The Legacy (6 page)

The assassin resisted the temptation to step out onto the balcony to check his handiwork. He didn't think that any of the square's many CCTV cameras were aimed directly at the window but he didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. He listened hard for a few minutes until he was satisfied that Fairweather wasn't making any noise and was therefore most probably dead. He took a last look at the Stubbs and then retraced his steps, stopping briefly at the bedroom door to check that the girl was still asleep. The covers had slipped off the bed and the girl lay naked, her breathing deep and regular. Her body was firm and tanned and, as his eyes tracked down from her head, the assassin noticed a small tattoo of a bird on her left buttock. Dark blue and with a long beak, it looked like a kingfisher. Conscious that he needed to keep moving, he smiled at the girl's sleeping form and then made his way to the loft hatch. Using the telescopic hook, he opened the catch, lowered the trapdoor and then pulled himself up into the loft. Moving quickly, he closed the trapdoor behind him and climbed up into the rafters until he found the hole he had made in the felt. He climbed through this and out onto the roof. It was quiet and dark. He opened his pack and removed a roll of tape, a tube of glue and the lengths of wood he'd cut to gain access to the attic. It took him five minutes to repair the damage he'd done. He knew that it wouldn't survive forensic scrutiny but he hoped that it wouldn't come to that. If all went well, the police would see this as a tragic accident. Any CCTV footage would show Fairweather opening the windows, presumably to get some fresh air, and then stepping out onto the balcony. It would then show him reappearing a few minutes later and, slightly unsteadily, stretching before appearing to lose his balance against the low railings and falling to his death. An autopsy on his body would show high levels of alcohol and the presence of cocaine which would explain his unsteadiness and loss of balance. The assassin knew it wasn't his most elegant work but it should suffice. The narrative was believable and this, in the assassin's experience, was the most important thing. The slates back in place, he re-traced his route across the roof to the scaffolding and slid quietly down to the pavement below. Within a few minutes, he was heading away from the Square, walking along Jermyn Street and into Piccadilly. It was surprisingly busy. An hour later, he was back in his hotel room, showering before packing his suitcase for an early start the next day.

Chapter 14

H
ighworth always got up early and caught the headlines on the kitchen TV while he waited for his coffee to brew. But this morning, he was only half listening to the news. Although it was Sunday, he had to go into the office for a potentially difficult meeting and he was thinking through how best to approach it. His mind also kept re-playing the events of last night. After the polo, he and Caroline had gone for supper at a newly opened restaurant in the centre of Farnham. A short walk from their house, it was an ideal end to the day. For some reason which he hadn't yet worked out, Caroline had been unusually flirty throughout dinner and, once they got home, she had wasted no time in undressing both of them. He was reliving the moment she'd removed his boxer shorts when the mention of Fairweather's name suddenly caught his attention. He turned up the volume as a reporter, standing in front of a large and elegant townhouse, started to explain what she thought had happened.

‘We understand that in the early hours of this morning, Peter Fairweather, the CEO of Bubble.com, fell from a first floor window onto the railings below. The police are investigating what happened but we understand that Mr Fairweather died of the injuries he sustained in the fall. There appear to be no witnesses but the police are examining CCTV footage as well as interviewing a friend of Mr Fairweather's who appears to have been in the house at the time that Mr Fairweather fell to his death.'

Highworth smiled - the game was on. The on-the-scene reporter handed back to the newsroom where the business editor took up the story. He gave a brief summary of Fairweather's business career and, in particular, the spectacular rise of Bubble.com. He finished his report by questioning whether Fairweather's death would jeopardise the much anticipated roll out of Mymate, Bubble.com's new social networking application. Given the widely held view that it was Fairweather's personal energy and determination that were the driving force behind Mymate, the reporter suggested that the company might now have problems and that it would be interesting to see how the markets responded on Monday when the London Stock Exchange opened for business.

Highworth sat down and took a long drink of his coffee. All thoughts of last night's adventures with Caroline, as well as of the meeting in a few hours' time, were gone. Instead, he was thinking through what more he needed to do to exploit Fairweather's death. His planning to date had been meticulous but he nevertheless forced himself to go through a mental checklist to ensure he hadn't missed anything. Satisfied that, at least for the moment, there was nothing more he could do, he poured himself another cup of coffee and went upstairs to shower and change.

‘Did you see the news darling?' his wife asked him as he entered the bedroom.

‘Yes, tragic isn't it. We only saw him yesterday.'

‘Yes', she replied, following her husband into the bathroom. ‘It's a great shame,' she said. ‘He promised me yesterday that he would consider joining the trustees of the art charity I'm setting up. I suppose now I'll have to find some other rich art lover to replace him and there don't seem to be too many of those around at the moment, at least not ones that I would want to work with on the board!'

Highworth smiled. A capable administrator and remarkably successful fundraiser, his wife ran the charities she was involved in with a steely determination. She liked to get her own way and she would only agree to people joining the board of trustees of ‘her' charities if she knew that they wouldn't oppose her. Highworth knew that this is what would make it difficult. ‘I'll see whether I can think of anyone,' he said. ‘I've got a few ideas but I'll get the team to check out their finances before we discuss them. No point asking them to join only to find out they're not as rich as we thought they were!'

His wife came over and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thank you darling,' she said, ‘that would be really kind.'

Highworth showered and changed into a dark, single-breasted suit, blue cotton shirt and red spotted tie. Although it was the weekend, he liked to wear a suit whenever he went into the office. He was far more comfortable discussing business when he felt he looked the part. Moreover, he knew that his large frame intimidated people more when he was impeccably dressed in what he called his ‘city armour' and this, he felt, gave him more of an edge. As he came downstairs, he looked through the hall widow and could see his car and driver outside. ‘Bye darling,' he called to Caroline as he opened the front door and walked towards his car.

‘Good morning Sir,' said his driver, Simon, as he opened the rear door of the Bentley limousine.

‘Morning Simon,' replied Highworth as he climbed into the car. Simon had been with him for five years. Richards had suggested him. He was discrete, an excellent driver and had a quiet menace about him that kept people away. Highworth trusted him completely. Simon turned the radio to Radio 4 for the morning news and pulled out into the traffic. Fairweather's death was attracting significant coverage but there were no new facts. Highworth was intrigued who the friend staying over at Fairweather's might have been. ‘One of the girls from the polo,' he thought to himself. He knew there would be no link between the death and him but he was surprised that the assassin had left what could turn out to be a loose end. He listened again to the news. More city experts - some of whom he knew - were giving their views on whether the death would have an impact on Mymate's rollout. The consensus view was that it would. The experts were all agreed that it was Fairweather's charisma and energy that made the company so successful and, as there were no obvious contenders to replace him as CEO, there would inevitably be an impact. Highworth felt the excitement in his stomach. Although he was already incredibly wealthy - the
Times
' Rich List had last year estimated his personal fortune at just less than eight hundred million pounds - the prospect of the huge killing he was about to make still excited him.

Simon stopped the car at the barrier that controlled entry into the Canary Warf area. ‘Morning,' he said to the security guard, showing the guard his pass.

The guard looked at the pass and then in the rear of the car. ‘Thank you, have a good day,' he said as he raised the barrier.

Simon drew up outside the high rise building that housed the office and got out to open Highworth's door.

‘I'll be done by twelve,' said Highworth as he stepped out of the car and headed for the entrance. Simon nodded his acknowledgement and got back into the car. This would give him enough time to fill up with fuel and get some breakfast. He drove off to find a garage as Highworth stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the top floor. Visitors were always surprised how many people were in the building on a Sunday morning but, as Highworth had explained on several occasions, as the markets opened around the world on Monday, he didn't want to have to wait until his team had processed the weekend's happenings before deciding whether to adjust his investments. He expected his head of research to deliver a briefing and short supporting paper at eight o'clock every Monday morning summarising the weekend's key events and assessing the likely impact that these would have on his investments. He could then move quickly, taking new positions before the wider markets reacted to the world's events over the previous forty eight hours. If this meant that his team had to work shifts over the weekend, then so be it - he paid them well enough for their trouble.

Highworth went into his office and switched on the TV. Fairweather's death was all over the news. The police had given one statement already and, whilst this hadn't been televised, the reporter had attended it and suggested that the police were treating this as a tragic accident. ‘Good,' thought Highworth though, in retrospect, even if the police thought there was something suspicious about the death, Bubble.com's share price would still drop like a stone, particularly given how much the media were linking the company's success to Fairweather's personal leadership. He reviewed his position. When the market closed on Friday, the shares were selling at 545 pence each. He didn't currently own any of the shares but he had undertaken to sell two million of them at 450 pence per share in just less than two months' time. He intended to start investing very heavily in the shares over the next week or so to honour his commitment. He expected the share price to drop to between 280–300 pence per share within the next week. To make the biggest possible killing, he would need to work out when the shares had reached their lowest point. The company would be quick to try and reassure its investors that Mymate remained on track and, eventually, market confidence would start to be restored and the share price would begin to rise. The company would try and do this as quickly as possible and well before Mymate was expected to be rolled out at the end of the year.

Highworth went through his initial sums again. If he got the shares for 300 pence, then he would make a quick three million on the short sell. If he were able to buy another five million shares for 300 pence then, when Mymate was rolled out at the end of the year and the share price soared to 900 pence, as his researchers suggested it should, he would make a further thirty million. In all likelihood, the shares would then plateau for a while whilst the market waited to see how Mymate was received. If it caught on quickly, then the price would begin to rise again. His researchers suggested it could go as high as 1800 pence per share within a year of its launch which, if it did, would see his profits rise to seventy-five million pounds plus the three million from the short sell. Not a bad return, he reflected, for the one hundred thousand it had cost him to rid the world of Mr Peter Fairweather!

Chapter 15

I
sobel and Lucy got out of the taxi and looked around them. It was just before ten o'clock and the streets were full of life as people went about their daily business. Women in brightly coloured saris were bartering animatedly with street stall owners, trying to get the cheapest price for the chillies and herbs that gave their cooking its unique flavours. The men were more reserved. The majority of older men wore traditional Nepalese attire: a smart jacket with trousers that were baggy on the hips but tight around the calves. Younger men in their late teens and twenties were wearing jeans and t-shirts. Nearly all the men, whatever their age, were wearing hats. Lucy particularly liked the ‘topis' worn by the older men with their traditional clothes. These came in a variety of colours but all had a similar shape, not unlike a Stetson but without the rim. Worn at a jaunty angle, they gave their wearers additional stature.

‘Can I help you?' asked a middle aged man, noticing that Lucy and Isobel seemed unsure of where they were going. Lucy smiled and showed the man the address Harry had given them.

‘The building you are after is down that street,' said the man, pointing the direction with his chin. ‘If you walk down that street you will see a small Buddhist temple on your left. The building you want is opposite.'

‘Thank you,' said Isobel, ‘we're very grateful.'

The man smiled. ‘You're welcome,' he replied.

Lucy and Isobel were always surprised at how polite the vast majority of Nepalese people were. It was one of the qualities she admired about them and one of the reasons she continued to enjoy travelling in Nepal. They set off down the road as indicated by the man and, within a few minutes, found Harry's address. It was an old and substantial four storey building that looked as if it had been important at some time in its past. The impressively large wooden door was studded with metal bolts, reminding Lucy of the main gate to Durham Castle, now home to one of the university's colleges. Like the Durham gate, it had a smaller Judas gate set within it. Lucy looked up at the building as she crossed the road towards the entrance. The windows were covered by intricately carved wooden screens. These provided privacy for the occupants whilst still allowing a breeze to cool the interior. The delicious smell of curry being prepared for lunch wafted out from the lower windows, reminding the girls that they hadn't yet had breakfast.

‘You ring,' said Lucy pointing to the four buttons set in a panel on the wall next to the gate.

‘OK,' replied Isobel, pressing the intercom buzzer.

Harry's voice answered almost immediately. ‘Hi, come on in,' he said as he released the catch remotely.

The girls were surprised at the interior of the building. The main door opened into a vaulted archway that led to a small courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard was a fountain. Small trees and shrubs grew in the large and ornate pots that were arranged around it. Tables and chairs were grouped amongst the pots, providing quiet areas for people to talk, read or just enjoy the surroundings. The sound of water splashing gently in the fountain and the scents from the bushes created a calming atmosphere, providing a marked contrast to the noise and frantic activity outside.

‘Hello,' said Harry, appearing from between two large plants. He was dressed in jeans, t-shirt and espadrilles and looked as if he had just got out of the shower. ‘You made it,' he said with a smile.

‘This is amazing,' said Isobel. ‘I really wouldn't have expected to find this little oasis inside a block of flats.'

Harry smiled again. ‘The building belongs to a friend. It's been in his family for generations. It was originally built as a family home for one of the Rana ruling elite in the eighteen hundreds. My friend turned it into flats about ten years ago. He lives in one of them and rents the other three to disreputable characters like me.' Lucy and Isobel both smiled at his self deprecating manner. ‘Follow me and I'll show you where I live,' he said as he set off across the courtyard to an ornate stairwell in one of the corners.

‘I'm afraid there's no lift,' he said as he started up the stairs. He stopped on the third floor and walked along the open corridor that overlooked the courtyard. Above their heads, large fans turned slowly to keep the air moving. Lucy had seen similar buildings in Morocco. She liked the style. It was light and airy, with the courtyard adding to the building's serenity.

She noticed a fine net draped over the courtyard from the roofs of the top floor. ‘What's that for?' she asked Harry.

‘It keeps the birds out, particularly the pigeons which, in the summer, are a nightmare!' he replied. ‘Come in,' he said, opening another large and ornately carved wooden door. The girls followed him into his flat. Again, they were surprised.

‘I like your rugs,' said Isobel, admiring the many rugs that covered the highly polished wooden floor.

‘They're from all over,' said Harry. ‘The ones the Nepalese make are excellent but my favourite is the large one in front of the fire. I got that on my last tour in Afghanistan. It was a gift from a friend I worked with.' The two girls followed his gaze. A comfortable looking sofa and two chairs were arranged around the rug, facing the fire. An avid reader, Lucy noticed the many bookshelves that lined the walls and went to investigate. Harry looked to have very wide interests. She expected the books about development and security but was surprised to find a whole shelf of books about artists and their work. The ones on gardening and yoga were equally unexpected.

‘I'll give you a tour if you like,' said Harry, surprised that Lucy appeared to be taking such a close interest in his books. ‘This is the sitting room and through here is the kitchen.' He led the girls into a large, modern and well equipped kitchen.

‘Wow,' said Isobel. ‘Not what I would have expected from a bachelor boy!'

Harry smiled sheepishly. ‘I like to cook,' he said simply. The kitchen was well organised with plenty of worktops and a central island. Racks of herbs and the specialist nature of some of the utensils suggested that Harry's claim had substance. A double door led from the kitchen into his study. The walls were lined with bookshelves, but only to waist height. The wall space above the bookshelves was hung with paintings and, on one wall, several collections of framed photographs.

Isobel noticed two large oil paintings either side of the fireplace. She went closer to inspect them. They were both nudes, one of a man and one of a woman. The bodies, which were painted from the rear, were superb anatomical studies and seemed to be stepping into the dark canvases. The muscles and sinews of their bodies appeared to have real life in them. ‘These are amazing,' said Isobel. ‘Where did you get them?' she asked, noticing the small kingfishers painted in the bottom corners of the pictures.

‘A friend of mine did them,' he replied. ‘She's called Camilla Holt. She's based in London and becoming rather well known now. Did you spot the kingfishers in the corners?' he asked Isobel. ‘She puts one in every painting instead of a signature but they're normally much harder to spot.'

‘Like Cuneo,' suggested Isobel. ‘He always painted a mouse in his pictures. The problem is that once you know where they are, you're always drawn to them and not to the painting itself.'

Harry laughed. Cuneo's military paintings were famous and he'd spent many an idle hour looking for mice when visiting different regiments and admiring the pictures in their officers' messes. Lucy went over to the photographs. Many were clearly taken in Africa, some in the mountains of Nepal and others in Afghanistan. They were mainly of people, close ups of faces, each full of character. The photography was very good indeed and wouldn't have looked out of place in
National Geographic
.

‘Did you take these?' asked Lucy.

‘Yes,' replied Harry. ‘I'm a keen photographer as well as a keen cook!' Lucy wasn't sure whether Harry was being deliberately succinct in his answers but she wished he'd add a bit more detail. She was intrigued by him. He seemed to have a depth that she didn't expect in an ex-soldier. People were like onions, she often thought. Getting to know them was like peeling away the layers. It took time but it was invariably worth the effort, even if you eventually decided you didn't like what you'd uncovered. She'd tried explaining this to Isobel who, whilst she listened sympathetically, didn't agree. Isobel was a pragmatist and saw the world in black and white terms. She made snap judgements about people based on her first impressions and she seldom changed her mind. Lucy's other bit of wisdom that Isobel frequently disagreed with was that life was about the journey and not about arriving at the destination. Lucy couldn't remember where she'd read this but the older she got, the more it struck her as true. Whereas Lucy enjoyed the things that happened to her as she worked towards her goals, Isobel wanted to move on as quickly as possible, impatiently ticking off each milestone before moving on to the next.

Harry gave them a few minutes and then led them out of the study and up a broad wooden staircase to the next floor. ‘Bedrooms and a bathroom,' he announced, before leading them to a wooden door that opened onto a small terrace. It looked out over the city's rooftops. The girls could feel the heat of the morning sun as they stepped onto the terrace.

‘What a great view,' said Isobel.

‘If you look over there,' said Harry, using his thumb to point like the Nepalese, ‘you can see your hotel. And over there,' he said, again pointing with his thumb, ‘is Durbar Square.' There were a couple of slightly battered but comfortable looking rattan chairs on the terrace as well as a hammock in one corner. Large pots containing leafy plants and a few dwarf fruit trees gave the terrace a Mediterranean feel. ‘It's nice to sit up here with a beer and watch the sun go down,' said Harry.

‘How often are you here?' asked Lucy.

‘It depends,' replied Harry. ‘If I'm working on a contract, then I may go five or six months without coming back. But if I'm between jobs, like now, then I'll stay for a few months.' Harry led the girls back to the kitchen and poured them all a coffee. ‘Tell me about the expedition,' said Harry.

Isobel explained the plan in outline. ‘We're going to travel to Pokhara within the next few days to meet up with the guides. We're then going to trek into the Annapurna Basin and establish a base camp. The plan then is to spend two weeks climbing the peaks.'

Harry wasn't sure whether he should be impressed or deeply concerned. Though the trek from Pokhara into the Annapurna basin was a tourist favourite, the Annapurna peaks were technically and physically demanding and only ever attempted by experienced and accomplished mountaineers. His concern was evident when he looked at the girls. ‘I've done a bit of scrambling in the basin,' he said, ‘and the peaks are quite a challenge you know, particularly at this time of year.'

Lucy smiled at him. ‘Really?' she asked, through slightly gritted teeth.

‘Yes,' said Harry. Isobel started laughing.

‘What's so funny?' asked Harry.

‘Nothing, I'm just touched by your concern for our welfare,' replied Isobel. Isobel continued to smile to herself as Harry led them out of the house to start his tour of the city. What Harry didn't know was that both Lucy and Isobel had climbed on the Annapurna Massif before, reaching the top of four of the six peaks until atrocious weather, and specifically the avalanche risk, forced them off the mountains. The reason they were back in Nepal on this expedition was to climb the peaks they'd missed the last time, particularly Annapurna 1 which, at over eight thousand metres, was one of the highest and most physically demanding mountains in the world. Both highly competent and experienced mountaineers, they were confident they would be able to achieve their ambition, provided the weather didn't close in again.