Fatal Legacy E-Book

Elizabeth Corley

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DCI Andrew Fenwick
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 725

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

When the managing director of a respectable firm, Wainwright Enterprises, dies in suspicious circumstances, his last will and testament throws the business and family into turmoil. Not only was he far, far richer than anyone had imagined, but, to the horror of his relatives, he has left the bulk of his estate to his nephew, Alex. When Alex's wife Sally turns her sharp mind to the finances of the family firm she exposes startling irregularities. She doesn't want the police involved - but then the firm's accountant is brutally murdered and DCI Andrew Fenwick is called in. His investigations reveal a web of corruption reaching to the highest levels of the local community. As Fenwick closes in on the murderer, one of his children is abducted as a deadly bargaining chip. He finds his integrity stretched to breaking point as he races against the clock to prevent more killings and save his child.

Leseprobe

Fatal Legacy

Elizabeth Corley

For Mike, with love

For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.

Exodus 20.5

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphPROLOGUEPART ONECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENPART TWOCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONEPART THREECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEPART FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-SIXCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTCHAPTER THIRTY-NINECHAPTER FORTYCHAPTER FORTY-ONECHAPTER FORTY-TWOCHAPTER FORTY-THREECHAPTER FORTY-FOURCHAPTER FORTY-FIVECHAPTER FORTY-SIXCHAPTER FORTY-SEVENCHAPTER FORTY-EIGHTAbout the AuthorAvailable from Allison and BusbyCopyright

PROLOGUE

I have a rendezvous with Death.

Alan Seeger

It was the bitterest of nights, too cold for snow, with an easterly wind that tore at his throat and drew tears from his eyes. Frost outlined branches on which leaf buds had been withered by the unseasonable weather. In the distant sky, stars seemed to shrink and shine fearfully. The track was set in waves of iron-hard mud. Pools from the previous week’s snows had frozen to thick black ice, but not thick enough to bear the weight of a heavy-set man.

The bulky figure stumbling along the starlit path lost his footing and landed heavily on his behind in a large puddle.

‘Sod it!’ His voice punctured the night like a gunshot.

The ice shattered and set him down ingloriously in freezing-cold water. Even his expensive trenchcoat couldn’t protect him from the muddy liquid as it oozed through to his skin.

‘Bloody stupid place to meet,’ he muttered to himself as he lurched heavily to his feet again with the soft limbs and lack of coordination of a desk-bound middle-aged man who had let himself go.

He set off again at a determined trot, freezing now despite his heavy coat and good shooting suit. The wind shredded the racing clouds, allowing moonlight to guide him as he made his way deeper into Foxtail Wood. It was nearly two in the morning and no living thing stirred in the fury of the night.

Up ahead the man saw the first flicker of torchlight, and he hurried forward, relieved to have found his destination at last. A gentle voice called out to him.

‘Over here, Alan. Mind that stump – oh, ouch. Are you all right?’

Swearing even more furiously, Alan rubbed his shins and finally made it to the small clearing where the torchlight steadily beckoned him.

‘Bang on time as always.’ The voice was calming, but he was in a foul mood and wasn’t about to be pacified so easily.

‘Bloody stupid time, if you ask me.’

‘Yes, but there’s a reason. I told you on the phone, we have to be very careful.’

‘But why? What’s happened? You said everything was fine when we last met.’

‘Calm down. Here, have a drink, it’ll warm you up.’

Alan took the Thermos flask and poured himself a large mug of whatever it contained. Fragrant steam wafted up to his appreciative nose – highly spiced mulled wine. Just what the doctor ordered for a night like this. He took a swig, swallowing half the contents in one mouthful. They’d used damned good claret for this; pity to spoil it, but he wasn’t going to complain. Behind the rich fruitiness he could taste brandy, cloves, cinnamon, lemon, and something else … what was it? As he emptied the cup, a bitterness on the back of his tongue made him shudder.

‘Still cold? Here, have another.’

He took the cup and started to drink without even thinking about it. The wine was certainly warming and he began to relax a little. As soon as he’d finished the second beakerful, he turned on his companion.

‘What’s so important, so urgent that we have to meet at this ungodly hour in this blasted spot? Why all this sk … sk … skulduggery?’ He stumbled over his words. That wine had really gone to his head. He’d have to watch himself.

‘I’ll explain everything. Just come over here.’

Alan followed his companion across the moonlit clearing; all trace of cloud had gone now. It was treacherous underfoot and he slipped in a dark shadow of ice, landing heavily on his hip.

‘Here, let me help you.’ A surprisingly strong hand pulled him up by the elbow and guided him on as he tottered a few more yards. His legs felt very unsteady now and the trees swayed at crazy angles as he tried to stare at them and get his bearings. Everything seemed to be twisting and turning in the wind. He could barely stand up.

‘I … I don’t feel too good. Need to sit down for a moment.’

‘No, not yet. Wait until we get to the car, then you can.’

‘Car? You said not to bring my car.’

‘I know, but I brought it for you, don’t worry.’

He saw the bleary outline of his silver-grey Rolls up ahead.

‘How …? I don’t understand.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. That’ll be the effect of the pills – they were bound to act fast with all that alcohol.’

Alan felt the first shadow of fear as he looked up at the familiar face next to him. He recalled the bitter taste in the mulled wine.

‘You’ve poisoned me?’

‘No, not quite. Only enough to make you cooperate. Now relax, we’re nearly there.’ His gloves were pulled off his frozen fingers before he could prevent it. He could hardly focus now, but he knew the lines of his beloved car so well that even in his drugged state he could tell that there was something wrong. It had grown a snake-like tail that seemed to twist up and out in the wind. As he reached the car, he put his hand out to steady himself and his fingertips brushed the tail. It felt ridged and rubbery beneath his bare fingers.

‘Good boy, now go on, touch it down here as well … and here. Good. Come on.’

He was pulled round to the driver’s side. The door was open, engine running.

‘Gosh, you’re heavy. Here, give me your hand, you’re a dead weight.’

Alan clung on, looking desperately for compassion in the face he knew so well. He was rewarded with a tight smile as he sat down obediently in the front seat. He reminded himself that he was with a friend. All he needed to do was explain how ill he felt and it would be all right.

The hand grabbed his arm and pushed him further in.

‘Oops, not too tight! There mustn’t be any bruises. Easy now, swing your legs up. Good boy.’

Alan sat befuddled, unable to move, his mind desperately trying to make sense of what was happening to him. He felt his bare hands pressed around a small plastic bottle, which was then thrown on to the seat beside him. Next, what felt like a wine bottle was placed between his thighs, wedged upright. His fingers brushed it loosely.

There was a cloying chemical smell in the car, which he recognised but couldn’t name. The fear was back now, real, smothering fear that made him feel sick and caused his whole body to shake. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep, but more than that, he needed to understand. He struggled to form words.

‘What’s going on? Tell me, please!’

The well-known face turned towards him and stared him straight in the eye.

‘It’s simple. You’re dying, Alan, right here and now. You’re dying because you’re old and useless, a liability that’s outlived its purpose. Sleep tight.’

The door was slammed shut and locked from the outside. Alan struggled with the dead weight of his hand to try and reach the door handle, but it was too far away. His fingers brushed the rich leather padding of the armrest as he inched them higher, but the alcohol and drugs filled his head and limbs with a deadly weight. He relaxed back into the headrest with a sigh as sickly-sweet exhaust fumes thickened in the car.

Out of curiosity, the young policewoman picked up samples of the shotgun cases with a pencil and put them into evidence wallets, which she labelled quickly. They had been sheltered by leaf mould and there might still be prints. It would be interesting to see whether any were his.

The body had been discovered by a local gamekeeper, coming to check on the state of feed bins in the wood. He had recognised the car at once. He rarely visited the clearing, as it was only good for rough shooting, and it was vaguely ironic that the dead man had been one of the more regular guns. If he shot here it would explain how he knew about the concealed track to the clearing.

The young WDC had hesitated about whether to call out a SOCO team and photographer, but after talking to the duty sergeant she had done so. They’d be here soon; she only had to wait for them to arrive and the body to be removed and then she could leave. This was the worst part of the job, waiting around, sometimes for hours, with the only enemy boredom.

She walked carefully around the car, far enough away to avoid the worst of the smell, but the buzzing of the flies was still audible. A confusion of deep rutted tracks led to the clearing, and it was impossible for her to tell which ones belonged to the Rolls.

Once again she walked up to the car, her hand clamped hard over her nose and mouth, to stare at its single occupant and his buzzing entourage. It was grotesque what decay could do, yet she still found it fascinating. In the ten days that he had been missing, a sudden sunny spell had worked destruction on the body shut up tight in the car. Decomposition was well advanced, and she didn’t begrudge the pathologist his job. Where the corpse’s skin was exposed she could see green staining and some marbling of veins on the back of his hands.

She wondered where the flies came from in winter. For one terrible minute she imagined that everyone carried flies eggs within them, as seeds of their own decomposition, just waiting for the moment of death. She shuddered.

A length of hosepipe had been attached to the exhaust pipe and fed into the top of the window, where brown plastic parcel tape had been used to seal the inch-wide gap. The rest of the tape had been used on the other window cracks, and the empty cardboard spool lay in the left-hand footwell. She noticed all the taping had been done from the inside.

WDC Nightingale ran out of breath and withdrew from the car to breathe in lungfuls of fresh air. She gave one more glance at the decaying body sitting in the driving seat in its bundle of expensive clothes, and then firmly turned her back on the scene and its power to form lifelong memories.

PART ONE

To reign is worth ambition though in hell:

Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.

John Milton

CHAPTER ONE

It rapidly became common knowledge that Alan Wainwright had committed suicide one icy late-winter night, an action which delighted and appalled his family and acquaintances in equal measure. Apart from a mild heart condition, the sixty-three-year-old widower had been regarded as a man to envy. His difficult wife had died years before, allowing her energised husband a reprieve in which to enjoy a belated bachelor’s life. And of course he was known to be a multimillionaire.

For over thirty years he had run Wainwright Enterprises, a sprawling conglomerate of local businesses that was one of the most successful in the county, and divided his leisure time between his estates in Scotland and the Caribbean. The family seat, Wainwright Hall, spread over hundreds of acres of the most productive agricultural and forestry land in Sussex. His sudden death was an unexpected blow to his business and created the potential for an extraordinary windfall for his expectant family. It made them less anxious than perhaps they should have been to question what could possibly have caused Alan Wainwright to take his own life without warning or explanation.

Two weeks after the discovery of the body, Alexander Wainwright-Smith, nephew of the deceased, and his new bride Sally were sitting unobtrusively in the solicitor’s office waiting for Uncle Alan’s will to be read. They had selected two upright chairs, tucked into the far corner, leaving those of comfortably upholstered leather for more important family posteriors. In the front row, facing the large walnut desk, sat the late Alan Wainwright’s brother-in-law, Colin, with his wife Julia, Alexander’s mother’s sister. She sat in dignified silence, still beautiful despite her middle age, and perfectly turned out in the latest fashion.

Behind them their six grown-up daughters sat or lounged in a sprawling row, bored by the wait and impatient to learn what their rich uncle had left them. Of his six cousins, the only one Alexander liked even vaguely was Lucy, the youngest. He had endured a childhood of seemingly neverending humiliation at his uncle’s house, and not one of them had ever befriended him.

The room became stuffy as they waited for the solicitor to join them. Jeremy Kemp had been the Wainwright family’s legal adviser for many years and knew better than to start before the arrival of Alan Wainwright’s only son, Graham. Always late, inevitably bohemian, despite having passed his fortieth birthday, Graham was the family black sheep. He had been spoilt almost to ruin by his overbearing mother, and his father had been so jealous of her attention that he had resented his son’s presence. It was no wonder Graham had left home and the family business behind him as soon as he was old enough.

At a quarter past three, exactly fifteen minutes late, Graham flowed into the office. He was not alone.

‘Good God, Graham, what have you got with you this time?’ Colin flushed brick red.

Graham smiled, obviously delighted that his gesture had not gone unnoticed.

‘It’s not a what, it’s a whom, Uncle. This is Jenny, a friend of mine.’

Jenny was dressed in, well, very little. Despite the cool spring day, she was wearing a short skirt slit to her upper thigh, and a white halter-top. The materials of both made it absolutely clear to anyone who was interested that she had decided against underwear today. Alexander wondered that she wasn’t cold. Colin tried unsuccessfully not to stare.

Jeremy Kemp had followed Graham into the office. He completed a rapid and unobtrusive assessment of the room and its occupants, pausing only briefly as he glanced at Sally, Alexander’s wife, to give her a tight smile, then he ordered fresh tea and greeted each of his visitors by name. He knew them all well, as the Wainwright affairs, both family and business, accounted for most of his firm’s revenues and all of its profit. Once the tea had arrived, he seated himself quietly behind his desk and brought the babbling group in front of him to order.

‘Good afternoon, everyone. As you know, we are here to read the last will and testament of Alan Winston Wainwright.’ He spread out the manila papers in front of him with slender manicured hands that looked as if they should have been holding a flute or a watercolour brush, not a dead man’s words. The tension in the room was palpable. Alan Wainwright had been a wealthy man, but he had also been a secretive one, and no one knew how much he was really worth. Even the relatives he employed in his businesses were ignorant of the precise size of his entire fortune and had survived grudgingly for years on meagre incomes in anticipation of this moment. Julia was as anxious as the rest. Having six children and unfulfilled social ambitions was proving difficult to manage.

Jeremy Kemp looked at the expectant faces before him. Significant wealth and power was a corrupting mix – look what it had done to Alan Wainwright. He wondered what it would do to his heirs and suppressed a shudder.

‘This is the last will and testament of Alan Winston Wainwright, executed on January the third of this year.’

There was a small gasp from somewhere in the room. He had changed his will less than two months before his death. Why?

‘I, Alan Winston Wainwright, being of sound mind and judgement …’ The solicitor’s voice adopted a practised narrative tone as he read through the preamble. The whole family listened intently, waiting for the first mention of a bequest. ‘… To Julia Wainwright-McAdam, my sister, an income of thirty thousand pounds per annum in due recognition of her moral support of my businesses over the past thirty years.’

Julia had ignored the business, living off her mother’s trust fund and devoting her life to fashionable good works until she had met and married Colin. She had lived in anticipation of becoming a serious participant in charity circles and now she looked furious. This was a pittance by her standards and would barely fund the costs of her wardrobe and beauty treatments. No one could meet her eye. They looked either nervous or expectant, depending on their conscience and natural optimism.

Only Alexander appeared unaffected. He could have no realistic expectations of an inheritance, given the unpopularity of his mother’s elopement with a travelling salesman thirty-two years before. Even though she had once been his uncle’s favourite sister, she had never been forgiven, and now that she was dead, even old memories would count for nothing.

‘To Colin Wainwright-McAdam, my brother-in-law, an income of ten thousand pounds whilst he lives, together with a lifetime interest in Manor Cottage, in recognition of his fondness for my Sussex estate.’

Colin turned purple and Julia bone white. Her dreams of local patronage and committee chairmanships finally withered. At the very least they had expected the Sussex estate; enough hints had been dropped over the years. Julia couldn’t even remember what Manor Cottage looked like. Colin could, and recognised it for the insult it was.

All eyes turned to Graham, who was lounging back casually, stroking Jenny’s left thigh as she sat behind him. Jenny grinned at Alexander sitting next to her but otherwise appeared completely unaffected by it all.

‘To my son Graham, I leave half of the remainder of my estate as detailed in Annex I dated the thirty-first of December, and including the lodge in Scotland, half of the valuation of the Wainwright Family Trust and the works of art he chooses from Wainwright Hall to the value of thirty thousand pounds.’

Graham scowled. He had expected the lot, however much it was, and he waited with barely contained anger to learn the name of whatever charity it was that he assumed would receive the rest of his father’s legacy.

‘How much is the Wainwright Family Trust worth?’ he cut across Kemp. The solicitor merely pulled a computer printout from a file by his side.

‘The valuation of half of the trust at the end of the last quarter was £7,567,308. I have estimated the total value of your portion of the estate to be just over fifteen million.’

The atmosphere in the room became frigid as Alan’s brother-in-law and sister finally realised the enormity of the insult that had been handed down to them. There was silence for a moment, then a verbal storm erupted from Colin, Julia and their children.

‘How could he do this?’

‘He must have been mad.’

‘The gall of the man!’

‘This is just bloody stupid.’

‘Don’t swear, Colin, please. The least we can do is behave in a civilised manner. Anyway, we will need to consider contesting the will.’ Julia’s cool, carefully structured tones cut through the raised voices and there was a moment’s calm as eight very angry people considered the potential revenge of a court battle.

Kemp spoke into the silence. ‘There are further bequests, for the Wainwright-McAdam children.’

‘You mean he’s given the other half of his estate to them?’ Colin sounded appalled, but his daughters were silent at once. ‘Get on with it then, let’s hear the worst.’

‘Your brother-in-law left specific instructions as to the order in which the will was to be read.’ Kemp cleared his throat and continued. ‘For my nieces, the children of my sister Julia Wainwright-McAdam, thirty thousand pounds each and their choice of jewellery or furniture to the value of two thousand five hundred pounds each from Wainwright Hall.’

‘Then where’s the other fifteen million gone?’ Julia asked indignantly. ‘Oh God, he hasn’t gone and given it all to charity, has he? If he has, I tell you, he was not of sound mind! He never gave to charity in his life.’

Jeremy Kemp continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘And finally, I leave the remainder of my estate, goods and chattels as set out in Annex II attached, but explicitly including Wainwright Hall, its contents save those that have been bequeathed elsewhere, my estate in the Caribbean as set out in the deeds attached hereto, and the residual half of the value in the Wainwright Family Trust, to my nephew, Alexander Wainwright-Smith, and his wife Sally, as joint beneficiaries.’

There was an awful silence. Alexander looked stunned. Sally had been sitting rigid throughout and now she just stared ahead, eyes glazed. No one in the room spoke. One by one his relatives turned and stared at Alexander, loathing, disgust, anger or simple jealousy in their expressions. It was impossible for them to believe what they had just heard. Alexander, of all people!

‘How have you done that, you little weasel? You bastard, with your weekend visits and your phone calls and your bloody boring jobs working in the business. All the time you were plotting this. Who’d have thought you had the brains? Or perhaps you didn’t.’ Graham’s apoplectic face turned to consider Sally. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You cunning little—’

‘Enough!’ Kemp cut across him. ‘There is absolutely no call for this personal invective; it will do no good. Some emotion is understandable at a time like this but there is no excuse for bad behaviour, and anger is a very unsound basis on which to reach decisions. I suggest that, unless there are any practical matters to be disposed of, I draw this meeting to a close, and that those of you who would like to discuss the matter with me further arrange individual appointments for tomorrow or Friday.’

But Graham hadn’t finished.

‘What about Dad’s interest in the family firm? Wainwright Enterprises must be worth fifty million at least – it employs half the county, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Your father’s main interests in Wainwright Enterprises were disposed of years ago. His small residual holding is part of the family trust you have been left.’

This was shock upon shock. They had all assumed that Alan Wainwright owned the whole of the business they had variously avoided or slaved in throughout their adult lives.

Colin’s purple face glared at Kemp with something approaching hatred.

‘You knew he’d changed his will, didn’t you, and yet you said nothing. I bet you’re going to get a nice fat juicy fee from this – and the more difficult it becomes, the more money you’ll make.’

Kemp stared back calmly, meeting his eye with no difficulty. He was used to the man’s rages.

‘Colin, there is no point being angry with Mr Kemp when you know it’s Alan who has done this.’ Julia turned to the solicitor. ‘I think your suggestion is a very sound one, Jeremy. We’ll leave now, but please realise we will be back tomorrow.’

One by one the family left, until only Graham, Jenny, Alexander and Sally were sitting in the office. Sally still hadn’t spoken. She looked from Alexander to Graham and then to Kemp, her hands clenched into a tight ball in her lap. Her smart but inexpensive skirt was starting to crease badly in the warmth of the office. Kemp decided to move matters along. He turned to Alexander.

‘You obviously need to know that this firm is the sole executor of your uncle’s will.’

‘So old Colin was right then, you are going to benefit nicely from all of this.’ Graham stood up as he spoke, trying to make himself more imposing by squaring rounded shoulders and thrusting out his bony chest. ‘Well, there’s one piece of business you won’t be able to rely on in future, and that’s mine. Come on, Jenny.’

Alexander struggled to find words for his cousin, but before he had them ready, Graham was gone, leaving him alone with his wife in the solicitor’s office. Whilst he stared ahead, still in a daze, Sally spoke quietly with Kemp, then she took her husband’s arm firmly and guided him outside.

‘I think a nice cup of tea is called for,’ she said, and Kemp smiled gently at her retreating back.

CHAPTER TWO

Jeremy Kemp had given his secretary strict instructions to keep a minimum of a half-hour gap between the Wainwright family meetings. The last thing he wanted was an impromptu gathering that might deteriorate into a brawl.

Colin and Julia arrived first, without their children. It was an uncomfortable meeting that overran, so that as they left, Julia, in Jaeger and pearls, was able to confront Sally, wearing a neat navy Marks and Spencer suit and pink blouse. As she tried gently to step to one side, the other woman moved to block her way.

‘Just where do you think you’re going, young woman? I want a word with you.’

Sally shook her head, unmoved by Julia’s anger. She had been patronised by the older woman ever since she had married Alex, and she knew that the knowledge of their inheritance would be enough of a punishment.

‘Please, Julia, this is hardly the time or place. Why don’t we discuss this in private later over a nice cup of tea?’

‘Cup of tea?! Dear God, who the hell do you think you are, inviting me for a cup of tea like Lady Bountiful. Frankly you’re the last person I want to have tea with. I have my standards, you know.’

Alexander stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Julia’s shoulder.

‘Aunt Julia, please don’t upset yourself. The last thing Uncle Alan would have wanted was for this to divide the family.’

Julia threw back her head and let out a blast of high-pitched laughter.

‘You simpleton, that’s precisely what he wanted. This is hardly the stuff of happy families. You’re so stupid. Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised; your father was an idiot. What can one expect?’

‘That’s enough.’ Alexander’s tone was barely polite and carried the unmistakable weight of authority behind it. They all looked at him, held silent by surprised intakes of breath. Julia recovered first, but her voice was querulous and had lost much of its arrogant assurance.

‘Don’t think I don’t know how all this has come about. You wait until I take you both to court. It’ll all come out then, about you and your whore!’

‘Enough, Julia!’ Colin looked aghast at his wife. The new Alexander standing before him seemed quite capable of retaliating with an action for slander. He glanced sideways at the young couple. If his wife’s outrageous insult had been intended to discomfort them, it had missed its mark completely. His niece by marriage regarded him with a cool, detached contempt; his nephew with impatience. Then, with absolute assurance, they stepped past his wife and greeted Jeremy Kemp with a warm handshake, leaving him to escort his unusually silent spouse outside.

Kemp settled Alexander and Sally into comfortable leather chairs and offered them a sherry. It was only eleven o’clock but he felt they all needed one. Sally sipped hers gratefully whilst Alexander, after touching the glass to his lips, ignored it. The meeting ran on past twelve, then to one o’clock. Kemp, engrossed in the detail, had forgotten about the appointment with Graham at quarter past, until he heard raised voices in the outer office. He looked apologetically at his clients.

‘Graham was due to see me at one fifteen. For once he’s early, and he’s obviously objecting to being kept waiting.’

The door was flung back with such force that it rattled the windows, and Graham stalked in, smelling faintly of whisky. An apologetic Jenny stood behind him, dressed in extraordinary tight flared white hipsters and a cropped lime-green top that left her flat brown stomach and pierced navel bare.

‘Typical. I should have known you two’d get in first.’

‘We were just leaving. And as to what we discussed, none of it was confidential. We will very happily share it with you when you can spare us a moment.’ Sally smiled, openly relaxed. Alexander took her arm and turned to Kemp.

‘We’ll leave you to it then, Jeremy. Come on, Sally.’

He opened his mouth to say something to Graham, but then closed it again and shook his head, as if unable to find the words. Graham stared in astonishment at the sudden change that had come over his cousin.

Alexander might have adjusted with unexpected ease to his sudden wealth but his world was about to become even more complicated. He walked into Doggett and Hawes, Wainwright Enterprises’ accountants, with a simple list of questions at three o’clock in the afternoon, and left at seven with a set of new responsibilities that would have intimidated even the most experienced of businessmen.

Doggett and Hawes’ offices were the essence of anonymity and discretion on the outside, but once past the security-coded front door and card-controlled lift, the façade was swept aside, to be replaced by solid, tasteful luxury. As Alexander stepped out of the lift and walked towards the antique table that served as a reception desk, he was sure that he’d made a mistake and had somehow ended up in a gentleman’s club.

Faded Persian rugs covered a highly polished dark oak floor; a round inlaid rose- and satinwood table supported a massive willow-patterned bowl, planted with spring bulbs which perfumed the air with hints of an alpine meadow; an eighteenth-century grandfather clock ticked away steadily with a satisfactory ‘ker-clunk’, as it had done for the last two hundred and fifty years. The receptionist was a balding, portly little man dressed in a pristine white shirt, regimental tie and navy pinstriped three-piece suit.

He rose to his feet and said, before Alexander had gone three steps, ‘Mr Alexander Wainwright? Mr Doggett is expecting you, sir. Would you like to leave your, er, anorak with me?’

The clock was chiming three as Alexander walked down the short corridor, past closed mahogany doors with brass fittings that had been polished to a smooth glow, to the last door on the left. The third chime sounded as the receptionist opened the outer door without knocking and then tapped firmly on the inner door immediately behind it.

‘Mr Alexander Wainwright, sir.’ He ushered Alexander in and closed both doors behind him.

Frederick Doggett sat behind an antique desk in an office more than double the size of Alexander’s sitting room. It was better furnished, too. Despite the air-conditioning, a log and coal fire burned in a cast-iron grate set in a reproduction Adam marble fireplace. Walnut bookcases lined one wall and a collection of shooting prints covered the other three, while yet another grandfather clock measured out the time with a dry tick.

Alexander was so taken aback by the room that he missed the opportunity to study Doggett before the man was at his side, shaking his hand and simultaneously guiding him to a wing-backed chair in front of the fire.

‘Alexander, how good to see you, but in such tragic circumstances. Please do allow me to extend my condolences to you and your family. A great loss and, I am sure, a great sadness.’

The man was so smooth that it was impossible to discern any double meaning behind his extravagant sympathy. Yet he must have known how little Uncle Alan had been loved. The sense that he was being laughed at, however cleverly, irritated Alexander and made him determined to dislike the accountant no matter what else the man said or did. As he took an A4 lined sheet of paper from his pocket, Doggett watched him in silence, a one-sided smile playing on his lips that changed infinitesimally, as Alexander looked up at him, into one of concerned enquiry.

‘It’s a list of questions my wife and I want to ask you concerning Wainwright Enterprises. I believe you already have a copy.’

‘Of course, by all means. Would you like to go through them now or after you have had your uncle’s directions concerning the future management of his companies?’

Alexander felt a fool, and that in turn made him annoyed. However, he said, mildly enough, ‘Good point. Uncle Alan’s instructions first, I think.’

As he sat in silence listening to his dead uncle’s words, he realised with growing satisfaction that his working life would never be the same again. At its simplest, his uncle had recommended him as managing director of Wainwright Enterprises. He was to be given a seat on the main board and executive positions in the subsidiaries.

‘I know that this must be a shock, and it is a considerable responsibility, but your uncle had the highest regard for your abilities. He felt very strongly that you should succeed him. You have spent time working in many of the company’s businesses, and your uncle told me you have done well in them all. I know that he would have wanted you to step up to the mark, Alexander. It may be slightly earlier than any of us might have expected but nevertheless it was his wish.’

Alexander leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. From being the family underdog to controlling the whole firm was an intoxicating idea, yet Doggett clearly felt that he might need persuading. How they all misjudged him. After a suitable pause he nodded.

‘Very well, I agree. Now you’d better tell me what it is that I’m responsible for.’

Doggett explained every aspect of the business – he had no choice under Alexander’s relentless questioning. After over three hours, Doggett raised a weary hand as if he had had enough, but Alexander had one final question.

‘As managing director I report to the shareholders. Tell me about them.’

Doggett’s expression of helpful enquiry didn’t change, but his whole body tightened slightly.

‘Well, it’s rather a complicated shareholder structure. The company has grown up in quite a … let’s say higgledy-piggledy way over the past thirty-odd years. Wainwright Enterprises is eighty per cent owned by Wainwright Holdings; ten per cent was held personally by your uncle and has been bequeathed fifty-fifty to you and your cousin, Graham Wainwright; and ten per cent is owned by Councillor Ward.’

‘George Ward? I voted for him.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And who owns Wainwright Holdings?’

Doggett shifted slightly in his seat.

‘Would you like some more tea? Or a beer or whisky perhaps, given the hour?’

‘No thanks. You were saying, about Wainwright Holdings.’

‘This is where it becomes more complicated. For various reasons – predominantly tax, but I can assure you it is all legitimate – Wainwright Holdings is owned by a number of trusts on behalf of several local businessmen.’

‘And they are?’

Three of the names he recognised immediately: Frederick Doggett, the man sitting opposite him; Jeremy Kemp, their solicitor; and James FitzGerald, his late uncle’s financial adviser.

The clock chimed the quarter hour. Doggett glanced at it and stood up.

‘This is a little bit awkward, Alexander, but I actually have a dinner engagement – I’m meant to be there now. Could we continue this some other time?’

‘Of course. How about first thing tomorrow morning?’

‘Diary’s rather full, I’m afraid. I’ll get my secretary to call yours and set up a time.’

Despite his urgent supper engagement, Doggett watched from the vantage point of his upper window as Alexander left the building, following the underdressed new managing director of Wainwright Enterprises with his eyes until he turned a corner and was out of sight. Then, all thoughts of dinner apparently gone, he sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. The number he dialled was answered at once, and he spoke without preamble.

‘James, he just left. It didn’t go quite as well as we expected. He’s more assertive than we were led to believe … Bright? Well, yes, I’d say he was, surprisingly so, but I think it’s more his persistence than any intelligence we’ll have to worry about. There’s more of the Wainwright blood in him than we’d all thought.’

There was a longer pause, in which Doggett shifted uncomfortably in his grand leather chair, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. When he spoke next it was with an effort to maintain his smoothness.

‘Yes, of course, if you want to meet. I’ll call Jeremy and wait for you here.’

Doggett replaced the receiver with a shaky hand and ran knobbly fingers nervously through his hair, disturbing its immaculate finish. He sat unmoving for several moments then, loosening his tie and undoing his top shirt button, he got up, walked over to the drinks tray and poured himself three fingers of whisky. The splash of soda he threw into it was so brief it was virtually all spray, but psychologically perhaps he could tell himself that he wasn’t drinking neat spirits. Then he sat down heavily in a wing chair and stared vacantly into the dying embers of his fire.

James FitzGerald let himself into the rear entrance of the office block using his own key. Frederick Doggett and Jeremy Kemp were waiting for him in the ridiculously oversized office that Fred insisted on, and he gave them one of his smiles. He knew that it would unsettle them and the thought made him grin even more broadly.

‘Evening, gents!’ He had never bothered to change his working-class Sussex accent and he enjoyed watching their joint suppressed shudder at his tone. ‘I’ll have one of whatever it is Jeremy’s drinking, thanks.’

Doggett handed him an iced gin and tonic and he took a swig.

‘Lovely. Let’s sit down then, no point standing around like spare pricks at a wedding.’ He took the chair closest to the low fire and waited for the others to settle before asking, ‘So what’s your considered opinion, Fred?’

‘Of Alexander Wainwright-Smith? He’s very curious and far from the pushover Alan led us to believe.’

‘He’s a Wainwright; bound to be an awkward bastard. When we agreed to him becoming the next MD on Alan’s retirement, we had assumed that the old man would replace George as chairman and be able to keep his nephew in check. Now he’s dead you’ll just have to do it yourselves. I’ll get you both on the board.’

James watched their reaction as his shot went home. They were neither of them made of the same stuff as their fathers, and he missed his old contemporaries with a sudden yearning. With Alan’s death he was the only survivor of the original team that had restructured Wainwright’s to suit their own ends. Fred Doggett’s father had died a grand old man at the age of ninety, leaving his wimp of a son to run the accountancy practice and play with young men in his spare time. Jeremy’s father had died of a heart attack less than a month later.

‘I’m not sure going on the board would be appropriate, James. I’m your auditor; it would cause raised eyebrows.’

‘Fair enough. How about you then, Jeremy?’

The solicitor flushed and took a long swallow from his crystal glass.

‘I, er, well … It’s a very close connection, and I am Wainwright’s legal adviser …’

‘I see. No takers, then.’ James hadn’t expected either of them to want to be so closely associated with the firm, but he had tested them anyway. That was the problem with the second generation: they were poor copies of their fathers and couldn’t be relied upon in a crisis. Not that this was a crisis, yet. They were watching him as a mouse watches a snake, waiting for the strike that might not come but wouldn’t miss if it did. He let them wait and sipped slowly on his drink as he considered his options. After a long pause, during which the tension in the room had turned Doggett’s baby face puce, he replaced his empty glass on the side table and stood up to leave.

‘We’ll do nothing for the moment; let’s see how he settles in. Fred, make sure you stay close to him, and Jeremy, you keep in touch with his delightful wife. That shouldn’t be too difficult, even for you!’

Without waiting for their replies, he turned and left them to their evening, which he knew would now be filled equally with a dread of ghosts from the past and a fear of the shadows cast by an uncertain future.

CHAPTER THREE

Graham pulled out an upholstered gilt chair and Julia backed into it graciously. Colin settled Jenny into a matching seat on the opposite side of the dining table and then sat down heavily in his own and raised his glass to drain his strongly ginned martini.

The restaurant was full, but the high level of background chatter, which guaranteed them privacy for their conversation, compensated for the long wait to be served.

Graham ordered champagne and smiled away his aunt’s disapproval.

‘In honour of Dad. He would have approved, and we need to do something for the poor old bugger after that memorial service.’

‘It was very …’ Julia searched for a word, ‘understated. It took them a month to arrange it after all. They could have handled it better.’

‘Oh, the service itself was all right. I think Alexander was right to keep it low key. After all, the funeral was only three weeks ago. It was the awful funeral meats afterwards that got to me. Sparkling wine, for heaven’s sake, and ham sandwiches!’

‘Well, that would have been Sally, she’s incredibly mean with money.’ Julia’s tone said it all.

‘You really don’t like her, do you, Aunt?’

‘She’s awful, a common little tart with ideas above her station.’

‘Really, darling, there’s no need to be so blunt.’ Colin glanced at Jenny, hoping that she hadn’t taken offence. She had dressed in black out of respect for Graham’s father, but there was very little of it and an awful lot of Jenny on display. She appeared indifferent to Julia’s remarks. Julia ignored her husband and pulled Graham closer so that she could speak more privately.

‘I’m convinced that she … How can I put it politely?’ Julia paused, clearly uncomfortable at what she had to say. ‘Well, bluntly, Graham, I think she seduced your father into changing his will.’

‘Interesting. And a number of his friends today were insistent that it couldn’t have been suicide.’

‘Well, it was hardly an accident!’

‘Exactly.’

Unease about the coroner’s verdict had been rife among Alan Wainwright’s acquaintances, but initially they had found no answering concerns among his family, who had all been too eager to learn of their inheritance to allow room for doubt into their minds. But, with the will read and disappointments received, they were all too ready to share the concerns that remained over Alan’s inexplicable suicide.

Julia gave Graham an appraising look, then leant even closer to whisper in his ear. ‘If it wasn’t suicide, then …?’ She stopped quickly, realising that Graham had been one of the major beneficiaries of his father’s death. He sensed her embarrassment and changed the subject.

‘What do you know about Sally, Aunt?’

‘What do any of us know? Very little. She turned up here in Harlden less than six months ago and married Alexander in January. There were no relatives or friends from her side at the wedding, and she insisted on a register office ceremony. Then, just over a month later, your father died. Are you suggesting …?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I just think it’s been very convenient, that’s all.’ Graham paused, and then continued with a look of calculation on his face. ‘After the will was read, I hired a private investigator to dig into her background. He’s not from around here, I found him in London. So far he’s been a waste of money, but I’ve retained him for another week or so. One thing he is sure about, though: she changed her name or her date of birth at some stage. The maiden name on her marriage certificate is Price, but there’s no record of a Sally Price being born on the date she gave as her date of birth.’

‘Well, let me know what you find out.’ Julia smiled unpleasantly. ‘I’m very interested. It is unbelievable that your father could have left Alexander half his estate; he could hardly bear to look at him some days.’

Graham and Jenny had taken a room in the best hotel in town. It was only rated three stars and Graham was having some difficulty adjusting to the lack of five-star services. He was sitting up in bed when Jenny emerged from the shower.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

Graham quickly scooped up a bundle of papers and photographs and put them in an envelope. He passed her a small handful of press cuttings.

‘Julia gave these to me. There’s one here of the music festival where Alexander and Sally met – see, there’s a photograph of her. It says underneath that she’s a local girl, but no one I’ve spoken to remembers her. Isn’t that odd?’

‘Not really, it’s a big town.’ She slid beneath the bedclothes and put her arms around his lean waist. His skin smelt of lemons, whisky and cigars. It was uniquely his smell and she loved it. ‘It’s gone midnight,’ she murmured.

‘Uh-huh.’ He lifted the brown envelope off the bed.

‘What’s that?’

‘Surveillance photographs. They’ve just been delivered by my private detective. I asked him to follow Sally for a few days, and this arrived this evening, but there’s nothing interesting yet.’

‘You’ve inherited over fifteen million pounds. Why not let it go? You don’t need the extra money.’

‘I don’t care about the money. It’s far more than that. After listening to his friends today, I don’t believe my father committed suicide. Somebody killed him, Jenny, and I think Sally could have had something to do with it. I certainly believe she tricked my father somehow, and I’m going to prove it.’

Alexander opened a bottle of Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon and passed a glass to Sally as she huddled in front of a tiny electric fire in their sitting room. It was threatening to snow again, but she still insisted on keeping the central heating thermostat to a level just sufficient to stop the pipes from freezing. He had only been married to her for two months after a whirlwind courtship, and there was so much about her that still baffled him.

‘I thought the memorial service went well, didn’t you, Sal?’

‘It was fine. I’m just glad it’s over at last. Some of them didn’t leave until nearly seven o’clock. God knows what extras that hotel are going to charge us.’

‘Not much. They need whatever business they can get right now. I just hired the room from them, plus the staff, and Mrs Willett did the rest, although she said she thought you’d been a bit tight with the budget you gave her.’

‘Did she indeed! Well, you’ve got to remember that we’re talking about your food and wine now, Alexander – and she’s got to remember that she’s our housekeeper! I’m not sure that Mrs Willett is going to work out.’

Alexander noticed the two pink spots of colour that glowed on Sally’s cheeks and recognised them for the warning sign he had become accustomed to. She’d had a difficult time after the service, with first one relative, then another snubbing her deliberately, and he could see that she was spoiling for a fight. Best to change the subject.

‘I saw you talking to George Ward after the service. I tried to join you but I seemed to be surrounded constantly by other guests. He’s our chairman – what do you think of him?’

‘Oh, all right, rather dull.’

‘He didn’t look dull; in fact, I thought he seemed really worked up about something. What did he say?’

‘He was going on about your uncle’s death, called it a tragedy, untimely, the usual. I thought he was a very nervous type, not chairmanship material at all.’

Sally picked up their empty dessert dishes and took them into their tiny freezing-cold kitchen. The treacle sponge had been too heavy for Alexander, but he’d known better than to leave it, as Sally wouldn’t stand for that. Waste of any kind was an appalling extravagance to her. He would never be able to fault her on thriftiness. He had already forgotten how quaint he had thought her, and their household management was now one of simple, if meticulous, routine. He was struck suddenly by the magnitude of the change to their personal lives if they moved to Wainwright Hall. Worried that she wouldn’t be able to cope, he caught her hand as she sat down at the table again.

‘Sal, I don’t want you worried by our move to the Hall. Do you need help with it?’

Sally looked at him strangely, and for a disturbing moment he thought she was going to laugh at him, but then she simply smiled and patted his hand where it rested still in hers.

‘That’s very sweet of you, darling, but I think I’ll cope.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick settled back into a moderately comfortable chair and focused his full attention on the conference platform. It had been Assistant Chief Constable Harper-Brown’s idea that he should attend this seminar. The division’s training and development record was so appalling that any inexpensive opportunity to improve the statistics was latched on to immediately.

The room was almost full, a testament to the popularity of the subject even in these overworked, budget-constrained times. Two speakers stepped on to the platform and the lights dimmed. A slide flashed up on the screen. Forensic Accountancy, and underneath it, in smaller letters, Cooperation Initiative. The Institute of Chartered Accountants in England and Wales had joined together with representatives of the banking and insurance industries to fund a series of lectures for police forces across the country. Their goal, apart from playing the part of good corporate citizens and thus hoping to soften any further tightening of the already tough regulations, was to improve their ability to work with the police to reduce fraud and the laundering of criminal money through legitimate business enterprises.

In a dry but authoritative voice, the first speaker explained briefly what money-laundering was: how criminals would set up a series of complex businesses through which they could pass the proceeds of criminal activity. Simply put, the ‘dirty money’ went in at one end – say the exchange of currency at a bureau de change – and came out clean at the other as untraceable cash or balances in legitimate bank accounts. Most of the dirty money was from drugs or smuggling, but the system wasn’t choosy and proceeds from any criminal activity could be processed.

Governments, legislators and law enforcement bodies across the world had recognised in the 1980s that preventing a criminal from benefiting from a crime would reduce crime itself, either by making the risks of using the money unattractive or by preventing the financing of bigger and more rewarding criminal activities. Wide-ranging laws and regulations had been introduced, some of which made it the responsibility of the banks and other financial institutions to ensure that the money they accepted was legitimate. Penalties for failing to do so were fierce, for the company and even for individual employees, who could be prosecuted for any personal mistakes or oversights. The speaker explained that bank clerks themselves could end up with a fine, a criminal record and even a prison sentence if they accepted suspicious money or helped to process it in any way. But the better the controls that were put in place, the more clever the criminals had become and the more difficult it was proving to expose their schemes. Fenwick took detailed notes and listened with interest to the unfamiliar technical, legal and accounting terms.

The second speaker described new European-wide legislation that he and others were trying to have introduced, but his explanation was so complex that several of his audience nodded off to sleep. During the fifteen-minute break before the next session, Fenwick poured himself an extra-large cup of black coffee and nibbled on a shortbread biscuit in a desperate attempt to raise his blood-sugar level and avoid the embarrassment of falling asleep when the lights dimmed again.

‘Hello, Andrew! How are you?’ a deep Welsh voice boomed out behind him.

‘Davey! Good, thanks. Great to see you. Good Lord, it must be, what – three years now?’

‘And the rest. We were at that damned refresher course out in the sticks for over a month. That was longer ago than I’d care to be reminded of.’

Davey Morgan was a powerful, rugby-playing man who had gone through the selection process to be made a chief inspector (in the days when the rank still existed) alongside Fenwick. They’d discovered to their mutual surprise a natural rapport and a shared dry sense of humour. Morgan was one of the few people with whom Fenwick felt he could relax. They’d always meant to keep in touch, but that was before Monique’s illness and Davey’s move away from the south.

‘Where are you now?’ Fenwick asked.

‘Still Liverpool. It’s a tough patch but the wife and kids live out on the Wirral and they love it. And you?’

‘Harlden, West Sussex.’ He couldn’t bring himself to discuss his family, and Davey sensed his reticence.

‘West Sussex. That rings a bell …’ He took a thirsty gulp of coffee, the porcelain cup fragile in his giant hands. ‘I know! Isn’t that where Harper-Brown ended up, as ACC?’

‘Yup. You know him?’

‘Know him! By God, don’t I just. Old Pencil-Pecker was my super for three bloody years. Boy oh boy, I don’t envy you.’

Fenwick laughed. ‘So it’s not just me then? I thought the man had singled me out for his disapproval.’

‘Lord, no. He’s a nightmare, although I can see that you’d not be his type.’ Davey joined in the laughter. ‘I bet your paperwork’s doubled.’

Fenwick shook his head grimly. ‘Well, it should have done, but I can never seem to keep on top of it.’

That, he thought, was just one of the many problems he had in his relationship with Harper-Brown. It was as if they defined the fundamental requirements for being a police officer from different ends of the spectrum. Their only point of overlap was the importance of solving crime: Fenwick because of a driven search for justice in an unfair world, and the ACC for the statistical and measured satisfaction of a job well done, reflected in an improved ranking in performance league tables. This one common sense of purpose provided a tenuous link from which they both strove to create a credible working relationship at least sufficient to allow them to co-exist within the West Sussex Constabulary.

In the second half of the seminar, Fenwick was lectured on the legal protections that existed to prevent suspected fraudsters and money-launderers from incriminating themselves. He made very few notes and listened in growing disgust until the final talk about cross-force and international cooperation restored some of his faith in the system. The speaker, Commander Miles Cator, had been seconded from the Metropolitan Police to head a high-profile task force that coordinated Inland Revenue, Customs and Excise, intelligence services and police authorities in the UK, in cooperation with similar units in five other countries. He described how they had been working for three years to uncover a multimillion-dollar money-laundering operation that spanned three continents and ten countries, in an investigation that had employed over one hundred people. It had led to the arrest of fifteen people, spread across the US, UK and Monaco, who were still awaiting trial in custody.

Fenwick concentrated, barely blinking, on Cator’s closing words:

‘… So, if there is one message I would like to leave you with, one lesson from this case which is still at least a year away from trial, after which I’ll be able to talk more freely about our methods, it is never underestimate the scale and complexity of the arrangements these gangs put in place. Crime, whether it’s smuggling drugs or illegal immigrants, prostitution or plain old grand larceny, is big – and I mean big business. In fact, it is one of the most significant and universal sources of income there is in the world.

‘Big businesses can buy the best legal advice, computer systems and accounting services they need in order to thrive. We have a world within a world today. The tentacles of organised crime, and the money-laundering arrangements needed to allow it to survive, spread everywhere in industry, our leading professions and even potentially into some governments.

‘The people behind this are wealthy, organised, inventive and clever; ruthless and utterly without remorse. And it is only by combining the best of our talents that we will ever be able to compete with them and win. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention.’

Cator received the longest round of applause, and Fenwick was surprised by Davey’s scepticism as they discussed the morning over a lunchtime pint.

‘So you didn’t rate what Cator said?’

Morgan shook his head. ‘All conspiracy tosh if you ask me. Course crime is big business, everyone knows that, but most of it’s ill planned and opportunistic. I’ve not met any of his “master criminals” in my life, have you?’

‘Perhaps that’s because they’re the ones we never catch. You know as well as I do that if you add up the amount of money we know circulates from drugs alone, we only ever intercept a fraction of it. Where does the rest go?’

‘Don’t know, but what’s your division’s detection rate?’

Fenwick knew instantly: ‘Twenty-two point three per cent last year.’

‘Not bad! But my point is that the undetected money is accounted for by the seventy to eighty per cent of unsolved crimes. Where I come from, the great news is that the murder rate’s up and it’s mostly the daft buggers killing each other off! I bet more of them have been scared or injured out of the business than have ever been captured by any grand Inter-bloody-pol scheme.’

Fenwick couldn’t help but laugh at Morgan’s totally politically incorrect view on life – no wonder he and Harper-Brown had never seen eye to eye – but that didn’t mean he agreed.

‘That’s only one side of the story, Davey. I think Cator’s more right than wrong. There is another aspect to this business. It’s just that those involved are so smart we rarely come across them.’