The Legacy (18 page)

‘Hi,' James responded. The American-style greeting sounded so bogus from someone like Alan who hated Americans and sneered at foreigners.

‘I've left messages for you,' James complained. ‘I just wondered how things were going …'

‘They're going fine, if you mean the case,' was the answer. ‘We've briefed Cunningham to act for us and he's hopeful of an early hearing. Her side are toughing it out, but then they would. How are things with you?'

‘Busy,' James said. ‘We've just landed a big contract for a design centre and industrial complex in Florida. I'm flying out to finalize it at the end of the week. It's a very good deal—mega bucks!' He gave a little chuckle. Alan wasn't interested in his younger brother's success, and he brushed the news aside.

‘We're making a bid for the Bambio Burger chain,' he said briskly. ‘There's been a lot of press coverage: photographs, articles in the financial papers, that sort of crap. I reckon we'll win, then I might consider going public. Our brokers reckon we'll be a sell-out on the market if we do.'

That capped anything James might have achieved in Florida. ‘Great! Great stuff,' he acknowledged. ‘You won't be needing money then?'

There was a snort of derision down the line. ‘Money? I'll be printing the stuff; why the hell should I need money?'

‘Oh, fighting the case and paying all the legal fees,' James murmured. ‘Cunningham's one of the best QCs at the Bar; and the most expensive.' He let the comment die away. He could sense Alan's irritation even 3,000 miles away. He'd played with the idea for weeks, teasing it backwards and forwards. Father's old Jewish document was back in his apartment in the wall safe. He'd been so pleased with his find he'd given up collecting. James couldn't make any sense of the script and he had hesitated to show it to anyone in the antiquarian trade. He wasn't sure why, but he had simply kept what he'd stolen as he'd kept things all his life: talismans against not being loved or noticed, proof that he was clever enough to cheat the superior people who made up his family. Offering it to help Alan was a fantasy he indulged in; putting his brother in his debt.

I've got something that may be worth a lot of money. If you like I'll let you have it.
He loved the day-dream: being in control. But Alan didn't need money. If he'd mentioned it, Alan would have dismissed it, making fun of the offer. ‘Who's Christa's lawyer?' he asked.

‘They haven't said,' Alan answered. ‘They weren't expecting us to push ahead so fast. Why don't you come over, James, and see the fun? I can't wait to see that cow get her comeuppance!'

‘Well,' James said, ‘it's great that you're so confident.'

‘You can believe it,' Alan said. ‘I can't lose. I hold all the cards and I'm going to play them. I'll be in RussMore by Christmas!'

James knew that was an exaggeration; the case couldn't be heard and concluded in such a short time. But it was typical of Alan to put such a date on it; it heightened the drama.

‘Well, let me know and I might just do that,' he agreed. Then, dutifully, ‘How're Fay and the boys?'

‘They're fine. Robert's got measles, poor little sod. I've got to go, there's another call on hold. Keep in touch.' The line cleared.

James thought of Fay nursing her measles-ridden child and hoped that, by some miracle, she had escaped it when she was a child herself. He relished the thought of her feverish and covered in spots. ‘Bitch,' he muttered. She'd neglected to give his messages to Alan. He preferred to think that, rather than admit he'd simply been ignored.

Alan was going to win the case, force his stepmother and half-sister out of RussMore and triumph over his hated father at the end. What a scenario! James was an avid theatre buff, and he had friends who shared his enthusiasm. The Farringtons were the stuff of any bloodthirsty Jacobean drama. The thought made him smile; all that was lacking was murder. He was going to a new play that night with an old lover who was now a good friend. None of his relationships lasted, but he stayed on friendly terms whenever possible. A lot of women liked him; he was intelligent, artistic and an amusing companion; he moved in a wide social circle of the literary and artistic in New York. He had made a new life for himself, where he was valued and his qualities appreciated, but still the umbilical cord pulled him; he had never escaped his family. He decided that he must take his father's treasured piece of Hebraic history to someone who knew what it was and how much it was worth. His ex-lover had contacts in the big auction houses; maybe Christie's or Sotheby's would be the people to approach.

He took the subway back to his apartment, reading the new copy of the
Arts Review
which was sent to him from England every month. He didn't notice the man on the subway who had followed him from his office, nor did he notice him leave the train and follow him for a block and a half to his apartment building, or come up behind him as he opened the main door with his security card. He noticed nothing till the knife touched his throat and a voice said, very softly, behind him, ‘Just keep going. Make a noise and you're dead.'

‘What do you want?' James asked. He was trying to keep calm; he knew a number of people who had been mugged in the street or in their homes. Never show aggression and try not to panic; stay cool, give them what they want; never, ever look at their faces, then you can't identify them; that was the way to cope. James had his back to the man. He'd gone up in the lift with him, walked the few yards down the hallway to his front door, opened it, gone inside, and never once turned his head. There was no answer. His skin crawled with fear. Maybe it wasn't a thief, maybe it was some nut with a grudge against gays; there had been two horrific murders in the last three months, both victims were mutilated before death.

James tried again. ‘I'll give you my wallet. My watch … it's a Rolex …'

‘Go sit in the chair over there,' the voice hissed at him, only inches away. The blade touched his neck. ‘Don't turn around.' James felt bile rise up into his mouth. The two dead men had been bound to chairs.

‘Move it.'

He was given a slight push in the small of his back. James made it to the chair. He sat down and started to shake, and because he was so terrified, he found his courage. He was a big man, physically strong and fit, better to defend himself and die of stab wounds than be slowly cut to pieces by a sadistic maniac. His shoulder muscles tensed; he was just about to launch himself at his attacker when the voice said, ‘The wallet, and the Rolex. Slowly, don't make any sudden move.' The sex killer hadn't robbed his victims. James brought out his wallet, held it over his shoulder, and felt it grabbed out of his hand. He took off his watch; that was taken too.

‘What else you got in here? You got jewellery? Where d'you keep your cash?'

The edge of the blade pressed against the artery in the side of his neck. ‘There's a wall safe,' James said quickly. ‘There's about ten thousand dollars, my cuff-links. I'll give you the combination.'

‘You open it for me,' the voice said. ‘You do like I tell you and maybe you'll get lucky and I won't cut your throat.'

The wall safe was behind a convex mirror. Glad to be out of the chair, James eased himself up and walked across to the glass and lifted it off the wall. There was a steel door with a dial set in the middle. The safe was alarmed. James reached up and pressed a screw on the left of the safe door; that switched it off.

‘Open it!'

He turned the knob, completed the combination and pulled the door open. An inner light came on.

‘Take everything out and drop it on the floor.'

The money came first. Five rolls of $2,000; James kept a month's cash in the safe. Cashpoints were a target for muggers, even in daylight. The three boxes of cuff-links dropped one by one: two from Tiffany's, gifts from a boyfriend; and the old-fashioned pair his father had given him when he was twenty-one.

‘That's all there is,' he mumbled. ‘The papers are just personal stuff: my will, deeds to the apartment.'

‘Everything on the floor! Don't mess with me.' James scooped everything out with both hands.

‘Close it. Stand facing the wall, hands above your head. You turn round, you're dead meat.' He did as he was told. The man was bending, picking up the money. It was his chance to put up a fight, but he didn't take it. This was a robbery; if you didn't make trouble, you didn't get hurt.

The blow that felled him was a classic karate chop, designed to immobilize but not to kill. He staggered and then dropped in a slow fall, buckling at the knees; he was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The man who had knocked him out had stuffed the money into his pocket, almost casually. He threw the boxes on the table and began to look through the papers. He found what he wanted in a plain brown envelope, the will and the deeds he kicked aside. Carefully he placed the envelope inside his jacket, then he opened the leather boxes, took out the cuff-links and dropped them into his pocket with the money and the Rolex. He bent and checked the pulse in James's neck; it was steady. He'd come round in a few minutes. He walked over to the telephone and ripped it out of its socket, then he let himself out of the apartment. He went down in the elevator, saw two people in the hall and walked past them to the entrance and the front door. They didn't see anything they thought unusual, as they told the police afterwards; there was just a man wearing a smart business suit, with a snap-brim hat and dark glasses.

The two NYPD detectives were bored; they'd heard similar stories so often they could have written the script. They took down the details, interviewed the husband and wife who had seen a stranger leaving at around that time, and privately decided that Farrington had brought a pick-up to his apartment and got mugged instead: $10,000, a Rolex, a wallet with fifty inside and his credit cards, and three pairs of gold cuff-links.

There was some crap about a missing envelope but the guy couldn't even tell them what was in it. Some old document he'd gotten from his father … Their attention span cut out as James was talking. They made reassuring noises about putting the details on computer, along with a thousand other incidents of the same sort that day. They were partners and good friends; they went for a beer on their way home after their shift was over and talked over the day's action. Neither bothered with the robbery; the guy hadn't even been hurt, just knocked cold for a few minutes. Big deal.

‘I can't think why I let you talk me into this,' Christina protested.

‘Because you wanted to get away,' Harry Spannier retorted. ‘And Belinda liked the idea too, didn't you?' He grinned at the child and she laughed. ‘Oh, I think it's great. I know we're going at Christmas, but this will be fun too!'

The lights flashed above them, ‘Fasten Seat-belts.' The aircraft began to taxi, gathering speed and finally lifting off smoothly into the steep climb over London. The stewardess came along the aisle, pushing a trolley with soft drinks and duty-free, then the captain's voice came over the intercom.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Lindsen speaking. Welcome to our Scandinavian Airways flight to Stockholm. We will be cruising at around thirty thousand feet, the weather outlook is fair and the flight time is approximately two hours and twenty-five minutes. The cabin crew will be happy to serve you drinks and a light snack. Thank you.'

Stockholm. Christina looked out of the window; cloud was banked beneath them, brilliant blue skies around them. Harry was right; she'd let him persuade her to fly to Sweden, taking Belinda with them. Cleverly, he had enlisted the child's support.

‘Oh, please, Mum, I'll be starting school in ten days—can't we go? I'd love to see Grandpa and Uncle Sven. Please, Mum?'

‘But why,' she had demanded when it was suggested. ‘What would be the point?'

He hadn't minced words. ‘I think we should check up on your Mr Wallberg, for a start. Everything you know about him is at second-hand.'

‘But he's with Harvey & Stone,' she had protested. ‘You're not going to tell me I can't trust them!'

‘No,' was the reply, ‘but the story's too glib, Christa. Here's a noble Swede, with just a touch of anti-Semitism about him—you noticed that—going on a crusade to restore property stolen fifty years ago to a lot of vague descendants who want the money, including, of course, this apparently priceless Hebrew document Richard picked up by accident. I say we do a bit of checking, that's all. What do you lose? A break from here and worrying about what that shit Alan is going to do next, a holiday for Belinda before she goes to a new school, and a chance to show me around your home town while we snoop. I'll call the airline and find out about planes.'

She had given way too easily, because, of course, he was right about her reasons too: she did want to get away. She wanted to stop thinking about Rolf Wallberg and what might have happened. Harry was safe; he was family and he was a friend. He had won Belinda over very easily; she wasn't fascinated by him, as she was with Rolf, but she accepted him as a cheerful, slightly unpredictable cousin who proposed they should do fun things on the spur of the moment.

A call to her brother got them a couple of rooms at the Emburg Hotel—‘not too up-market for me,' Harry had shouted, ‘I'm the poor relation'—and a return call fixed it for Belinda to stay with her grandfather at Yurgen. He'd take her sailing, so she'd have a good time while Christina and Harry were in Stockholm; they were invited to come up and join in when they'd had enough of the city. So there they were, cruising high in the cloudless skies above the North Sea, and she didn't really know what they were supposed to be doing. Checking, Harry kept saying. Checking on the noble Swede, as he had taken to calling Wallberg whenever his name was mentioned. It made him sound ridiculous; that, she suspected, was Harry's intention. The day after he'd left her so abruptly she'd had a call from Humfrey Stone; he was reassuring. Rolf Wallberg had been called to New York for a brief trip, and he, Humfrey, would be available for her till Wallberg came back. Which, she realized afterwards, meant that Rolf hadn't told Humfrey the truth: she was the reason for his trip; she was the client. But then how could he tell them? He was ready to break the law by helping her sell the document, so, of course, he had to lie.