Thursday

by David Ridgway

  “Now, do you see what I mean?” she asked, repeating the previous manoeuvre.

  The knicker line had gone and Alice’s natural figure now graced the dress, making her look sexy and inviting. She sat down on the end of the right arm of the armchair, her long right leg stretching to the floor and her left arm draped along its back. Looking straight at the camera, with just the smallest indication of a smile, she lifted her left knee and put her foot onto the other arm. The dress naturally slipped up her thigh, exposing the tops of her stockings and more than a little of her thigh. Slowly, with her back arched and her shoulders pulled back, making her breasts stand proud and pert, she turned her body towards him, with her right foot on the floor almost as though she was riding a horse.

  As she straightened her right leg, her shaven pussy almost came into view, but Alice demurely brought her bent left knee across to the other leg where she gently slipped the calf over her right knee, before placing the fingers of both hands onto the knee, all the time looking straight into the camera. She looked at her watch, realising that the time had been slipping away.

  “I’m going to have to go now,” she announced. “Perhaps we can arrange another session for next weekend.”

  “Wow!” He replied. “I do hope so. Anyway, you’ve got my email address on the card I gave you. If you send me a message, I’ll send you the photos in a file.” As he talked, he continued to take photographs.

  Alice slipped off the dress, standing completely naked in front of him, apart from her black hold up stockings. She started to put on her other clothes, first her bra and next her skirt. As soon as her coat and scarf were on, she picked up the holdall and went to the door.

  Andy was devastated. He realised that he had lost the upper hand and seriously considered preventing her from leaving. He now knew that Alice was in full control of their situation and that she was completely manipulating him.

  Just over the river and up the hill in Kensington, Sebastian Fortescue Brown had spent a rather pleasant, if somewhat disconcerting afternoon, counting the money in the safe that was hidden from view, beneath the floorboards of his office. The hotel’s old fashioned safe was in the same room, but in plain sight. Sebastian’s thinking was that, if a thief broke into the office and stole the hotel safe, no further thought would be given to the real hoard under the carpet.

  To his surprise, he had counted over £200,000. Most of the money was illegitimate, of course. Some could be attributed to the “residents and guests,” some to the rental of the rooms on the top floor, but a large percentage was dirty cash from the underworld, that Sebastian was quietly but steadily laundering. Naturally he received a percentage for this activity, but even that income had to be dealt with. His “employees” all received wages and had their tax and National Insurance paid, although only two of them actually existed. It had been a time-consuming process to get all the names onto the books. They were a mixture of people who no longer lived in Britain, although their documents and passports had been retained by their erstwhile employers. Some were actually dead, but their deaths had never been registered. Sebastian knew all this, but quickly realised that keeping the name within the taxation system was a real boon.

  The wages were paid into several separate bank accounts, all set up in the different names, but all in fact owned and controlled by Sebastian. He kept a record of all these illicit transactions, in a ledger that was never shown to anyone else.

  The hotel’s account books, which were scrupulously maintained, were audited regularly by his father’s accountant, who was now his own financial adviser. Tim Watson was blithely unaware of the new arrangements at the Gloucester Palace Hotel and, had he had any inkling of the money-making schemes being actively pursued by Sebastian, he would have run a mile.

  Sebastian had been aware for some time of the growing problem, under his floorboards, but only now began to appreciate its magnitude. Although, through the hotel’s money laundering activities, he was already building up a sizable, “legitimate,” investment fund in his own bank, there was too much illicit cash on the premises and the laundering processes were beginning to take too long for him to handle, on his own. He needed to put another scheme into operation where he could shift substantial amounts of money into other investments, even overseas. He needed a money broker.

  He could start with his growing investment fund that had already been through the laundering process. This capital fund was already well over £50,000 and this was completely attributed to the profitability of the hotel. After all, he had very little outgoings of a personal nature and the hotel was, to all intents and purposes, performing very well. Most rooms were regularly let, the staff was efficient and well paid, and the income was all accounted for and properly taxed. There were no reasons why anyone or any authority should want to interfere.

  Sebastian had even decided that the staff had all performed so well that he had paid them all a Christmas bonus – taxed, of course. However, this had only addressed a small part of his other growing problem.

  He now needed to grasp the nettle and he decided to make an appointment, in the morning, to meet with an investment broker during the coming week. One of the girls had entertained a gentleman in her room, about two months before Christmas. The client had had given Seb his business card. Discovering that he could also discreetly entertain people, the gentleman had returned one Wednesday in early December, accompanied by his secretary. They had left the next morning, after an early breakfast.

  After an early lunch, Martin took out the plough with the intention of finishing the top field. The sun was warm enough to have melted all the frost and the field had continued to dry out in the gentle westerly breeze. The furrows from the previous day stood out deep and solid, in long, straight rows. Mm, he thought. That looks better than I expected.

  More than half of the field was complete and he had finished, the night before, several rows below the dip that was disconcerting him. He positioned the plough and set off. The plough dug deep and clean, without any hint of the increasing heaviness that was starting to cause the concern the day before.

  The next hour’s work continued without incident and, with well over two thirds of the field now complete, Martin stopped for a coffee. He was at the furthest westerly point of the field and, as he sat, listening to Classic FM he looked towards the east, mentally appraising the work he had completed. It was now half past two and he reckoned on a further hour’s work. He turned in his seat and looked to the west. Way over London, he thought he could see a build-up of cloud way down on the horizon, although the sky remained completely clear overhead.

  Better get on, he thought. There’ll be another frost this evening, I expect. The more I do now, the less I’ll have to do later, especially if it rains.

  With that, he put away the flask and got on with the job.

  When Milton finally found Pamela’s number, there was no reply. He spent the next couple of hours cleaning up his flat, before calling her again.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hi there, Pamela.” Milton’s deep, Jamaican voice rumbled across the ether. “It’s Milton here.”

  “Well, I did guess that,” she responded. “What can I do you for?”

  “I was just wondering, with it being a lovely day and such, whether we could grab a coffee in the park and, perhaps, a couple of beers later. That’s if you’re not too busy.”

  “Oh! No, no! That’s fine. I’m not doing anything today.” Pamela stammered, wondering how Milton had her number. “I was only planning to watch a couple of old movies, after doing my washing. Going to the park’ll be lovely.” She wondered why her heart had started to beat so strongly.

  “That’s great. Can I meet you at about two o’clock? I live in Lambeth. Where’s a good place to meet you?”

  “I’m over in Walworth,” she replied. “Not so far really.”

  “Ok. That’s easy, then. Elephant and Castle tube station, Bakerloo line, going north.”

  “I�
�ll see you there at two,” she replied, wondering what on earth she was going to wear. She settled for a newish pair of slacks with a cashmere, roll neck sweater and an overcoat. Smart, but not as though she had gone to too much trouble.

  Over in Lambeth, Milton was having much the same thought. Now he had finally called her, he needed to strike the right balance. He finally decided on an open necked orange shirt with tan trousers, a thick, green, woollen jumper and his black bomber jacket. He decided against a hat.

  He now felt excited, glad that he had finally taken the plunge, but was also filled with enormous angst as to whether it was a good idea or not.

  Too late to back out now, he thought. If I do, I’ll be at the butt of everybody’s jokes and teasing. Anyway, he rationalised in his mind, I’ve been meaning to do this for ages, so now’s the time.

  And, with that, he left his home for the rendezvous.

  For her part, Pamela, was also having thoughts. This is what comes of flirting with him, I suppose. I mean, he’s a nice guy and all that, but I don’t really know him. I suppose it’ll be an opportunity to find out. But what if he’s really boring and only after one thing. Well. He won’t be getting any of that! At least, not on the first date and definitely not if he’s boring. If he is, he won’t get a second chance, so that’ll be all right.

  She flashed her pass and went down the escalator to the Bakerloo line. As she reached the platform, she saw Milton studying the Underground map, as though he didn’t know it by heart.

  “Hello!” She touched him on the arm.

  Milton turned, smiled broadly and took her hand in his. “Hi! You look nice.”

  Pamela smiled back and gently squeezed his hand. “You look good too,” she replied. “Where are we going?”

  “Thought we could go up to Oxford Circus and then walk down Oxford Street to Marble Arch. If we want to stop, we can. If we want to walk further, we can. Let’s keep it easy.”

  They caught the next train going north and got out at Oxford Circus, travelling up the escalators to the swirling crowds at the top of the final flight of steps. They exited the tube station on the north eastern part of Oxford Circus and immediately crossed Regent Street, walking down the gentle slope in front of the John Lewis department store. Pamela put her left arm through Milton’s right and, as they avoided the crowds of pedestrians walking towards them, they strolled contentedly towards Marble Arch. Just before they reached Selfridges, they stopped for a coffee and were surprised to find a table.

  “I suppose the sales have basically finished,” Pamela commented.

  “And time is getting on, as well.” Milton agreed.

  With further companionable small talk, they resumed their walk, now up the gentle slope towards Park Lane and Hyde Park. They crossed the dual carriageway on the pedestrian lights and entered Hyde Park at Speakers’ Corner. All the crowds from Oxford Street had now melted away. There were no longer any speakers, for they had long since finished haranguing the crowds. They stopped to look at Marble Arch, isolated from the park itself, on a traffic roundabout.

  “It looks quite lonely over there,” said Pamela. “Let’s go over.” They crossed Cumberland Gate and stood below the massive marble construction.

  “It shouldn’t really be here at all,” remarked Milton.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was built to be the state entrance to Buckingham Palace, way back in George the Fourth’s reign. It was supposed to commemorate him, but he died before it was finished. Anyway, the palace wasn’t being used for much in those days and when Queen Victoria was crowned, it was she who decided to make it her London home. As such, the building was thought to be too small and the required extensions meant that the arch had to be moved. So it came here. Many people say that it was put on the place where the Tyburn gallows had stood, but that isn’t exactly true.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I find history interesting. Tyburn was the place where public executions had taken place for hundreds of years. A massive triangle of beams had been built, supported on three massive upright poles. It could be used to hang as many as 24 at a time. But it wasn’t here, where Marble Arch is now. Tyburn was just over the road to the north on that traffic island, there.” He indicated another traffic island at the bottom of the Edgware Road. "It’s not easy to get to it with all these vehicles.

  "In the old days, prisoners would come from Newgate Prison, up to Oxford Street and then all the way here in open carts. With a couple of stops for a drink, it would take over two and a half hours. Tyburn would have been a small village on the outskirts of London, in those days. The last hanging was in 1783. After that, public hangings took place outside Newgate prison.

  “It’s funny to think that only 54 years later, Queen Victoria was crowned.”

  Arm in arm, they started to stroll down Broad Walk towards Hyde Park Corner. The sun was now setting in the west and the air was becoming distinctly chillier. When they reached Hyde Park Corner, they took the underpass to Green Park and continued down Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace. They soon reached the big roundabout in front of the palace itself and Milton pointed out where Marble Arch had once stood. He explained how all the extensions of almost 200 years earlier had created the façade of the palace that is so well known around the world.

  “Well, aren’t you going to tell me about Green Park as well,” commented Pamela, as they left Hyde Park Corner.

  "There’s not really much to tell. It was a swampy, grim place before Charles the Second bought it. It had been a part of the Poultney family estate. They subsequently became the Earls of Bath. Anyway, King Charles put a brick wall around the park and laid out the paths. He even had an ice house built. I suppose its greatest claim to fame is that Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks was first played here.

  “Today, I think it’s a lovely, peaceful place to walk and chat with a friend. Mind you, it used to be a dreadful haunt for highwaymen and thieves, before London had spread out so far and became so large.”

  “I feel very safe with you,” Pamela remarked as she held Milton’s arm tighter. She looked closer at him, realising that he was quite the educated man with a real interest in life.

  “We’re just about to go into St James Park, which I think is far more interesting,” he said, before they crossed over the Mall and followed the footpath on the north side of the lake to the Blue Bridge.

  "This all used to belong to Eton College. God alone knows why. It was also swampy and near St James Hospital which, in those days, looked after lepers. London itself was based where the city is now and with the river Thames acting as the main sewer in the olden days, the whole place must have been pretty smelly.

  "So, the rich and privileged began to buy land to the west, because the prevailing winds would take the stench away to the east. Henry the Eighth bought the land from Eton College. He also bought York Place from Cardinal Wolseley and then built York Palace, which later became Whitehall.

  "Later, James the First had the land drained, which would have left the River Tyburn flowing through the middle. The river still runs, but it’s now all enclosed and in culverts. It comes all the way from Hampstead, through Marble Arch, down to Green Park, under St James Park and then into the Thames. Today, it’s all part of the sewage system that was built during Victoria’s reign. This lake is supposed to have been a part of the river Tyburn.

  “Anyway, Charles the Second made the park available to the public and it quickly obtained a pretty awful reputation for open acts of lechery. So the years roll by and nothing much really changes.” Milton kissed her and they both laughed. They left the park, walked down Great George Street into Parliament Square and so to Westminster tube station.

  Chapter 8

  Monday – Three Days to Go

  The big anti-cyclone over Russia and northern Europe was still holding up the progress of the depressions that had moved across the Atlantic. The first was almost stationery over Iceland and the second was between
the Azores and the southwest coast of Ireland.

  In London, the Meteorological Office was now watching the changes to these depressions, both of which were continuing to deepen, causing wind speeds to rise quite dramatically. Warnings were issued to shipping in all sea areas to the west of Ireland, ranging from Storm Force in Trafalgar to Severe Storm in South East Iceland and Bailey.

  The weather over the United Kingdom remained still and cold, with patches of freezing fog over northern England and southern Scotland. Temperatures had dropped overnight to minus-5 degrees in many areas and out in the country there were even reports of minus-10 degrees

  Martin Havers got out of bed as soon as the alarm went off. He walked to the window and looked through the curtains. Bugger, he thought. There’s too much frost out there to get much done today.

  Through the window, he could see the frost on the grass, the trees, the fence posts and his small pond was completely iced over. Over in the distance, he could just make out where he had been ploughing over the weekend. The furrows now looked just like neat rows of shallow snowdrifts.

  He glanced to his right, looking at the cowshed, where his cattle were housed for the winter. I’d better make sure they are all OK.

  And with that, ensuring that he didn’t disturb his wife, he padded to the bathroom.

  Alice was already dressed and just finishing her breakfast, as if a piece of toast and a cup of tea could be called that. She was rather looking forward to the day ahead. It was time to show Michael Varley that she was no push over and, indeed, was probably worth a decent pay rise.

  After returning home the previous evening, she had had a long bath, using the Fenjal that her mother had given her for Christmas. Although the bath oil invariably made a mess of the plug chain, it did have remarkable restorative properties. She had woken feeling smooth and relaxed all over and when she applied her eyeliner, she thought that her eyes were sparkly and bright. Yes, she was looking forward to her day.