“That is correct,” Wilcox said. “My business adviser is looking into the matter.”
“I have hired a private investigator to try to track down Alex Moreno.”
“My advisers are handling my interests, and I am loath to confuse the issue by becoming involved with any other backers. I would appreciate it if you did not press this matter further on my behalf or call again.”
“But you lost a fortune!”
“That’s my business.” Wilcox sounded annoyed.
“Do you know Edward de Jersey?”
“No.”
“Mr. de Jersey was the largest investor and will lose everything he has-” Wilcox had hung up. Sylvia was astonished that he didn’t want to know any more.
Undeterred, she called Anthony Driscoll. He was not as brusque as Wilcox, but he made it clear that his own advisers were investigating the company’s downfall. “Please feel free to call again if you acquire any information you think I would be interested in,” Driscoll said.
“I am contacting all the investors,” Sylvia persisted. “Are you aware that a Mr. Edward de Jersey lost nearly a hundred million pounds?”
Driscoll was taken aback momentarily. “No, I am not. Listen, are you asking for me to assist this investigator?”
“Only if you wish to do so. I am quite happy to continue paying him until I get results.”
“Well, I admire your tenacity, Miss Hewitt, but I am quite perturbed that you have called an unlisted number and that you seem to have access to very personal details.”
“I explained who I was,” Sylvia replied rather petulantly.
“That in itself does not give you, or anyone close to Mr. Lyons, the right to access my private and highly confidential transactions. I want my losses to remain my own business.”
“Well, I apologize,” she said, embarrassed. “I am really doing this for my sister.”
“Frankly, Miss Hewitt, I am not interested in who you are doing this for. While his suicide was tragic, David Lyons made some extremely ill-advised business moves. I blame myself for making the investments; nevertheless I was under Mr. Lyons’s guidance. That I had a disastrous loss is my business, and I would appreciate it if you did not call again or use my name in reference to any private investigation you may instigate.”
Sylvia interrupted before he could hang up on her, like Wilcox. “May I just ask if you know any of the other investors? A Mr. James Wilcox.”
“No, I’ve never met any of the others.”
“Did you ever meet Alex Moreno, the man who ran leadingleisurewear?”
“No. Furthermore, I have no interest in meeting him. I wish you success, but I have no time to discuss this further. Good-bye.” He hung up abruptly.
Sylvia was aware that big investors did not like their losses known. However, she was infuriated that these three men could accept losing millions. She had lost a pittance in comparison, but it had been her life savings. She had no intention of letting the matter be swept under the carpet.
Liz Driscoll had answered Sylvia’s call, and after he hung up, she waited for her husband to explain it.
“So who is this Sylvia woman then?” she asked eventually.
“The sister-in-law of an old business adviser.”
“So what’s she calling you for?”
“He topped himself,” he said irritably.
“Who did?”
“David Lyons, the business adviser.”
“Do I know him?”
“No, but he handled an investment of mine.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, pouring some power juice ingredients into the mixer.
“Do you?” he snapped.
“Yes, anything concerning money is a mood swinger with you. Bad news was it?” The mixer whirred noisily.
“Yeah, but nothing I can’t take care of.”
“I know, darling, but what’s she doing calling you at home? Was it an emergency?”
“No.”
“So was it about this guy topping himself?”
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Why did he do it?”
He hesitated, then prepared to face the music. He rested both hands on the marble worktop. “I just lost a bundle on what I was told was a surefire investment.”
“Oh, Tony. How much?” she said sipping her drink.
He simply shrugged. When he avoided eye contact with her, she became worried.
“Tony, answer me. How much did you lose?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Cos I hate fucking losing, all right?”
“Don’t you swear at me. I knew something was up. I just knew it. It started in Florida, didn’t it? You were told about this then.” He nodded. “Why don’t you talk to me, Tony? Worried myself sick wondering, is it me? Isn’t he enjoying his holiday or is something up with the kids? Tony, all these things go through my mind when you get this way. I was worried all holiday. Look at me. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
When he walked out of the room, she followed. “Tony, tell me. Have you got yourself into real financial difficulty with this? I need to know, especially now.”
“What do you mean especially now?”
“I was going to tell you tonight. It’s Michelle. She wants to marry that Hamilton boy, you know the one who plays polo with Prince Charles?”
“What?”
“She’s been keen on him for months. Blond with nice blue eyes. He’s been around here, Tony, loads of times. They met at the Dunhill polo match at Windsor last summer, and she was with him over Christmas in France.”
“She’s only seventeen!” he blustered.
“So? I was only eighteen when we married.”
“That’s different. She’s my daughter.”
“He’s coming over with his family for dinner Thursday.”
“Thursday? I might have to go into town to get this stuff ironed out.”
“What stuff?”
“I told you. I done a bad investment, got to catch up on the finances.” Under pressure he always lost his grasp of grammar, even his old accent returned.
“How much have you lost then?” she asked, frightened. She had already started planning a sumptuous wedding. What they lacked in class she intended to make up for in expenditure.
“Not enough for you to worry about.”
“I hope not. He’s a sweetheart, you know, and his family are all titled. It’ll take me three months to plan and prepare, and they want to do it as soon as possible. Where are we going to hold the reception? What about her dress? I was going to see about getting Stella McCartney to do it. You know, have a real fairy-tale wedding.”
“Sweetheart, if my baby wants to get married in a palace I’ll arrange it, you know that. She’ll have the wedding of her dreams, that’s a promise. But why the rush? She’s not up the spout, is she?”
“No, she bloody isn’t! Oh, Tony, you’ve got me all worried now.”
“When have I ever let you down?” He kissed her.
“Never. I love you, Tony,” she said.
Driscoll plodded across the bedroom and fell flat on the bed. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He stuffed two antacid tablets in his mouth and chewed them like peppermints. A fucking wedding was all he needed. Then there was the call from Sylvia Hewitt to worry about. The three men had never been linked together like that, and he didn’t like it one bit. Finally, he was really concerned about de Jersey’s financial situation. He could never recall feeling sorry for de Jersey before, but though Driscoll had lost most of his own savings, he could still find nearly a quarter of a million, while, if what Sylvia said was true, de Jersey had lost everything. Driscoll, probably more than anyone, knew what the stud farm meant to de Jersey. He could remember old Ronnie Jersey’s words: “I once owned a leg in a horse. I cried when he won a little race at Plumpton. I loved that horse, Tony.” Sometimes Ronnie had fantasized about owning his own racing stables. “It’s a mugs’ game for the rich nobs, though,” he’d said. “You can’t win. It’s all payout. Gotta have more money than sense.” His son had achieved all Ronnie had ever dreamed of, and it made Driscoll sad that the old man had never known of Edward’s success. Truth be told, he’d been a bit overawed by it himself. In many ways Driscoll was more like Ronnie than his own son was.