when he gets back.’
His tone visibly irritated his brother.
‘And how much do you suppose you will be able to spare me after your deliberations?’
‘That is rather up to the four of us, as trustees, and to the accountants, don’t you think?’ David said dryly. ‘If you feel you are entitled to a particular percentage, you’d better say so. The money you’re talking about is at the moment to be divided equally between the children as they reach the age of eighteen with a capital sum remaining to give each of them a small income and to cover any late arrivals.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘We four are supposed to have had our share when Father died, remember?’
‘Of course I remember.’ Paul turned away sharply. He went across to the window and stared out at the mist. The chestnut trees were dripping dankly on the lawn, their golden leaves mud-coloured without the sun.
His brother was watching him closely through narrowed eyes. ‘Well, if you still want to go ahead with this, I suggest we call a meeting of the trustees to discuss it.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll ring Geoff tonight and see if he’s back. I think I should tell you, Paul, that Gillian and I are not very happy about this.’
‘I’m sure you’re not!’ Paul didn’t look round. ‘Your bloody kids get the lion’s share.’
‘They will get an equal amount each.’ David was tight-lipped as he strode towards the door. ‘I’m sorry Paul is putting you through all this, Clare –’ as he opened it he glanced back at her. She was still standing by the fire, her face set. ‘You deserve better, my dear.’
Clare watched until her brother-in-law’s old Bentley had disappeared up the drive, then she turned towards Paul.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to break the trust?’
He left the window and threw himself down with a sigh into the chair his brother had just vacated. ‘There is nothing to tell as yet. But Geoffrey will agree with me because it’s the Christian thing to do and Em will agree because it’s fair.’ He gave a grim smile.
Clare bit her lip, trying to fight down the guilt and unhappiness which were threatening to swamp her. She was watching him closely, and she realised suddenly through her misery that the strained transparency of the skin around his eyes and the loss of weight in his usually solid face had not just happened in the last few days. His concern about money, and his bad temper, had been going on now for months; since the end of June when they had learned that she would not inherit any money from Margaret Gordon’s will. Yet Paul was a rich man – both from his father’s money which, as David had pointed out, had been considerable, and through his investments. She frowned. ‘Are you worried about money for some reason, Paul?’ she asked wearily. ‘Nothing has gone wrong in the City has it?’
‘Gone wrong?’ He stared into the fire. ‘Of course not. Did it look as if anything were wrong last night?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’ He flung himself back in the chair and closed his eyes. ‘There is nothing to worry about, is there?’
The helicopter hovered for several minutes over the field, then it circled the castle, the huge rotor blades fanning the branches of the rowan and birch, parting the grasses until they bent and streamed like water. On the cliffs the birds flew up in clouds, screaming, their cries drowned by the roar of the engine.
Rex Cummin leaned forward, staring down, his eyes fixed on the pile of grey stone which had been the tower of Duncairn. He had a note pad on his knee and there was a pen in his hand, but he made no attempt to write. Out at sea the fog banks were a pearly white, obliterating the horizon, but inland the ground was bathed in sunshine. His eyes gleamed. Far below the sleeping rock, below the matted bracken and heather and dry grass there was oil. He knew it in his bones.
In the hotel Jack Grant stood at the office window watching as the helicopter circled. He frowned, noting the logo painted on its side, then he reached for the phone and dialled the number Neil had given him.
He consulted his notes. ‘Does the Greek letter Sigma mean anything to you?’ he asked as the line connected.
In Edinburgh Neil cursed.
The offices of Sigma Exploration were on the third and fourth floors of a glass-fronted block overlooking the Thames at Westminster. Sitting at his desk in the deeply carpeted, luxurious executive suite, Rex Cummin could look across the river towards the Houses of Parliament and it still gave him something of a thrill, after three years, to see the silhouette of the Victoria Tower and Big Ben against the clear duck-egg glow of the early morning London sky.
He was sitting at his desk now, and in front of him on the blotter was a closely typed report. He picked it up and read it again slowly. He was smiling.
… Beattie Cameron Westlake Pierce … rumours about undercapitalisation … insider dealing … possible investigation by the Stock Exchange Council … Paul Royland’s name mentioned in the press, on each occasion unfavourably … directors in internal squabble over funding … Sir Duncan Beattie defends Royland to colleagues over Beattie Committee controversy … MP’s brother suspected over collusion in funding scandal …
Rex’s face creased into a contented smile. He picked up the phone.
‘Leonie, honey, would you fix up a lunch with Diane Warboys for me? It must be before Friday. You’ll find her number in the file under BCWP in Coleman Street. Oh, and honey, would you send some flowers to Mrs Clare Royland? I have her address here, and I’ll give you a note to go with them.’ He chuckled as he put down the receiver.
He lay back in his chair and, tapping his teeth with his pencil, he picked up the report again. At last things were beginning to go his way.
Emma was meeting Diane Warboys that lunchtime at El Vino’s in Martin Lane. She glanced at her watch and then looked around her again at the other diners, drumming her fingernails on the menu which lay beside her on the checked cloth. Sally would only cover at the gallery for another couple of hours. It wouldn’t give them much time.
They had drifted into meeting about once every two or three months after they first met more than a year ago at a party James had given for some of his friends and colleagues at his flat in the Barbican, and Emma found herself frequently asking herself why she and Diane should get on so well together. They were so different in every way. Diane, American, brittle, ambitious, smart as a fashion plate, efficient, very bright and dedicated to her career; herself, not exactly dowdy – more comfortable, bright, yes, efficient, no – She smiled to herself. A career woman too, now, or trying to be, with the gallery on Kew Green nearly six months old. For a while Emma had wondered if what she and Diane had in common was her husband, Peter, but on the whole she thought not. Surely, Diane wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye if that were so.
‘Hello. I’m sorry I’m late.’ Diane descended into the chair opposite Emma and propped an attaché case against the table leg. ‘We were dreadfully busy in the office this morning; and I’m afraid I’ll have to be fairly brief. The boys are covering for me, but I never like to let them think they can manage without me for too long.’ She smiled. ‘What are we drinking?’
‘In my case white wine.’ Emma indicated her glass.
‘I’ll
