with joy, but find yourself another companion. A man like you was never designed to live like a monk. However, make sure she is a good woman, or else I will come back and haunt her.

  He jumped up from his desk and went through the double doors onto the balcony. He leaned on the parapet and looked down on the river, but the lovely view was blurred by the tears in his eyes.

  ‘I never wanted any of that. It’s far too much. Four and three-quarter per cent of all the issued stock of Bannock Oil? My God! That’s an obscene amount of money. All I ever really wanted was you.’

  In the study behind him the intercom chirped and he went back to his desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, Agatha?’

  ‘I have the list you asked for, Mr Cross.’

  ‘Thank you. Please bring it through to me.’

  The list that Agatha had prepared comprised over five hundred names, all Hazel’s friends and business associates. With a ballpoint in hand, Hector pruned it down to four hundred and ten. Then he circled a number of the names.

  ‘These are the ones that must know immediately. These people must be the first to know ahead of all the others and before the media storm bursts. You can send the others tomorrow.’ Amongst the urgent messages were those for John Nelson in South Africa, brother of Hazel’s mother Grace, and John Bigelow in Houston, the former Republican senator, who was the vice-president of Bannock Oil under Hazel, who was the president and CEO. Another name he had circled was Ronald Bunter’s.

  Hector flipped over a leaf in his notepad and wrote on a clean sheet, ‘It distresses me to have to inform you of the death of my beloved wife Hazel Bannock-Cross in tragic circumstances. Invitations to her Memorial Service will follow shortly. Hector Cross.’

  Agatha took the amended list and the draft message from him, and then reminded him, ‘It’s almost two o’clock. The staff are already waiting for you in the blue drawing room, sir.’

  *

  All the employees of Brandon Hall, from the butler to the gamekeepers and water bailiffs, and from the matron to the chambermaids, were gathered in the blue drawing room. The men stood along the wall while the women were seated awkwardly and self-consciously on the sofas and chairs.

  Hector wanted very much to get it over with. These were all fine people and had rendered excellent service. He did not want to turn them out into a job market that was already glutted by the economic recession. He steeled himself and told them about Hazel. There were gasps of shock and exclamations of disbelief. Some of the women began to weep.

  ‘Brandon Hall will probably have to be sold. I will do my utmost to see that you are re-employed by whoever takes over here. But whatever happens you will all receive two years’ severance pay.’ He went on to thank them for their loyalty and hard work, and then invited all of them to pay their last respects to Hazel at the funeral service in the crematorium. Finally he warned them, ‘There are going to be swarms of reporters buzzing around here like flies, trying to get you to reveal details of our private lives and my wife’s death. Please don’t speak to them. If they offer you money tell me, and I will pay you double to keep quiet. Thank you.’

  When they began to file from the room Hector asked the two nursemaids, that Hazel had hired, to remain behind.

  ‘Termination of employment does not apply to you two ladies. My wife gave birth to a little girl before she passed away. I shall need both of you to take care of her.’ They perked up immediately.

  ‘A girl! How wonderful. What’s her name, sir?’

  ‘Her name is Catherine. But please remember. You must not talk about this to any strangers. Now I want to have a quick look at the nursery to make sure everything is ready for the baby when she comes home from the hospital.’

  The nursery suite was directly across the corridor from the master bedroom suite. It was entirely Hazel’s creation. Hector had kept well out of the way while she was planning and building it. It comprised five rooms, including the two bedrooms for the nurses. The colour scheme was baby pink. Hector was reminded of a throne room when he walked into the baby’s bedroom. In the centre of the floor was a large white and gold cot with a tented pink canopy spread over it. The walls were lined with shelves on which reposed an array of soft cuddly toys, a menagerie of bunnies, giraffes and zebras, lions and tigers. This was a display to outdo Hamleys toy shop at Christmas time.

  The two nursemaids were young and deeply respectful. As they led him on a conducted tour, Hector looked wise and said little. In the end he gave his measured judgement: ‘Well, it seems that you have everything you need here.’ Silently he added, Except a more mature and experienced hand on the tiller. He thanked them and escaped back to his study.

  *

  As he sank into his swivel chair he saw on his computer screen that there was already a reply to his email from John Nelson, Hazel’s uncle in South Africa. He opened it. There was no salutation and the text was stark and bitter.

  You are directly responsible for the deaths of the three people in my life that I have truly loved: my sister Grace, Cayla Bannock, my great-niece, and now Hazel herself.

  The stench of death follows you, Hector Cross. You are as loathsome as a great black hyena. I curse you to your grave, and I shall spit upon it when at last they lay you in it.

  Hector rocked back in his chair. ‘Poor John, you are really hurting. I understand. So am I.’ He deleted the message from his inbox. It took him a while to recover his equilibrium.

  ‘Keep busy!’ he urged himself. ‘Don’t brood. Move on. Keep moving.’ He swivelled his chair and reached for the telephone. He dialled the mobile number that Sergeant Evans had given him at the hospital and Evans answered almost immediately.

  ‘I am pleased you called me, Mr Cross. I am very sorry to hear about your wife, sir. The two perpetrators of the attack were dead when my colleagues reached the scene. At this stage we presume they were killed in the collision with your vehicle. The case is being handled by Detective Inspector Harlow at police headquarters in Winchester. I know he is anxious to take a stateme
nt from you. Please give him a call to arrange a time and place.’ Hector hung up and dialled 101, which took him through to the police non-emergency centre. From there he was passed up the chain of command until he reached Detective Inspector Harlow. They arranged to meet at police headquarters later that evening. He hung up and checked his wristwatch.

  He rang down to the underground garage and told the chauffeur, ‘Please bring the Bentley around to the front door as soon as you can. I am going into town.’

  ‘Will you need me to drive you, sir?’ the chauffeur asked hopefully. He was clearly feeling underemployed.

  ‘Not today, Robert. But by the way, you can take the Range Rover to the panel beaters in town and have them repair the damage to the front end.’ Hector grabbed his coat off the hat stand as he left his study. He shrugged it on as he ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was breathing hard as he reached the entrance lobby.

  ‘Puffing like an old man. You’ll have to sharpen up if you are going to survive this shit storm,’ he told himself. The butler had heard him coming and held the front door open for him.

  ‘Will you be home for dinner, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Give my apologies to Chef. I will be eating out,’ Hector told him. The huge house and the empty rooms were already becoming oppressive. He would find his dinner in a pub somewhere. Maybe meet up with a local gamekeeper or a water bailiff with whom he could discuss fishing and shooting, and shake off the dark clouds of sorrow for a short while. The chauffeur already had the Bentley waiting for him.

  He drove to the hospital first, and spent half an hour in the registrar’s office going through all the procedures for the issue of Hazel’s death certificate and Catherine’s birth certificate, which entailed the production of his own passport. From what Hazel had written in her last letter to him, he was going to need these documents if he were to get the full attention of the trustees of the Henry Bannock Family Trust.

  From the registrar’s office he returned to the maternity section, where already the nurses knew him and his tragic circumstances well. Between themselves they had given him the nickname of ‘Daddy Heart Throb’, or DHT for short.