The Legacy (9 page)

Chapter 20

Lucy and Isobel's flight to Kathmandu was delayed by three hours. By the time it eventually took off, both girls were seriously worried about making their connecting flight. An hour or so later, they landed in Kathmandu and, after a frantic dash through the airport, were able to check in their bags and board the flight to Heathrow. As the plane's doors closed, Lucy settled back in her Club Class seat, accepted a glass of champagne and thought of Harry. She turned to Isobel with a worried expression. ‘I should have sent him an e-mail before we left. He thinks I'm going to be back in Pokhara in a week or so but that's not going to happen.'

‘Not your fault Luce,' said Isobel. ‘Why don't you send him one when we're back in UK. He'll understand.'

‘I don't suppose I've got much choice now,' said Lucy. ‘It's typical isn't it,' she went on. ‘I meet the first man for years that I think I might really like and something dreadful happens to stop me spending time with him. Why does this always happen to me?'

Isobel laughed. It was the first time that her friend had talked about something other than her father since last night. ‘Don't worry,' she said, reaching over to squeeze her friend's hand. ‘If it's meant to be, he'll still be there in a few weeks' time when your father's out of hospital and starting to recover.'

Lucy sipped the champagne and wondered how her father was doing. She'd tried phoning Kate before they left Pokhara but without success. She'd left a few messages, hoping that Kate would pick them up and phone her back before she boarded the plane but the phone had stayed silent. Thinking about it now, Lucy realised that she hadn't really known her father when she was very young. He always seemed to be away, either on courses or, as he called it, on operations. The sudden death of her mother when she was sixteen had been the catalyst that brought them together. Lucy had loved her mother with a passion. They had been extremely close and Lucy had been devastated when she'd been killed by an out of control car that mounted the pavement and crushed her against a wall. The driver, an eighteen-year-old boy who'd already lost his license for driving whilst drunk, had run away from the scene of the accident but had been stupid enough to boast about it whilst drinking with friends in his local pub. Someone had overheard the conversation and had phoned the police. The boy was arrested, tried and eventually sentenced to five years in gaol. With good behaviour, he was out in three. It always struck Lucy as so unfair that her mother had lost her life but her killer had only had to spend three years behind bars. Her father held the same view. Perversely, it was their shared anger and sense of frustration that had brought them closer together.

Following her mother's death, her father had made a real effort, whenever he could, to travel to her school in York and to watch her play hockey or tennis for the school teams. After a match, if she wasn't going home with him for the weekend, he would take her to Betty's for afternoon tea. She loved Betty's. Right in the centre of York, it was comfortably old fashioned. There were always lots of grannies treating their grandchildren to cakes and buns and she loved the atmosphere. She particularly liked the multi-layered cake stands that they used. She could picture them now: small sandwiches on the bottom level, delicate slices of cake on the next and lots of colourful buns on the top plate. She used to eat two things from every level whilst her father told her what he had been doing over the previous week. She felt very close to him at those times. When she finished the sixth form and got a place at university, he had been truly delighted, telling her that her mother would have been incredibly proud of her. Neither he nor her mother had been to university. They had both left school at sixteen. Her mother had gone to work in her father's shoe shop whilst he had joined the Army as a boy soldier.

She'd seen quite a lot of him over the last few years. He lived in Edinburgh and Durham was only a few hours away on the train. Although he was abroad a lot, they normally managed to spend a weekend together every six weeks or so. He would meet her train at Edinburgh Waverley station and then, arm in arm, they would walk to his flat on George Street, chatting about what they had been up to. She really looked forward to these weekends. They would go out for supper, watch a movie or just sit in a bar and catch up. Edinburgh was a great place to spend an idle weekend and her father, although reserved by nature, had a dry sense of humour that made her laugh.

She noticed that he'd been much more relaxed since he'd left the Army and that he seemed to be earning a fair amount of money. She'd asked him what exactly he did on a number of occasions but all he would say was that he was doing freelance security work for some old Army friends. Kate, who occasionally joined them for supper or for a drink, was unable to shed any further light when, in a quiet moment without her father, Lucy had asked her what she thought he did. In all honesty, Lucy didn't really mind what job her father did. She was just pleased that he seemed to be happy. She liked his new flat and was delighted, though very surprised, when he told her that he'd found a new hobby. As far as she could remember, he'd never had a hobby in his life. An active man, she expected him to tell her that he'd taken up mountaineering or extreme skiing and she was therefore truly shocked when he explained that he'd started collecting oil paintings by old Scottish artists!

‘Excuse me madam,' said a stewardess as she leaned over Lucy to pull the table out from the arm of her chair. ‘Would you like the fish or the chicken for your main course?'

‘The fish please,' replied Lucy. She was so lost in thought that she hadn't noticed the stewardess serving the people around her. She looked across the aisle at Isobel who was tucking into the chicken as though she hadn't eaten for a week. ‘Hungry?' asked Lucy.

‘Famished,' replied Isobel. ‘I just watched a movie about a rat who was actually a chef and it reminded me that we haven't eaten since yesterday lunchtime!'

Lucy smiled at her friend. She was right. Lucy hadn't felt like eating anything the previous night and because of the early morning start they'd missed breakfast at the hotel. When they got to the airport, all they'd found was a coffee bar. Even when the flight was delayed, they'd been unable to get anything else for breakfast other than more coffee.

Lucy ate her meal, which was good, and closed her eyes. Within a few minutes she was fast asleep.

Chapter 21

S
ir Richard Knowles got out of the taxi and walked up the steps of his club. He'd been a member of the Army and Navy, or the RAG as its members called it, for nearly thirty years and he was well known by the staff.

‘Good morning Sir Richard,' said the porter. He'd seen Knowles arrive from his office at the front of the club and was holding the main door open for him.

‘Morning Simpson,' replied Knowles. ‘Do you know whether my guest has arrived yet?'

‘Not yet Sir. I've been on for most of the morning and nobody's asked for you yet,' replied Simpson.

‘Please could you direct him to the library when he does?' asked Knowles.

‘Of course Sir,' replied Simpson. He liked Knowles. He was always friendly with the staff and, according to Simpson's friend in accounts, always donated generously to the staff Christmas Fund. This was important to Simpson. Like most clubs, the Army and Navy didn't allow tipping so the Christmas Fund was the staff's chance to earn a little extra for their hard work.

Knowles hung his coat in the cloakroom and then went upstairs to the library to read the papers until his guest arrived. He liked this club. Its exterior was a bit drab but the interior was impressive. The Club had an extensive collection of old paintings which it displayed in the public rooms. Oddly for an old soldier, Knowles' favourites were the ones of famous sea battles. He also liked some of the portraits, particularly the ones of Wellington. He wasn't a military historian but there was much about the man that he admired, particularly his gritty determination and robust integrity. His favourite uncle had taken him to Spain when he was seventeen and introduced him to Wellington's Peninsula Campaign. The uncle was an expert on the subject and they'd spent a leisurely two weeks visiting museums, castles and battlefields. The uncle also had a gift for bringing history to life and Knowles, who wasn't at all academic, was enthralled, particularly by the intimate details of Wellington's life. It was no surprise when, in his exams the following year, the young Knowles gained an A in History.

Knowles belonged to two other clubs in London but he preferred the Army and Navy for lunch because he rarely bumped into any of his city colleagues there. If they left the office at lunchtime at all, they tended to use the restaurants and clubs nearer to where they worked. His father, who had also been a member, had suggested he join the Club when he was first commissioned into the Rifles, one of the British Army's most illustrious infantry regiments. Although he'd only served for three years, he'd enjoyed his time in the Army. His father had encouraged his interest, believing it would be character building. Knowles agreed that it had been but it had also been tremendous fun. A talented sportsman, he'd spent three months a year skiing for his Regiment. Though the majority of the competitions were in Bavaria, their training usually took place in the French Alps. This was particularly enjoyable because the chalet they always rented was in Avoriaz, one of France's most popular ski resorts. The town came alive during the ski season with wealthy families, students and ski addicts from across Europe making the most of the town's bars, restaurants and nightclubs. Most importantly from his perspective, at least at the time, there seemed to be an endless supply of girls in their early twenties, all keen to spend their time with dashing young officers who could ski like professionals.

He'd first met his lunch guest at one of the bars in Avoriaz. At the time, James Briggs had been a student at Oxford University and he, along with the rest of the university ski team, were in Avoriaz training for the annual inter-university ski competition. One evening, the two were drinking with their respective friends in one of Avoriaz's more expensive bars when a particularly attractive girl walked in. She scanned the room as though looking for someone but, failing to find them, went and sat on her own at the far end of the bar. Both Knowles and Briggs were captivated. Tall and blonde, she wore a short jacket and the tightest pair of red jeans that either had ever seen. She eased onto a stool, wriggling her bottom into a comfortable position, and ordered a beer, chatting to the barman as he served her. Knowles assumed that she was waiting to meet someone but when, after ten minutes, she was still alone, he decided that he had to seize such an excellent opportunity and go and talk to her. Briggs had the same idea but, because he was sitting slightly nearer, Knowles got there first, climbing onto the stool next to the blonde and trying to catch the barman's attention. The bar was busy but it almost seemed as if the barman was deliberately ignoring him. Knowles sensed the girl watching him out of the corner of her eye. ‘Andreas,' she called to the barman. ‘When you've finished chatting up the girl in the red t-shirt, please could you serve this man before he dies of thirst.' The barman nodded.

The girl's English had the trace of an accent. ‘Thank you,' Knowles said, turning to her. ‘I was beginning to wonder if he didn't like me.'

‘No problem,' the blonde girl replied. ‘He fancies the girl in the t-shirt. As you're not a girl, he's in no rush to serve you!' She looked at him as she spoke. She had deep blue eyes and a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

‘I'm Richard Knowles,' Knowles said, taking the opportunity to introduce himself with his most winning smile. ‘Can I get you a drink as a thank you?' he asked.

‘Thank you but no,' the girl replied. ‘I'm waiting for a friend and I've already had one beer. If I have any more before she arrives, I won't make much sense!'

The barman eventually came over and Knowles ordered a couple of beers. As he paid, he noticed a tall man about his own age lean against the bar on the other side of the blonde. The man held a fifty Euro note in his hand to catch the barman's attention. It worked. As soon as the barman had served Knowles, he went straight over to the tall man to take his order. Knowles couldn't help overhearing the tall man. He spoke in fluent French but switched to English when one of his friends came over to change his order. The tall man then turned to the blonde. ‘You look thirsty. It's my birthday and I'm buying drinks for thirsty blondes. May I buy you a drink?'

‘No, thank you,' the blonde replied. ‘That's very kind but I already have a beer and this gentleman has also just offered to buy me one.' She nodded her head in Knowles' direction as she spoke.

Knowles was impressed when the tall man switched to German to continue his conversation with the girl. Knowles didn't understand what he was saying but the tall man soon had the girl laughing, although Knowles was disconcerted that she kept looking in his direction as she laughed.

The tall man paid for his drinks and carried the tray over to his friends at the far side of the bar.

‘Your friend was very funny,' the girl said as the tall man walked away. ‘I'm sorry that you didn't win your bet.'

‘Bet?' Knowles queried. ‘What bet?'

‘He said that you had bet him twenty Euros that you could leave the bar with me within an hour,' she explained.

Knowles started to laugh, recognising that the tall man clearly saw him as competition for the blonde girl's attention and was trying to spike his chances. He'd done similar things to his friends in the past, although he'd never had the courage to do it to a stranger. ‘Ah well,' he said. ‘Now you know my evil plans, perhaps we can just chat until your friend arrives?'

The girl liked his disarming honesty and agreed. Knowles made the most of the opportunity. ‘My friend is celebrating and is a little bit drunk. His wife's just had their first child. It came two weeks early so he's flying back tomorrow. But tonight, he's just proud to be a Dad.'

The girl's brow furrowed. ‘Oh, how fantastic. He must be delighted,' she said.

As the tall man walked back towards them with an empty tray, the blonde noticed her friend waving at her from the door. ‘I must go,' she said to the two men. ‘Congratulations,' she said to the tall man, sliding off the bar stool. ‘I bet you're delighted.' With that, she squeezed between the two of them and headed off towards her friend.

The two men watched her go and then looked at each other. ‘What did she mean?' the tall man asked quizzically.

‘Well,' Knowles said, ‘once you'd kindly explained our bet to her, I felt obliged to explain that your wife had just given birth and that you were out celebrating.'

The tall man looked at Knowles incredulously. ‘You said what?' he asked.

‘I explained that you had had reservations about going skiing but that, as the baby wasn't due for another few weeks, your wife had insisted that you go. I also explained that this was your last night out with the boys before you flew home to see your wife and baby son. She was delighted for you!' Knowles smiled as he said the last bit.

To his surprise the tall man started to laugh. ‘Touché,' he said. ‘That serves me right I suppose.' He held out his hand for Knowles to shake. ‘I'm Jim Briggs,' he said.

‘Richard Knowles,' Knowles replied, shaking the proffered hand. ‘Let me buy you a drink.'

That had been twenty-five years ago and the two had been the firmest of friends ever since. Knowles had left the Army and gone to work in the City whilst Briggs had finished his degree in modern languages and joined the police force. Many of his friends thought it an unlikely career for such a talented individual but Briggs was adamant that it was what he wanted. In the intervening years, he'd progressed from PC Jim Briggs of the Metropolitan Police to Sir James Briggs, head of the City of London Police. He'd been in the post for two years and was generally thought to be doing an extremely good job. His no-nonsense approach and absolute refusal to crony up to politicians and senior bankers made him unpopular with some but the media applauded his efforts. They had nicknamed him ‘Straight Jim', suggesting that he was one of the few people in the country prepared to take on the big corporations if and when they started to sail too close to the legal wind. As the Commissioner of the City of London Police, he was responsible for all aspects of policing within the Square Mile. As well as departments that covered anti-terrorism and more routine police duties, his National Fraud Intelligence Bureau focused on economic crime and, in particular, the activities of the financial institutions within the City.

Briggs entered the club and asked for Sir James Knowles. Simpson took his coat and led him up two flights of stairs to the library where Knowles was waiting.

‘Jim, thank you for coming,' said Knowles, getting out of his chair. ‘Thank you Simpson,' he said to the doorman.

‘Good to see you Richard,' said Briggs. ‘It's been a few months.'

Knowles led the way out of the library and towards the dining room. As they walked, they asked each other about their respective families, catching up on domestic news until they were shown to a secluded table in the corner of the dining room.

‘Do sit down Jim and I'll explain why, other than for your delightful company, I asked you to meet me.' Knowles indicated a chair and, moving round the table so that his back was against the wall, he sat down. The waiter gave them each a menu and poured iced water into their glasses.

‘How much do you know about Charles Highworth?' asked Knowles, placing his menu on the table.

‘Not a huge amount,' replied Briggs. ‘He seems to be extremely successful. He's not come across our radar as someone we need to watch. I've met him a few times. He's always been pleasant enough. Why?' asked Briggs.

‘What I'm about to tell you is off the record, at least for the moment,' said Knowles. ‘I'm telling you because you're a friend and I need your advice.'

Briggs looked at his friend quizzically. In all the years he'd known him, Knowles had never once asked him for advice. He was intrigued.

‘I've known Highworth for about twenty years,' began Knowles. ‘I first came across him or, more correctly, International Valiant, when I was trying to buy a company called Demon Toys. The company manufactured dolls, mainly action figures based on film characters. It was a long established company and the shares were owned by family members. In its day it had been very successful but it had been making a loss for three or four years and the family were keen to sell. I wanted it because one of its factories sat on about five acres of land which I knew would become extremely valuable within a few years. The company didn't know this at the time and I'm not going to tell you how I knew; suffice to say that my plan was to buy the company, close it down and sell off the land. Everything was going as planned until, out of the blue, the company landed a contract to make all the action figures associated with the summer's highest grossing movie. You might remember the film. It was called
Only the Brave
and it exceeded everyone's expectations, it even picked up an Oscar or two. The action figures were a huge success. Needless to say, as soon as they'd landed the contract, the head of the family, a thoroughly decent old boy, decided he didn't want to sell after all.'

‘What happened to the land?' asked Briggs.

‘They kept it for a few years and then apparently sold it off for a significant sum,' answered Knowles.

‘So how does Highworth fit into all this?' asked Briggs.

Knowles took a deep breath and then continued. ‘About five years ago, I bumped into the head of the family quite by chance at a rugby tournament in York. We were sponsoring one of the teams and we decided it would be fun to watch a few of the games. The old boy bought me a beer. He said that he'd always felt bad having changed his mind about selling the company at the eleventh hour. I said that I understood and that there were no hard feelings. I mentioned that it was a stroke of luck that they'd got the contract for the
Only the Brave
toys and that none of us could have predicted that. There was no luck in it, he said. I asked him what he meant. He was a bit cagey at first but, over a few more pints, he explained that an organisation called “International Valiant” had made them an offer they couldn't refuse. The deal was that if the family agreed to sell forty-nine percent of their shares, then International Valiant would ensure that they got the contract for the
Only the Brave
toys. The old boy was quite happy with the deal. They lost control of part of the company but they got a good price for the shares and the family remained the major shareholder. Moreover, the company got a new lease of life. He wouldn't tell me exactly how much he'd sold the shares for but he did tell me that International Valiant had sold them on several years later for a very substantial profit.'