Diamond Solitaire (10 page)

"You say nobody knows the cause of this, em, what did you call it? ... Elective, er...?"

"Mutism." Ettlinger shrugged. "One can't generalize. Sometimes school phobia is thought to trigger it. You move the child to a new school, or a new class, and the speech returns. But in most cases the onset comes earlier in the child's life and the problem isn't so clear, or so easily resolved. It may result from some emotional disturbance of which adults are unaware."

Diamond made the coffee and handed over a steaming mug. "In Naomi's case, she's been parted from her parents. Abandoned, possibly. Is that the kind of disturbance you mean?"

"Yes, an experience as shocking as that could amount to a trauma."

"Trauma? That's a different ball game."

Ettlinger pulled a face at the metaphor, making it plain that matiness had its limitations. "I would define trauma as a deep emotional wound, an injury to the psyche."

"Can it make a child mute?"

"Certainly."

"And is it curable?"

"Let's say that the condition is usually of limited duration."

"So she will recover her speech?"

"I wasn't discussing a particular case."

Diamond conceded with a nod. "That's another possible explanation, then. So far we have autism, elective mutism, and now, trauma."

Ettlinger beamed. "Have we muddied the water sufficiently?"

Diamond nodded. Confusion wasn't the object, of course; quite the contrary. He'd enlisted the support of an expert in questioning the assumption that Naomi was autistic. He hadn't enough clout to prevent her being put on that flight to Boston on Sunday, but he felt more clear in his own mind that he was right to protest

Late that afternoon there was another boost. A call from the BBC. A generous minded producer who had given him not a glimmer of hope that morning had since talked to someone's PA over lunch at the Television Center, and she'd passed on the word about Naomi to her producer, who was now on the line. A new program Diamond had never heard of called "What About the Kids?" had been running on BBC2 for two weeks, a Friday afternoon show featuring children and presented by children. It consisted mainly of two- or three-minute items such as song and dance, circus acts, animal training, a word game, demonstrations of toys, interviews with kids who'd been in the news and with adults like writers and artists who produced work for children.

The whole thing sounded like a dog's breakfast, but Diamond was careful not to say so. "I bet the kids love it."

"Surprisingly, the audience figures aren't all that encouraging," the producer, who reveled in the name of Cedric Athelhampton, admitted, "but we are back-to-back with Tin-Tin and Jackanory. The controllers are willing to live with moderate figures as long as we have some educational content, social issues and so forth. We're trying to include some items with more weight."

Try me for size, Diamond frivolously thought In fact, he felt lighter than air at this minute. "You're looking for serious issues?"

"Exactly—only they have to be conveyed simply and directly. And they must involve children, which is why I pricked up my ears when I heard about your Japanese girl. She
is
the child found in Harrods?"

"Yes."

"And she still doesn't speak a word?"

"Not a syllable."

"And nobody has identified her in all this time? I'll tell you how I see mis, Mr. Diamond. I've had a rather creative idea. We'll present it as a challenge. Do you follow me?"

With admirable self-restraint, Diamond indicated mat he was keeping up.

Cedric Athelhampton's voice thickened and swelled in anticipation. "This will really engage our audience. Kids adore playing detective. See if they recognize her from school or the park or the street where they play. Tell me, Mr. Diamond, what exactly is your connection with this girl?"

He was primed for this one. "I just took an interest in her case. Speaking of detectives, I'm ex-CID myself."

"How divine."

It was the first time he'd heard it so described.

The only hitch in all this euphoria was that Cedric was thinking in terms of the program a week on Friday.

"Sorry. No chance," said Diamond. "Can't you slot her in this week?"

"I wish I could, ducky, but we're in pink script for Friday."

"Does that make a difference?" he enquired, trying manfully not to let the "ducky" unsettle him.

"It's a live show, Mr. Diamond. We can't take more risks than we have to."

"A live show for children? Is that usual?"

"Nothing about our show is usual. That's why it's so riveting. Can you come in on Friday week?"

"No. She'll be in America by then."

"America! Whatever for?"

Without hesitation, he said, "Prime-time television. She's going to be a sensation over there, they tell me." He could be creative too, when pushed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

David Flexner turned over the envelope for the umpteenth time and looked at the four hastily scribbled words
Hope
Venice was magic.
Schmaltz, pure schmaltz, he told himself, as an all too genuine tear misted his vision. Pop, you always knew how to pluck the heartstrings; and you always succeeded.

No question, Venice had been magic. He'd acted on Manny's advice and driven there the same night. Dropped everything, or almost everything. Bullish from handling his first executive assignment so effectively, he'd invited the winsome Pia to accompany him. To his delight, she'd laughed, squeezed his hand and accepted. They'd stayed three days and two unforgettable nights in a palace—the Hotel Cipriani on the tip of Guidecca Island, facing the Lido. Venice had been magic and so had Pia.

All of which made the aftermath—the return to Milan-even more distressing. Rico's, "Where were you? We had no way of contacting you," may not have been meant as a recrimination, but sounded like it On being informed what Manny had done, David had felt overwhelmed by guilt. Only afterwards, during the flight to New York, did he mentally run through the sequence of events and accept that his father had wished it this way, wished him to get away—actually to enjoy himself—before he learned the terrible news.

Manny had fallen twenty-one floors and died on impact with the parking lot Cancer would have taken him in a matter of months. A double shock for David.

On arrival at JFK, he was met by Michael Leapman, who embraced him supportively and handed him the letter from his father. He didn't immediately open it. The message on the back was as much as he could take at this time. At David's own suggestion, they drove straight to the morgue and went through the necessary ordeal of identification. Amazingly Manny's face was unmarked. There was damage to the base of the skull, the mortician explained, but he had hit the ground feet first. For the viewing of the corpse, everything was covered except the face. Prepared for injuries so extreme that he would have difficulty in recognizing his father, David was surprised and deeply moved to see the features he'd known and loved. He stooped to kiss Manny's forehead and whisper a farewell, and, as he did so, a curious thing happened. David's hair, fastened as usual in a ponytail, slipped off his shoulder and flopped over the pale face. Quickly he drew it aside and Manny's left eye opened. The dragging movement of the hair must have been responsible, but the effect was startling. It was almost as if his father winked at him. He stroked his hand over the face and closed the eyelid. The incident was over so rapidly mat the others may not even have noticed. Certainly nothing was said.

Out in the daylight, Michael Leapman suggested a drink before returning to the office. They picked an Irish bar on the next block. "You may wish to catch up on your letter," Leapman suggested when they were seated. There was something else besides sympathy in his manner, and it was not unlike respect. In their previous encounters in the boardroom, more often than not he'd disregarded David—but then so had most of the other directors.

"Later."

"Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be a drag, only I think you should look at it now, before we check in at the office. If it's anything like the letter I had, there are things to be done real soon."

Leapman was right, David discovered. It was that sort of letter—Manny still calling the tune. Just one sentence to indicate that this was a suicide note:
"Sorry it had to happen
like this, Davey, but you know me—couldn't ever wait for a
darned thing."
Then straight to business: "/
want you to take
over as Chairman. My entire estate, including my holdings of
shares, will come to you. I told Michael Leapman my wishes
and he's promised his support. He'll propose you for Chair-
man at an Emergency Meeting I've asked him to convene.
The Board will back you. It's essential there's no delay, no
perceived reluctance from you, or the stock will drop and the
predators will swallow us. Handle it as positively as you just
handled the problem in Milan and we'll get through without
damage, hell, no, we'11 prosper. Take my word for it, Davey,
when you're in charge, you'll be on a permanent high. Just
remember you're the boss. You take the initiative, right? You
need technical advice, take it, only don't let anyone railroad
you. I don't mind admitting Manflex is short on new products
that will pay off in the next decade. You have some major decisions
to make. In this industry you can't play safe forever. I
could go on, but I figure I've said enough. You're going to
make it, I know you are, kid."
He'd signed it:
"Your loving
Pop."

David sat rigidly in his chair and read the letter a second time. You can take so many shocks and then you enter a catatonic state. He felt close to that
Chairman of Manflex
—it was bizarre. He'd never seriously contemplated such an outcome. He'd always assumed that the family would retain a major stake in the business after Manny went, but that others would undertake the management. He'd be content to keep his nominal seat on the Board without ever burdening himself with policy decisions. He was into creative things, not pesky pills.

He leaned back in his seat and looked towards the ceiling.

"He surprised you?" Leapman queried.

"That's an understatement."

"I urged him to speak to you, tell you his plans. He wouldn't have it Said something about having management thrust upon you. Thought you'd function best if it came without warning."

David's eyes switched to Leapman. "Do you mean he told you he was planning to kill himself?"

"No. Well, not in a way that I understood." Leapman nervously fingered his tie.

"He told you about the cancer?"

"Yes."

"And what exactly did he say he would do about it?"

Leapman examined his beer intently, as if the answer to David's question might rise to the surface.

"Go on," David insisted. "I want to know."

"He, um—this is embarrassing—he said he was going to... step down."

David's lips softened slowly into a grin and the grin turned to a laugh, the first breach in the gloom since he'd heard that Manny was dead. "And he stepped down twenty-one floors. That's typical of Pop. A bad-taste joke about his own suicide. Come on, Michael, I don't mind if you laugh. Pop certainly wouldn't. You bet he enjoyed saying it."

Leapman mustered a smile from somewhere. He'd never been in tune with Manny's humor.

David found it comical, the more so when he imagined his father's secret enjoyment in seeding the idea to his solemn sidekick. "So did he also tell you he wanted me to step up. so to speak?"

Leapman nodded.

"Did you think he was out of his mind? Be honest"

"It was unexpected. But you can count on my total support," Leapman added quickly.

"I'm going to need it" A declaration of intent from David. Suddenly, intuitively, but irreversibly, he'd made the greatest decision in his life. He would give the job his best shot, in spite of his contempt for the business world. The mission to Milan had boosted his estimate of his own ability as an executive. Manny had been wise, as well as witty. He was right about the high to be had from being in control. "The shareholders have to be reassured," he said as if the matter had been utmost in his mind for weeks. "What's been happening to our stock price? I saw in the plane it fell sharply when the news broke."

"Down another six points this morning. Someone is going to stage a raid unless we buck the trend."

"A takeover, you mean?"

"That's the danger. The bastards know that there's value there. It's all about loss of confidence. We go into decline and they wait for the moment to strike."

"And then they break us up."

"It could happen very soon."

"Unless we act."

"Right." Leapman ran his right forefinger slowly around die rim of his glass. "To restore confidence you need something positive to tell the market. Thanks to your father, we have the reputation of being rock solid, or did, until the last couple of weeks. We have a good base of OTC products—"

"OTC?"

"Over the counter. Consumer brands. And Kaprofix is still one of the top prescription drugs for angina."

"But could be overtaken soon?"

"Already has been. Adalat-Procardia has raced ahead of us."

"Whose is that?"

"It's jointly produced by Bayer and Pfizer. And Marion-M Dow are making inroads with their drug."

"We must have plenty of things under development."

Leapman shook his head. "Not for the angina market. And the patents of Kaprofix start expiring soon."

'That means our competitors can market me-too imitations?"

"Right."

There was a bleak period of silence.

David resumed, "It's becoming screamingly obvious mat I need to bone up on our research and development program. You're closer to it than I am, Michael. Is there anything at a promising stage? My father implied in his letter that decisions had to be made soon."

"That's a tough one," Leapman hedged. "Sure, I can run through the possibilities with you, only I'd rather do it in the office with some figures in front of me."

"Good enough. Let's go."

Leapman hesitated. "Something I wanted to mention. There's a guy you really should meet. Professor Alaric Churchward, from Corydon University."

"Corydon? Where in hell is that?"

"Indianapolis. They specialize in the biological sciences. I think they were established during the Kennedy Administration, or soon after, about the time when the potential of genetics began to be appreciated."

"After the DNA code was broken?"

He nodded. "Churchward joined them from Yale about 1981,1 believe. If you had to pick out a future Nobel laureate, he'd be the obvious choice."

"And you think he would be useful to us?"

"He already is. We have strong links with Corydon, thanks to your father. We're funding a good proportion of the research that goes on there."

"In genetic engineering, you mean?" David's voice was pitched on a note of unease.

"You don't have to sound so dubious," Leapman gently chided him. "Genetically engineered drugs are the future of our industry. The great advances in medical health from now on are going to be made by geneticists. They already provided us with safer and better insulin for diabetics. In the next twenty years, they're going to produce vaccines for every disease you care to name." He paused and took more beer. "But as it happens, the latest breakthrough owes nothing at all to biotechnology."

"A breakthrough? You really mean that?"

Leapman actually summoned up a smile. "From old- fashioned chemical compounds, David."

"A drug?"

He nodded.

"What for—which disease?"

"The most prevalent killer of all."

"Cancer?"

"Old age, David. Old age."