Top Of The Shop
Les Broad
Published by Les Broad at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Les Broad
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TOP OF THE SHOP
The sun shone down on that glorious, typically English, high summer afternoon. As he swung through the gates of his ten-bedroomed country mansion and onto its carefully maintained gravel drive Martin Harrison thought, as he so often did, that the powerful rumble from the V8 heart of his convertible Ferrari was ideally suited to that particular moment: after all, he could hear it so much better with the top down.
At home, just a quarter of a mile up the drive, his wife would be waiting for him. Martin's wife was quite a bit younger than him, at just 31 to his 52, and an attractive woman. He, it has to be said, was rarely the object of second glances but that wasn't too surprising:men of his age carrying too much weight and too little hair aren't often appealing.
Yet he appealed to Agnetta, so much so that she had agreed to marry him. And she hadn't just agreed, she'd been wildly enthusiastic about becoming Mrs Harrison. It had bemused poor Martin, who even thought she was marrying him just to shed her Swedish nationality and become British, but, as he discovered, she was actually British anyway despite her first language being Swedish and having had a Swedish upbringing. That interesting set of circumstances arose from her parents' unorthodox domestic arrangements as her British father and Swedish mother divided their time between the two countries. Daddy had business interests in both countries but managed to derive only a tiny income from his toils; Mummy thought it best that little Agnetta should be educated in Sweden.
So, when Agnetta grew into a striking blond woman it seemed natural for her to live in Britain, where she stood out and got noticed, rather than the unappealingly remote northern Swedish coastal town in which she'd spent her childhood and where she didn't stand out at all.
In Britain, though, she found life difficult. Her looks got her jobs, certainly, but it always seemed that more was expected of her than ever appeared in her employment contract. It was, she decided, one of the perils of being the living personification of every man's perception of the ideal Swedish girl.
And then she met Martin.
By the time of that meeting Martin had given up his dull, middle class, middle income, middle management job and had bought, for cash, his impressive mansion, his Ferrari and a couple of other more mundane cars.
And it was all just because he'd written a book.
Entitled 'Top Of The Shop', it was a spy thriller, but not a very good one. It was a mystery how it ever came to be published - several reviewers said so - and its sales record was truly woeful. But a few copies were sold, and one found its way into the hands of someone who might justifiably be called a 'movie mogul'. He bought the film rights for a sum that even Martin thought was insane, plus a percentage of the box office receipts. A film was made which bore little real similarity to the book's plot, and was all the better for it, and became a worldwide box-office hit. Martin's future life of ease and plenty was assured.
The Ferrari rolled to a stop outside the house's main entrance. With a deep sigh of satisfaction Martin eased out of the car, closed its blood-red door and strolled into the house – his and Agnetta's house.
Martin was a genuinely, completely, happy man, having climbed out of a car that cost more than three times what his middle-management salary had been and walked into a house that until so recently he could only have gazed at from a distance. And coming down the stairs to greet him, a beaming smile on her face, was a truly beautiful woman who was happy to be his wife and delighted in every aspect of their relationship.
Life was good for Martin.
Agnetta greeted her husband warmly; she insisted on being there to welcome him every time he came home, to kiss him, hold him and make sure he felt loved, wanted and desired. Hadn't he provided her with a wonderful home, a plush convertible BMW to drive, a purse full of credit cards and holidays to wherever she wanted?
Life was good for Agnetta too.
“Have you been anywhere exciting?” she asked; she'd still been asleep when he'd left that morning and, unusually, hadn't any idea where he might have been.
Holding his wife's hand and leading her into a luxuriously furnished reception room, Martin replied. “The travel agents. I had an e-mail from the studios that made my film. They want me to fly over and talk about a sequel. I'll be there about a month and I thought you'd like to spend a month in LA too. I might even be able to get you a part in the new film. Anyway, I booked the tickets and in a couple of days we'll be on our way.”
Agnetta was just as thrilled at the idea as Martin had expected, although it was the shopping experience she was looking forward to more than any possibility of being in Martin's film. Acting had never appealed to her, simply because she couldn't understand why anyone would want to lie for a living voluntarily.
The next two days passed in a blur. As Martin led his wife through Heathrow Airport's departure lounge on their way to the first-class section of an LA-bound 747 the British summer, brief, glorious and warm, was drawing to an emphatic close. The cloud cover had been zero when they left home in Martin's Range Rover – he wouldn't have left his Ferrari in a long-term car park – but now thick cloud covered the sky. By the time that the Harrisons left British airspace the country would be suffering the first of a series of downpours that would last the whole time they were in LA.
It was a good trip. Agnetta enjoyed the many and varied opportunities presented by their hotel while Martin was away helping to put together the skeleton of the new film. He was pleased, but not at all surprised, to receive a very handsome payment for his services, which included a sum for the film rights of any sequel to the book he had already written. The trip was, despite Agnetta's prolific shopping, massively profitable, ensuring that another layer could be applied to the Harrisons' already luxurious lifestyle.
At the airport, to wile away the time waiting for their flight, Martin and Agnetta chatted about buying a second house, perhaps with a nice view of the Mediterranean Sea.
Thousands of miles away a letter lay on Martin's hall floor. It looked like an innocent, ordinary letter, a single sheet of letterheaded notepaper neatly folded inside an ordinary white envelope. It was of a type that Martin often received. Even if he'd known it was there, which he didn't, Martin would have been unconcerned.
A long but, inevitably, comfortable trip home ended in the early hours of a damp, chilly, British late summer morning. Without even bothering to unload their bags from the Range Rover and pausing only to tidy the accumulation of post away on a hall table Agnetta and Martin went straight upstairs and collapsed into their king-size four poster bed. Within minutes they were both asleep, anticipating nothing more than reacquainting themselves with their estate when they awoke.
Martin was first to rise, barely noticing how dull and damp the day was as he took his wife her morning coffee in bed. Once he'd done that he sat with his own in the opulent dining room, with his back to its windows. Martin had no wish at all to stare out at wet grass and trees: one glance was enough to start him thinking about a long holiday to somewhere warm and sunny. Agnetta would approve, he was sure. But before he could really concentrate on that little project he began dealing with the mass of post that had built up while they'd been away. He threw all the junk mail straight in the bin, separated out the few items addressed to Agnetta and settled down to read his own mail. There were a few bills, which he would send on to his accountant to settle, a couple of requests for donations from charities – which followed the junk mail into the bin – and the letter in the white envelope. It was a short letter, from his solicitors, asking him to get in touch.
Thinking that it was just the right sort of day to deal with people like lawyers, he rang the solicitors and made an appointment to see the partner he always dealt with later that morning. His sense of self-importance was escalated a little by the man's willingness to make time available at such short notice. That satisfying thought was interrupted by Agnetta's appearance; Martin thought, as he so often did, that her blond perfection complemented the luxury of the house perfectly.
“Anything interesting in the post?” she asked, smiling across the room at her husband.
“A couple for you, nothing much else. There was a letter from George asking me to ring him when we got back. I've arranged to see him today. He wouldn't say what he wanted to tell me, but it'll be about the new contract with the film company. I'll sort it out with him and be back in plenty of time for dinner.”
“Contracts! Men always want contracts.”
“It's the way we are. And contracts pay the bills.”
“And everything else. I'll take my letters back to bed, I think. If I'm not up, tell me when you leave.”
Martin smiled in response. Then he amused himself by watching his wife's retreating back. Tonight, he thought, we'll be well rested, and we'll be able to use that big bed for what it was bought for. It was an idea that he found... stimulating.
A couple of hours later Martin parked his Ferrari in the solicitors' car park and sauntered casually into the building. He had got used to projecting the image of a man who had a huge house, expensive cars, a beautiful young wife; a man who didn't have a care in the world. He did it well.
He felt just the same and was projecting the same image when he sat down across a desk from George Hadley, now the senior partner of the firm of Burton, Wilson & Hadley. It was a prosperous local firm, operating from a dozen offices throughout three counties and boasting effective connections with a major international law firm. Martin found that dealing with international legal matters in the relaxed ambience of a country market town suited him ideally.
“So, George,” Martin said after the exchanges of pleasantries, “I suppose you want to tell me what's wrong with the contract for the new film. Tell me I've been underpaid!” Relaxed and smiling,
Martin was a man in control.
“I imagine that might come up, yes, but it's a rather different matter on the table, I'm afraid.” Hadley spoke seriously, but Martin knew that solicitors always did that. They had to justify their fees somehow. “While you were away in, um, California, I had a letter. I found it more than a little discomforting as it alleges that one of the characters in your book, a most unprepossessing character, actually exists. Same name, same town, same address, even the same colour eyes, and he has the same habit of working away from home for irregular periods.”
“Well, who'd have believed it? It's a hell of a coincidence, isn't it?” Martin seemed merely intrigued.
“I hope it's a coincidence. The letter I received is from the solicitors acting for Mr Steve Smithson - “
“Smithson? He's the corrupt spy in my book!”
“Indeed, Martin. The letter informs me that their client has suffered abuse and mental anguish from what is called – and these are the other side's words, not mine – a vicious, premeditated, deliberate and serious libel of their client.”
Martin was stunned, but only for a moment. “It's an issue for the publishers. Nothing for us to worry about.”
“That thought occurred to me,” delivered with the merest hint of sarcasm, “and I took it up with the publishing company. I was referred to the agreement you and they signed, the result of which was the publication of your book. In that agreement you accept all liability arising from just this sort of scenario. I also checked the contracts with the film company in America and revisited the film itself as I have a copy on tape. The same character and all his personal details are among the few specifics carried over from the book to the film. I imagine that it is the film rather than the book that has triggered this action, if only because the film gained a rather, um, wider audience than the book and the singular reference to the book is but an opening shot.”
“Mm, quite a lot was changed when the book was filmed.”
“Indeed. The contract with the film company is very plain. You have agreed to indemnify them against every cost incurred in defending themselves, and that includes settlement of claims against them, legal costs, their own administrative costs and reasonable interest on those costs. The total could be a very substantial sum.”
“I suppose it could.”
“So we should consider our response. I have replied, saying only that you were, at the time, out of the country. Now we need to deal substantively with these allegations, although I am at something of a loss to see what defence we can mount that is likely to succeed.”
“But I made him up!” Martin was just beginning to worry. “I mean, Steve Smithson doesn't exist! He's never existed!”
“I'm afraid, Martin, that he does exist. My staff have made exhaustive checks and Mr Steve Smithson does indeed live at the address quoted in your book, he has all the physical characteristics, such as they are, attributed to him in your book and his working pattern is disturbingly familiar. He is, though, not a rogue spy. Instead, he is a well qualified aviation engineer whose work takes him to many parts of the world on a basis that is far from regular. Do you begin to see that we have a genuine issue with which we must deal?”
“I suppose so, but how somebody can get a bit upset because I created a character that's a bit like him beats me.”
“All right Martin, let us fantasise for a moment. Were you to read a book in which the anti-hero is called Martin Harrison would you be upset?”
“Not really. It's not an uncommon name.”
“But would it upset you if that character had a blond Swedish wife called Agnetta, derived his income from, say, international drug dealing and whose wife was having affair after affair behind his back?”
“I might be.” Said grudgingly.
“And if comments were passed to you in the street, both at home and wherever you went in the world, and those comments were so extensive that your work began to dry up? Would you then seek retribution?”
“All right, George, you've made your point. Yes, I would.”
“You would. However accidentally, you have put an innocent man, it seems, into just that position. We must now find a solution acceptable to you and to that innocent man.”
“Is he innocent? I mean, he isn't really a drug dealer or anything, is he?” Martin just might have been a little confused, but that might have been understandable. His luxurious world might be under threat.
“He is totally innocent, an honest, upright citizen with no criminal record, he pays his taxes regularly and has a wife and two children who are similarly wholly virtuous.”
“You've checked?”
“Comprehensively and exhaustively. I would not have been acting in your best interests to have done less.”
“I see.” Martin fell into deep thought. Hadley sat silently, waiting for a response. The clock ticked, loudly in the silence of the room. Outside people went about their daily lives, unconcerned about what might be going on behind the shaded windows of that town centre office.
“I think,” Martin said quietly after a long delay, “there might be insurance against this sort of thing. In fact I'm pretty certain that I got some libel insurance. If I remember right, it was so cheap that I covered myself for a fortune, about twenty five million or something silly like that. I'll go and see the brokers, they're out on the business park. I can be there and back in an hour or so. Leave it with me, George, it'll be all right. Things always are, in the end.”
Martin made his way out of the building, jumped into his car and drove, sedately, out of town towards the business park. It was a journey of only a mile or two, but when Martin completed it he was his old self: assured, content and, above all, confident that all was right with the world.
Martin's insurance brokers were well used to him dropping in; usually it was to arrange travel insurance for himself and his wife when they were off to yet another far-flung part of the world. He was well liked in that office; his habit of lavishing expensive gifts on the staff ensured that. On this particular day he was beckoned to a desk bearing a nameplate telling Martin its occupant was Caroline Johnson.
“Hello Mr Harrison,” Caroline said, a beaming smile of genuine warmth lighting up the pretty, twenty two year old face looking at him between long curtains of jet black hair. “What can we do for you today? Insurance for another trip to somewhere wonderful?”
“I wish it was, Caroline, I wish it was. What I need is for you to tell me if I'm covered in the probably impossible event that I might write something that libelled somebody. Accidentally, of course.”
“OK, that's no problem, just let me get your records up on the computer. Now, what have we got? House, contents, cars, life insurances, pension – we were saying the other day we ought to review your pension arrangements, there's so much more you could be doing.”
“Well, you'll have to remind me, because I've just signed up for another film, so there's a pound or two going spare. Better you have it than the wife buying more shoes, eh?”He chuckled at his own joke, knowing that he'd never denied Agnetta anything.
“Here we are, liabilities. There are policies connected with the house, of course, and one to do with your work. Let me just have a look at that, it's coming up now. I'll ask the computer to search for the word 'libel' and it'll find it if it's there as long as I've spelt it right.” Another beaming smile. “Here we are, accidental libel cover, it includes damages awarded and all the associated expenses and the limit is twenty five million pounds. I don't suppose you could write something that libels me, could you? Accidentally, I mean?”
“OK, then we'll run off together with our ill-gotten gains to an exotic Pacific island! But seriously, thanks for checking that I can sleep easy again now.”
Martin left Caroline to her work and, once back behind the wheel of the Ferrari, rang George Hadley. “George,” he said confidently when he'd been put through, “it's no problem. I've got the cover I thought I had, so we can write back saying how sorry I am and that we'll pay him something for his trouble. What do you think we should offer?”
“To be honest I'm not at all sure. I'll do some checking but I imagine that ten thousand would be as good an opening offer as any.”
“OK, fine. Then it'll all go away, you'll see.”
“Perhaps, but as I said earlier, the book might just be a starting point. But it seems you're well covered by insurance, but we still have to consider the effects you might feel personally. I'll keep you informed. Goodbye for now, Martin.”
Reassured, confident and impressed by his own forethought in buying that insurance, Martin drove home. Tonight, he thought to himself with a smirk, is going to be just as much fun as I thought after all.
For Martin the next couple of weeks were as pleasant and self-indulgent as he had become used to.
If the issue of a potential libel case crossed his mind at all it was dismissed, quickly and with a sort of I-don't-want-to-know casualness. I've got insurance, he told himself.
His life turned in a less pleasant direction when George Hadley rang, asking Martin to call in to the office. Why, Martin asked reasonably enough in his opinion, could the matter not be dealt with by phone?
“Well, Martin,” Hadley replied, “in my opinion this matter is becoming more serious, and I really think you should take advice on a face-to-face basis. And there are documents that you really should read.” Hadley was tempted to add 'as you don't seem to have done so before' but didn't: he needed a fee for his work and it just didn't do to alienate the client.
So Martin agreed to go.
Once Hadley had Martin sitting comfortably in his office he had to face up to an onerous task, one that was going to make his valued client a good deal less happy.
“Now Martin,” he said in a serious tone, “things have rather taken a turn for the worse, and on several fronts too. Firstly, our initial offer of ten thousand pounds in recognition of the embarrassment that might come from an innocent libel in a book with very low sales has been rejected out of hand, despite being coupled with an undertaking to withdraw all unsold copies of the book.”
“You mean no more sales?” Martin sounded horrified.
“No more, but surely that can't be a difficulty, bearing in mind how few have been sold.”
Martin merely grunted. He didn't enjoy being reminded that his book had sold so poorly.
“Very well then. It has been pointed out by the other side that copies are to be found in public libraries and are permanent lodgements in the Deposit Libraries of the four Home countries. It is alleged that, as a consequence, the potential extent of the libel far exceeds that suggested by a simple analysis of the book's sales record. It was a point that, I admit, had not occurred to me and I have to say it has some validity.”
“So how do we respond?” Martin took advantage of a pause, assuming that the revelations were at an end.
“Were the issue to be limited to the book, I believe that an increased offer, perhaps in the region of twenty five thousand, and a willingness to make some sort of public apology, would close the matter. That would be quite simple as you tell me that you are insured against such claims and the effect would really be quite minimal. But I'm afraid the film has now been brought into the equation and it has been hinted at, in fact quite clearly hinted at, that some simple arithmetic could be applied to scale that offer up in the ratio of the numbers likely to have seen the film against the numbers likely to have read the book.”
“The ratio of.... I don't understand.”
“Let us take an example, and say that two thousand people have read the book. At ten thousand pounds we are offering five pounds for each reader. Now, how many people would you say have seen the film?”
Martin began to think, and his chain of thought was influenced by his own ego. “Oh, let's see, at least a couple of million in this country, ten times that in North America, and a few million in the rest of the world.” He couldn't resist a smile of pride.
“Very well then, using those figures we come to a figure of, let us say, twenty five million. It seems an awful lot to me, but never mind. If we pay five pounds for each one of those.....” Hadley's voice faded away.
Shock hit Martin Harrison, and hit him hard.
“But, but, I can't, I mean, it's impossible!”
“Yes, I agree, but you begin to see the scale of our difficulty. I imagine that my opposite number will have done his research to decide whether his client's claim is worth pursuit. He probably knows where you live, what cars you have. He will have calculated an approximation of your net worth and guessed at what insurance you carry. He will have a figure in mind at which he could recommend settlement to his client.”
“What do I do, George? What the hell do I do?” Despair was beginning to supercede shock.
“Well, I intend to write a response suggesting that whilst we freely acknowledge that the fact of the libel cannot be refuted its effects are far less than they might suggest. In fact those effects are limited to those to whom his client is known and in financial terms any loss of earnings can be assessed reasonably simply, any hurt and embarrassment can be compensated and the total we might be prepared to offer will be related to those factors alone. That will see us settling at a figure that will be much less than a million pounds. Your insurers will cover that much, or course.”
“Are these other people likely to accept what you say? And how long will I have this hanging over me? I've got Agnetta to think of, you know.”
“Oh, I think they'll see reason. And if they do, it'll all be over in a couple of months.”
“OK, but there's still a chance that....?
“The other side won't take the path of reason? Of course, but it's unlikely.”
Martin left Hadley's office a worried man. He didn't feel in control, and while he trusted George Hadley he didn't understand all the complexities. If he really had libelled somebody, how could that be assessed in terms of money? It looked like it could be anything from a couple of hundred thousand to some astronomical figure too big to think about. And he was going to have to explain all this to Agnetta. That, he told himself, is going to be difficult.
Just a short time after Martin left Hadley's office a serious, besuited man sat in an office thousands of miles away. As a corporate attorney for the company which had produced Martin's film, and which was also the company that had just paid Martin a great deal of money for the sequel, he was horrified at what he was reading. It was a missive from a law firm he'd never heard of in England and it told him that Martin's film contained a massive and costly libel. It went on to explain the circumstances and had the attorney searching for the contracts Martin had signed. And he was relieved to find that any and all costs incurred in defending or otherwise taking any action in circumstances such as these could be passed on to Martin. Then he looked at the contract Martin had so recently signed. Well, he thought, there's going to be no sequel now. He drafted, with some relish, a communication to Martin's English lawyers in which he told them, bluntly, that all the costs would be passed on, including his time so far spent, and, furthermore, since Martin had warranted – unequivocally - that there were no circumstances extant prejudicial to the making of a sequel and this was clearly wrong the new contract was void, the sequel was cancelled and all monies paid were to be refunded, with interest. He set out the sum with care and, almost as an afterthought, added a comment that the possibility of legal action against Martin was being seriously considered as he had deliberately misrepresented the situation in England. His company needed to be protected from rogues and shysters who lied to get money, after all.
Martin walked into his house quietly, Agnetta was at home – he knew because her car was outside – but he needed a few moments to think before he was confronted by her guileless, smiling face in the knowledge that he was going to wipe that smile away. He sat down in what he liked to think of as his library, which contained his desk, a computer and at most a couple of hundred books. He breathed deeply, trying to settle his nerves, before shouting 'I'm home' loud enough to be heard upstairs.
A minute passed. Agnetta hadn't appeared. Martin was just beginning to think that he ought to check that she really was at home but before he could stand up she walked in, carrying a tray with coffee cups and a full cafetiere.
“I thought you'd like a cup,” she said, placing the tray carefully on Martin's desk.
“Yes, thanks,” he replied quietly, then after a brief pause added, “look, you'd better sit down. There might be a bit of a problem.”
It was such an unusual thing for Martin to say. Happy-go-lucky Martin didn't have problems, his life was far too well-cushioned by his money for problems to happen, surely? But Agnetta sat.
“I might get myself a bit tangled up because I don't think I understand all the ins and outs, but it's my book. I had this character, lived up north somewhere and was a sort of double agent. Anyway, he was the villain, a bad man. Now it turns that that the place where that character lived actually exists, not just the town but the street, and the house too. It's pretty much as I described it.”
“Is that a problem? Isn't it just realism?”
“No, because there's a family living in the house.”
“Yes, I imagine there is. And now the house is famous they can make money, can't they?” Her determinedly positive attitude wasn't making Martin's task any easier.
“By the most amazing coincidence, the man living there has the same name as my character. He's suing me for libel.”
“Libel? What is libel?”
“It means that by complete accident – I mean, I made up the address and the name, for God's sake – by accident this bloke's name and address have been published in my book and it's the same as publishing deliberate lies that damage somebody's reputation. He wants a lot of money from me.”
“Money? How much?” That announcement really grabbed Agnetta's interest: she liked having a very rich husband..
“Well, it's all covered by insurance, so it won't cost me anything, but if I write another book it might not be published.” There had been no signs of Martin writing anything, least of all a book, but he'd managed to work out that his publisher might not be too happy with him, and he'd worked it out himself.
“You'll find another publisher, it will be easy. You found this one, didn't you?” Yes, he had, but it had taken several years of trying before someone took a huge risk on a rather poor book by the then-unknown Martin Harrison. “So there's nothing really to worry about. Let's go away for a few days. We won't tell anyone where we've gone and we can relax. We'll go to South Africa.” Agnetta had spoken; it would be done.
So they went, and were away for almost a week. The peace and relaxation were in stark contrast to the maelstrom that would hit them when they returned.
As Martin and Agnetta drew to a halt outside the house, having driven straight from the airport, they both felt happy and at ease with the world. Somehow, in the warm South African sun, the libel issue had diminished in importance and was now no more than an irritation in the back of Martin's head; a very minor irritation that he had no difficulty in ignoring. As they got out of the car a distant church clock struck two o'clock and the sun managed a brief appearance between clouds. The house looked magnificent, even in the autumnal gloom that descended as soon as the sun disappeared again.
Martin heard a phone ringing as he opened the door. Without any haste at all he put down the two cases he was carrying, walked into his library and picked up the still-ringing phone.
“Martin Harrison,” he said, pleasantly, into the mouthpiece.
“Martin, it's George, where the hell have you been? Never mind, tell me later. Is Agnetta with you?”
“Yes, we've...”
“All right, now just stay exactly where you are. I'm coming to see you, right now, and I'm bringing a colleague with me. I expect to see both of you in about thirty minutes.” He put the phone down before Martin could respond.
“Who was that?” Agnetta asked from the doorway.
“George Hadley. He's coming straight over. He sounded upset, no idea why. He wants you to be here too, so I suppose we'd better be here, eh?”
Martin was still in his relaxed, holiday mood, but then he and Agnetta had travelled in the cocoon of first class luxury: perhaps an economy flight would have been better preparation for what was to come.
George Hadley arrived just twenty three minutes after the phone call. Agnetta admitted him and his colleague, introduced as Eloise Ewart, and settled them in the comfortable drawing room; the solicitors occupied one white leather sofa and, facing them across a large brass coffee table, Agnetta sat on its twin. The silence as they waited for Martin to join them was more than a little uncomfortable; Hadley thought that, in the particular circumstances of that day, small talk was inappropriate whilst Agnetta found his seriousness of expression and greyish skin tone almost intimidating.
Martin bounced into the room in his usual happy-go-lucky fashion with a cheery 'morning all' as he flopped down next to his wife, thinking that Agnetta in white shirt and white jeans tucked into white knee-length boots was an absolute picture of wonderfulness. “So, George,” he said with a smile of child-like innocence, “what can we do for you?”
“Martin, Agnetta, what I have to say is serious. I propose to take it upon myself to explain matters to you and my colleague, Eloise here, will interject only when necessary. She is a specialist in the law of libel from our associated firm in London, and is here because matters have become so grave. Now, I take it you have been away which is why I have been unable to contact you. However, now we are together, at last, I have to tell you that I have received two communications, two most disquieting communications, arising from the libel perpetrated upon Mr Smithson. I will leave with you copies of these communications. The first came from Smithson's solicitors, rejecting completely any possibility of an out of court settlement. They have instructed counsel with a view to swift progress towards a court hearing. That will certainly be in London. It gives is two problems which are, prima facie, insurmountable, The first is that it will be a high profile case, the success of that damned film has guaranteed that, and therefore the issue will be far more widely known than is currently the case. That leads to the second problem, which is that the final settlement will be far higher than we would have hoped. That can be avoided only by the failure of Smithson's suit and whilst the court's conclusions cannot be predicted with certainty the likelihood of that happening is extremely small indeed.. In fact, and Eloise will correct me if I'm wrong, it is so small that it can be discounted entirely.”
Hadley paused, for long enough for the slightly built, middle aged Eloise Ewart to lean forward and speak in her soft, unaccented voice. “I agree, generally, with what has been said. All that we can offer in mitigation is the author's ignorance.” Martin almost felt like objecting but, for once sensibly, stayed silent. “It will be argued that the author, you, Mr Harrison, should have ensured that the details included in your work were fictional or, in the case of names and addresses, were included only with the specific written permission of those affected. But you chose to include those details without undertaking any of the checks that a reasonable person would have deemed prudent. Therefore you are at fault. It may be further argued that what you did in writing your book was done with forethought, and that you intended harm to befall Mr Smithson as a result of your actions. That will be difficult to prove. It will be our contention that you have never visited the area in which Mr Smithson lives, you do not own and have never owned any index to the streets in the area and simply made up a street name. We will further contend that you have never met Mr Smithson or any member of his family, to your knowledge, and you believed that no such person existed. Our contentions will be made in the expectation that the court will accept that the libel was wholly accidental and happened as a consequence of inexcusable carelessness. The financial penalty that you will face will be substantial, let us be very clear on that, but far less extreme than would be the case if the libel had been or were to be decided by the court to have been deliberate.”
“If Martin had done it deliberately what would the penalty be?” Agnetta looked very worried indeed.
“Financially extreme, that is certain,” the soft Ewart voice replied, “and possibly custodial were it to be deemed sufficiently serious. There is no guarantee that will not be the outcome.”
Hadley could see the two faces opposite go numb with shock. “Thankfully we have the talents of Eloise to put our case,” he said in an attempt at reassurance, “and I don't think we need take the possibility of custody too seriously. Instead there will be a substantial financial penalty, for which you must prepare yourself.”
“There's the insurance,” Martin said, very quietly.
“Of course. But you must be prepared – you must both be prepared – to deal with effects that are not merely financial. It is most unlikely that any publisher will want to handle your work in the future, there will be no further sales of the book as it will be withdrawn from sale and I imagine that the film will be withdrawn from any video and DVD catalogues in which it might appear, assuming that such copies are available. Will you be able to continue your lifestyle with no income? I suspect not, although I am ignoring any income you may continue to receive income from any investments you might have.”
Agnetta had paled so much that Hadley thought he'd gone too far; on reflection, though, he decided that she had to know what was happening however painful it might be. So he decided to press on.
“Turning now to the second communication that I have received, that is in some ways more serious than the first but it represents no unquantifiable financial threat to you. It came from the film company's Vice-President of Legal Services and in it he points out that the terms of the contract, under which you recently received a large sum of money, have been breached. In the contract you provided a warranty that there was nothing untoward that would prevent the making of the sequel to your film. I am of course simplifying the exact terms. I have to say that the gentleman is correct; there is no counter-argument. Under the terms of the contract the sum that you received is immediately repayable, and there are provisions for interest to be charged, I have to say at frankly usurous rates, in the event of delayed repayment. I believe the sum in question is in the region of one and a half million pounds, is that correct?”
“Yes,” admitted a brutally crushed Martin.
“Are you in a position to make repayment?”
“Mm? What, pay it back?”
“Yes Martin. You must. As soon as you possibly can.”
“I'll have to talk to the bank, get the overdraft up a bit, then I can. I suppose.”
“Overdraft? I wasn't aware that you had such a facility.”
“I have, but it's only small, fifty grand or something. If the bank'll let me have half a million I can do it. There's the house as security if they need it.”
“Well, Martin, if you can do that the US side of our problems might well be solved, and it's always possible that your insurance will cover that liability too although frankly I think it unlikely.”
“So do I. I'll get it all sorted tomorrow. What else do we need to do?”
“I will respond to Smithson's legal team and that matter will then take its natural course. You must, though, put your insurers on notice that they will be receiving a substantial claim as they may well wish to have a say in how we do our work, so as to minimise their exposure. And you must make the speediest possible arrangements to repay the film company.”
The solicitors departed, leaving behind them a very troubled couple. Martin took refuge in his library and Agnetta went out for a drive. Both found themselves in urgent need of some uninterrupted thinking time.
It was mid-afternoon the following day before Martin could see his bank manager. The atmosphere at home had been difficult; Agnetta was not exactly hostile, but was certainly cold towards her husband. It's the shock, he told himself, she'll get over it, we'll be all right. We were fine before we went to America, so we'll be fine now. He was even prepared to concede to himself that a million and a half was a lot of money, but hell, he'd earned it several times over and could do it again. It just didn't occur to him that he was the lucky beneficiary of some outrageously good fortune which was highly unlikely to happen again: in Martin's mind it was all down to his skill as a writer.
When he was shown into the manager's office Martin was relaxed and, he felt, in control. He was perhaps rather more relaxed than he should have been and explained, in no detail whatsoever, that he needed an increase in his overdraft to half a million pounds 'for film production purposes'. It might not have been strictly true, but it was at least related to the truth.
The manager stared at his computer screen, pressed a few buttons and sat back. “I don't think that'll be a problem. How long would you like the facility to last?”
“I think it may be as long as a year, perhaps a little longer.” Martin's casual, matter-of-fact manner came quite naturally.
“As long as we have some security I think we can oblige. The house, perhaps?”
“I think that would be easiest, yes.”
“Both you and your wife will sign the documents?”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“And when do you need access to the money?”
“Actually it's quite urgent, so straight away, really.”
“I can set it up for tomorrow, but there'll be a fee to pay. If that's not a problem I just need your wife's verbal confirmation that she'll sign on the dotted line.”
“She will,” Martin replied confidently, “just give her a call.”
The manager smiled as he picked up the phone and dialled Martin's home number. Martin sat back, relieved that he'd made the necessary arrangements to repay the film company. As the rest of the financial damage was covered by insurance he had no problems, did he?
He spotted the manager's face break into a wider smile; Agnetta must have answered. “Mrs Harrison, good afternoon. I have your husband here with me....... yes, yes....... he's asked for an increase in his overdraft facility which I'm happy to give....... half a million, for a year or so, which is why the Bank feels it necessary to ask for security....... Mr Harrison is offering the house as security........ yes, I'm aware that it's owned by you both jointly....... your husband tells me that you'd sign the paperwork........ I see........ yes, I see that too........ very well, Mrs Harrison, I agree, it is indeed your choice........ well, thank you for your time, a pleasure to talk to you, as always........ Goodbye Mrs Harrison.”
Very slowly and with a serious expression the manager settled the receiver back in its cradle.
Still looking serious he turned his face towards Martin to be met with an open, confident look of positive expectation.
“I'm very sorry, Mr Harrison, your wife is unwilling to sign the papers. She seems quite adamant. All I can suggest is that you go home and talk to her, then come and see me again when she is ready to support you.”
Martin was confused as he drove home after receiving news that he classified in his own mind as 'a bit of a surprise'. Why, he kept asking himself, would Agnetta not sign up? Why would she be difficult? She knew the position he was in, she'd been there when George Hadley had explained it all, so why would she put up any objections? A million and a half was a fair bit of money, he'd admit that, but it wasn't as if they couldn't afford it. It was just a minor obstacle, and hadn't he sorted out a way round it? Maybe she just didn't understand what 'security' meant, after all things might be different in Sweden. That must be it, she didn't understand what a minor thing it was. Once he explained that she'd come round, of course she would, then she'd want to apologise – and that would mean he'd enjoy bedtime that night!
“I'm home,” he shouted as he walked into the house.
Silence.
Martin looked outside again and only then noticed that Agnetta's car, which had been beside his when he went out, was not there. She'd gone out, obviously, and that was mighty strange because she knew he'd be home. Why wasn't she there to greet him, like she always was? She must have dashed out to the shops, he thought. She'll be back any minute.
A lot more than a minute passed before Agnetta reappeared, and it was a confusing reappearance for
Martin since she didn't arrive in her BMW and was instead in a big Volvo estate car. What's more, she emerged from the passenger seat. Martin assumed that her own, usually faultless car had somehow let her down and she'd found someone to bring her home.
That conclusion wasn't quite right.
Agnetta found Martin and sat down wordlessly. He wasn't sure what he should say, particularly as something about Agnetta was different: she looked serious and nervous. Nevertheless he spoke, but only managed to say 'Agnetta' before she silenced him.
“No, Martin, I need to speak. The man from the bank talked to me and what you are doing is wrong. The solicitor talked to us both and I don't think you believe that the situation you've put us in is serious. So I went out and spent time alone, thinking. Now I know what I want.
“It is over, Martin. We must sell the house, it will fetch a good price. I will take my share and start a new life somewhere else, you can do whatever you like. Then we divorce. I am taking some things now. My, friend, is waiting outside. I hope you will let him help me with my things. Then we go, you will not see me again. My lawyer will talk to your lawyer. Will you let my friend help me?”
Martin nodded, too shocked and numb to do anything else. Agnetta left the room; through the window Martin could see the Volvo, saw a much younger man get out and walk into the house – Martin's house – hand in hand with Agnetta. She smiled at him, just like she used to smile at Martin.
He wondered who the man was, if he was just a casual acquaintance helping Agnetta when she needed a hand, or if he was a lover, perhaps even the man to whom she was running with the great deal of money she would get from the house sale. It was all too much – in the silence tears ran down Martin's cheeks.
Agnetta was driven away. Martin would never see her again.
He spoke to local estate agents; the 'for sale' boards went up. He also spoke to George Hadley, instructing him to handle the divorce. George commiserated, of course, but also had to tell Martin that their day in court had been set. It was just two weeks away and that prompted George to make sure that Martin had put his insurers in notice. He hadn't, but promised to do so straight away.
In fulfilment of his promise Martin spoke to his insurance brokers; he could almost feel the tension rising in their office. The brokers undertook to tell the insurance company and they must have done just that with no delay at all because, within the hour, the insurers were on the phone to Martin wanting to make an appointment for someone to come out to Martin's house. He agreed, since he could do nothing else.
At the appointed time the next day – the insurance company were taking it seriously even if Martin believed it less important than the sudden collapse of his marriage – a figure in a well-cut business suit emerged from a grey Mercedes that had pulled up on Martin's drive. Martin, unshaven and dressed in unwashed casual clothes, let him in.
“Mr Harrison, pleased to meet you. I'm Alan Walker, here to help you in what I'm sure must be a stressful time.”
“Thank you,” Martin replied a little distractedly, “but as my marriage has just fallen apart this libel thing is a bit less than top priority.” He led his guest into his library and sat him down as he spoke.
“I'm so sorry,“ Walker replied, “but I hope I can take some of the strain off you. Now, tell me, how has this come about?”
That might have been what Walker said, but what Martin heard was 'tell me about your glorious career', so he did.
“It's my book – I wrote a spy thriller which my publisher thought was a cracking little read, and a copy found its way to a film company in LA. They bought the film rights and that movie's been seen by millions around the world. But it turns out that the villain of the story, called Steve Smithson, actually exists and lives where I said he does. This chap Smithson, the real one I mean, probably hasn't read the book but he's probably seen the film. Anyway he got upset and wants to sue me for some huge sum of money. He's annoyed the film company too and they reckon that I'll have to pay their costs too.”
“I see. I take it that it's all just, how can I put this, carelessness on your part and not in the least deliberate?”
“Well, I made the details up, if that's what you mean. I didn't know the address existed, or that anybody called Smithson lived there.”
“I see.” Walker seemed to be thinking, and his expression was turning more and more serious as the seconds dragged by. “Forgive me for asking this as it seems so basic, but all this seems to have happened extremely quickly.”
“I suppose some people might think that. Seems a long time to me.”
“Do you happen to know when the film was released?”
“About eighteen months ago, maybe a bit more.”
“Ah. I see. And the book was written when?”
Martin though for a moment. “I finished writing it about eight years back, probably nearer nine now. It was rejected by a few publishers, then, about five years ago, it did get published.”
Walker pulled a thin file from his briefcase, read through its meagre contents then made a few notes on a white A4-sized pad before pulling the top sheet off and inserting it in the file. He then laid the file carefully on top of his closed briefcase.
“Mr Harrison, I'm dreadfully sorry to tell you this but I think we may have quite a major problem. Your libel insurance came into effect just under a year ago.”
“Yes, I imagine that's about right, and this libel thing started a few weeks ago.”
“This is difficult, and I'm in a dilemma. But I believe honesty is the best course, don't you?” Martin nodded. “If my reading of the policy is correct, and I really can't see how it can be anything but correct, it covers literary works written during its currency but is open ended – called in trade jargon long-tailed – in that an action could be started against you years from now and the cover you've bought would protect you even if you didn't renew for a second year. So, the policy you have with us doesn't cover any works written before it came into force. Your book, Mr Harrison, predates the insurance and no claim can be admitted. You'll need to make a claim against the policy that covered the time when the book was published. The time of completion isn't relevant – it's the publication date that matters.”
There was a pause during which the little colour that remained in Martin's face drained away.
“So, what you're saying is that you can't meet the cost I'm facing?”
“I'm afraid not. I'm really very sorry, but the insurers you used before you came to us will be able to. I'll take up no more of your time as you'll need to contact that company as a matter of some urgency.” He slid the file into his briefcase and stood up, ready to leave. It took Martin several seconds to stand before showing his guest out.
Once Walker had driven away Martin slumped down in a chair. The enormity of what he'd been told began to sink in: he'd lost his wife and, as if that wasn't bad enough, now he had no insurance but people still wanted huge amounts of money from him. Agnetta wanted half the sale proceeds of the house too. He needed George Hadley, but couldn't be bothered to contact him. It was just too much effort.
Over the next few days Martin's phone rang, often. He didn't answer it. Neither did he wash, or change his clothes. He didn't eat. He sipped water direct from a tap when he needed to and could be bothered; it was the only thing he did to keep body and soul together.
More or less exactly a week after Alan Walker had walked out of Martin's house and his life, another caller appeared on the doorstep; George Hadley stood there, agitated and concerned at his inability to reach Martin by phone. Those feelings were made worse by the simple fact that both of Martin's cars were outside the house, implying clearly enough that the owner was at home.
Naturally Hadley knew that Agnetta wouldn't be there; the letter he had received from her solicitor, newly appointed to deal with the matter of her divorce, had made the current marital situation crystal clear. Although he'd heard of the separation and intent to divorce from Martin, he had been quite shocked by the apparent degree of vehemence by which Agnetta was motivated.
Hadley drummed a tattoo on the door but however loudly he banged it went unanswered. The date of the libel hearing was looming and no preparatory work had been done – it could not even begin without Martin's input, and it was that input that Hadley was now seeking.
In a state bordering on desperation he moved around the house to see if any other door might possibly be unlocked. That leading into the kitchen, he found, was not just unlocked but ajar; he let himself in, feeling guilt to add to the other emotions he was enduring.
He began looking around the house, room by room, until he came across Martin sitting disconsolately in his library. There was no reaction to his entry and Hadley thought, just for a couple of ever-lasting seconds that Martin might actually be dead. But Martin looked up, briefly, as Hadley approached.
“Martin, what's going on?” he asked but got no reply. “Look, we need to talk.”
“Don't care,” was the unexpected reply.
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