5

‘There’s no death certificate. Nobody called Koenig died in the borough during that year or the following two years. They checked, just to make sure.’ Julia shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’

Harris played with his glasses, turning them round so that the lenses caught the light. ‘Any joy from medical records?’

‘Not yet; one local practice had no records, everything was cleared out when they rebuilt the surgery – just our luck if she was a patient there – they’re working on two other practices that were operating at the time. We know,’ she went on, ‘we know she had an accident because there were witnesses. But there’s only his word that she died afterwards. So what happened to her?’

‘Wait for the medical check,’ he suggested. He sat forward suddenly. ‘Accident victims go to the local hospital. Get someone over to the Putney Royal and the Hammersmith. They may have chucked out stuff forty years ago, but it’s worth a try.’

‘Thanks, Ben. I’ll put someone on it now. And I bought you a present.’

‘Present? What for?’

‘To stop you breaking your glasses,’ Julia said. ‘Here, put them in this.’ It was a dark leather sleeve; he knew by the feel of it that it was expensive.

He fitted his glasses inside and put them in his breast pocket.

‘I’m not used to presents. What do I say?’

‘Nothing,’ Julia smiled at him. ‘Stop looking grumpy because you’re embarrassed.’

‘I’m pleased,’ he said. ‘Really. Thanks. I’ve got to get back to my office. Meet me afterwards?’

‘We can start at the pub,’ she suggested. ‘Then you can take me home and introduce me to your cat.’

She met Felix going down in the lift; they hadn’t encountered each other since he’d left the flat. ‘Hi,’ he said as she got in. ‘Nice to see you.’ He looked cool and friendly, without a hint of awkwardness. Julia felt herself stiffen at the sight of him.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘It’s going well. Matter of fact, I’m off to meet some tout who says he’s got inside info on a front-bencher. Something juicy.’

Julia said coldly, ‘You know Warburton doesn’t deal in that kind of thing.’

‘I know – he’s a stuffy old fart, that’s why. I’m going along to see what this creep’s got to offer. I’ll have to put him down to expenses.’

He laughed, and as the lift doors opened, he pushed out ahead, calling over his shoulder, ‘Bye, Julia – see you!’

Julia followed slowly, watching him stride down towards the car park. There had been no spark left. He had become a stranger, a man she couldn’t relate to; a reminder, she admitted, of a period in her life when she’d allowed sexual dependence to sway her judgement.

It wasn’t Felix’s fault; she was older and should have put an end to the relationship before it deteriorated.

Now a very different man had come into her life. They were drawn closer by work and respect for each other’s talents. And making love to Ben was a mutual experience, not a male dominance that satisfied a baser instinct in her nature. Perhaps she’d had a need to submit to Felix because of the imbalance in their ages and their finances. She hadn’t considered that before, and it surprised her. Working on the enigma of Harold King, complemented by the acute mind and experience of Ben Harris, she had become more intuitive, more self-aware. She walked to the pub where they usually met after work, and she was looking forward to seeing him. The anticipation made her happy; it was an odd feeling, to be happy because you were about to meet a man who’d only left you a few hours ago. To want to see his pet cat that he brought in off the street. And to spend the night with him and eat breakfast with him in the morning. She pushed her way through the bar, and he was waiting for her.

Felix thought he’d never seen such a sleaze-bag in his life. The expensive trendy clothes didn’t deceive him, or the phony Irish-American accent.

He took an instant dislike to the man with his smooth talk, and the over-chummy manner. ‘I’m Joe,’ he had introduced himself. ‘Joe Patrick. Pleased to meet you. What’ll you have?’

‘Beer,’ Felix said, looking round. He wasn’t familiar with the Soho pub his caller had suggested. It was wallpapered with old boxing posters and photographs of fighters posing with some tubby little jerk he supposed was the publican.

‘Ever been here before?’ Joe Patrick asked him.

‘No,’ Felix said. He sipped his beer. Joe Patrick had a straight whiskey without ice. ‘Who put you on to me?’ Felix asked him.

‘Journalist friend of mine. I was telling him the story and he said you were the guy to talk to; so I called. I think you’ll find it interesting.’

‘What’s it going to cost me?’ Felix finished the beer. ‘My boss doesn’t print your kind of information, so it’s got to come out of my own pocket.’ Like fuck, Joe smiled to himself. He had formed his own judgement of Mr Felix dick-head Sutton. He’d been the journalist’s fancy boy till she threw him out. Big-headed, macho pig with his brains in his crotch. Looked as if he’d boxed or played rugger, with that broken nose. Joe put his head on one side. ‘Is that straight? You’d be paying yourself?’ Felix nodded. ‘Well …’ Joe pretended to hesitate. Then he gave Felix a broad smile, displaying the fine white teeth that had been grafted on to his own stumps. ‘I’ll make a special deal with you. We might be useful to each other. Fifty quid, cash.’

‘Let’s hear the story first.’

Joe raised a manicured hand with a big gold ring on the middle finger. ‘Fifty quid on account and five hundred if you print it. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

‘Fair enough,’ Felix nodded. He took the hand held out to him in token of a pact agreed between men of their word.

‘What’s the dirt, then?’

‘Over here,’ Joe suggested, leading the way to a small table. ‘We can talk here. I’ll start with the name.’

Felix looked up quickly. A leading member of the Commons, no less. Subscribing to a paedophile mailing service. Videos, porno photographs, some of the children were three and four years old. ‘Very, very nasty stuff,’ Joe murmured in mock disapproval. His journalist friend – he was a freelance, and his market was strictly tabloid – he’d heard it from a contact in the Vice Squad. They were watching the man after his name had been found on a list kept by a well-known Dutch supplier. Some of the dirt had been confiscated in the post. Then the word came down. Kill it; he’ll be given a private warning, but there’s heavy pressure not to show him up, or there’ll be repercussions that’ll hit the other side on the front benches. The copper thought there might be some money in it, if a suitable market could be found.

‘If he works for the tabloids,’ Felix interrupted, ‘why not go to them? They’d love a Scotland Yard cover-up sex-and-scandal story on a politician.’

‘They wouldn’t touch it,’ Joe insisted. ‘Same pressure. It’s a powder keg, this one. These pricks are in some very high places. So I thought of you. Your paper’s doing “Exposure”, aren’t you – I’ve read all the advance hype and it seemed just the sort of thing you’d latch on to. You’re not scared off by the heavies … What’d you think?’

Felix said flatly, ‘“Exposure” wouldn’t touch it.’

‘You sure about that?’ The blue eyes focused on him, gutter bright with cunning.

‘I know who’s in charge of it,’ Felix retorted. ‘She wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. And I’m the wrong guy. I cover the political scene. I’ve nothing to do with this new feature.’

‘How do you know they wouldn’t be interested if you haven’t asked?’ Joe persisted. ‘Why don’t you give it a buzz and see what she says. It’s a lady, is it?’ He made the noun sound like a sneer.

‘A very clever lady,’ Felix snapped. ‘She’s already got someone in her sights, and it’s a much bigger fish than some dirty old pervert.’

‘Oh? You sure about that?’ Felix was irritated by the repeated question. ‘Course I’m bloody sure. I’m her boyfriend, for Christ’s sake!’

Joe noted the present tense. Pride still touchy …

‘I’ve got a bloody good idea who it is, too,’ Felix insisted.

‘You could be wrong,’ Joe mused. ‘The kid fancier’s in line for a job at the next reshuffle …’ He let the sentence die.

‘I told you, it’s not a politician! She’s going to do some expose on the Honours List. Shits like Harold King getting a peerage. If that crook gets a seat in the Lords, I’ll give up on this lousy country. Here, I brought some cash with me. Fifty quid, but there won’t be any more. No story for us. Sorry.’

Joe took the packet of notes. ‘Pity. Next time maybe. I’ll keep you in mind.’

‘Yeah,’ Felix said, ‘do that. Thanks for the beer.’

He elbowed his way out. Joe, out of a lifetime’s habit, counted the tenners and then put them in his inside pocket. He’d got the information like squeezing milk out of a full tit. The boss was right. Joe didn’t know how he knew things before they happened, but it wasn’t the first time. He was right. This cow Hamilton was out to make trouble for him.

The contact in Stuttgart was not a veteran. He had been ten when the war ended, and, luckily for him, his family were still together, their home intact. He owned a small engineering business which was thriving.

His father had been invalided out of the German army after the defeat of France. A civilian sniper’s bullet had left him in a wheelchair.

He had brought up his three children to believe that only treachery from within had deprived Germany of victory. His eldest son left university with an engineering degree and a secret commitment to the outlawed neo-Nazi movement. He was a fund-raiser and supporter of a political renaissance that was in the open now, encouraged by resentment of the influx of Turkish migrant workers, busy organizing violent opposition to the thousands of refugees from Romania and the Balkans. Jobs were short and times were hard for Germans after the euphoria of unification. Restructuring the shattered economy left by the Communists was crippling, despite the strength of the Mark and the industry of the people. Resentments grew and the movement fed on such feelings.

The engineer from Stuttgart was one of a chain of contacts throughout Germany, with links in France, and Italy, and Spain. Fascism was not dead, and it had many sympathizers prepared to help its cause.

One of those causes was the protection of ex-German soldiers who had found a haven abroad after defeat. The report had come in from Nessenberg.

He read through it, bitter at the interference from the old enemy, still hunting patriots after forty years.

He knew where to send it, but, like the shopkeeper in Nessenberg, its ultimate destination was unknown to him, except that it was tied to generous donations to the movement from abroad. The report was packaged and sent off by airmail to an address in Dublin.

It arrived by special messenger at King’s house in Mayfair. It was marked PRIVATE, PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. No-one but King was allowed to open anything labelled in that way.

Gloria put it in his desk drawer in the study. It would have to wait till her father got back from his latest trip to New York.

He talked his plans over with her; she understood the complexity of his financial dealings, and she was a good sounding-board. Sometimes her sharp instincts had an idea to contribute. She treasured that intimacy, not least because her mother had always been excluded. She was too stupid, Gloria thought triumphantly. And one day she knew Daddy would take her onto the board of his conglomerates and she’d be like his son. She had wanted to be a boy since puberty; rejecting the female image in favour of father imitation, Gloria didn’t like men. At school she discovered the pleasures of sexual activity with other girls. She was not very motivated; the lesbian affairs were short lived and very discreet. Her father didn’t know about them, because she chose her lovers from her circle of friends. They were usually married, and dissatisfied.

She’d gone up to Oxford where she got a two/one in economics and modern languages, and then spent two years at the Harvard Business School where she graduated with Honours. Everything was geared to her succeeding her father; she wasn’t brilliant, but she was intuitive and she worked relentlessly to succeed. For five years she had been investment manager in the London office of a firm of merchant bankers in American ownership. She was disappointed he hadn’t taken her to New York with him. Lately they had started making business trips together. This time he had refused her, explaining that it meant a series of confidential meetings with bankers and money brokers where she couldn’t be present. She’d be bored out of her mind with nothing to do all day. Unlike her mother, Gloria wasn’t interested in shopping.

‘I’m never bored with you,’ she wheedled, but she couldn’t move him.

‘You would be this time, sweetheart. I’ll bring you something special back. Tiffany’s? How about that?’

‘I’d rather come,’ she persisted. ‘I’ll miss you. Two whole weeks. Call me, won’t you?’

‘I always do,’ he had protested. He would bring her something spectacular from Tiffany’s, and an equally expensive present for his wife, just to keep both women at each other’s throats. He was pleased with Marilyn at the moment. She was looking more beautiful as a result of some discreet surgery, and she was getting a lot of coverage in the social columns. It was all crap, but it was good ground work for the coveted peerage. He flew by Concorde to New York. It was a heavy schedule. He was going to get the crucial financial structuring he needed to launch his attack on William Western.

It took the research team four days to track down the records, but they found them in the basement of Hammersmith Hospital. In April 1950 a Mrs Phyllis Koenig had been admitted with severe head injuries following a fall. She was in a coma. The case notes said she had been transferred to a private nursing home after regaining consciousness and severely limited speech and movement. The impairment was permanent and the prognosis poor, as she had a blood clot on the brain which was impeding the blood supply. The nursing home had long closed but it was in the Sussex area, near Midhurst.

They began another search for the death certificate going forward for five years from the time of the accident, and found it in 1954. The unfortunate woman had lived until then, little more than a vegetable if the hospital prognosis was correct, and had died in the nursing home from a cerebral haemorrhage.

Julia went over the details and rang Ben through. She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘We’re getting somewhere,’ she told him. ‘Phyllis Koenig didn’t die in 1950, she was brain damaged and she ended up in a nursing home in Sussex. She died there four years later.’

‘Why Sussex?’ Ben said. ‘Was King keeping her hidden?’

‘Looks like it. We’ll have a copy of a will by this afternoon. You know, I really think we’re on the right track!’

‘It’s about time,’ he said. ‘Take my advice J, don’t wind up the boss till you’ve got something more. He’ll only lean on you.’

‘Like he did before,’ she agreed. ‘I haven’t forgotten the lesson, teacher. Same place tonight – what time?’

The pub round the corner from their office building was their staging post. They met there, had a drink and then went home, sometimes to her flat, sometimes to Ben’s. Julia had made great friends with the cat. It liked sitting on her knee, digging claws into her skirt and purring.

Their affair was common knowledge now; the clientele at the pub were mostly Herald men and women, and they were used to seeing Ben Harris and Julia Hamilton closeted in a corner. Nobody bothered to comment any more. They were an item, like other couples working on the newspaper.

Ben said, eight-thirty, and she promised to call if she learned anything significant from the will.

As soon as he saw her he quickened; he knew that expression and what it meant. Bright eyes, a slight colour and an air of expectancy. He knew her moods and her foibles and he couldn’t fault anything. He sat beside her. She’d ordered him a whisky.

‘Come on, what’ve you got?’

She opened her bag. ‘This,’ she said. It was a photocopy of the last will and testament of Phyllis Koenig, née Lowe. Dated 29 March 1950. Ben read it and said, ‘Christ,’ under his breath at one point, and carried on reading to the end. Then he looked up.

‘She cut him out,’ he said. ‘She left everything to her niece. The house in Fulham, the stocks, shares, everything. Over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds of estate. That was a fortune in the fifties!’

‘We’ve traced the niece,’ Julia said. ‘She lives in Sussex, that must be why Phyllis was in that nursing home. I talked to her on the phone this afternoon, and she’s agreed to see me tomorrow morning. Ben, I know we’re on to something now. All the dead ends, all the damned blind alleys, but at last we’re seeing light!’

Ben said, ‘Phyllis must have sussed him out when she made that will. She knew she’d made a bloody big mistake by then. And a couple of weeks later she has a fall that nearly kills her. My guess is she probably told King she’d looked after him, just to keep him sweet. So he decided to collect before she changed her mind.’

‘We’d never prove it,’ Julia said.

‘No, but it’s got his stamp on it. Nobody proved who murdered Hayman in the Bahamas, or drove Lewis off the road. But I know King was behind it.’

On the way back to her flat Ben said suddenly, ‘We had a bargain, remember?’

‘Now Ben, you’re not going to start that—’

‘I’m just reminding you, that’s all. When I think we’re getting too close, you back off this thing.’

‘When we get close,’ she agreed. ‘But we’re not close enough yet.’

Next morning Julia drove to Midhurst. The address was just outside the charming town, with its narrow streets and antique shops. It was a mid-Victorian house just off the road. Her appointment was for eleven o’clock and she was ten minutes early.

When she rang the bell, it was opened by a small, plump woman in her sixties. She had bright blue eyes and short, crisp grey hair.

‘Mrs Adams?’

‘Miss Hamilton? Come in. You’re very punctual – no trouble with traffic? Midhurst can be a nightmare with all these awful lorries blocking up the roads. I’ve got some coffee ready for us.’

She was brisk and confident in manner. Very on the ball, as Julia had expected. The sitting room was pleasant, comfortable and chintzy. A black labrador lay in front of the fire which was lit; it raised its head briefly and then went back to sleep.

‘Poor old Daisy,’ she said. ‘She’s fifteen now, and nearly blind. Can’t bear to think of losing her. Do sit down. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, please,’ Julia answered.

‘Now,’ Jean Adams said, ‘before I tell you about my aunt, I’d like to ask you exactly what kind of feature on that dreadful man you’ve got in mind.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Julia admitted. ‘I’m trying to find out the truth about him. He’s built up a legend and backed it with every lie under the sun. So he must have something to hide, Mrs Adams, and I want to find out what it is. All that nonsense about your aunt dying of cancer – I suppose you read that biography.’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Pack of lies. As I expected.’

Julia said quietly, ‘But you did nothing to disprove it.’

‘No.’ The answer was sharp. ‘To what end, Miss Hamilton? To show up my poor aunt as a woman who took to drink because she’d fallen victim to a wicked man young enough to be her son? That she died brain damaged and bedridden. No thank you. And anyway he was too powerful, too rich. I couldn’t have fought him. He’d have dragged us through the courts and ruined us before I got a proper hearing. I let Aunt Phyl rest in peace. I still feel the same. That’s why I want to know what you’re planning to do before I tell you anything.’

‘I hope to expose Harold King for what I believe he really is. His relationship with your aunt is the tip of an iceberg. It only confirms what a lot of people suspect about him but can’t prove: that he’s very bad news and he’s becoming more and more powerful. You called him wicked, didn’t you?’

‘Oh he was,’ Jean Adams agreed. ‘Poor Aunt Phyl knew it. That’s what destroyed her. She told me he was a war criminal. More coffee?’

The pieces were fitting in, one by one.

‘Aunt Phyl was rather a rebel, I knew that even when I was a child. Unconventional – wouldn’t marry and settle down. And she was well off too. She lived – well I suppose it was a raffish life in those days – wouldn’t raise an eyebrow now. She liked the men, and they liked her. She was terribly smart and good-looking. Great fun. She joined the Red Cross in the war, worked in London all through the bombing and the VIs and those frightful rockets. Then she simply couldn’t settle down. It was too dull, she said, after all the excitement. So she joined UNRRA and went off to Europe to work with the refugees and DPs, displaced persons. You know, Miss Hamilton, it changed her.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Julia said. ‘It must have been horrific.’

‘Yes, it was. So much suffering, such terrible devastation. She wrote long letters describing it. She was a very good correspondent, and we’d always been close. I admired her; I thought she was so dashing and exciting.’ Jean Adams gave a rueful smile. ‘I wished I’d been able to join in the war and do something useful, but I was just too young. Aunt Phyl was really affected by what she saw in those camps. She threw her heart into working for the people and trying to help. She came back to England in 1947 and took me out to lunch in London. I was working there as a secretary, and I’d just got engaged to Bob, my husband. I remember her saying, “I feel I’m doing something worthwhile for the first time in my life, Jean. Not just having fun. I’m helping people who’ve lost everything, families, homes, hope—” Then she laughed at herself, embarrassed, I suppose. “If I’m not careful, I’ll be a reformed character, and that won’t do.” She was a tremendous person. Have you ever hated anybody?’

‘No, no. I don’t think so.’

‘You’re lucky. It’s a terrible feeling. I’ve hated Hans Koenig for forty years because of what he did to my aunt. I never think of him as Harold King. She wrote to me about him. I was getting married and she couldn’t get time off for the wedding. She told me she’d found this wonderful young man, so sensitive and intelligent – quite alone, all his family lost, he’d been a slave on a farm in East Germany and the traumas had marked him for life. He didn’t even know his real name. And then the letters changed.’ She looked away from Julia, into some grim memory of her own.

‘She wrote she was in love,’ Jean Adams said. ‘Really in love for the first time in her life. The age difference didn’t matter; he needed her so much and he was so grateful and loving – they were so happy together. I remember reading it and thinking, Good God, this isn’t Aunt Phyl – it reads like a bad novelette. But I was too wrapped up in my own wedding to worry about it. My mother didn’t take any notice. “Oh, it’s just one of Phyl’s fancies. She’ll get bored with him, like all the others.” I think Mother was a bit jealous of her; she wasn’t the one with the looks and personality. Then my aunt came back to England and asked us to Fulham to meet him. They were married. I don’t know what I expected. Some romantic Slav with soulful eyes, I suppose. But he wasn’t like that. He was arrogant. Yes, arrogant and smug. Very physical. I couldn’t help seeing what she found attractive in him. And she was besotted, behaving like a silly girl half her age. He didn’t like me or Bob, and it was mutual. Bob said to me afterwards, “I think your poor aunt’s in for trouble.” I thought so too. I only saw her a few times after that, and she’d gone rapidly downhill. She’d always liked a drink, but it was never a problem. She was actually tight at lunch-time when she came down here one Sunday. Bringing him with her, of course. There was a horrible atmosphere. I’ll never forget it. He was so rude to her, so hostile. She looked miserable.’ She paused. Julia sensed that even after all these years, it distressed her.

‘When did you see her again?’ she asked.

‘About ten days before her accident. She rang me up and asked me to come to London. She wanted to talk to me urgently. I thought she sounded very strange. We had lunch together, and she told me this extraordinary story.’ She paused, and then went on.

‘Koenig,’ she said, clearing her throat slightly, ‘Koenig never drank. Nothing. Not even beer. He hated Aunt Phyl drinking anything, even in the very early days when she took him to live with her in Germany. She did tell me that, and said it was rather sweet, but she didn’t see why she couldn’t have a gin and tonic at the end of a long day … Of course, as she got more and more miserable and he was nastier to her, bullying her for money, she took to the bottle in a big way.

‘It drove him mad, apparently. He used to hit her sometimes – never in the face where it showed, but on the body. He’d punched her black and blue several times. Then one night he’d been out for a walk – she never knew where he went, but he’d disappear off for hours at a time – he came back and she was tight. And then he did something extraordinary, quite out of character. He poured himself a big gin. She couldn’t believe it. He stood over her, and he said, “Now, you drunken old cow, I’ll show you what you are. I’m going to lie in the bed snoring and stinking of gin like you do. I’m going to be too drunk to fuck you, you old bag, and you won’t like that.” Apparently it was the most dreadful scene; she began to cry in the restaurant when she was telling me, word for word. The insults, so personal, so terribly cruel. And he did it. He got blind drunk that night. She said she was so frightened she sobered up completely. He was like a madman. And he told her the truth about himself.

‘He wasn’t Polish or a refugee. He’d been in the German army and fought in the Western Desert. He told her he’d murdered a group of British prisoners of war. He boasted he’d shot them down in cold blood after they’d surrendered!’

Julia drew in her breath. ‘He said that! My God – he admitted murder?’

‘Yes,’ Jean Adams insisted. ‘That’s what she told me. He boasted of it. He thought he’d killed them all, but one of them survived. He found that out afterwards. She said he yelled at her – “Bad shooting.” He was afraid he’d be charged with war crimes after the war. So he threw away his uniform, joined the refugees and invented the whole story. My aunt was trembling. I remember very well. I did say to her he might have been making it up, if he was so drunk and out of control … but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ She paused for a moment. Then she said in a low voice, ‘She also told me he raped her that night.’

Julia didn’t say anything. She waited until Jean Adams spoke again.

‘The next morning he denied it all, of course. He said alcohol drove him crazy, made him imagine things. He begged her to forgive him. She said he was crying.’ She looked at Julia. ‘Poor thing, she said she wanted to believe him, she really did. But she couldn’t. She looked completely broken. I can see her now, sitting there, saying she wished she was dead. “He’s not going to get my money,” she said. “I’m seeing my solicitor this afternoon, he’s drawn up a new will.” Ten days later she had the accident. But a copy of the will had come to me in the post. I was amazed to see she’d left me everything. She’d given me the means of getting rid of him. Bob and I faced him when she had to leave the hospital. Her solicitor backed us up. We told him we were applying for guardianship and we showed him the copy of her will. He’d get five hundred pounds from us if he cleared out of the house and undertook never to see her or contact us again. He didn’t argue. He just shrugged. “I can’t fight you,” that’s what he said. “I’m only a poor foreigner.” He signed an undertaking and Bob gave him the money. He said he’d go back to Germany. We believed him. We sold the house and moved my aunt down to Sussex. We took care of her till she died.’

She got up, putting the coffee cups on the tray. They didn’t speak for a while. At the door Jean Adams said, ‘Some years afterwards Harold King was being written up and photographed and we realized he was the same man. It was too late then. He was a millionaire and a public figure. We had a family and a lot to lose. My husband was a cautious man. He said it was best left alone. I agreed with him because of my aunt. But I’ve regretted it over the years. I’ll just put these things in the kitchen.’ Julia followed her out.

A young labrador, black like the old bitch by the fireside, bounded up to meet them. ‘Daisy’s granddaughter,’ she explained, bidding the puppy firmly to get down. ‘Bob died two years ago and I just can’t bear to be without one of this family. My son has the daughter and they gave me Poppit for Christmas. She’s a handful to train but she’s great fun. I wish I could offer you lunch, but I’m going out with a friend. We belong to a bridge club, and we always treat ourselves to lunch first. She’s a widow too.’

‘Thanks anyway, Mrs Adams, but I’ve got to get back to my office. Would you be prepared to sign an affidavit, setting down exactly what you’ve told me?’

Jean Adams hesitated. ‘I’ll have to speak to my solicitor first,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know what he says.’

‘Do you have the original undertaking King gave you in exchange for the five hundred pounds?’

‘The firm would have it; Bob never kept documents at home in case of a fire or a burglary. I’m sure it’s still there somewhere.’

A cautious man, as she said. She came to the door with Julia.

‘What a smart car,’ she remarked. ‘Young women have so many opportunities these days.’

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Julia said quietly. She held out her hand and the older woman took it in a firm grasp. ‘I’m so very sorry about what happened to your aunt. I hope it hasn’t upset you too much – talking about it.’

‘It just makes me angry,’ Jean Adams answered. ‘I really would like to see that swine gets his just deserts. I hope you do it!’

‘I’ll do my very best, I promise you. Let me know what your solicitor says.’

‘I will. Goodbye.’ She turned and closed the door and Julia went down the short path to the road and into her car. She felt oppressed, as if the other woman had laid some burden on her. The burden of evil that had gone unpunished. It was a strange, outmoded phrase, dredged up from somwhere in her memory, but it was very apt.

Whatever she had promised Ben Harris, she insisted, she wasn’t backing out of this one.

There was nothing Joe could do till the boss got back from America. He had the information for him and there didn’t seem to be any urgency. The Herald feature hadn’t come out with anything yet. It was still a case of ‘Watch this space’. He took himself and one of his coloured girls to the races in France. He had plenty of money, they stayed in good hotels, ate well, and he had a run of good luck with the horses. He felt generous and he gave her some spending money. He was sorry he hadn’t brought the other girl; he liked threesomes, but it might have been awkward, where they were staying. He met up with some Irish who were over for the meeting and they had a great time. He picked up the tabs and played the big man, and kept the girl out of sight. He knew his countrymen. They were good at downing the jars, but they were prudes at heart.

When he came back he put a call through to King’s personal secretary. Face like a copper’s boot and no tits. King never mixed business with pleasure. She had some surprising news for him.

‘Mr King flew back two days ago,’ she said. ‘He’s been trying to contact you, Mr Patrick.’

Joe swore softly. ‘He wasn’t expected till the end of the week,’ he said. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘Not that I know of,’ the voice was cool. She didn’t like Joe Patrick. She thought he was common and cheeky. Once he’d tried to chat her up. She knew he was mocking her. ‘You’d better call him. He’s in his car on the way to lunch at BZW.’

Joe was scared. He hesitated, thinking how best to explain his absence – without leaving a contact number. That was his mistake. King wanted him and couldn’t find him. He wouldn’t like that. He said, ‘Shit,’ several times, and then nerved himself to dial the car phone.

King always called his home when he was away. He was in a good mood, because the negotiations with Field Bank were going well, and the funding for a frontal assault on Western International looked viable without too big a borrowing commitment. It was early days, but his confidence was soaring. He smelt blood, and his instincts had never failed him. He spoke to his wife first; she was nearest when the telephone rang. She chattered about her committee meeting for the East London hospices and how they had asked the Princess of Wales’ office to suggest a date for a big charity function.

The Princess, always eager to help the suffering, proposed an earlier date than they hoped, and her presence would ensure substantial funds.

King let her run on – he was in a good mood – and then cut in and asked if Gloria was there. Gloria was on her way out to dinner, but, hearing her father was on the line, hurried back. She didn’t care if she was late.

‘How’s my girl?’

‘Missing you, Daddy. How’s it going?’

‘It’s going fine. Hard bargaining, but I’m getting there. Anything I should know?’

Gloria remembered the special delivery. ‘There’s a package for you. It came last week.’

‘Oh – what kind of package?’

‘It looks like documents,’ Gloria answered. ‘It’s marked private, personal and confidential. I put it in your desk. Do you want me to send it over? Shall I open it for you?’

‘No – no!’ The change of tone alarmed her. He was shouting at her. ‘It’s been there since last week? For Christ’s sake you stupid little …’ Gloria gasped as he spat the filthy epithet at her. ‘Why didn’t you call me at once?’

‘Daddy, I didn’t know …’ Tears were welling up.

‘You get it over here by DHL. Tonight, so I have it in the morning – you do it, you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ she was crying now. ‘Yes, I’ll do it right away. Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry. It wasn’t my fault …’ But the line was dead.

Her mother had left the room when she took the phone. She couldn’t bear the cosy telephone calls between father and daughter. Now she came back and saw Gloria in tears.

She smiled. ‘What’s the matter, darling? Lovers’ quarrel?’

Gloria swung on her. Hatred flared up openly between them when King was safely absent. ‘Shut up! Shut up, you cow!’

Marilyn King kept that maddening little smile on her face. Her daughter looked so ugly when she cried, her skin was blotched and she blundered about like a wounded animal, making her way to the door.

‘You’ll be late for dinner!’ her mother called out.

‘I’m not going to fucking dinner!’ Gloria shouted, and slammed the door of King’s study behind her. She found the package, the cause of that dreadful burst of anger and abuse. It wasn’t her fault. Anything marked private was never opened, that’s all she knew. It was just a rule. She couldn’t even remember seeing anything marked up like that before. She started writing out a label and began telephoning.

What could be in it, to make him erupt like that? Something to do with his business in New York. The delay must have compromised him in some way. But how could she know? She wailed aloud as she made the arrangements, at exorbitant cost, to get it on the next plane by special courier to New York and then to his hotel.

It reached Harold King just before a working breakfast with the finance director and deputy chairman of Field Bank.

Harold King didn’t open it. He knew where it came from, and he couldn’t risk losing his concentration by looking at the contents before an important meeting. It had waited a week, bearing its warning message. It would have to wait another two hours.

The meeting was long and difficult. His American financiers wanted more collateral than he had on offer, and he had failed to convince them that it wasn’t necessary. No deal had been in sight when they parted with a further meeting scheduled for the next morning. He was short by too many millions to launch his bid successfully. Unless he could come up with guarantees against the money he needed to back his bid, Field Bank was not prepared to bank roll him.

King kept his nerve. He blustered, cajoled, joked and tried to overbear, but it didn’t work. Then he switched roles. He became quietly confident. He had, he said as they were leaving, ample resources which he could call upon if they insisted, but he maintained they were not necessary. He would discuss it further with them in the morning.

The resources were ample, but they were not his to pledge.

They consisted of the Pension Fund of his thousands of employees in all corporate businesses throughout England and Canada.

When he shut the door on them, he was calm. Crises had this effect on him. He had seen his solution, and he was weighing up the risks. If he was successful, the money would never be called in and he would never be found out. He had gambled before, and won. He would win this, the biggest gamble of his business career.

Then he opened the package and started to read the report. The meeting took place the next morning. He was smiling and almost cherubic with good humour. He had thought the position over, and although he deplored the lack of confidence evident in their attitude, he understood the reasoning behind it. He was a man of responsibility himself, and he appreciated the Bank’s commitment to its investors. He would therefore pledge the extra money from his personal resources. Details would be made available to them when the agreement was in a draft stage. He concluded the meeting with handshakes and warm expressions of goodwill all round. He cancelled the other meetings. They could take place later.

More urgent business needed his attention.

He packed up and flew home to England almost a week ahead of schedule.

King worked on the flight. He had sent his assistant and his two secretaries on a later flight, so they could clear up and reschedule the meetings with other financial institutions for a month’s time. He had promised Field Bank, but he wasn’t going to deliver till he’d exhausted one or two other possibilities. Where the moral tone wasn’t quite so high. He took his paperwork with him and settled down in First Class, angrily waving away the proffered champagne. But, throughout the flight, the issues blurred. The report written in German overlaid the columns of figures and financial predictions. He was after Western, but Western was after him. Ben Harris and Julia Hamilton had taken up the old trail in Nessenberg, so long gone cold, thanks to his friends and his connections. And the few words spoken to the girl clerk in the Bauhaus as they left the dusty old files in their dusty basement-room … those words shrilled in his head like a warning siren.

Thank you. We found some useful information.

What information? What had they found that hadn’t been excised from the records? King locked his papers away in his briefcase and pulled an eye-shade over his eyes. He wasn’t sleeping, but blackness helped him concentrate. Something had prompted Western’s clever newshound to say that. Perhaps it was the woman who had spotted something he had missed. ‘A fresh eye,’ he muttered. She’d retraced Harris’s path and deviated from it in some way. They’d left the Nessenberghof and gone to Munich.

Why Munich? The proprietor of the hotel had answered his contact’s questions in all innocence, even showing him the hotel register confirming the names. And added the information that they were going to Munich and had booked into the Bernerhof. The grandest hotel in the city.

Munich. It tormented him. They’d found something that sent them to Munich. He pulled off the eye-shade and reached for the report again.

So painstakingly assembled, every spoken word, however trivial, had been noted down. Thank God for Teutonic efficiency and attention to detail.

Before checking out and going off to indulge themselves – it must be indulgence to stay at the Bernerhof – the couple had asked about the best way to get to Hintzbach. A funny choice, it struck her, there was nothing of interest there for English tourists. But they set off, and left the Nessenberghof afterwards. They didn’t seem to be lovers. They had separate rooms. No, King thought savagely, they weren’t lovers, they were journalists on an assignment. And Harold King, alias Hans Koenig, was that assignment. It all tied in. The schedule of flights to Germany written on a scrap of paper, which Joe Patrick’s break-in had discovered, and now this. Western had been stopped in his tracks following the same line ten years ago. Now it was reopened.

He landed at Heathrow and drove straight home. He didn’t wake his wife or look for Gloria. He went to his study and dialled Joe Patrick’s number. He’d given the bastard a job to do and heard nothing from him. He wanted answers. He didn’t get them that night, or for the following two days.

Nobody knew where Joe Patrick had gone. He had left no contact number. All King needed was confirmation of the evidence from Germany. He had looked to the Irishman to prove it. Then he could decide what to do.

The old lever on Western might not work a second time. A drastic solution might be needed. A permanent solution.

Joe Patrick knew how to take a bollocking. He didn’t try to excuse himself while King was in full flow. He shrank into himself as if the furious invective were a rain of blows.

He’d seen the boss lose his temper before. There was no stemming it. You just had to wait till it blew itself out like a hurricane. He marvelled at the scope of insults; King might have a foreign accent, but he had native vocabulary when it came to swearing. Joe had no pride or resentment; he had the good henchman’s mentality. He’d fouled up by not being in reach when he was needed. At last, when King stopped abusing him, he ventured to speak. He knew better than to make excuses.

‘I’m sorry. I won’t fuck up like that again.’

‘You do,’ King exploded for the last time, ‘and you’re fired!’ His tone lowered. He spoke normally. ‘Did you get hold of Hamilton’s boyfriend?’

‘Yeah, no problem. I needled him a bit and he spilled. He’s a dick-head. Hamilton’s the boss of “Exposure”, the Herald’s super snoop, checking on you. He thinks it’s tied up with the Honours List. I don’t think he knows any more.’

‘“Exposure”,’ King repeated. ‘That adds up. They say it will launch its first feature in November.’ He was almost talking to himself. Then he looked up sharply. He’d chewed the balls off Joe. Most human beings responded to being kicked, but that type needed assault and battery from time to time, to stop them getting lazy.

He said, ‘I want her followed. And Harris. I want to know everything they do, where they go, who they see. I want to know when they crap! Understand me? Reports come to you on a daily basis, and you pass them to me the same day. Take my advice, Joseph,’ he said the full name with heavy emphasis, ‘don’t go to the races while this is on!’

He gave him a cold glare.

‘Get out of here.’

‘She won’t sign an affidavit,’ Julia said.

‘Did you call her back?’ Ben asked.

She shook her head. ‘No. I’ll have to go and see her again. And this time I want you to come with me. She might respond better to a man. But she’s quite a determined lady, and she’s not going to change her mind in a hurry.’

Ben slipped an arm round her. They were in Julia’s flat; she was wondering whether she could persuade him to move in permanently.

‘Listen, you tracked her down, you’ve opened up the real can of worms on that bastard. What we want to follow up is the war crime angle. If we can prove that – we’ll get him! I’ll go and see her alone, if you like. We don’t want to get heavy with a widow.’

‘No,’ she agreed, ‘you’re right. If Jean Adams thinks we’re trying to push her, she’ll dig in and nothing will shift her. I know the type. You go, Ben. It’s her solicitor’s advice. He’s too scared to let her sign an affidavit in case King slaps a load of writs on her. It makes me furious!’

‘Which he would,’ Ben countered, ‘if he knew. Come on, calm down.’ He smiled and said gently, ‘Fiery lady, aren’t you?’

And then unpremeditated, he said it for the first time. ‘Maybe that’s why I love you.’ Before she could say anything, he leaned over and kissed her. It was a long kiss, tender and then passionate. He let her go and said, ‘I mean it, I love you. I hope it doesn’t spoil anything.’

Julia touched his lips with the tips of her fingers. ‘I never thought you’d say it,’ she whispered, and then kissed him in return.

As she felt his hands moving on her breasts, she withdrew a little.

‘Don’t love me,’ she said. ‘Not yet. Talk to me. Let me talk to you. That’s what I love about you, Ben. There’s so much more to us than just sex.’

‘Like what?’ he murmured, still holding her, but now his hands were still.

‘Like sharing things, talking them over. Our work, our stupid jokes – I even love your cat!’ She laughed at herself. ‘Why don’t you bring Pussy to live here – I think she’d like it.’

‘I think she would too,’ he said. ‘But not yet, my darling. I caught you at the end of a relationship. I want to be sure you’re ready for a real one with me. No rebounds, no second thoughts till you’ve had time to know me and make up your mind. There’s the age gap, too.’

‘It’s the right way round this time,’ she insisted. ‘You’re your own man, Ben. There’s no competition between us. You said it early on; we make a very good team.’

‘Then let’s keep it that way for now,’ he suggested. ‘Let’s stay lovers and colleagues and friends, till we see how it works out. And if it does,’ he looked at her, ‘I’ll want you to move in with me.’

Jean Adams put the telephone down. She stood beside it, biting at her lower lip. ‘Don’t touch it,’ her solicitor had begged. He was a family friend of many years, and his alarm had communicated itself to her. ‘Don’t get involved with the Press, my dear Jean, they’ll promise anything. And then let you down without a moment’s hesitation. If you sign an affidavit, they’ll use it. You’ll be dragged into their campaign against Harold King, and God knows where that would end for you.’ He’d been sympathetic, but adamant. He owed it to Bob to protect her, as Bob would have done if he’d been alive. He’d told her to forget the past a long time ago, and that advice held good today. More than ever.

Let the lady journalist do her own dirty work. She had the might of William Western to fight her battles. Jean had nobody. He went further. He found the undertaking signed by King in return for money in the office safe, among Bob Adams’ papers, and suggested that he should destroy it. ‘Tell them what you’ve done,’ he said. ‘Better still, if they try to pressure you, call me in on it. I’ll get rid of them.’

Jean Adams had agreed, and telephoned Julia with her decision. The call she had just taken was from a man, a colleague of Julia Hamilton. He sounded pleasant enough, very reasonable. Could he come and see her just once, just to fill in some more details? He accepted her decision not to sign anything, and sounded as if he meant what he said, but he would really appreciate a meeting. Jean had said rather sharply, ‘With my solicitor present, Mr Harris?’ And he had said, ‘Of course. All the better.’ So she found herself agreeing to an appointment. She sighed. Perhaps she’d been foolish to let him talk her into it. Certainly their old friend would think so. But then, it was up to her, wasn’t it? She had a mind of her own, after all. She wasn’t going to look like a silly vacillating old woman and ring this man Harris up and say she’d changed her mind again. Let him come down. It might be very interesting. She believed in being decisive. Decision made, why waste time? She dialled the solicitor’s office and left a firm message with his secretary.

She was seeing a journalist from the Sunday Herald on Wednesday afternoon at two-thirty at her house and she would like him to be there. Then she went out into her garden to tackle the rose bushes.

Joe Patrick didn’t deal with sleaze when the client was Harold King. You couldn’t rely on the small fry, the ones that were just legal. Only just. He employed the most reputable firm of private detectives in the country, with branches in all the major cities. They had wide-ranging facilities, from business and industrial surveillance to simple domestic.

They charged top rates, but they were absolutely reliable and honest. No operatives of theirs had ever tried to use his information for his own advantage. A twenty-four-hour watch was mounted on Julia Hamilton and Ben Harris. Ben was followed when he drove down to Midhurst to see Jean Adams.

Julia had described her very well, he thought, shaking hands and accepting an offer of a cup of coffee. An independent, outspoken lady, the type that used to be called the backbone of England, before the national spine began to crumble … He put the cynicism away. He didn’t think like that so much now. Julia had made him optimistic.

The bottle was half full, instead of half empty. She was always slipping into his mind when they were apart.

The solicitor was there. He was tall, with spectacles and untidy tweedy clothes. But no fool. The eyes were wary.

‘Now,’ Jean Adams said briskly, ‘I presume you’ve come to try and change my mind, Mr Harris.’

Ben said quietly, ‘No, Mrs Adams. I wouldn’t presume such a thing. I only want to fill in the details a little more and to ask you one or two questions, which might help us. Without involving you.’ He glanced at the solicitor as he said it. He got no response. The old boy was deeply suspicious. He switched back to Jean Adams.

‘I’d like to say we understand your decision and we sympathize with it. King has managed to frighten and bully his way out of trouble from a lot of people. Important people with resources. That’s why we undertake not to use the affidavit if you decided to sign it.’

‘In which case,’ the solicitor interrupted, ‘why ask for it if you wouldn’t use it? There doesn’t seem much point.’

Ben had anticipated that question. ‘Documents can be shown to members of your profession, sir, in confidence. It can influence their judgment and the advice they give their clients. That was the only contingency we had in mind. And the affidavit would be lodged with you, naturally. Mrs Adams could withdraw it or refuse to produce it if she wished.’

Jean spoke up quickly. ‘You didn’t tell me that, Dick. That sounds quite reasonable.’

‘It sounds very reasonable,’ he answered, ‘except that a court can order you to produce evidence once its existence is established. Mr Harris, I’ve advised Jean not to get involved with your newspaper investigation of Harold King. I’m here to make certain you don’t persuade her otherwise.’ He gave Ben a look of frank dislike.

Ben hesitated; he wasn’t getting anywhere. He didn’t want to play his only ace so quickly, but he hadn’t any choice.

‘Mrs Adams,’ he said, ‘I don’t like to say this, but did it occur to you that King might have tried to murder your aunt?’

‘Oh come on – I must protest!’

Ben ignored the solicitor’s interruption. He was watching Jean Adams. Her face had flushed, and then the colour drained, leaving her very white.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Please, Dick, be quiet for a minute—’ One hand rose to silence her adviser. ‘No, it certainly didn’t. It was an accident. She was blind drunk, according to the hospital when the ambulance brought her in. Good heavens—’ She pushed back a wisp of hair. ‘Good heavens,’ she said again.

‘You couldn’t have proved anything even if she had died,’ Ben went on. ‘Her drinking was his alibi. But just think about it. He’d lost his head and told her the truth about himself. He was in her hands. I’ll go further. I started looking into Harold King ten years ago. I am convinced that the murder of a business opponent in the Caribbean and the so-called fatal accident of another business opponent in this country were orchestrated by him to protect him from a takeover. Your aunt told you he’d admitted murdering unarmed British prisoners. He ill-treated your aunt. He hated her. Do you really think he would have risked being exposed? Look at the timing – ten days after she saw you, she had a near-fatal fall. King wouldn’t stop at murder. I’ll tell you what I want, Mrs Adams. I don’t want to drag your family through the mud. I don’t want to cause you any worry or distress. I want to find out what happened to those prisoners in the Western Desert. That’s what I want to hang on Harold King. And you are the only person alive who knows he admitted it.’ He stood up. Neither of them said anything. He saw the solicitor move close to her chair. She looked pale and very old.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Ben said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve given you a shock. I’ll see myself out.’

He was in the hall when the solicitor caught up with him. ‘What you’ve done is disgraceful,’ he said. ‘You’ve no proof, and, even if it was true – nothing can be done about it!’

‘Please, Dick,’ Jean Adams came out, ‘you mustn’t abuse Mr Harris.’ She came up and opened the front door for him. ‘I’m going to think about it,’ she said. Ben Harris took her hand. It was trembling slightly. ‘I owe it to my aunt if he really did that. Aunt Phyl believed him about the prisoners. I’ll be in touch, Mr Harris. Goodbye.’

Ben walked down the short path, past the rose bushes, already trimmed back before their winter pruning, and the watcher in the dark blue Volvo parked on the opposite side of the road, lowered his road map and logged him out on his tape recorder.

‘Ben,’ Julia said gently, ‘you did the right thing. We need that affidavit. It may never be used – you said it yourself.’

‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘But she looked so bloody shaken – I felt a real shit, J. I suppose I haven’t been at the sharp end of the job for so long I’ve gone soft. You sit in an office and send other people out to suck blood. I didn’t feel good about it.’

Julia kissed him. ‘I know, but you still did the right thing. We both think King tried to kill that poor woman. And if we can follow this lead through and come up with a war crime like shooting British prisoners – we’ve got him, Ben. Under the new law he can be prosecuted!’

Ben said slowly, ‘There’s no guarantee she’ll do it, even now. Her legal chap will bust a gut trying to talk her out of it. But I just felt she’d come to a decision when I left. I think what I said tipped the balance. Anyway, she said she’d call us, so we’ll have to wait and see. Thanks, love.’

‘For nothing,’ Julia said softly. ‘Stray cats and old ladies – big, tough Ben Harris – you’re rather a lovely man … I’m going to take you out to supper and then I’m going to bring you back here and spoil you absolutely rotten!’

‘Daddy,’ Gloria King said, ‘what’s the matter?’

He was slumped in front of the TV in his study, a cigar burning itself out in the ashtray. The programme was a mindless sitcom that she knew he would usually have switched off immediately. He looked tired and preoccupied. She came and perched on his chair and slipped her arm round him. ‘Are you still angry about that parcel?’ she asked. ‘I’m so sorry, I tried to tell you …’ Her eyes had filled with tears. Whenever he was distant with her, she felt like a miserable, guilty child, desperate to be forgiven.

King looked up at her. He took her hand and held it.

‘Don’t be silly, darling girl,’ he muttered. ‘Fuck the parcel. Fuck everything.’ She sighed, flooded with relief.

‘Then what’s wrong?’ she persisted. ‘You’re not yourself ever since you came back from New York. Is it the business? Isn’t it going well?’

‘Not as well as I hoped,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve got to find a lot more money than I reckoned, but I’ll do it. It just needs a bit of fixing.’

He glared at the flickering screen, the muttered inanities and recorded laughter in the background. Joe Patrick was doing his job. He got the agency’s reports faxed through, and faxed the copy direct to King’s private-and-confidential number.

Ben Harris had gone down to Midhurst to see a Mrs Jean Adams. King felt as if his heart had stopped. The shock was so intense he couldn’t feel it beat for some seconds. Jean Adams. The image of her swam in front of him, forty years out of date. Small, sharp tongued, an enemy. Phyl’s favourite niece. It must be the same. Midhurst in Sussex where Phyl had spent her last years, his secret locked in the damaged brain. It must be the same Jean Adams. He relived in those few moments the confrontation when she came to see him, her dull husband in tow, and bought him off with a few hundred pounds. He was poor, when he should have been rich. But he was safe and free of Phyllis – the albatross he’d hung round his own neck. Jean Adams. He hadn’t thought of her for years. She’d slipped out of his memory, as if she were dead like her aunt. But she wasn’t. She was alive, and Ben Harris, back from his trip to Germany with Julia Hamilton, had gone down to see her.

His enemies had been ferreting around for years, trying to discredit him. Without success. His business deals were shrouded in layers of deceit, impossible to penetrate. He was a genius at covering his tracks with nominees, subsidiary companies and offshore operations. His criminal activities were protected by their own nature. Laundered money for drugs in the States, illegal arms supplied to all sides in Eastern Europe … He’d contacts among the secret world of the Mafia which were as interested in anonymity as he was. He had nothing to fear there, and he had made a huge fortune, most of which was banked and invested overseas. He glanced up at his daughter.

She said, ‘What is it, then? You’re not ill, are you Daddy?’

He saw panic in her eyes. He smiled. ‘Ill? Don’t be silly. I’m like an ox – you know that. No, it’s nothing, just a little hiccup. I’ll sort it out. I’ll tell you about it one day. And I’ve been thinking – how would you like to give up that job with Hart Investments and come and work for me?’

She blushed. ‘Oh, Daddy! You mean it?’

‘Why not,’ he went on. ‘It’s about time. You’re a big girl and you’ve got your business degree and five years with Harts – I’ve always had this in mind, Gloria. I want you working with me. One day, when I’m too old, you can take over. What do you say? Are you ready for the deep end?’

She hugged him, her face radiant. ‘I’m ready if you say so,’ she said. ‘But you’ll never be too old. Never.’

‘Sweetheart,’ he said, ‘I’m not immortal.’

Gloria King spoke quietly. ‘You are to me.’

He sat on after she had left him. She was so excited, so happy that her face glowed. She’d need a husband, King decided. Clever, but not too clever. A man to support her, but never able to dominate. Father children. He liked that idea. The dynasty principle appealed to him. Pity if it was a Life Peerage because he couldn’t pass it on … but never mind. Power was what matttered; titles without power and money were a mockery. Gloria would learn from him. Her mind was as quick as her body was clumsy. He’d teach her everything, and little by little confide some of his secrets to her. She wouldn’t be troubled by scruples. She’d always appreciated that there were no rules in business except the cardinal one: don’t get found out. He dreamed, planning the future for a little while. Then abruptly his heart quickened as he faced reality again.

His past was his one weakness. He never thought about it. He never thought backwards, unless there was a reason. Regret, nostalgia – these were a form of indulgence he despised. What was done was done and necessity was the only rationale. He had set out to survive because that was the only purpose in life. He’d seen other men die and there was nothing heroic about it. Just waste. Natural waste of the lesser breeds, the victims who would always fall before the strong. He was strong and he was clever. He had used Phyllis Lowe – he sneered mentally as he remembered her – sentimental, oversexed, enthralled to middle-aged passion. A natural victim.

A self-pitying drunk who’d brought her fate on herself. She’d goaded him into an act of madness, and paid the penalty. Not the full penalty as he’d intended. He’d always meant to abandon her in due time. But once he’d lost control that night, he knew he’d lost control of her. So he acted. But the blow hadn’t been hard enough. It hadn’t killed her. It had locked up his secret in her twilight mind and she’d died with it unspoken.

She’d left her whole estate to the niece, Jean Adams. The niece had been glad to pay him off, so she knew nothing sinister. And he had genuinely forgotten her existence in the years when he rose in the public domain, and became a symbol of ruthless power. He didn’t fear exposure by the wife of a small-time stockbroker, if she was even still alive. He feared the German records in Nessenberg, and early on he had made a trip over to see the right people and closed off that avenue into a cul-de-sac. He had sympathizers with his story, men he could talk to as a comrade, men with secrets of their own. He thought he had blocked any possible investigation. And he had the power to silence his enemy and rival William Western when he attempted it, because Western had his own secret to protect.

But battle was imminent, and Western had decided on one last throw against him. Harris had gone back to Germany with Julia Hamilton, Western’s brilliant protégée, and, this time, they had found a lead. And the lead had led to Jean Adams. And back from her to his dead wife.

He got up, heaving himself out of the deep chair. They could expose the truth about Phyllis’s death, but it wouldn’t be enough to damage him. He could explain the lies in his biography by the need to protect the poor alcoholic woman’s reputation. It wasn’t enough for Western to deal him a real blow.

He dialled the number, and Joe Patrick answered. ‘I want Adams’ phone bugged.’

‘It’ll be done tomorrow,’ Joe answered. ‘The agency won’t do it, but I have another source. How about Hamilton’s place? Harris shacks up with her there. I can fix that, too.’

‘You do that,’ King said. ‘And I want reports on the hour if anything comes up. You may have to pay Mrs Adams a visit.’

‘Just say the word,’ Joe murmured. King hung up. There was nothing more he could do. Shut off now, slam the mental door. He had other things to think about. His financing of the take-over, his plans for his daughter.

Recognizing his own power induced a surge of confidence. It assured him he was invulnerable. Nobody would ever get near enough to the truth and live to tell the world about it. He could make sure of that.