Page 14 of A Family Affair
Tristan cringed. It was going to be hell, chaperoning this utter moron, but needs must. ‘Well, you just get here and then we can focus on the job in hand and hopefully have some fun at the same time. Mix business with pleasure, so to speak. Ring me when you’re airside, then I can run through arrangements with you, okay?’
‘Sure thing man. Back soon.’
The line disconnected and Tristan felt nothing but relief. Chuck was everything he despised about the lower echelons of society. And now, he’d have to babysit the utter moron while he tried to ingratiate him with his long-lost second cousin – removed more times than Tristan cared to think about.
There had been moments when he’d pondered the wisdom of his little scheme and whether it really was worth his time and effort. But as the weeks had gone by and he’d made more enquiries amongst his diverse group of business contacts, Tristan was reassured. If Chuck did as he was told, there was a very good chance they’d both be laughing all the way to the bank.
Patience would be the key.
Although Clarissa’s days were numbered, nobody knew exactly how long she had left on this mortal coil and once she did shuffle off, there’d be the probate period to get through. All this was doable though if – and only if – Clarissa was enamoured enough by Chuck, would she leave her entire estate to her only surviving relative.
Once this was the case, Tristan intended sending Chuck back to Brooklyn on the first plane out. He could wait it out in his cess-pit flat amongst his cronies, the low-lifes from the hood.
The private detective Tristan had hired stateside to track Chuck down had given him a very detailed and – thanks to the digital images that had pinged onto his laptop – a vivid and lurid image of Clarissa’s kinsman. Tristan doubted she’d be impressed. In fact, smelling salts might be required.
Antsy, and imagining Chuck wandering around JFK like a lost dog, Tristan sighed, stood, then made his way across the office to the drinks cabinet. After pouring himself a two-finger measure of his favourite malt, he leant against the window frame, looking onto the streets of Chester. Tristan never swigged, he sipped and savoured every mouthful.
Below, office workers and shoppers mingled on the cobbled streets of the city, and soon Tristan would be amongst them, heading off to Alderley Edge and his elegant mews house. It was a thing of beauty, his home. The interior designer who’d come highly recommended by a premier league striker made sure of that.
Tristan had no time in his life for sub-standard, be it food, wine, lovers, dogs, holidays and cars, children even. He often wondered what he’d have done if either of his sons had inherited an ugly gene. After all, he’d hand-picked his wife but with offspring, there was an element of doubt. Always the chance you’d be lumbered with a throwback. And to be fair, his mother-in-law must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Procreation was a bit of a lottery.
Tristan drank the last of his malt and glanced at the bottle. One more finger? He needed it to calm his jangling nerves before Chuck rang back.
The man was an imbecile. A wannabe hoodlum who’d re-located from Kentucky with his lap-dancer girlfriend, only to be dumped as soon as she found a better prospect higher up in the food chain.
Since, Chuck had ducked and dived, taking part-time jobs in bars and, currently, a car wash. Tristan shuddered and decided to chance one more finger. As he poured the toffee-coloured liquid, the finest malt, he pondered his current predicament. On top of his penchant for the white stuff, life was getting expensive. He needed an injection of funds, or the promise of one, to hold those he owed at bay. When the solution had landed in his lap some months earlier, Tristan could barely contain his glee.
It began when Clarissa Chamberlain summoned Tristan and his father. During the meeting, she announced that due to her declining health and on the advice of her doctor, matters of her estate needed to be finalised.
It was here that she requested Henderson & Co make enquiries with regards to any long-lost family she might have mislaid along the way. There were cousins, on her uncle’s side, who’d struck out for the Americas in the sixties. Clarissa had lost touch with all of them but maybe they could be traced.
Previously it hadn’t been of concern, but, feeling her mortality, it seemed that Clarissa had done a spot of soul-searching. As a consequence, when she signed her final will and testament, the lady of the manor wanted to be sure she’d done the right thing. Otherwise the lot was going to charity and the National Trust.
Tristan had been present at the meeting and, seeing as they’d require a comprehensive list of relatives for probate purposes anyway, Mr Henderson Senior tasked his son with the search. It was a brief Tristan was rather grateful for. Anything beat the dross and drear of his daily grind. And by that he wasn’t referring to his wife, Diana.
Tristan checked his watch and wished Chuck would hurry. He didn’t want to get stuck in rush-hour traffic and he hated talking shop in the Jaguar. That was his time. To savour the luxurious interior, the power of the engine and listen to Supertramp on the stereo. He also didn’t want to antagonise his wife by being late for dinner.
Demanding and high maintenance in the old school style, Diana ran their lives meticulously. They lived by the laws of the Cheshire set and she made damn sure that the standards set by her parents’ generation were met. Which meant private schools for their two teenage sons; the latest model Range Rover; three foreign holidays a year, including the ski-season in the French Alps. The usual stuff expected of his class.
Not that Tristan was complaining, because he loved his life. Who wouldn’t? If it meant pushing a pen from behind his desk, in his plush office, situated in the grand building owned by the family firm for the past century, then so be it.
Henderson & Co gave him respectability and that respectability provided the perfect cover for his more lucrative and interesting pursuits. And the key to expanding Tristan’s wealth and enhancing his enjoyment of life, was Chuck.
CHAPTER12
The streetlights flickered on outside. The yellow glow from the lamps gave the quaint, black-and-white timber-framed shops opposite an olde worlde edge. Chester was simply beautiful with its Roman walls and the river that ran through its core. Tristan preferred to remember it from his childhood rather than accept the march of time.
Sub-standard elements of society were a blemish on the picture postcard city, so he often tried to imagine it cleansed of the scruffy people, like the homeless guy and theBig Issueseller, and anyone from the Blacon council estate. In fact, if he had his way you’d require a pass to enter – social housing tenants need not apply.
Grimacing at the thought, Tristan smoothed the collar of his jacket. He relished the feel of sheer quality. Was smug in the knowledge that the suit label resting against his Saville Row shirt said Henry Poole & Co. Tristan prided himself on his appearance as much as he did his accomplishments, which were many.
His law degree to begin with, marrying into Diana’s family, producing two sons, his platinum client list, but the thing guaranteed to make his trousers feel a tad too tight in the groin area was his other triumph – his property portfolio.
It had made Tristan a small fortune, and having experienced the thrill of landing a deal and seeing the figure on his bank statement increase exponentially year on year, he wanted more. The sticking point was that property was future capital, earmarked for his retirement and what he needed now was a cheeky little tax-free cash payment.
Chuck was the key to that.
Tristan had seen the draft copy of Clarissa’s will. If a suitable heir was not found or approved of, and by no stretch of the imagination could The Kentucky Kid be described as that, Tristan’s plan was doomed. Because apart from personal and very generous bequests to members of her staff, it was looking like Chamberlain Manor would end up as another tourist attraction.
