An Absolute Scandal Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Characters

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part Three

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Epilogue

  Also by Penny Vincenzi

  Copyright

  To Paul,

  for endless support and patience

  and incredible generosity

  Acknowledgments

  This has been one of the most demanding books I’ve ever written in terms of required and acquired knowledge, and I owe a huge debt to a large number of people.

  The most outstanding contribution came from Gordon Medcalf, whose knowledge of Lloyd’s and attention to detail was matched only by his editorial flair, and without whom certain chapters would have been sad and sorry affairs. It is with incredible sadness that I find myself unable to thank him properly, for he died just before the book was published. Therefore I would like to express my great gratitude to his wife, Julia, and his family.

  Many other people gave most generously of their time and expertise, notably many Lloyd’s Names: Jay and Nick Upton, Peter Carvell, John Mays, Victor Sandelson, John Rew, David Durant, Nigel Symons Jones, and James Lotery. I also received a great deal of help and information from several lawyers and bankers, who showed not only huge knowledge of Lloyd’s at the time but genuine inventiveness as to plotlines. Edward Harris, in particular, alerted me to the existence of male entail. I received much help also from experts in the fields of banking, insurance, and the City of London and its banking fraternity at the time; and I was permitted to attend several Coroners’ Courts and indeed study so much of their procedure that I feel I could also set up as a coroner myself.

  Clodagh Hartley once again provided me with valuable inside information on the conduct of newspaper reporting, and I owe much gratitude to the staff in the archive library at the Daily Mirror who dug out one huge dusty volume after another.

  Detective Superintendent Dermot Keating gave me a crash course in the conduct of sundry complex police procedures; and I owe a great debt to my amazingly informative and engaging guide around Harvard.

  I am of course very, very grateful to everybody at Hodder Headline, who published the book in the UK; they are an absolutely amazing team.

  And in the United States, great gratitude to Steve Rubin, the wonderfully inspired publishing supremo at Doubleday; to my brilliant and joyous editor, Deb Futter; to Dianne Choie for her skill in holding nuts and bolts together; and to Alison Rich, publicity director par excellence who seems to possess almost magical powers of persuasion over the media.

  I owe a great debt of course to my agent, Clare Alexander, who has seen me safely across the Atlantic, and to my four daughters, Polly, Sophie, Emily, and Claudia, who manage despite demanding lives of their own to always be there when I need them.

  Characters

  SIMON BEAUMONT, a merchant banker

  ELIZABETH, his wife, the managing director of Hargreaves, Harris and Osborne advertising agency

  ANNABEL, TOBY, AND TILLY, their children

  FLORIAN, a hairdresser, and Annabel’s best friend

  MADISON AND FALLON, Tilly’s best friends

  MARTIN DUDLEY, Simon’s chairman

  DAVID GREEN, an old friend and sailing companion of Simon’s

  FELICITY PARKER JONES, a friend of Simon’s

  NEIL LAWRENCE, a client of Elizabeth’s, and a Lloyd’s victim

  LUCINDA AND NIGEL COWPER, Sloaney couple living in Cadogan Square

  ERIC AND MARGARET WORTHINGTON, Lucinda’s parents

  LYDIA NEWHOUSE, Nigel’s secretary

  STEVE DURHAM, Lucinda’s tough lawyer

  GRAHAM PARKER, her boss

  GARY “BLUE” HORTON, a market trader in the City

  CHARLIE, his best friend

  FLORA FIELDING, a glamorous widow

  RICHARD, her son, a teacher

  DEBBIE, his wife

  ALEXANDER, EMMA, AND RACHEL, their children

  ANNA CARTER, Debbie’s boss

  MORAG DUNBAR, a headmistress

  COLIN PETERSON, a property developer

  JOEL STRICKLAND, a financial journalist for the Daily News

  HUGH RENWICK, his editor

  CATHERINE MORGAN, a young and pretty widow, and a Lloyd’s victim

  FREDDIE AND CAROLINE, her children

  PHYLLIS AND DUDLEY MORGAN, her parents-in-law

  MARY LENNOX, her babysitter

  DOMINIC MAYS, Freddie’s best friend in London

  JANE-ANNE PRICE, Caroline’s best friend in the country and her posh parents, the Honourable Mark Prices

  PATRICK FISHER, an admirer of Catherine’s

  JAMIE CARTWRIGHT, a dashing young lawyer from Boston

  FRANCES AND PHILIP, his parents

  KATHLEEN, his sister, married to Joe

  BARTHOLOMEW (“BIF”), his brother, married to Dana

  GILLIAN THOMPSON, a piano teacher, and a Lloyd’s victim

  MAY WILLIAMS, her neighbour

  GEORGE MEYER, leader of an action group, mounting a legal challenge against Lloyd’s

  FIONA BROADHURST, a solicitor

  TIM ALLINSON, man-about-town

  ROBERT JEFFRIES, a coroner’s officer

  Prologue

  AUGUST 1990

  So the person you loved best in the world had killed themselves. Had felt so desperate, so absolutely hopeless that it seemed the only option.

  How could you live with yourself, knowing that even you had not been able to offer comfort of any kind?

  And, even though you knew it was not directly your fault, that the blame could be very arguably laid at the door of that gleaming, futuristic-looking building in the heart of the City of London, you would still blame yourself every hour of every day for the rest of your life.

  It wasn’t the first such death of course, nor would it be the last. People had been lured by the promise of an apparently risk-free wealth by the tenants of that building, basing a lifestyle on beautiful houses
, on expensively educated children, on all the powers and pleasures of wealth—only to discover the foundations of it were built on shifting, albeit golden sands. And yet the promise had been far from empty, based as it was on a background of three centuries of economic success. But for a time, in those darkly turbulent years at the end of what has now been labelled the Greed Decade, that promise seemed not only empty but also a terrifying vacuum; and it was not just the houses and the educations that were lost, but frequently the most basic of life’s requirements and, for many, pride, self-respect, and, indeed, hope itself.

  Chapter 1

  22 APRIL 1988, MORNING

  She wasn’t even going to think about having an affair.

  It was something she totally disapproved of; it wasn’t only immoral and selfish, it was deeply dangerous. She was married, very happily, to someone she not only loved but admired, and there was no way she was going to break her vows (and risk breaking Nigel’s heart), and put her marriage and her very happy life at risk. So that was absolutely that. And if he phoned—which he almost certainly wouldn’t, he’d been drunk and probably hadn’t meant a word of what he said—but if he did, she would simply say, “No, I’m sorry, it was lovely meeting you, but I’m happily married and—well, I’m happily married.” That would be enough. Surely. He’d know what she meant and he’d probably come out with some jokey reply and that would be that. And if she had to spell it out—well, she would. A fun encounter: that’s all it had been. She might have been a bit silly: she had been a bit silly. But that was all. Blame the champagne. And luckily Nigel hadn’t noticed anything…

  He came into the bedroom now, from their bathroom, offering his wrists to her so she could put in his cuff links; as she did so, her fingers unusually fumbly—blame the champagne for that as well, she seemed to have a bit of a hangover—she suddenly found herself looking at him as if she had never seen him before. Was he really, as HE had said so rudely, a bit of a caricature? She supposed, honestly, he was: tall, blond—well, blondish, going just slightly grey now—very slim, pretty good-looking really, perfectly dressed, in his Turnbull and Asser shirt, his pinstripe suit, his Lobb shoes. (HE had been wearing Lobb shoes, he told her: “Only posh thing about me. I get a real thrill going in there, them getting the old last out.”)

  “Lucinda! Do concentrate, darling, I can’t stand here all day.”

  “Sorry. There you are.”

  “Thanks. You having breakfast this morning?”

  “Oh—no.” The thought made her feel sick.

  “Hope you’re not overdoing the dieting?”

  “Nigel, of course I’m not. I’d have thought you only had to look at me to see that.”

  “Well—you look pretty good to me. Anyway, I’m hungry. Not enough to eat at that thing, was there?”

  “No, not really. Gosh, it’s late, I didn’t realise.”

  She mustn’t be late for work today, of all days. She worked for Peter Harrison, the publishers, as secretary to Graham Parker, one of the editors, and he had an important meeting with some Americans. Being Americans, they had suggested an eight o’clock meeting; Graham had managed to persuade them forwards an hour to nine, but she’d have to be there well before then, coffee brewed, biscuits and herself ready to greet them. It would be fun.

  One of the things Lucinda loved most about her job was the social aspect; there was always something going on—book launches, marketing meetings, sales conferences, press jaunts…She’d been working for Graham for a year now; she was hoping to be an editor herself one day, but her ambition was slightly halfhearted; she didn’t intend to go on working after she’d had a baby. That was something else she disapproved of: working mothers. She intended to be like her own mother, always there, putting her children first. But—come on, Lucinda, don’t start thinking about that now. You’ve got to get to work.

  She caught sight of herself in the hall mirror and tried to see herself through HIS eyes: long-ish full-ish skirt (Laura Ashley), blue shirt with a turned-up collar (Thomas Pink), and her twenty-first-birthday pearls, of course; navy sleeveless Puffa jacket, flat shoes (Charles Jourdan), blond hair scooped back in a velvet band.

  There really was no way she could possibly appeal to HIM, not really. He’d like one of those sharp eighties girls in short-skirted suits with padded shoulders, girls with big hair and big ambitions. He wouldn’t even be able to remember her this morning, never mind ringing her…and as she stood there, checking that she had her wallet and her keys, the post came through the letter box. A couple of quite nice-looking things, clearly invitations, a bill or two, a postcard from Verbier, from the skiing party she’d wanted to join and Nigel hadn’t, and a letter from Lloyd’s. Lloyd’s of London. One of the whiter-than-white envelopes that arrived once a year, containing a statement of their account and followed in due course by a large cheque. Nigel was a Member of Lloyd’s; it was one of the things that had pleased her father most when he and Nigel had had their little chat, just before they got engaged.

  “Not only all that land, down in Norfolk, but he’s a Name as well; that’ll stand you in good stead in the years to come.”

  One of her uncles had been a Name in quite a big way, apparently. When she was young, she’d heard her mother talking about it, and asked her what it meant. “Well, darling, it means you become a sort of sleeping partner,” Margaret Worthington had said rather vaguely. “They insure big things, like ships and buildings, and they make a big profit on it. If you’re a Name, you get a share in those profits.” “What happens if the ships sink?” she’d asked, and her mother had said, well, there was more than enough money to deal with that. “They still make a profit. Ask Daddy about it, he’ll tell you more, I don’t really understand it. Except that it pays all your cousins’ school fees,” she added.

  It hadn’t sounded interesting enough for Lucinda to ask her father; but she did know now that there was enough money coming in from Lloyd’s every year to boost their income quite a bit. Which they didn’t need at the moment of course, Nigel’s salary as chairman of the family business was perfectly adequate, and he had quite a big portfolio of stocks and shares, but it would be wonderfully helpful when they wanted to move to the country and buy a house.

  That was the plan, to move as soon as they had children. Not to Norfolk, that was too far and the last thing Nigel wanted was to run the farm, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in London. Nor did she; she’d grown up in the country herself and loved it.

  “Where did you live when you were a child then?” HE had asked last night. “Some pile in the country, I s’pose?”

  And, “Well,” she’d said, “not exactly a pile, but quite a nice house, yes, in Gloucestershire, near Cirencester.”

  “Oh yeah? Ponies?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did have a pony. Actually.”

  “Very nice,” he’d said, “very nice indeed. I’d like my kids to have all that, ponies and boarding school. You go to boarding school?”

  “Yes, when I was thirteen.”

  “Like it?”

  “Quite. I got awfully homesick and missed my pony. And Mummy, of course, and my brothers.”

  “And where were they at school? Eton or Harrow or some such?”

  “Um—Eton, yes, actually.”

  “And hubby, he go to Eton?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  That was when he’d said Nigel was a caricature. And—Stop it, Lucinda, stop thinking about it.

  She started ripping open the envelopes to distract herself. Invitations: oh, fantastic, Caroline’s wedding. And that looked like Philippa’s writing (it was)—brilliant, party in the country—and Sarah’s baby’s christening, and—Damn! She’d opened a letter addressed to Nigel by mistake, half pulled it out. Not that Nigel would mind—at least, she didn’t think so. He always said he had no secrets from her. She’d just say she was sorry and—now the letter wouldn’t go back into the envelope. Lucinda pulled it out to refold it and couldn’t resist reading it. The letterhead
was JACKSON AND BOND, MEMBERS’ AGENT, LLOYD’S OF LONDON, and the letter itself was quite brief:

  Dear Nigel,

  I thought I should warn you ahead of the final account that, as I feared, you did make a loss for the year just closed. Not a big one, just a few thousand pounds…

  A loss. How extraordinary. That had never happened before. She didn’t know how many thousands of pounds Lloyd’s would regard as “just a few.” Maybe ten thousand, or even more? Surely not. But she did know they dealt in very big numbers. Nigel would know. They’d have to talk about it tonight.

  God, she was late; she must go. She left the letters on the hall table and slammed the door behind her.

  Despite her resolve, she began to think about HIM again: him and last night. She’d never met anyone quite like him before. It had been at a party, to celebrate the publication of a book edited by Graham Parker about the financial markets just before and just after Big Bang—that extraordinary day in October 1986, when the stock market became totally computerised and a free-for-all, rather than the gentlemanly domain of the traditional stockbroker.

  Lucinda organised and attended all the editorial department’s parties; it was part of her job and she enjoyed it.

  The guest list had looked like a Who’s Who of the Square Mile, Nigel had been invited, not because he worked in the City—he worked for a large manufacturing company that had been founded by his grandfather—but because he had a large share portfolio and Graham had kindly suggested to Lucinda that it might be interesting for him. HE on the other hand did work in the City.

  HE was one of that entirely new breed of traders, the market makers, sprung not from the great public schools but from the East End of London. “I’m one of your electronic barrow boys, so-called,” he said, grinning at her, as he allowed her to refill his glass. “Not the sort the City used to give the time of day to, unless we was in our proper place in the back office.” He held out his hand. “Gary Horton. Known these days as Blue. Pleased to meet you”—he peered at her name badge—“Lucinda Cowper.” He pronounced it wrongly as people so often did; it always annoyed her.