‘But the governor of Belmarsh was convinced it was suicide,’ said Seb.
‘Prison governors always say that whenever there’s a death on their patch,’ said Harry. ‘So much more convenient than murder, which would mean setting up a Home Office enquiry that could take up to a year to report its findings. No, there’s something missing in this case, although I haven’t fathomed out yet what it is.’
‘Not something,’ said Seb, ‘someone. Namely Mr Conrad Sorkin.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Grace.
‘A shady international businessman, who until now I’d assumed was working with Sloane.’
‘Does Sorkin run a travel company?’ asked Emma. ‘If he does, I’ve never come across him.’
‘No, Sorkin isn’t interested in Mellor Travel. He just wants to get his hands on the shops and offices the company owns so he can make a quick profit.’
‘That’s one piece of the jigsaw I wasn’t aware of,’ said Harry. ‘But it might explain another coincidence that’s been nagging away at me, namely the role played in this affair by a Mr Alan Carter.’ Everyone in the room stared at Harry in rapt silence, not wanting to interrupt the storyteller. ‘Alan Carter is a local estate agent, who up until now has only played a minor role in this whole saga. But in my view, his evidence might well prove crucial.’ Harry poured himself another cup of coffee and took a sip before he continued. ‘So far Carter has only merited the occasional paragraph in the Bristol Evening News, for example when he told the paper’s crime reporter that Mellor’s Bristol flat was on the market. I assumed he’d done so simply to get some free publicity for his firm and a better price for his client’s property. Nothing wrong with that. But it was his second statement, made a few days after Mellor’s death, which I found far more intriguing.’
‘Turn the page, turn the page,’ demanded Seb.
‘Carter told the press, without explanation, that Mellor’s flat had been sold, but that he had been instructed by his client to hold back part of the sale money in escrow. What I’d like to know is how much he was asked to hold back, and why he didn’t send the full amount to Mellor’s executors and leave them to decide who was entitled to the money.’
‘Do you think Carter will be working on a Saturday morning?’ asked Seb.
‘It’s always the busiest morning of the week for an estate agent,’ said Harry. ‘But that wasn’t the question you should have asked me, Seb.’
‘You are maddening at times,’ said Emma.
‘Agreed,’ said Seb.
‘So what’s the question Seb should have asked?’ said Grace.
‘Who is Desmond Mellor’s next of kin?’
Sebastian was standing outside Hudson and Jones on the Commercial Road at five to nine the following morning. Three agents were already seated behind their desks waiting for the first customers.
When the doors opened, a neatly printed sign on one of the desks announced which agent was Mr Alan Carter. Seb sat down opposite a young man wearing a pinstriped suit, white shirt and green silk tie. He gave Seb a welcoming smile.
‘Are you a buyer, a seller or possibly both, Mr—’
‘Clifton.’
‘You’re not by any chance related to Lady Clifton?’
‘She’s my mother.’
‘Then I hope you’ll pass on my best wishes to her.’
‘You know her?’
‘Only as chairman of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. My wife had breast cancer, and they met when she was on one of her weekly ward rounds.’
‘Every Wednesday morning, from ten to twelve,’ said Seb. ‘She said it gave her a chance to find out what the patients and staff were really thinking.’
‘And I can tell you something else,’ said Carter. ‘When my son was knocked off his bike and twisted an ankle, there she was again, this time in A and E observing everything that was going on.’
‘That would have been a Friday afternoon, between four and six.’
‘That didn’t surprise me, but what did was that she came over and had a word with my wife, and even remembered her name. So just tell me what you want, Mr Clifton, because I’m your man.’
‘I’m afraid I’m neither a buyer nor a seller, Mr Carter, but a seeker of information.’
‘If I can help, I will.’
‘The bank I represent is currently involved in a takeover bid for Mellor Travel, and I was interested by a statement you made to the local press concerning the sale of Mr Desmond Mellor’s flat in Broad Street.’
‘Which one of the many statements I made?’ asked Carter, clearly enjoying the attention.
‘You told a reporter from the Evening News that you had held back part of the proceeds from the sale of the flat rather than pass over the full amount to the executors of Mr Mellor’s will, which puzzled my father.’
‘Clever man, your father. Which is more than can be said for the reporter, who failed to follow it up.’
‘Well, I’d like to follow it up.’
‘And if I were to assist you, Mr Clifton, would it be of any benefit to your mother?’
‘Indirectly, yes. If my bank is successful in taking over Mellor Travel, my parents will benefit from the transaction, because I manage their share portfolio.’
‘So one of them can get on with the writing, while the other runs the NHS?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Between you and me,’ whispered Carter, leaning conspiratorially across his desk, ‘I thought it was a strange business from the start. A client who can only phone you once a week and is restricted to three minutes because he’s calling from prison was a challenge in itself.’
‘Yes, I can believe that.’
‘Mind you, his first instruction was straightforward enough. He wanted to put his flat on the market, with the proviso that the whole transaction had to be completed within thirty days.’
Seb took out a cheque book from an inside pocket, and wrote on the back ‘30 days’.
‘He called a week later and made another request that puzzled me, because I’d assumed he was a rich man.’ Seb kept his pen poised. ‘He asked if I could advance him a short-term loan of ten thousand pounds against the property, as he needed the cash urgently. I began to explain to him that it was against company policy, when the line went dead.’
Seb wrote down ‘£10,000’, and underlined it.
‘A fortnight later, I was able to tell him I’d found a buyer for the flat, who’d deposited ten per cent of the asking price with his solicitor, but wouldn’t complete until he’d seen the surveyor’s report. Mr Mellor then made an even stranger request.’
Seb continued to look enthralled by every word Carter had to say.
‘Once the sale had gone through, I was to hand over the first ten thousand to a friend of his from London, but not until they had produced a legal document that had been signed by him, witnessed by a Mr Graves, and dated May twelfth 1981.’
Seb wrote down ‘friend, £10,000, legal doc signed by Mellor/Graves’ and the date.
‘Whatever sum was left over,’ continued Carter, ‘after we’d deducted our fees, was to be deposited in his personal account at Nat West on Queen Street.’
Seb added, ‘Nat West Queen Street’ to his ever-growing list.
‘I finally managed to get rid of the flat, but not before we’d lowered the price considerably. Once I had, I carried out Mr Mellor’s instructions to the letter.’
‘Are you still in possession of the document?’ asked Seb, who could feel his heart pounding.
‘No. But a lady rang this office, and when I confirmed I was holding ten thousand in escrow, she sounded very interested, until I added that I couldn’t release the money unless she could produce the document signed by Mr Mellor. She asked if a copy would suffice, but I told her I’d need sight of the original document before I would be willing to release the ten thousand.’