The Legacy (34 page)

Kenneth and Molly Hubert were driving down to Hampshire; it was a rare treat for him to have a day's shooting, but he had made a rule some years before to take a couple of days relaxing before the start of a big case. So he put last-minute work aside and set off with his wife to stand out in the freezing rain and miss some pheasants, as he explained. Making a fool of himself with the other guns would take his mind off Monday and the battle to come. He talked of winning just as confidently as before, but she knew he wasn't really confident. His friend and opponent, John Cunningham, had the DNA sample as his trump; whenever they met socially there was a smug look in his eye that infuriated Molly. She'd begun to dislike the obstinate Mrs Farrington, whose intransigence was going to end with Ken losing the case, instead of reaching a quiet settlement and coming away with his fees. Less fees than if he went through a long legal wrangle, but money didn't matter now, his reputation did. She wished she could have told Mrs Farrington what a silly pig-headed fool she was, and how sorry she'd be at the end of it all.

John Cunningham was staying in London. Unlike Ken, he worked up to the last minute before a big case, but not in the evenings. Evenings were reserved for going to the theatre and out to supper with some amusing lady, and the next day was spent playing bridge with devotees like himself. He described this as limbering up, fine-tuning the brain, like an athlete stretching his muscles before a race. He was smug, as Molly had detected. He was also excited because he loved the contest; he would seek out weaknesses and score off Ken Hubert as if they had been deadly enemies instead of friends.

All's fair in love and war, but nothing's fair in court. He wasn't shocked by what Alan Farrington had done; disgusted in an aesthetic sense, but not surprised. He had no expectations of people after so many years of discovering their capacity for brutality, deviousness and dishonesty when money was involved. He was prepared to tear Mrs Farrington's reputation to shreds when she was in the witness box; he didn't believe she was less basely motivated than her repulsive stepson. He had booked seats for a new Tom Stoppard play and was looking forward to the mental stimulus.

Christina was in London, and Harry Spannier was with her; they were both staying in her flat. She was in a mood she couldn't analyse: defiant, bitter, and, deep down, prepared to self-destruct if necessary; to destroy rather than surrender. She had pledged the painting, which had brought the Sotheby's expert to near hysteria with excitement, as it might well be a lost work by Hans Holbein. All she cared about was the seven figure sums he was mentioning if he proved to be right. Other household items were dismissed when she offered them; they were all personal bequests from Richard, but nobody was interested. The so-called Holbein was all they talked about, until she could have screamed, but there would be enough money to fight on, and that was all that mattered: not to lose to Alan. Sometimes she dreamed of setting fire to RussMore, and woke drenched in sweat from a terrifying nightmare in which Belinda was somehow trapped in the burning house.

She wasn't thinking clearly or rationally and she knew it. When she got back to RussMore, after confronting Rolf, there was a sense of shock and a deep pain that shamed her. Pain for the man she had seen lose hope in front of her that night; anger with him, but greater anger with herself for having been deceived, and yet not completely. He had loved her, for what it was worth; she knew that was true and it didn't help because it made her pity him. She had deliberately turned to Harry to help shut him out; Harry with his ridiculous jokes and his quixotic sense of honour. He was sharing the flat with her two nights before the case began, and slept in the spare bedroom without once suggesting he might move into hers. If he had, Christina would have let him, not because she wanted love, but because sex with him might be the antidote to sex with Rolf, but she didn't invite him and he didn't ask. They went to the cinema, to lunch, round an exhibition at the Tate Gallery, which she thought interesting, and which Harry rubbished so brilliantly that she found herself laughing. She knew that all he wanted was to take her mind off Monday, yet they couldn't stop talking about it. He didn't undermine her resolve; he was bullish and encouraging. Whatever his private forebodings about the outcome, he didn't express them.

‘You'll fight that little bastard and you'll win! If you don't, I'll personally beat his head in …' He'd grin, but there was something not so funny about him when he said it.

Alan and Fay took their children down to the cottage in Sussex. Cottage was a misnomer; it was more of a luxury one-storey complex; modern in design, equipped with the latest electronic playthings, fronting on to its private beach and mooring for the yacht they sailed during the summer. They had left the nanny in London; they both enjoyed having the boys to themselves. Alan was in a buoyant mood, and Fay was in her element in the place, more so than in Chelsea. She cooked and looked after her husband and sons, wishing secretly that life could be more like this, less complicated and opulent. She refused to think ahead to what it would be like to live at RussMore, that was Alan's dream and she supported it. When he was happy, so was she; it was that simple really. She often thought that he was the only man in the world she could have loved without holding anything back; she felt he was flesh of her flesh, part of her being. She loved him more than her little sons, but, like her opinion of his feeble mother, she didn't tell him so. The boys loved being able to run outside, wrapped up against the cold wind off the sea, free from restriction and the hovering nanny. Country life was best for them, Fay agreed on that; another plus for RussMore. Neither she nor Alan wanted them growing up subject to the sex and drug culture of London. It was a joy to let them loose down there, without fear of some evil-minded stranger lurking, looking for victims. They were brave little boys, Timmy especially; he had his father's physical courage and liking for risks. Robert was more timid. It was one of the happiest weekends they had spent together, and on Monday they'd be in the High Court.

They left for London late on Sunday afternoon, Alan driving the Bentley, Fay muffled in a mink coat beside him and the children strapped into the back, with orders not to fight or wriggle out of their seat-belts. They took the coast road before turning up through Arundel; it was their usual route and there was little traffic. Alan reckoned on arriving at his front door in just over an hour and a half. He didn't check his rear-view mirror, so he didn't notice the motor cyclist who had been following since they'd driven away from the cottage. He switched the radio on, jumping stations till he found some pop music. They pulled up at some traffic-lights and the motor cyclist accelerated and drew up alongside them. For a moment Alan glanced to his right and saw the figure, muffled in black leather, hooded in a black visored helmet, pointing to his front tyre. It was an urgent gesture and Alan's electric window slid down. He didn't have time to ask a question; the motor cyclist raised his right hand and fired three bullets into his head at point-blank range. The lights changed from red to amber to green, the rider slammed his foot on the accelerator and the motor cycle roared away and disappeared up the hill. Inside the car Fay was screaming; Alan had fallen forward over the wheel and blood was seeping from his shattered head.

Christina had slept quite deeply the night before, as if she had exhausted her capacity to worry. Now, while Harry was still asleep, she got up to make coffee and get ready for the ordeal ahead. She switched on the radio for the early morning news.

‘I can't believe it,' Harry said.

They had turned on the TV news and the item came midway through, after a political confrontation in Northern Ireland and some discouraging unemployment figures. ‘Fast food chain tycoon, Alan Farrington, was ambushed and shot dead in his car, in front of his wife and children, last night.' The details followed. The family were on their way back to their Chelsea home, when the killer fired point-blank through the car window as they were stopped at traffic-lights outside Arundel. The wife was under sedation, too traumatized to be interviewed by police, and the two little boys were being cared for by their grandparents. It was mentioned that he had received death threats over a proposed business venture in the Midlands. A court case disputing his father's will was due to begin in the High Court that morning. The police officer in charge of the investigation described it as a contract killing.

The newscaster changed to an item about a plan to build a bypass through Salisbury Plain, which was causing a lot of public protest.

Harry looked anxiously at Christina. When she had woken him with the news she was sheet white. She was still so shaken that he said quickly, ‘You look awful … Are you all right?'

‘Yes. It was such a shock, I couldn't take it in. Harry—that poor girl and the children … Who'd do a dreadful thing like that?'

‘They said he'd had death threats over a business scheme. You know Alan; he had a way of making enemies, but I suppose it means that the case won't go ahead.' He reached out and held her hand. ‘I can't pretend I'm sorry he's dead.'

‘I'm not either,' Christina said after a while. ‘I'm not sorry, but I'm not glad. It's too horrible to know what I feel, except for Fay and those poor children. Is there anything we can do?' He shook his head.

‘I don't think so. Best leave it for now, Christa. You'd better check with Humfrey, but I reckon the case will be adjourned and it'll be easier for you if we go home.'

‘Easier? What do you mean?'

‘The police called it a contract killing. I could be wrong, but I'm sure they'll want to interview you.'

She telephoned Belinda's school to warn them about what had happened and spoke briefly to Humfrey Stone. ‘Terrible thing,' he kept saying. ‘Terrible … in front of his family …'

En route
for RussMore they bought the newspapers. Some emphasized the threats from business rivals, but as expected, the tabloids concentrated on the High Court dispute between him and his stepmother. There was a blurred photograph of Christina on the front page of the
Sun.
They reached RussMore at lunchtime and Mrs Manning came hurrying to meet them. She managed a show of sympathy, but it wasn't convincing. ‘It's a horrible thing, Mrs Farrington. Dreadful. We're all very shocked. But I suppose you have to say it's an ill wind …'

And then when the luggage was brought in and Harry was fending off telephone calls from the press, she came upstairs to Christina's bedroom with a sheaf of hothouse roses wrapped in cellophane. ‘These came for you this morning,' she said. ‘Wishing you luck with the case, I expect. Well, it won't happen now, will it? That's one good thing that's come out of it.' She waited while Christina unwrapped the flowers. ‘I'll take them and put them in a vase for you,' she offered. ‘The telephone's never stopped ringing all morning. Those awful press people. I just said I didn't know anything and rang off. Mr Spannier's coping with them now.'

There was a small envelope with the flowers, and Christina opened it. She saw Mrs Manning waiting and handed her the roses. ‘Thank you, put them in the study for me.' The door was closed and she took out the card. A plain card, with a few words scrawled on it in a handwriting she didn't recognize. ‘Be Happy. Both of you.' That was all.
Be Happy
… She sat down, the little card with its coded message of love and death clasped in her hands. In some hidden recess of her mind, she'd feared, as she listened to the news of Alan's death, that Rolf Wallberg was responsible, now she knew beyond doubt. She couldn't hide from the knowledge.
Be Happy. Both of you.
Alan had been killed the night before the court action that nobody believed she could win. Rolf's words were in her head,
I love you. I'm going to help you.

She had closed the door and walked away from him; his face, strangely twisted in some private pain, swam before her closed eyes. ‘I didn't want to love you, but it happened. I didn't want to grow fond of your daughter, but I couldn't help it.' And the words spoken when they first met at RussMore. ‘I never break a promise to a child.'

Humfrey had told her he'd disappeared without warning, packed up and gone. Somehow he had arranged Alan Farrington's murder, and ordered the roses with the brief message, so that she would know he'd kept his promise. He'd saved RussMore for her and Belinda. There was a knock on the door, and Harry put his head round. ‘Christa? Are you OK?' Harry, always so caring, so gentle in his concern for her. ‘I'm just coming down,' she said and managed to smile at him.

‘The police are here,' he said. ‘They want to have a word with you.'

There were two of them, a detective inspector and a sergeant from CID; they'd driven down from London. They were polite and apologized for coming when she must be feeling shocked by the news. Even though, the inspector added, she was in dispute with her stepson. Christina had looked at him and said quietly, ‘I wouldn't wish something like that on anyone, even if I hated them, which I did. I hated Alan, but I'm devastated for his wife and children.'

It wasn't the reply he had expected. ‘That's very frank of you,' he remarked. ‘Your legal case started today, didn't it?'

‘Yes.' He took his time. His tone was pleasant, almost conversational.

‘It won't go ahead now, I expect. That must be a relief to you, Mrs Farrington. Whoever killed him did you a favour too.'

‘I'm not grateful,' she said. ‘Inspector, why don't we save time? I didn't kill my stepson, I think that's obvious, and I didn't pay anyone else to kill him. I'm not going to be a hypocrite and pretend I'm sorry he's dead. If you want to know where I was yesterday, I was in my flat in London with my husband's cousin, Harry Spannier. He was coming to the High Court with me.'