several! Several so obvious they not only kept him and Alyce under constant, twenty-four-hour surveillance but doubtless took albums of supporting, claim-incriminating photographs! Everything – his carefully hidden and absolutely protected offshore fortune, his Mr Invisible anonymity, his very existence – was threatened. He had to find a way out. An escape. He finished the first glass of wine and immediately poured himself a second. But then stared at it, untouched. Not again, not this time, he warned himself. He’d never been a true alcoholic; not able to function without it. He’d just needed the escape from reality that booze provided.
What – where – was his escape now?
Was he subject to the jurisdiction of American divorce and civil courts? He didn’t think he was or could be but he’d need legal advice. The word legal echoed in his mind, like a cracked bell. Harvey Jordan’s absolute and essential necessity, the watchword by which he drew breath to survive, was always to avoid the very thought of contact with any legal authority. Now, today, his name and his address – God only knew how much else from all the legally and publicly accessible sources Jordan himself so assiduously pursued – was now legally, traceably, recorded! Displaying him to everyone and everything. It was right for him to feel so cold. He was, figuratively at least, naked, exposed for all to see and know and to dissect as and how they chose.
Not quite, came the faintly – too faintly – welcoming contradiction. They’d restricted themselves to France, to Alyce Appleton’s carefully noted and recorded departure from Nice airport on the official legal documents before him. American not English private detectives then, hired to follow Alyce from New York and watch her and anyone with whom she came into contact. If they’d continued to keep him under observation – stayed with him all the way back to England – they would have followed him to Sydney Street and after that all over England, not here, to Marylebone, where the papers had been delivered. Jordan snatched out again, not for the documents but for the envelope in which they’d been delivered, the recorded delivery sticker belatedly registering, now as brightly as if it were in multicoloured neon. Attomey-at-law David Bartle, from Brinkmeyer, Hartley and Bernstein, had documentary proof of his having received the accusations made against him. He couldn’t deny the claims had been delivered. How had the law firm got this correct address? His mind momentarily blocked again, then cleared. It had to be the Carlton hotel. Not just an hotel: a grand hotel, in every definition of the accolade, one of whose services was permanently holding in its files the names, personal details and preferences of its regular clients from their first and succeeding visits, a source of information Harvey Jordan had himself utilized in the past. If he’d been followed on the return flight from Nice – instead of being abandoned there – and to Chelsea his assumed name of Peter Wightman would have been discovered, against comparison with the inevitable French photographs, and British police possibly brought in to resolve the mystery of conflicting identities. So he’d been lucky with a partial escape, Jordan decided, trying to rationalize his problems. But partial escape wasn’t enough. It had to be complete.
Jordan was waiting in the apartment lobby for the arrival the following morning of the attentive doorman, John Blake, who at once confirmed his signing for the recorded delivery of the American letter.
‘I guessed it was important: that’s why I put it on the top of your pile, as I told you,’ reminded the doorman. ‘They took a note of my name and home address, too. It was all right my signing for it, wasn’t it?’
The man had told him, remembered Jordan, and he’d tossed the letter, along with everything else, in a jumbled mess on top of the bureau without bothering to look at it. ‘They? There was more than one man?’
The balding man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jordan. I meant the Post Office. It was the normal postman but I’d never before seen the receipt form he asked me to sign. He said it was important – that I had to – because it was a legal document.’
Shit, thought Jordan. ‘When was that: when was it delivered?’
‘Five days ago. I did do the right thing, didn’t I?’
‘Of course you did,’ assured Jordan, with difficulty. Where had the package been – to whom had it gone for onward delivery – in the intervening days from the letterhead date? Why hadn’t the French surveillance carried on to England? So much he didn’t know, couldn’t protect himself against!
‘I’m very sorry if-’
‘I told you nothing’s wrong,’ stopped Jordan. Could he risk going on, hinting at the apprehension? He didn’t have any alternative, so much and so quickly did he have to catch up. ‘Has anyone, more than one person maybe, been asking about me?’
John Blake frowned, uncertainly. ‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’d have remembered, Mr Jordan. You know I would.’
‘Yes, I do know you would.’
‘What shall I do – say – if anyone does come asking questions?’
He had to close the conversation, end it. ‘Tell them that you’re not sure about anything: that you need to think. But get some method of contact, like a visiting card. And let me have it.’
‘Of course, Mr Jordan. You know you can trust me.’
‘I know that, John,’ insisted the man who didn’t trust anybody and wasn’t sure he could any longer trust himself. ‘We’re not talking anything world shattering. I just don’t want to miss out on a business deal that’s looking good. I’m caught up in a competition I want to win, just as they do.’
‘I understand,’ said the man, nodding sagely at the imagined confidence.
Back in his apartment Jordan made coffee he didn’t want, merely occupying the time until offices woke up and became occupied, looking down at the bureau and its sleeping, so far unused computer, tempted to access the Appleton and Drake website. Not without more preparation and planning, he cautioned himself. He’d already made too many mistakes, allowed too much carelessness: every step he took, every move he made, from now on had to be the correct one, thought out and evaluated. The thin ice was already creaking underfoot.
Jordan stifled his impatience until nine thirty before telephoning the American embassy in Grosvenor Square, ignoring the recorded, single digit invitations to self-select what he wanted until a human voice came on the line. His impatience flared again at the pedantic questioning for his reason to be put through to the legal department, but he curbed it again, eventually getting a connection without disclosing his name, already having a false one ready if he was repeatedly pressed, which he wasn’t. It was a softly spoken, southern-accented woman who picked up the receiver. Frowning at his own realization of the threadbare cover-up, Jordan said he was calling on behalf of an English friend whom it appeared likely was about to become involved in maybe more than one, although definitely linked, court cases in North Carolina. He was seeking the name of a London legal firm with experience of American law to which his friend could approach for guidance.
‘I’m afraid we are not allowed to provide that sort of recommendation, for the obvious reasons,’ said the woman. ‘If the advice of such a recommendation were flawed or in error, the American government could lay itself open to separate legal action for damages.’
‘All I’m seeking is the name of a legal firm which could provide guidance in a divorce situation,’ pressed Jordan.
‘Sir, I’ve already told you we cannot provide recommendations for any legal opinion of any kind. And for that reason we don’t hold the names of any English firms qualified to help you…’ The pause was timed. ‘Or your friend. I’m sorry.’
‘Wait!’ pleaded Jordan, fearing that the woman was about to ring off. ‘Do you know any other agency or organization that could help?’
‘The same caveat applies, I’m afraid. You’ll have to proceed through English legal or government sources.’
‘There must surely be American law firms with English affiliates!’
‘Like you, I’m sure there must be,’ agreed the woman. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a list of them.’ Before replacing the telephone, she said, ‘Have a nice day.’
Jordan didn’t imagine he would and it was not yet ten in the morning.
Her name was Lesley Corbin. She wore a severe black business suit, black framed glasses, but no wedding ring, which in the circumstances of the meeting didn’t interest Harvey Jordan any more than her suppressed attractiveness. The appointment had been arranged by a secretary who hadn’t indicated a gender: he’d wrongly assumed Lesley Corbin to be a man, not a woman, yet another mistake to add to his increasing, self-criticising list. After further refusals to recommend a suitable law firm, for the same reason as the American embassy, from the Law Society and the Anglo-American Society, Jordan had chosen the woman’s firm from Waterlows’ Solicitor and Barristers Directory from which he’d chosen his most recent identity theft victim.
He would have felt more comfortable if Lesley Corbin had been a man. After the briefest of preliminary
