From Beckwith’s system Jordan was easily able to infer contact from legal representation of both Alfred Appleton and Leanne Jefferies through the exchanges between his lawyer and Alyce’s, even though they were disjointed and incomplete because the two attorneys were obviously communicating, irritatingly, sometimes by email and on other occasions by telephone. Jordan’s further, even more irritating discovery was that Leanne Jefferies was being represented by Brinkmeyer, Hartley and Bernstein, the same firm engaged by Appleton but by a different partner. Leanne’s lawyer was Peter Wolfson, whose name was listed directly below that of Appleton’s attorney, David Bartle, on the company letterhead. Jordan ignored the immediate disappointment, quickly switching to his Trojan Horse stabled in the Brinkmeyer system in his search for electronic correspondence between Wolfson and Bartle. As he’d feard, there wasn’t any.
Jordan finally allowed the frustration to burst over him, physically hot. If Bartle and Wolfson were going to discuss everything between themselves within their own Madison Avenue building, which was clearly and most naturally what they would do, apart from occasional, but so far uninitiated, email contact with either Beckwith or Reid, there was no possibility of him eavesdropping on their thoughts or strategies. Objectively acknowledging his over-expectation, Jordan had still imagined he could sit upon the highest pinnacle overlooking everyone’s manoeuvrings and scrabblings, always to be ahead of every opposing move. What he had – precisely with all his computer entries – was the best spot in the foothills. Still sufficient. Still enough. But only just: not, by any assessment, as complete as he wanted his monitoring to be. But then he hadn’t yet accessed every site open to him. Still hopeful, Jordan followed his well-marked trail into every other hidden observation point in every other invaded computer. But found no further revelations, finally slumping back in the over-padded chair.
He’d hoped for so much more, some closely guarded confidence – confessions or admissions even – between the lawyers and their clients that he could have turned to his advantage. He at least knew things were moving forwards. For the moment, but not much more than a moment, he had to be satisfied.
Jordan was connected at once to Daniel Beckwith, who said, ‘Welcome back! I hear there’s more money in the pot?’
More for my benefit than yours, thought Jordan. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the quickness with which Lesley Corbin had alerted Beckwith to his visit to Chancery Lane to deposit a further fifty thousand dollars – she was the essential conduit, after all – but he was. ‘I thought it was a good idea. What’s happened here while I was away?’
‘We’ve got our pre-trial submission hearing next Wednesday,’ said the American. ‘We need to meet before then, obviously. And travel down on the Tuesday…’ There was a pause. ‘You want Suzie to make your hotel reservation along with mine? Or do you want to do it yourself? The hotel choice isn’t great.’
Beckwith had been curbed, Jordan recognized. ‘We’ll need to be together in the same hotel. I’d be grateful for Suzie doing it at the same time as she books yours. What other developments have there been?’
‘Leanne is being represented by the same people who are looking after Appleton, although obviously not by the same attorney. She’s contesting Bob’s claim of criminal conversation.’
Why hadn’t he found that on Reid’s computer? wondered Jordan. An official, legal and lengthily argued rebuttal on original court-submitting papers, he guessed; he still thought there would have been some email reference he could have picked up upon. Jordan was discomfited at the possibility of more windows being shut against him. ‘How’s that affect us?’
‘It doesn’t, directly. Her lawyer is a guy named Wolfson, Pete Wolfson. Bob hasn’t yet got their official response, just a phone call telling him they’re opposing it.’
‘What about medical records?’
‘Promised by the week’s end. I’ve already filed for a court order, demanding production in case it doesn’t arrive by then. Even if it does it’ll form part of the record for Pullinger to realize their reluctance.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be any point in our meeting until Friday at the earliest then?’ suggested Jordan.
‘The medical stuff doesn’t directly impact upon our application,’ Beckwith pointed out. ‘We’re not reliant upon it, one way or the other, at this stage.’
‘I want to be as up to date as possible,’ insisted Jordan.
‘You will be,’ assured Beckwith.
He was appearing too anxious again, accepted Jordan. ‘What about media interest?’
‘Increasing,’ replied Beckwith. ‘I got a call from the London Times the day before yesterday. Bob’s hoping to get his closed court hearing next week too, depending upon the length of ours, which technically has to precede what Bob does. I don’t see why we should need more than one day, although Pullinger could reserve judgement. Which shouldn’t stand in Bob’s way, even if Pullinger refuses my submission.’
‘Did The Times have my name?’ demanded Jordan, alarmed.
‘That’s all that’s listed, nothing else that could identify you,’ said Beckwith. ‘I refused to talk about anything: answer any questions.’
‘They must know I’m English to have called in the first place.’
‘Your being English wasn’t the direction of their approach. It was all about the break-up of two of the oldest American colonial families.’
‘They could get the lead from Appleton’s side,’ said Jordan, more to himself than to the other man. He should have warned the London concierge, John Blake. He still could, although not today. It was 8.30 p.m. in England. Blake would have left the building by now. It had to be his first telephone call tomorrow.
‘I warned Bartle about contempt,’ reminded Beckwith.
‘They wouldn’t be risking that, guiding people to me. And I can’t imagine the threat of it restraining British newspapers for a moment.’
‘I can’t do any more than I’ve already done to prevent your identity coming out,’ said the lawyer, the impatience obvious.
Too anxious again, accepted Jordan. ‘Let’s wait until Friday to meet.’
‘You going to be at the Carlyle all the time until then?’
‘All the time,’ promised Jordan.
‘I’ll call you if anything comes up in between. Let’s say eleven on Friday. I’ll have Suzie make plane reservations to Raleigh as well. This time next week we should know where we are.’
‘That’s what I want to know,’ said Jordan. ‘Exactly where we are.’ The light on his telephone console began to flicker, indicating a waiting call.
‘You’re back!’
‘Just walked through the door.’ Jordan instantly knew the voice. ‘I was just going to return your calls.’
‘How was London?’ asked Alyce.
‘I got done what I went there to do.’ Jordan hadn’t expected it to take most of one day to extend the Hans Crescent lease, sort out the query letters held for him at Royston and Jones bank and – a spur of the moment decision, despite what he was now accumulating in the accounts in New York – to withdraw additional funds to deposit with Lesley Corbin, all of which had delayed his return by those twelve hours.
‘You spoken to Dan yet?’