PIECES FOR THE WICKED
Geoff Cook
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2007/2010 Geoff Cook
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1- MAY 2006
Dusk had suddenly turned to night, a phalanx of black cumulus clouds chasing the sunshot sky over the horizon. Across the road from the tree in which he was perched, stood an impressive pair of wrought-iron gates, and beyond that, the winding path that threaded through the maze of boxwood back to the rear of the chateau, so far away that he could barely make out the forms of the two men who were strolling towards the exit. When they stopped to talk, he was disappointed to discover that they were just out of range of the radio mikes he had carefully concealed in the bushes.
A single tightening of his finger locked the night sight into position as he swivelled the slender zoom lens until it focused on the ghostlike image of a jagged green outline around a murky, grey infill. The crosshair rested on the midriff of the smaller of the two men whose bald pate was circled by wispy white hair which, together with the goat-like beard perched on the end of a double chin made him appear more like the stereotype of an eccentric professor than the marketing director of one of Zurich’s most exclusive private clinics.
Adrenalin spiked his pulse rate. Was it possible that, after hours spent painfully straddled across the branches of this wretched tree, his patience was about to be rewarded? Few of this clinic’s clients possessed such celebrity status that the Director would be obliged to accompany them personally from the premises. No thanks to his anxiety, the crosshair flickered erratically. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he trained his hand to focus on the second figure as the two moved nearer until the sound of their feet on the gravel together with their garbled conversation began to filter into his earpiece.
They were speaking in French and it was clear that it was not the mother tongue of either man. The Director’s voice was guttural.
“ . . .clients,” he heard the Director say, “who have a substantial public profile, demand the level of privacy you witnessed today. Regrettably, on this occasion, these additional demands upset our normal, extremely efficient procedures and, consequently, you were inconvenienced by the delay. I cannot apologise enough.”
“I have already told you not to concern yourself,” the other man replied. “My high opinion of your facilities has been reinforced by my visit today. I expect to be well looked after when we meet again.”
“You will be, Monsieur Landau,” the Director replied. “You most certainly will be.”
The night sight settled on the face of a man in his early thirties, with starkly handsome features, wisps of blond hair poking out from under his alpine beret. His manner exuded self-confidence, tinged with a patronising arrogance.
“Please, Monsieur Directeur,” the onlooker heard him say, “There is a distinct chill in the air. Do go back inside. I expect my car to be along at any moment.”
His head bowed slightly, the older man rubbed his hands and clicked the heels of his highly polished shoes together. “If you are certain you do not mind waiting alone,” he replied, and then, “Remember. You will need to give us a minimum of seven days notice.”
Exchanging cordial goodbyes, the two men parted, the Director retreating hurriedly back along the path while the younger man pressed the electronic release and stepped out beyond the wrought iron gates to wait alone along the roadside.
The chateau was situated on the northeast shore of Lake Zurich in an exclusive suburb appropriately known as the Gold Coast, its austere grey stone frontage facing onto the Lagerstrasse, shielded from view by a high, turreted wall. Most of the early evening drivers speeding past the entrance on their way back from the city centre were no doubt unaware of the small, brass plaque that announced the “Klinik Adler.” Even if they knew of its existence, very few of the citizens of Switzerland’s largest city and financial centre would be able to meet the fees demanded for its services, particularly if, as in this case, absolute secrecy was required.
The rear exit to the chateau at which Landau waited for his car to arrive led onto a small tree-lined cul-de-sac. From the Lagerstrasse, there was a concealed entrance which restricted traffic movement into the area and provided an ideal escape route for any of the clinic’s clients wishing to avoid any unwelcome attention. Beyond the cul-de-sac was the garden of the adjoining property with a copse of pine trees in which Giancarlo Donnelli was presently hidden from view.
Donnelli’s problem now was the all pervading silence, since he needed the cover of some conventional noise to muffle the sound involved in completing his assignment. To be sure of success, he would also need the man to turn full face towards him. The window of opportunity would be, he calculated, no more than two or three seconds.
The headlights swung into the road, momentarily stopping as the driver activated the entry system and suddenly, the tree which was Donnelli’s outpost was bathed in light, forcing him to retreat into the shadows. He readjusted his grip. Even with winter clothing and heavy gloves, his entire body was chilled. Involuntarily, he shivered.
The sight was now centred on Landau’s head which, when he turned toward the oncoming car, presented a frontal target, the crosshairs split across the exact centre of his forehead. Ready at last, Donnelli pressed his finger down rapidly five times. The motor whirred, the aperture opening and closing repeatedly as Landau slipped into the back door of the Mercedes and the car sped away.
When it was dark and totally silent again, Donnelli, having painstakingly removed the night sight and lens from the camera, and packed them carefully in the canvas bag, groaned as he climbed down from the tree and straightened his aching limbs. Maybe he would not have felt so cold and miserable had this Landau character been the man he had been expecting. It was to have been the scoop of the month and he, Giancarlo Donnelli, Lazio’s most fanatical supporter and Rome’s finest paparazzi was to have presented the photographic evidence. He could see the headline now – “HOLLYWOOD SUPERSTAR DENIES HAVING PLASTIC SURGERY: Seen Leaving Zurich Clinic” - The Euros would have been flowing in.
Instead, all he had were five excellent shots of this Mr Landau, whoever he might be. Still, it was attention to detail and dogged persistence that had, after twenty years, made him such a success. He checked his watch and made a note in his diary. May 18 – 18:45 – Klinik Adler – Exposures 5 – Mr Landau – Cross check and file.
Tomorrow was another day. Tonight, he could look forward to a hot bath, a glass of fine Barolo and the demanding erotic attentions of his delightful informant, the young receptionist who worked at the clinic. As he strolled towards the Lagerstrasse and his waiting Fiat, he found that the image of Landau’s face was stuck in his mind. Something told him that this particular assignment could be a rough ride. On the other hand, there was always the possibility that these pictures would somehow make his fortune.
2 – September 2006
The night before Day 1 – Gibraltar – close to midnight
As the aircraft banked, the engine noise changed its pitch and hot air turbulence made the cabin shudder.
A slender young man, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, seated in the third row of Business Class, twisted the ring on his middle finger nervously. Deep, amber gold, the ring was set with a single overly large solitaire. Family history, ever exaggerated as it no doubt was, had it that it had once belonged to one of his forebears, “El Conquistador,” who, having amassed the spoils of war from the Incas in Peru, had worn the trophy as he laid claim to the lands for Spain.
“Our approach tonight into Gibraltar is from the West,” droned the Captain. “The lights to your left are those of the Spanish town of Algeciras. The Rock of…..”
The impending arrival stimulated a new sense of urgency in the young man whose forehead was already bathed in sweat. “I just want to go through the instructions before we land,” he said to the man alongside him, his voice anxious.
Andrew Clench felt no compassion for his companion. Assigned to assist the accountant, he could do nothing but nod his begrudging assent. A top flight IT specialist with expertise in the banking field had been demanded and Clench had fitted the bill. Having been given a full technical briefing by the partner at PS Solutions, he knew exactly what was required. He pulled the belt of his jeans up over his expanding waistline and drained the last of the several beers he had ordered during the flight.
“……secure all tables and place all seats in the upright…,” the cabin attendant insisted.
“We’ll go directly to the Windsor Hotel,” the young accountant said, reading from a typed sheet. “Under no circumstances, are we to disclose to anybody that we are employees of Parkinson Sharpe or its consultancy arm, PS Solutions.
Hurrying the last beer caused Clench to belch so loudly that people turned around to stare. Embarrassed, the IT specialist tried to adopt an expression that said his companion was to blame.
This bit of theatre was lost on the accountant who was absorbed in the text before him. “At eight tomorrow morning,” he continued, “we will go straight to the office of the Governor of Gibraltar and brief him. It’s just a matter of courtesy, more than anything else, but it’s important that we observe the protocol. After receiving the OK from Redgrave in the UK, we will then move on to the branch office of Barrington Bechet, present our authority to the local management and take control.”
“….refrain from smoking until you are in the designated…,” the attendant continued in a monotone.
The young man took a deep breath. How on earth had he, Glenn DelMedico, become mixed up in all this cloak and dagger business? Until three days ago, when he had been called over from his office in the City to the Dockland’s skyscraper where Parkinson Sharpe’s corporate recovery department was based, he had been comfortably ensconced as an audit manager with nothing more to worry about than meeting the latest deadline and editing his monthly expense account for possible omissions.
Mark Redgrave, the partner in charge, had briefed him. It was to be a one-off assignment, totally confidential. No idle gossip. No pillow talk. It was also specified that his involvement in the whole business would last no longer than one week. The significance of his presence was that there would be a professional on hand who was also a Spanish speaker. There was a real fear that the local staff in Barrington Bechet’s Gibraltar office would react with hostility to a surprise announcement that Parkinson Sharpe had been appointed to take control as Administrators of their company. Redgrave had stressed that there must be no possible opportunity for the bi-lingual Gibraltarian staff to use Spanish as a means of communication in order to undermine the Administrator’s authority.
DelMedico’s first reaction had been to look for an out. But when he had asked why the Madrid associate office could not be involved instead, he was told that if it were, there would be too many possibilities of a leak or an advance warning. At least, that was the official line. It sounded more like partner politics to DelMedico.
The High Court in London had granted the Administration Order the last thing on Friday. After a weekend of background research, DelMedico and Andrew Clench, the diminutive computer whiz-kid assigned to him by Parkinson Sharpe’s consultancy arm, had been told that reservations had been made for them that Sunday evening on the last flight to the Rock.
The wheels of the A320 bumped heavily on the tarmac, and then the engines powering immediately into reverse thrust as the plane ran down the military runway that jutted out into the sea.
DelMedico released his vicelike grip on the armrest. Having regained his composure, he returned to the typed page of instructions. “You...,that refers to me,” he explained, “will immediately assume general management control and the six non-specialist staff will be sent home. They must leave the premises immediately without returning to their offices or desks.”
As Clench unfastened his seatbelt and made to stand up, DelMedico put out a restraining hand to stop him. “Your responsibility, Andrew, will be to take over the IT and the communications system which consists of a network server and six terminals,” he went on. “The operating system is BankSafe software for direct on line contact with market makers in all the major centres, especially custom bespoke to suit Barrington’s security requirements. A copy of the modification programme will be forwarded via the network from London as soon as BankSafe are satisfied with Parkinson’s credentials.”
Clench stoically folded his arms and yawned an acknowledgement. He suspected that Del Medico understood little of the technical jargon he was reading parrot-fashion from the page.
“With regard to the local IT staff,” DelMedico continued, clearly determined to finish. “You will retain no more than one key operative and only if that is absolutely essential. The other three must leave immediately. The system will remain up only long enough for you to backup, change all passwords, undelete all file information which has been scrapped over the last month and copy any hidden files. As soon as you have instituted the new virus and data protection measures, shut the system down. We will then wait for further instructions.”
“Sounds good to me,” Clench told him, entertaining visions of a few days spent exploring the local bars and clubs whilst they waited for London to get things sorted out. He stood on tiptoe to reach his holdall and balding leather jacket from the overhead locker. “I think we’d better be going,” he said to DelMedico who was still pouring over the instructions. “Everybody else is off the plane.”
By the time their customs clearance and luggage formalities had been completed, it was approaching midnight and the airport concourse was almost deserted. Of the few people standing around waiting for the last of the arrivals was a rotund, swarthy character with a pencil moustache holding up a large white placard on which “Clench and DelMedico – Parkinson Sharpe” had been emblazoned in thick blue ink.
“It seems that somebody hasn’t heard about our low profile arrival,” Clench said, grinning boyishly.
“Where are you from?” DelMedico demanded angrily as the fat man lowered the sign on seeing their approach. “Who told you to broadcast our names all over the airport? Diga-me!”
“We speak English in Gibraltar,” the fellow told him, assuming an injured expression. “There is no need for Spanish. I am just a taxi driver. The information desk at the airport received this e-mail and told me to meet you and take you to the governor’s office. Is something wrong?”
DelMedico snatched the paper gingerly offered to him and scanned it rapidly before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “It’s from Redgrave in London,” he told Clench. “The meeting with the governor has to take place tonight. He has a full schedule first thing tomorrow. To avoid keeping him waiting, we are to go straight to his office and then on to the hotel afterwards.”
As they cruised toward the commercial centre of the island, Clench looked out across Garden Square to the lights of the Windsor Hotel. After their meeting with the governor, he would get rid of his travelling companion and enjoy a few quiet, late night drinks with some friendly company in the bar. Across the Square at the Marriott, things looked even livelier. This trip might be amusing, after all.
“Is it far now?” DelMedico asked impatiently.
“Nothing is far in Gibraltar,” the driver told him dismissively, drawing to a halt at the top of a narrow, cobbled street. “They’ve moved to a temporary address in Trafalgar Street while the governor’s office is being remodernised. It’s just down on the left hand side, the building with the scaffolding. I’ll take your luggage to the Windsor and tell them to expect you later.
Trafalgar Street was certainly no tribute to the glory of British colonial endeavour. Within a few metres, the road had narrowed to single car width. The streetlights were dim and unevenly spaced, casting watery shadows on the irregular paving stones. Nobody was about.
“This slum is a pretty strange place for the governor of Gibraltar to have an office, even if it is temporary,” Clench said, making his way between scaffolding poles.“Must be on a tight budget. Glad they’re looking after the taxpayers’ money.”
“Her Britannic Majesty’s Governor apologises for any inconvenience experienced by visitors to these temporary facilities during the refurbishment of the official residence and commercial centre,” DelMedico read aloud from the illuminated notice board on the wall.
Someone must have heard them because, before they could knock, the warped, wooden doors creaked open and the head and shoulders of a heavy-set man wearing a black roll neck jumper and a corduroy jacket appeared. “You the two from London?” he demanded. The words were spoken with great care, as the harelip, only partially hidden by his moustache, could not disguise the lisp.
Facing them was a narrow hallway, at the far end of which was an old-style elevator with see-through concertina metal doors. To the left was a set of stairs.
“Second floor,” said the man, commencing the climb.
“Any chance of using the elevator?” asked Clench, anxious as always to avoid any possible confrontation with physical exercise.
“Electric problems,” was the curt reply. As if on cue, the lights flickered.
The governor’s office was sparsely decorated, dominated by a brass-capped and well worn partners’ desk, set at an angle to a large, inlaid oval boardroom table.
Their host was a finely featured man in his fifties with an assured air and charming smile. His olive skin and jet black hair told of mixed blood, the impeccable accent of refined English origins.
“Forbes-Lawton. Very pleased to meet you.” His handshake was firm, his manner designed to put his guests at ease. “I am most distressed that we are obliged to meet at this hour and in such makeshift accommodation. I am sure you are tired from your journey. Unfortunately, my programme tomorrow is rather full and . . . well.”
Leaving the sentence hanging in the air, he took a seat at the head of the conference table. Clearly, diplomatic concession had been made. There had now to be a counterbalance. “After all, the initiative for this meeting did originate from your firm,” he continued, gesturing for them to take their seats on either side of him.
DelMedico had the nagging sensation that he recognised the man from somewhere, but he could not place the face.
“And what does Parkinson Sharpe want on Gibraltar that must concern me at past midnight on a Sunday night?” The governor asked after DelMedico had made the necessary introductions.
“I am not sure exactly how much you already know, Sir?” DelMedico asked him.
“Beyond a request from your London office, endorsed by my superiors, to meet with you on a matter of urgency, I’m totally in the dark.” Forbes-Lawton said, laughing. “Much like the electrics in this terrible place! I must say, however, that I’m most intrigued.”
“Our reason for being here involves a UK company, Barrington Bechet,” DelMedico said, opening his file. “You may have heard of the name. It’s a public company specialising in the provision of services to the over fifties and senior citizens. The shares have been quoted on the London Stock Exchange since 2002. During the intervening years, the Company has grown, mainly by acquiring other businesses and has a good profit history. Up until recently, everything appeared normal, but there have now arisen some difficulties with one of its bankers.”
“Can you be a bit more explicit?” Forbes-Lawton said, frowning.
“Barrington has a major credit line with the First Bank of Scotland or Firbas as it’s known in the City,” DelMedico told him. “Under the terms of the loan agreement, there are a number of actions which the Bank can take if the company does not fulfil its obligations.”
“If it doesn’t pay back the loan, you mean?”
“Normally, but it could also be for some other breach of its agreement.”
“Such as?”
DelMedico returned the smile. “Let me think. Well …. I’ve read of cases where companies failed to comply with Stock Exchange or SEC regulations. In any event, most Banks ensure that there are a number of triggers in their loan documentation so that when there is a serious concern about the company’s affairs, one that might threaten the Bank’s security, it has the power to appoint an Administrator - or two in this case - to take over the running of the company. The Administrators, who are normally partners from a firm of professional accountants, assume absolute control. It’s a procedure similar to Chapter 11 in the States.”
“You don’t mind if I take notes,” the governor said, looking up from the notepad in which he had been scribbling, his benign smile once more in evidence. “I didn’t like to keep my secretary this late, you know. But when you get to my age, unless one writes everything down, it fast fades from the memory. Tell me, what was the problem with . . .” He stopped to glance at his notepad.”. . . with this Barrington Bechet company?”
DelMedico hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. To be absolutely candid, I’m not privy to that information. In order for Firbas to secure the appointment of the Administrators, it had to obtain an order to do so from the High Court. I have a copy of this order as our authority.”
Clench was, he noted, shuffling in his seat as though embarrassed by the turn this conversation was taking.
“When the bank went to court last Friday,” DelMedico continued, “it had to give its reasons to justify the appointment of the Administrators. These reasons are normally public knowledge, but you should understand that this case is rather unique. The bank made an application for the hearing to be heard in camera so that the public were excluded and the whole business dealt with in secret. I don’t know why. But let me stress this point. There is no need for us to know.”
Frowning, Forbes-Lawton stood up and walked to the window. His interest in the detail was as surprising to DelMedico as it was disheartening to his colleague. Both had anticipated being shown the door after a cursory five minute briefing, but it was now apparent that this was not the particular man’s style.
“Putting this aspect aside for a moment,” Forbes-Lawton said, his back still towards them, “exactly what are your specific objectives here in Gibraltar?”
“Parkinson Sharpe’s position is quite straightforward,” DelMedico told him, going on to explain that Barrington Bechet had three interrelated, but quite distinct, operating divisions, consisting of residential and nursing homes, tour operations for over fifties, and a financial services division which included three offshore managed pension and saving funds, all controlled from a head office in Eastbourne.
“A branch through which the savings of senior citizens are channelled was established in Gibraltar about two years ago,” he went on. “Our brief is to arrive at the branch tomorrow morning and simply freeze all operations until the two partners who were appointed as the joint Administrators can assess the state of the group.”
Forbes-Lawton turned, a scowl having replaced the frown. face. “As you know, Mr DelMedico, we have a very small and closely knit financial community here and any intervention must be handled carefully and with discretion,” he said stiffly. “Another thing. What will happen to the staff?”“They will be suspended and sent home on full pay for up to a week, at the end of which time, everything having been resolved, they will return and business can carry on as usual. “I am happy to accept your assurances,” Forbes-Lawton said, “but my concern is the difficulty I will have in attempting to maintain integrity within the financial market when the news breaks tomorrow and, even more importantly, with local government officials. The fact that you can offer no explanation as to why it has been deemed necessary to appoint Administrators to the company means that there will inevitably be wild rumours bandied about.”
The lights flickered and went out for the third time in as many minutes. When they came on again, Forbes-Lawton was on his feet, his hand outstretched. Clearly the meeting had come to an end.
No words passed between the two visitors as they made their way cautiously down the bare wooden staircase. Both doors leading from the staircase on the first floor had been sealed shut, bolted and padlocked. By the look of the state of the rusted ironwork, many months had passed since the area had been occupied. Clench seemed oblivious to the surroundings, his single objective being to reach a bar within the next five minutes. Just one more flight of stairs to go, taken two at a time.
That was when the lights went out.
“Shit!” Clench shouted as he stumbled down the remaining stairs.
Silence. It was pitch black.
DelMedico froze, clutching the iron rail. “Are you all right?” he asked.
When there was no reply, he fumbled for his spectacles, his eyes straining to focus in the dark. “For God’s sake,” he hissed. “Say something. Can you hear me?”
Still no reply. Could what he heard be the sound of shallow breathing? Either Clench had fallen and knocked himself out or he was playing some stupid boyish prank. It would be, DelMedico thought, in keeping with his juvenile behaviour. The only problem was, it was working. He was petrified.
Cautiously, he made his way downstairs, one step at a time, stopping once again when he heard a door slam somewhere above him, followed by the distinctive sound of the elevator door opening and closing.
“Help!” he cried. “There’s been an accident!”
A motor engaged. The elevator had begun to move, the sound coming steadily closer, which meant, he realised, that the electricity was on.
“What’s going on?” he shouted, his voice resounding in a hollow echo.
As the cage came to a halt on the ground floor, the concertina door stayed closed, the single interior light casting a dull shadow on the floor of the passageway. DelMedico began to move again, but just as he felt for the next stair with one foot, a hand came from between the spindles and grabbed him by the ankle with a force that propelled him forward down the remaining stairs, his face scraping along the cold tiled floor.
“What the ...!” The sound died on his lips. Clench’s eyes, unseeing, stared across the floor at him. His head was turned at an unnatural angle. To DelMedico seconds now seemed like an eternity. If the fall had killed Clench, then how was one to explain the jagged mass of sinewy flesh and blood where his neck should have been? Why was his chest a mass of crimson? How come his legs were encased in a plastic sack? Nothing made sense in this hollow half light.
As he struggled to regain his feet, an arm in a black jumper jerked his head upwards and someone ground their knuckles into his neck until his Adam’s apple pressed tight against the wall of his throat, choking him. The last sound DelMedico heard was the opening of the elevator door.
“Turn the light on full,” said the governor in Arabic to the man who had driven the Englishmen from the airport. Further along the passageway, RollNeck was attending to the cleaning of the serrated edge of the heavy bladed knife made for gutting fish on the trouser leg of his second victim, both corpses having already been packed into body bags.
“Clean up and get rid of them, as arranged,” the man who had introduced himself as Forbes-Lawton barked. “Then get back for the furniture. And don’t forget the luggage!”
His eyes narrowed as he saw blood seeping from RollNeck’s trouser pocket.
“I said no souvenirs!” he snapped, backhanding the other man across the face. “Give it to me!”
Reaching inside his trouser pocket to retrieve the middle finger he had severed from DelMedico’s hand, the Conquistador’s ring firmly lodged over the knuckle, the burly man returned it to one of the body bags which were subsequently unceremoniously bundled into the boot of the taxi which had blocked the narrow confines of Trafalgar Street, along with the placard that had announced the governor’s temporary accommodation which had been placed over another identifying the condemned building as The Gibraltar Seamen’s Mission.
By dawn, all trace of the two Englishmen would be gone. Biodegradable body bags, weighted and stuffed with their cocktail of human remains and fish tails would be cast off a Moroccan trawler some hundred kilometres from the coast where, within days, the bags would start to decompose and attract the frenzied attention of the sea creatures that waited to feed on the contents.
Amongst the baggage of the incoming guests at another Hotel Windsor along the Spanish Costa del Sol in Malaga, the porter on morning shift would discover three cases which remained unclaimed, cases which he would put into the luggage room to await a pickup which, like so many, would never happen.
As the car pulled away, the “governor,” straightening his tie, turned and sauntered towards the square. He had never met or seen the real Forbes-Lawton, and was curious to know how realistic his little charade had been. No doubt, in the next day or so, as the news of the disappearance of the two men hardened, there would be television interviews with the real governor, a realisation that reminded him that time was limited. The loss of two men’s lives was nothing with what was now at stake. He had expected to learn everything and had, in fact, learned nothing. Just what was going on at Barrington Bechet that he should have known about and who was manipulating events that could influence his plans?
3 – Day 1
Day 1 - Surrey, England – early morning
Accepting the invitation from his delightful, but alcoholic neighbours had been an error of judgement in the first place. And not having the will power to stop drinking the rough red wine that had been served at the barbecue on that summery Sunday evening had compounded his stupidity.
And how Ronald Hammond was suffering. The alarm had gone off at seven, but fully twenty minutes passed before he dared to even lift his head from the pillow. Finally propelling himself out of bed with the agility of a much older man, his head throbbing and his mouth tasting as though he had cleaned out the contents of Sophie’s horse stall with his tongue, he made his way down to the kitchen where he intended to consume vast quantities of coffee had not business instinct forced him to pause on the way to check the six calls from the night before on the answering machine. Five of the numbers identified the caller while the sixth was from an inner London number that he didn’t recognise. Sinking gratefully into the reclining leather chair, Ronald closed his eyes and listened. Arthritis had come with age and his squat, but more than ample frame plainly demonstrated that his lifestyle had made no concession to these middle years.
“Ronald, this is Rupert Elwes,” a well-educated voice announced. “I’m with Parkinson Sharpe. You may recall we met at an Institute function a few months ago when your firm was fronting a seminar on small cap companies? Sorry to have to telephone you at home, but I need to speak with you on an urgent matter and Gary Backhaus, at Galadari’s gave me your private number. It’s now ten thirty on Sunday night. Ring me at either of these numbers whatever time you arrive home.”
Rupert Elwes? He tried to picture the man. Medium build - soft features - mid-thirties - wavy blond hair parted in the centre of his head. Hammond never forgot a face. Yorkshire training, his wife called it. You never knew who might, in time, owe you money. His lasting impression of Elwes with his super-cultured accent was that with the addition of a pair of wings, he’d have made a darn good looking angel!
Hammond found the message disquieting. Since the flotation of Barrington Bechet, he had had little to do with Parkinson Sharpe, the reporting accountants at the time. Galadaris were the solicitors to the share issue and Backhaus, that tight-lipped, tight-arsed American, had worked with Hammond on the prospectus. Mullover and Wolverston, the stockbroking firm of which he was the senior partner, were the sponsoring brokers and still acted for the Company. The urgent matter to which Elwes referred suggested a problem and that made Ronald very nervous. Barrington Bechet, or BB as it had become known, was the subject of a highly sensitive topic at the office just now. Many millions of pounds sensitive. But as the line goes, that was another story!
From the kitchen of their ostentatious, mock Georgian home on the exclusive Weybridge Estate, came the sound of his wife singing snatches of an Andrew Lloyd Webber medley at the top of her voice. Ronald kicked the door of his den closed. It made no difference. She kept on singing, even when the telephone started to ring again.
“Telephone, dear!” she shouted, managing to interject the words between ‘Argentina’ and ‘The truth’ without losing a beat.
Of course it was the bloody telephone! What did she think? That he might mistake it for the bloody doorbell!
“Hammond speaking,” he snapped; the Yorkshire accent more pronounced than ever.
“Ronald Hammond?” enquired the caller.
“Yes, that’s right. Who is this?”
“Elwes, here. I was about to give you up and ring the Stock Exchange myself.”
Hammond checked his watch. Seven forty five. The Exchange would be up and running in thirty minutes.
Hammond apologised for what must have appeared his apparent lack of interest only to find that being on the defensive increased his sense of uneasiness. Why on earth should Elwes be calling the Stock Exchange? What the hell was going on?
* * *
Day 1 - W.Sussex, England – early morning
Mark Redgrave stood at the window of his room on the fourth floor of the Cavendish Hotel in Eastbourne watching the waves, whipped by the fierce wind crash over the promenade rail and cascade onto the pavement. It was seven forty five of what promised to be a foul morning. Workmen rushed around in luminous yellow waistcoats and safety helmets, placing barriers across the road to divert the traffic and chasing off the occasional pedestrian. In the five minutes he had stood at the window, a dozen people must have walked towards the exposed railings. What was it about the pounding waves that enticed them to act so irrationally? Didn’t they realise just how dangerous it was? Or was there some instinctive force that compelled them to take the risk?
As if on cue, a massive surge of water bounced off the stony beach and drenched a female holiday maker and her sorry-looking, long haired dog, followed by a backwash strong enough to take the dog in its wake, tangling the lead around the woman’s legs and pulling her to the ground. A flurry of yellow waistcoats and helmets hurried to the rescue.
Irritated by the stupidity of it all, Mark turned his back on the window. As far as he was concerned, risk taking was either calculated or irrational. As an accountant specialising in troubled businesses, he knew that desperate individuals involved in ailing companies struggling to survive often turned their backs on good governance and measured reason to resort to irresponsible behaviour, often involving criminal acts of the sort not at all expected of the individuals involved, at which point Mark was normally appointed to take control. And that gave him his buzz. Sure, he could take risks, but they were always properly calculated and timed with the result that the corporate recovery department of Parkinson Sharpe had developed a reputation on the strength of individuals such as Mark Redgrave.
Perhaps, that was why he felt so unsettled this morning. There was something about this whole Barrington Bechet Administration appointment that disturbed him. The furtive rush to secure a High Court order, the decisions based on suspicion rather than fact. The First Bank of Scotland had engineered events to suit the policy fervour of its new ‘sweep clean’ chief executive. That was irrational behaviour and Mark had so far been swept along in the backwash.
Today, he would, he knew, need to exercise extreme care.
Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he was reminded that Helen often told him his creased forehead and square, stubborn chin gave him a threatening air, which stood in contrast to his warm brown eyes. Actually, he rarely felt hostile. The look was more likely to be one of concentration. Perhaps, he thought now, he should make an effort to relax his features, display that self-effacing smile. In fifteen minutes, he would meet with his team in the restaurant for a final breakfast briefing. His staff of eight experienced professionals had all checked into the hotel individually the previous evening. There had been no collective get-togethers in the bar since they were all aware that no chance could be taken to alert any of the hundred and forty Barrington employees who worked in the head office building across from the hotel that Parkinson Sharpe was about to take control over the operations of the Company.
In the meantime, he still had two tasks to perform. By now in Gibraltar, DelMedico and that offhand little computer geek would have finished the early morning meeting he had arranged with the governor at his private residence. Mark had asked Forbes-Lawton to tell both men to return to their hotel to await his call before moving into the Barrington branch office.
However, when he dialled the Hotel Windsor in Gibraltar, he discovered that neither DelMedico nor Clench had checked in.Five minutes later, after confirming the fact that both men had taken the flight to the Rock, he was looking up the governor’s number in his personal organiser, uncomfortably aware that his intuition was proving right, that circumstances were beginning to conspire against him, and that within the coming hours, decisions might have to be taken which would be based on risks outside of his control.
* * *
Day 1 - Surrey, England – early morning
If Sophie Hammond’s rendition of Take That Look Off Your Face was directed at her husband, he missed the inference. Picking up his coffee, he returned to the den, slammed the door behind him, and sank back in his chair. For the first time in the last thirty minutes, his temper was back under control. Even on a good day – something which today was not shaping up to be - just talking to Elwes would have put his nose out of joint. The man had talked with an arrogance that outstripped even his birthright. He might be three hundred and fifty something in line to the throne of England, but his phoned attempt to dictate to Hammond what he should do, had provoked a reaction that surely Elwes could not have anticipated.
He had begun by attempting to prepare Hammond for a shock, his counsel being that, as the stockbroker involved, he should be prepared to wait for details until they could meet later in the day and that he would prefer this telephone conversation to be brief and to the point.
It seemed that on Friday afternoon, the High Court had granted an application from The First Bank of Scotland for the appointment of Parkinson Sharpe as Administrators to Barrington Bechet. The appointment was to be a joint one with Elwes handling the legal and City aspects. One of his junior partners, Mark Redgrave, had been designated to deal with the Company’s operations in the field.
“I need you to talk to the Exchange in order to suspend dealings in BB stock before the market opens,” he had continued tersely. “There will be a press conference sometime after lunch.”
Ronald’s initial reaction had been one of incredulity. “I’m checking my calendar to see if it was April Fools Day,” he told Elwes. “Either this is some silly, ill-advised prank or you’re out of your senses. If there were to be any suggestion of a problem between Barrington Bechet and Firbas, I’d be involved in decisions at an early stage. As for the idea of an order having been granted on Friday, the weekend financial press would have been full of it! You must have your lines crossed somewhere, young man.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Elwes had told him. “The decision was taken solely by the bank in consultation with my firm. No other parties were involved. For reasons I’m not prepared to discuss with you at the moment, the order was heard and granted in camera.”
Ronald had lost his temper then. Who was this trumped up little jerk to decide what he could and could not disclose to the Company’s sponsoring broker.
“Now you listen to me!” he’d exploded. “Over a thousand Joe Publics, including a good number of my clients have invested millions in Barrington Bechet. I need to know exactly what is going on and I mean everything. What about the directors? Who’s been consulted? Can you tell me that?”
Elwes had chosen to avoid Hammond’s baiting tactics. Knowing that Hammond was on a roller coaster of greed, fear and dented vanity, Elwes held the upper hand and he intended that it stay that way. He had not, after all, expected a balanced conversation, particularly since he had asked around about Hammond before making contact and heard him described by a merchant banker chum from Oxford who had worked with Mullover and Wolverston for many years as akin to a cobra - vulnerable and off-balance when he was baited - dangerous when he was biding his time and prepared to wait before striking. Right now, Hammond was behaving like a loose cannon. Later, he would need watching.
“As far as I’m aware,” Elwes replied, ”there was no contact with any of the directors prior to the application. Previously, the Board was collectively served with formal default notices by the Bank.”
“I can’t believe you’re really telling me that not one single director has a clue as to what has been going on?” Ronald protested.
Elwes stuck to the facts. “My information is that both Barrington Berg and his financial director, Jordan Pike, are away together on a hunting trip in the wilds of Canada. Frank Monteiro is currently on the Mediterranean on leisure division business and Simon Beloff is in Wales, working from his office at Starlight Homes, the nursing home subsidiary. He will be contacted this morning. That just leaves the three non-execs, all of whom live in and around London. I expect to speak with them, as well, sometime later today.”
“You’re avoiding the point,” Ronald insisted. “The fact that the directors may be difficult to track down is one thing. The act of putting a public company at risk by not involving them in the process you have embarked upon is ... it’s bloody lunacy!”
Once again Elwes allowed the outburst to pass over his head. “I think we’re digressing from the issue at hand,” he said mildly. “I acknowledge the fact that the Stock Exchange will need an official statement from the company. I’ll fax it over to you along with a copy of the Court Order,” going on to read out a brief paragraph dealing with the appointment of his firm and the temporary suspension of dealings in Barrington’s shares.
“You can fine tune the wording,” he told Hammond, but run any changes through me before you release the text. OK. Well, I think that’s about where we are at, so...”
Ignoring the coffee cup that he had accidentally sent flying onto the thick pile carpet, Ronald did not allow him to finish.
“No!” he exclaimed, it’s not bloody well where we are at! I want to know exactly what is going on. Don’t give me this load of crap! If anybody has a right to know, I do, and I want to know everything that you know. Now, stop treating me like some fucking office girl and talk!”
“What do you want to know, for example?” Elwes asked him, offhand, amused.
“For example,” he mimicked, “what were the Bank’s grounds for making the application?”
“Breach of covenant. Failure to prepare and submit management accounts for the third quarter.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t play games with me, sonny,” Ronald told him grimly. “No bank, least of all a bank of Firbas’ status, puts its clients into Administration for failing to send along a set of management accounts. Half the companies on the Stock Exchange would be out of business if that was the case, so tell me the real story!”
“Listen, Hammond.” Elwes was conciliatory. “I really do have to finish this call now. Can we meet later this morning or after lunch to talk again?”
“Now you listen!” Ronald raged. “Based on what you have told me, you won’t be able to walk for the writs piled around you. That applies to the bank and your firm, as well. And I’ll tell you this. Unless I get some straight talking by the time today’s over, a pile of those writs are going to be from me and a dozen investigators from the DTI are going to be making your life a misery. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly.” Elwes’ voice was as cold as ice.
Thirty minutes later, Ronald had spoken to his contact in the Exchange, providing him with the prepared statement. Shortly afterwards, Reuters had the news on the wire and the telephone had started ringing. There might be no directors available at BB, but he could still talk to Patakas, the Greek chief accountant. Management accounts were his responsibility, after all. He would soon sort this problem out in short order.
“If I were you, darling,” he told his wife just before leaving. “I wouldn’t bother to answer the phone today, at least not if you have anything else to do.”
Sophie waved her acknowledgement. She had been married too long not to recognise that underneath his normal brash exterior, her husband was deeply troubled. She was still very much in love. Unable to remember any more Lloyd Webber songs, she started on Les Miserables.
* * *
Day 1 - Usk, South Wales – early morning
Eleanor Rathbone was dying. And, unusually enough for somebody who had been told that unpleasant fact, she had, at the same time, discovered that she was really happy to be alive.
The doctors had explained it all very carefully. It had, she gathered, had something to do with her lymphatic glands. But she never really concerned herself with the whys and wherefores. It was all much too indelicate for someone of her background.
India had been kind to her and her husband throughout their married life. Then Cecil had died and they had made her come back to Wales. More dignified, her sons said, although they, God bless them, knew as much about her dignity as August about snow. Terence and Barry were both approaching retirement age and the thought of being consigned to either of them to see out her days had never been an option. At eighty six she was far too free a spirit to be condemned to their conservative lifestyles and, more to the point, since there was a large sum of her money at stake and favouritism was a powerful weapon, she would probably have turned one son against the other, intentionally or not. Eleanor knew herself well enough to be sure that, when she was feeling at her most malevolent, she would play them off, against one another, feigning a subtle bias toward the one or implying that some charity or other might well be her beneficiary. In the end - and it was not to be many weeks away so they said - blood would tell in equal measure. Her last will would see to that. In the meantime, so long as there was no physical pain to distract her, they would have to suffer her caprices.
For the last five years, Starlight Nursing Homes in the beautiful countryside of South Wales had been her home and Doris Parsons, another resident, ten years her junior, her best friend and confidant.
Monday morning found the two sitting in their customary armchairs by the bay window, sipping tea. Normally, they would begin each Monday with a new ‘project’, as they called their adventures into fantasy. Sometimes it would be a planned expedition to some exotic corner of the world, sometimes a black comedy dominated by some macabre crime. Today, however, there was no need for fantasy. Reality looked much more exciting.
It had started just after ten when they had seen the very attractive young lady, accompanied by an even younger man carrying two large black briefcases, emerge from a small, blue car to be ushered straight away into Mr Beloff’s office. Very unusual, that, since the nursing home director normally kept everyone waiting at least ten minutes. Their first guess was that she was a solicitor come to discuss one of the ‘inmate’s’ legal affairs. But then word came from the Carpetbagger, a wealthy old recluse who, despite the fact that he spent his days in his room following the financial markets, somehow always managed to sniff out any news that happened to be circulating, that something else was in the wind.
Eleanor and Doris pored over the document that had been written in the old man’s laboured hand, unsure of what it all meant, but exhilarated by the prospect of any change to their existence.
“Read it again,” Eleanor coaxed as Doris held the sheet of exercise book paper three inches from her nose and peered at it intently through her heavy-lensed spectacles.
“The Carpetbagger says that Administrators have been appointed to the Company which owns Starlight Nursing Homes,” she said in a hushed voice. “He reminds us that two years ago, Simon Beloff sold Starlight to Barrington Bechet Plc., which also owns Masterplace Leisure and BB Financial Services.”
She paused to scrutinize the page even more closely.
“This is what he says. ’Now it looks as the whole shooting match has gone up the Swanee. A firm of accountants has taken over running the businesses so it looks as though Beloff will get the boot. Watch this space for more news’”.
“Well, would you believe that?” Doris explained, taking off her glasses and looking around conspiratorially.
The next snippet of information came fifteen minutes later when Brynwyn, a disgusting old farmhand who sat with the ‘Zombies’ in the lounge, called out, “Nurse, I want a piss!” a demand which he was forced to repeat three times before ‘Miss Knowitall’ and the young trainee care assistants came ambling down the corridor to manoeuvre the legless gentleman from the settee into wheelchair, a thankless task during which he constantly berated them with an impressive display of original profanity. Normally, ‘Miss Knowitall’ would have injected a bit of humour by threatening to leave him to crawl to the toilet on his stumps, but today she was totally absorbed in her conversation with the trainee.
“I could tell they had been arguing,” the two old ladies heard her say. “Mr Beloff was that ruddy red and there was sweat all over the bit of his head where his hair is thinning. You know what he gets like when he’s telling somebody off. Just before Matron walked into his office, I could hear him banging the desk with his hand. He told her to call a meeting with the staff at two this afternoon, just before shift changeover.”
“Who’s the woman and that nice looking boy who’s with her then?” the trainee, a cheeky looking blonde, demanded.
“Fancy him, do you?” her mentor responded as she lowered Brynwyn into his wheelchair with a thump. “Bit too young for my taste. She’s a Miss Weller from London. Works for some firm of accountants or the other. Whatever she’s doing here, I wouldn’t fancy her chances with old Beloff. He’s an awkward customer and quite ruthless. After all, he’s a solicitor, isn’t he, and you know what they are.”
“Do you think we’ll lose our jobs? the blonde demanded. “My mum will never believe it if I go home and tell her I’m out of work again. I’ll never get anything else. Not around here.”
By the time Brynwyn, still cursing, was wheeled past the two old ladies, ‘Knowitall’ was trying to be reassuring. “Don’t be daft!” she told the girl. “Whatever happens, they’ll still need us to deal with . . .” She lowered her mouth to shout directly into the old man’s ear, “old farts like you!”
Once the procession had passed them by, Eleanor and Doris engaged in further speculation, digesting and regurgitating the conversation they had just overheard. Their biggest coup, however, was yet to come.
As it approached midday, the smell of boiled cabbage percolating through the lounge heralded luncheon, an event that normally stimulated the two friends to return to their rooms and freshen-up. But today the appearance of the stranger in the doorway caused them to abort this particular ritual. She was a slim brunette with beautiful sad chestnut brown eyes and Eleanor knew Cecil would have said that he liked the cut of her jib. For that matter, she did too.
“Come here,” she said, tapping the empty seat alongside her and introducing herself and Doris with the aplomb of nobility welcoming a guest to a stately home.
“So it’s Jane Weller, is it?” Eleanor said as the young woman took the seat indicated. “We know why you are here, you know.”
“You’ve come to boot out Beloff,” Doris added conspiratorially.
The young woman smiled politely. “How do you ladies like it here?” she said.
But Eleanor was not to be blown off course so easily. “Beloff made millions when he sold his six Starlight Nursing Homes,” she said. “Does it mean he’ll lose everything now that this...” She consulted the sheet of paper. “... this Barrington Bechet has some problems?”
“You are remarkably well informed,” Jane Weller said admiringly. “I hope that didn’t sound patronising.”
“I can still recognise a compliment for what it is.” Eleanor told her. “Tell me, my dear, why have you been crying?”
“Does it show that much?” Jane asked, her professional detachment slipping away.
“Just an old woman’s intuition,” Eleanor assured her. “You mustn’t let him upset you, my dear. Underneath it all, Beloff’s simply one of life’s schemers. If he thinks you have the power to improve or undermine his position, he’ll be as nice as pie. Once he has the upper hand, you’ll either be discarded or ignored. That’s why we call him The Godfather. Unfortunately, most of us have already been discarded or ignored,” she added as Doris nodded her agreement. “Now can you answer my question, or not?”
“As to whether Mr Beloff will lose out,” Jane said, clearly deciding to rely on a direct response, “my files tell me that, when the he sold the homes, he received ninety per cent of the purchase price in cash. As to the balance, I can’t honestly say whether he will get that or not. I think it depends on how well these establishments have performed in the meantime.”
Just then Matron appeared with Jane Weller clearly in her sights. As she advanced down the concourse that constituted the lounge, a big busted, stocky woman with snapping black eyes, Jane prepared herself to go on the defensive. The woman’s intervention in Beloff’s office had demonstrated a display of fierce loyalty and open resentment at the presence of a young and attractive woman.
“One more thing,” Eleanor hissed. “Quick, before she gets here. Our source says that Masterplace Travel is also involved in this business. A friend, Millie Althorpe, is on a cruise at the moment. Will she have to come home early?”
“I’m certain that she won’t,” Jane told her, rising from her seat just as Matron reached them.
“I thought you might like an early lunch, Miss Weller.” she declared, making it sound more like an order than a suggestion.
Doris, who had developed an obsessive dislike for the woman since the argument over moving her room, seized her opportunity. “Will you continue to be in charge here, Matron?” she asked.
“As far as you and the other residents are concerned, I doubt that you will see any changes at all,” Matron assured her, marching Jane Weller away so briskly that it is doubtful if she heard Doris declare that, if so, it was a distinct pity.
* * *
Day 1 - The City of London – mid morning
Do you use the New Testament?” asked the notary.
“Yeah! That’ll be fine. Can we get on, please?” Andreas Patakas’ speech was heavily accented. “I have a plane to catch.”
Grasping the bible in his stubby right hand, he checked his watch. Below average height, with a protruding stomach, he appeared swamped by the creased, lightweight, beige suit.
“Sign here, please,” the solicitor told him.
Patakas pushed back the flash of curly black hair from his damp forehead and scribbled something illegible at the bottom of the page.
“Repeat after me,” the solicitor said. “I, Andreas Patakas, swear by almighty God that this, my affidavit, is true and this is my signature.”
“Thank you,” said the notary, who had been called on to witness the document. “I’ll make sure your statement is delivered to the Bank’s solicitor this afternoon. I think it’s what you would call a belt and braces cover as far as the First Bank of Scotland is concerned. It simply fills in some points that were not fully explained in your earlier statements.