The Namedropper Page 4

  ‘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 introductions it took her a full ten minutes, which he timed from the sonorously ticking clock on the mantle above an unlit fire, to go through the contents of the American letter, frequently referring back and forth between the different statements of claim. It seemed much longer.

  ‘I expect you to be completely honest, answering all my questions,’ she began, when she finally looked up.

  ‘Of course I will be,’ lied Jordan.

  ‘And understand that I am not legally qualified to offer advice on American divorce law.’

  ‘That was made clear when I made the appointment. What I’m really seeking is a reference to a firm or a lawyer who can help me. In Waterlows this firm is described as being international. When I called, I was told you were their foremost divorce specialist.’

  ‘It is and I am. But not in divorce matters in the United States with the added complications of linked damages claims; in America divorce legislation varies from state to state, with state by state Bar examinations. I know what alienation of affections is but I’ve no idea what criminal conversation means.’ There was just the slightest of lisps.

  ‘All I’m seeking is guidance – a reference – to someone who can help me.’

  The woman looked down at the papers strewn around her desk. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you in a relationship that could be construed as a common law marriage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you seduce Alyce Appleton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you sleep with Alyce Appleton?’

  ‘Yes. We had a brief affair, a holiday romance.’

  ‘So you seduced her?’

  ‘No,’ again refused Jordan. ‘That makes it sound as if I pursued her: persuaded her against her will. I didn’t force myself upon her. She was quite willing. Eager, in fact.’

  ‘As you were?’

  ‘As I was,’ agreed Jordan. He hadn’t so far had to lie.

  ‘Did you know she was married?’

  Jordan hesitated. ‘Yes. She wore a wedding ring as well as an engagement ring. But she told me she was getting a divorce from her husband.’

  ‘Did she tell you before or after you slept together?’

  Jordan had to think. ‘After. She made it sound as if she initiated proceedings against him
, for his adultery—’

  ‘And was getting her own back,’ interrupted the lawyer.

  ‘Exactly that.’ He gestured to the papers lying between them on the desk. ‘That claim makes it look as if she’s the guilty party and I’m the cause.’

  ‘That’s precisely what it looks like: as it’s supposed to appear. The husband’s lawyers are making him out the innocent party.’

  ‘It’s not true. Before we even got together she spent one morning reading stuff she later told me were divorce papers. Everything had already been started.’

  ‘Did she show the divorce papers to you? Did you read them?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So she could have been lying?’

  The question brought Jordan up short. ‘No …! She wouldn’t …’

  ‘We’re not talking love here, are we? We’re talking a holiday romance of what … one, two weeks?’

  ‘Three,’ said Jordan, with difficulty. ‘Just over three.’

  ‘You plan to keep in touch? Exchange addresses?’

  ‘No:

  ‘So she could have been lying?’ the woman repeated. ‘Setting you up?’

  He didn’t get set up! thought Jordan. He had been once but never again. He was the person who set other people up. ‘I don’t think she’d do that.’

  ‘You got to know her – trust her – that well in just over three weeks, at the end of which you didn’t exchange addresses?’

  ‘I thought so.’ He was sounding like a complete and utter idiot; had been a complete and utter idiot.

  ‘Whose idea was it not to exchange addresses, hers or yours?’

  ‘Hers. But it couldn’t have been a set-up, could it?’ demanded Jordan, gesturing again to the papers. ‘We were being watched, every minute of every day. People had to be there already in place, ready and waiting.’

  ‘Which is exactly what they would have been doing if she and her husband planned the whole thing in advance. All they needed was the willing victim. And you were it.’

  No! mentally refused Jordan. He was always the cheater, not the cheated! It couldn’t have happened the other way round. ‘Why! What’s the gain?’

  Lesley shrugged. ‘Make your own list. Alyce getting her divorce, if she set it up on her own. Both of them bleeding you dry, as well as Alyce getting her divorce, if they were working together.’

  ‘She didn’t know if I had any money or not.’

  ‘When you met you were staying in a suite at one of the best and most expensive hotels in the South of France. And went on staying in them and eating in the best restaurants as Mr and Mrs Jordan, with you paying for everything. It’s a reasonable supposition that you’ve got money.’

  ‘I can’t believe that’s how it is.’

  ‘I’m not saying that it is. I’m just putting it forward as one of several possibilities.’

  ‘You’re a divorce lawyer, an expert?’ challenged Jordan.

  ‘Yes?’ questioned the woman.

  ‘How many times have you come across the sort of situation you’ve just suggested?’

  ‘Three,’ the woman answered, at once. ‘And I’m not saying it’s what’s happened to you. Maybe Alfred Appleton is vindictive to the point of paranoia. I’ve known that, too.’

  ‘OK!’ said Jordan, forcing himself on. ‘I accept you can’t give me specific advice about American divorce law, from state to state. But what about jurisdiction? What if I ignore that letter and those claims? What could a North Carolina court do to me – against me?’

  ‘If you ignore it all, you mean?’ queried the woman.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ Why did lawyers need the same things said three different ways!

  ‘You got any assets in America – property, bank accounts, anything upon which a lien could be imposed?’

  ‘None,’ declared Jordan.

  Lesley Corbin began shuffling the documentation back into order. ‘You certainly couldn’t, in my opinion, be forced to respond, as if it was something extradictable. You’ll need an American lawyer – one who’s passed the North Carolina Bar exams qualifying him to practise in a court there – to tell you what happens to the actual divorce application, if you don’t turn up. What worries me is what in this country would be considered contempt of court, which gets judges very angry. By not turning up, the inference is guilt. With the detail contained in all these papers we’ve got to assume that they’ve not only got a lot of photographs of you two together but copies of hotel bills, affidavits from hotel staff and statements from the yacht charterers. Further proof of guilt if you don’t contest the allegation. Sufficient, maybe, for the financial compensation claims to be pursued in your absence, whatever happens or doesn’t happen to the actual divorce. I don’t think any judgement against you could be pursued in an English court. I need to check. But it would certainly be registered in every enforcement authority throughout the entire United States. Which would mean your never again being able to visit America: be on a plane that just touches down on American soil, in transit. There could be countries, Canada is the most obvious, where there might be civil action reciprocity that would mean you couldn’t go to any of those countries, either, whoever and wherever they are …’

  ‘What about publicity … public identification,’ broke in Jordan, impatient again and anxious to resolve his most pressing concern.

  Lesley Corbin smiled, as well as nodding her head. ‘Precisely what I was leading up to. Publicity is their – his, if it’s not a conspiracy and Alfred Appleton is acting alone – hydrogen bomb. You don’t go to enter a defence, a total refutation, they don’t just blow you to smithereens: they evaporate you. Again, we need American law guidance. But I’ve seen – you’ve seen, I’m sure – enough publicity exposures on television and in newspapers here in England to know you could face the equivalent of being hanged, drawn and quartered by publicity.’

  The physical reaction had long gone beyond shivering coldness. Harvey Jordan now felt empty, disembowelled, as if just such medieval justice had been exacted upon him. Without sufficient consideration, he blurted out, and too late realized this was another mistake, ‘I’m trapped – no way out.’

  ‘There’s always a way out,’ said the more controlled woman. ‘We’re talking now about maximum damage limitation: avoiding, if we can, the sackcloth and ashes exposure that’s going to make you a public, humiliated figure in England and America.’

  ‘That’s got to be a gross exaggeration!’ Jordan protested.

  ‘You want to expose yourself to as little as a fifth of it?’

  ‘Not a tenth of it.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Stop it happening. Stop any of it happening,’ insisted Jordan.

  ‘God does miracles. I just do the best I can.’

  ‘Do the very best you can.’ In his worst nightmare Jordan had never imagined – come close to contemplating – that he could be trapped like this again. But he’d recovered before. He’d recover again. And not just recover. Punish again, too.

  Six

  The following day continued to be unreal, Jordan remaining aware of – watching – everything around him but having no contributory part or involvement in any of it, as if he were part of a ghost movie in which the character can see and hear and participate but can’t be seen or heard by anyone else. Which was, in fact, how he wished his life could revert, to how it was before. But couldn’t any longer. By the day after he was a long way towards recovery: Harvey Jordan reborn, the all thinking, all calculating, ahead-of-the-game operator. But not totally recovered. To have believed that, and tried to convince himself of it, would have been ridiculous: absurd to have even begun to think that. He’d become complacent, careless, not thinking clearly or properly enough just because he’d had it too easy for too long. Not any more. This was his wake-up call, at klaxon-decibel level. He’d get out of it, even if he didn’t at this precise moment know how; he’d minimize it to the point of no longer being dangerously exposed, and
he’d never again relax as he had relaxed. Maybe, even, cut himself away from places he knew so well – where too many people knew him so well – to find a new and different vacation spot. Not just one. Several. Move around the Caribbean and the Far East and the Pacific, not bother any more just briefly being known and favoured. And wherever it was, enjoy the readily and always available Ghilanes of the world.

  This was all reassuring – necessary thinking – for the future. But there were more immediately pressing and essential practicalities. His antennae tuned to its maximum sensitivity, despite every indication that the surveillance had stopped in France, Jordan set out to once more become – and remain – Mr Invisible. It was instinct to set his intrusion traps but he did not emerge on to the pavement from his apartment block until he could see the yellow flag of an empty taxi to take him to the rail terminal at Waterloo, alert to everyone in the queue behind him to buy a ticket to Basingstoke. He disembarked just two stops down the line at Clapham, remaining on the platform until it cleared of the four others who got off there as well, recognizing no one from the earlier queue. He took a waiting taxi to Sloane Square, a long enough journey upon which to isolate any following cab, which he didn’t, and went underground there but only took one station west, changing from the District to the Piccadilly line at Victoria to loop east as far as Green Park for lunch at The Wolseley at a table specifically reserved for its uninterrupted view of the only public entrance into the restaurant. He did not suspect anyone of showing any specific interest in him throughout the meal. Conscious of how many observers must have been involved in the surveillance of himself and Alyce in France, Jordan didn’t detect any brief signals between people entering or leaving the restaurant during what might be a change of possible observation shifts. He had the bell captain order a taxi that was waiting for him at the kerbside when he left, altering the given destination of Euston as the taxi was travelling north up Regent Street, and reached the newly rented service apartment in Hans Crescent just before 4 p.m.