Seb contemplated the door for a few moments. Someone, a long time ago, had removed the door handle, no doubt to assist in constructing the false wall. There was also a large keyhole. He pushed the door, but it was firmly closed.
“Have you got an old door handle that’ll fit this?” He looked at Jack, enquiringly.
“As a matter of fact, I have. And I’ve got a big key that’ll fit that lock. They are both in my spares’ cupboard. Dad told me never to throw them out and I’ve often wondered what they were for. I’ll nip upstairs and get them.”
While he was away, Seb picked up a sweeping brush and cleaned away all the dust and cobwebs behind the false wall that had accumulated over the past eighty odd years. There was nothing remarkable about the door. It needed a lick of paint, perhaps, but beyond that it was just the same as all the other doors.
Jack soon returned with the door handle and the key. He also brought a tin of WD 40. Seb checked to ensure that the door handle was solidly fixed to the spindle, before inserting it into the lock. He twisted the handle and, to his surprise, it turned without too much effort. It was stiff from a lack of use, but even when turned fully the door remained shut.
“It must be locked.”
“Let me see,” said Jack. He put the red attachment tube onto the nozzle of the can and sprayed some of the oil into the keyhole. They waited a few moments while the oil penetrated the lock itself, before Seb inserted the key. It slipped easily into the lock and he was able to turn it without difficulty. He twisted the door handle again and firmly pushed the door. It opened, to reveal stone steps descending into a darkened stairwell. Just like on every other floor in the building, eight steps down, there was a part landing. Seb realised that there would be a further four steps, followed by a part landing and then a further eight steps. At the bottom, there should be another door.
He looked to his left but could see no light switch. He could make out an old gas mantle halfway down the wall. He walked down a few steps, reached up and twisted the gas tap to check the supply. There was no hiss of escaping gas.
“This cellar must have been closed off well before the time the hotel was converted from gas to electricity. That would have been in the 1930s. The lift must have been installed at the same time, because there is no access to it from below. The actual hoist machinery is all on the top floor.”
“My dad told me that he remembered when the lift was put in.” Jack commented. “It was after the abdication of Edward VIII, but before the start of the second war. So around 1937, I guess.”
“A bit late for a hotel at the top of its game, but exceptionally good timing for the war. It seems that the gas supply has been cut, so we’ll need a torch.”
“I thought we might. I’ve brought one with me.” Jack produced a small pocket torch with a very bright beam. He led the way down the stairs.
At the bottom, they found that the door had been left open. Seb shone the torch to his right where they saw a solid brick wall. To his left, just as on the floor above, they found a passage running to the rear of the building. Halfway along, there was a door on the right. Seb was somewhat surprised that it opened easily when he turned the handle. Beyond the door, there was a cellar immediately beneath the kitchen. A few boxes had been left haphazardly on the floor.
A second door was at the end of the passage and it opened into a large cellar situated under the laundry and the entrance dock from the car park. There were old wine racks on the walls and a large table in the middle of the floor. The far left hand wall was brick. It was obvious that the whole cellar was constructed under only two thirds of the building.
“I’ve seen enough,” Seb announced. He turned round and returned to the basement with Fred following behind. When they reached the top of the cellar stairs, Seb locked the door and removed the door handle and the spindle.
“Put these back into your spares cupboard. And keep them safe because I’ll want them again very soon.”
He walked up the stairs to his office, where he sat down behind his father’s desk. Glancing at the desk clock, he realised that they had been down in the basement for over three hours. It was now almost one o’clock. He had a small television in the corner of the office and he turned it on. The first thing he saw was the statement from the Environment Agency concerning the immediate weather situation. Seb listened with little concentration, as his thoughts were more focussed on the morning’s discovery. He jumped when he realised that the presenter had advised everyone to ’Stay Calm’.
I need to get to Soho, he thought, reaching for the telephone. He dialled Andy’s number.
“Hello. This is Sebastian Fortescue Brown. Are you free?”
“Yeah. I’m over in Battersea,” Andy replied. “How can I help?”
“I need to get to Soho as soon as possible.”
“I can be with you in twenty-five minutes tops.”
“I’ll be waiting outside.”
Seb made another two calls, before slipping off his overalls and re-dressing in his suit. He left the hotel at twenty past one.
Andy was rather surprised to receive Sebastian’s call. He was at his friend’s flat in Battersea, getting it ready for a further photo session with Alice on the coming weekend. Having convinced himself that she could be a potential star he now knew that he would have to treat her with complete respect. Finding out that she worked for Michael Varley was a big surprise. The fact that she had completely ignored him was a further confirmation that Alice was not to be treated with disdain, nor to be patronised but rather she was to be looked after with total courtesy and consideration. That was why he was at the flat, making sure it was clean and welcoming. All the surfaces were now dusted and the floors vacuumed. The fridge was cleaned and restocked. The bathroom was clean and there was even a vase of flowers on the table.
Seb’s call had come just as Andy was putting away the Dyson. He was ready to leave, so he locked up and went downstairs to his taxi. It was only a short journey, over Battersea Bridge and through Kensington, to get to the Gloucester Palace Hotel. Just as he was parking the cab, Seb came through the front door.
“Where to, guv?”
“Carlisle Street in Soho. You know the way. We’ve been there before.” Seb settled back into the seat by the nearside door.
“Be about twenty minutes. There seems to be quite a lot of traffic about.”
But it wasn’t the traffic that lengthened the time of the journey. It was the increasing number of people thronging the streets. Sebastian looked up from his paper, as the taxi stopped yet again.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Apparently the Environment Agency has issued a flood warning for London,” Andy replied. “I saw a brief snatch of the statement on the news. Hang on! I’ll see if I can get it on the radio.” He fiddled with the knobs and suddenly they both heard the latest announcement, ending with ‘Please keep calm at all times’.
“I can’t understand why they broadcast messages like that,” Seb commented. “It only causes panic. Just look at all these people on the streets.”
“You’re right. It’s totally ridiculous.” Andy agreed, as he drove out of Knightsbridge, round the top part of Hyde Park Corner and into Park Lane. It was just two o’clock, as he worked the taxi through the traffic at Marble Arch and into Portman Street. Suddenly all the people seemed to melt away and he had a clear run up Wigmore Street to Cavendish Place. He crossed Regent Street and quite soon turned right down Berniers Street. He crossed over Oxford Street and finally arrived at Carlisle Street.
“Please wait,” instructed Seb. “I won’t be more than half an hour.” He got out of the cab and entered the building.
At the top of the stairs, he entered a comfortable, well-appointed waiting room. The young Eurasian woman behind the reception desk looked up and smiled.
“Good afternoon, Mr Fortescue Brown. I’m sorry, but Mr Chao is still engaged. I’m sure he won’t be more than a few minutes.”
Unseen by Seb, she p
ressed a bell push under her desk to alert Mr Chao. After speaking with Andy, one of Seb’s two other calls had been to Mr Chao. As his arrival was at the agreed time, he was mildly irritated to be kept waiting. Very soon, however, the door to the left of the receptionist’s desk opened and a tall Englishman emerged. He turned in the entrance, to say good bye to Mr Chao and to shake his hand. After a brief glance at Seb, he left the office.
Mr Chao came into the reception area to greet Seb. “Hello, Seb. It’s been too long. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Please come in.” He ushered Seb into his office, followed by the receptionist.
“Would you care for coffee?” she asked.
“That would be very civil,” Seb replied.
The two men sat down in two matching brown leather armchairs. There was a low coffee table between them. Mr Chao looked at Sebastian enquiringly, waiting for him to explain his visit.
For ten minutes or so, Seb followed the time-honoured ritual of discussing a number of unrelated topics, Mr Chao’s health, the state of business, the current political situation, until finally, Seb decided it was an appropriate time to broach the real reason for his visit.
“Mr Chao,” Seb started. “You’ve known me for over twenty-five years and I think, in that time, we have built a good relationship.”
“Very true, Sebastian. I remember when you first assisted me in my supermarket. You were efficient and reliable. Indeed, even when I asked if you could assist with certain extra tasks, you did not shirk away. Yes.” He nodded. “I agree. We have built a reasonable relationship.”
“Thank you.” Seb nodded and looked Mr Chao in the eyes. “I now need your assistance in a somewhat delicate matter which needs to be discreet, resolved quickly and just as quickly forgotten.”
“That sounds rather intriguing.” Mr Chao returned the look, as the receptionist re-entered the office, carrying a tray with a large cafetière and two cups and saucers. She poured the coffee and left them.
“When you say, ‘just as quickly forgotten’, I presume you are looking for some people who can assist you now, but who will soon be moving on elsewhere.”
“Exactly!”
“The trouble with you English is that you always need to reach the point so quickly, without observing the common courtesies of conversation,” Mr Chao observed.
“Indeed,” replied Seb, wondering why Mr Chao had decided to revert to the opening gambits that he thought were already satisfied. “We still have so much to learn in this world from the older and wiser ways of life.”
Mr Chao nodded and sat back in his chair. He was a handsome man, with a shock of white hair, carefully brushed back over his head. His black eyes were devoid of emotion and his face was unlined. Although of some age, he exuded knowledge and power, but strangely without being menacing. He and Seb had worked with each other over the years, generally when Seb could be of assistance to Mr Chao. In those early days, Mr Chao had come to rely on Seb’s inherent knowledge of the British way of life, but now their relationship was built on mutual trust. Mr Chao appreciated that, recently, Seb had stepped up in the world, having inherited his father’s hotel. He had changed and was more confident in himself. He was no longer drifting, but in control of his present and his future.
“How is the hotel business?” he asked.
“We’re doing very well, indeed.”
“I hear that you only have a skeleton staff there, these days.”
“When I inherited the business, it was necessary to make some fundamental decisions in order to bolster up its profitability. There were a number of staff changes, but I feel we now have the balance just about right.” Seb leant forward and picked up his coffee. Mr Chao continued to observe him. After taking a sip, Seb leant back in his chair, placing his hands on the arm rests.
“This is a most comfortable chair,” he remarked.
“Thank you,” Mr Chao replied. “My nephew built them to my specific design and instructions.” He also leant back and crossed his legs. Seb immediately relaxed, realising that he had passed some hidden test.
“So, how may I help you specifically?”
“I am aware that you employ or have knowledge of certain workmen who could create a hidden doorway in my hotel.”
“Yes,” Mr Chao nodded slowly. “That is so.”
“I want to construct a room, the entrance of which is known only to me, but which I can access without difficulty.”
“Will you require such a door to be operated manually, or powered by electricity?”
“I’ve already thought about that,” Sebastian replied. “The problem with electricity is that the power supply can be cut. On the other hand, it can assist with creating much greater security. I thought that an electrical system, which can be overridden manually, might be best. I don’t really want to install a backup source of power.”
“As with a separate generator?”
“Indeed.” In his turn, Sebastian nodded.
“All of this can be done,” Mr Chao announced. “There will be a price to pay, but I’m sure we know each other well enough not to be concerned too deeply with the need for paperwork and invoices. I will send my elder son to see you this evening. You already know Lee. He’s proving to be an excellent administrator. I understand your need for discretion and we will employ no more than two workmen, both of whom are soon to leave London to work in the United States of America. We will need a discreet access, so the comings and goings are not observed by idle eyes.”
“Thank you, Mr Chao. I was sure that I could rely on you for your knowledge and assistance. I look forward to meeting with Lee this evening. Shall we say at eight o’clock?”
“That will be excellent.” They both stood and Mr Chao indicated for Seb to walk towards the door. Mr Chao opened the door and shook Seb’s hand.
“Thank you so much for coming to see me. This has been an enlightening meeting.”
“I’m grateful for your time, Mr Chao.”
Sebastian nodded to the receptionist and went down the stairs to the waiting taxi. Just as he got in, all the lights in all the buildings went out. Just what we need, he thought. A bloody power cut.
Half an hour earlier, the gentleman who kept Seb waiting, after leaving the building, went back to his own car and his driver drove him to Scotland Yard. The roads were becoming increasingly packed with people. In conjunction with the Home Office, Chief Superintendent Kevin Bleasdale was heading up a police enquiry into missing immigrant workers. His meeting with Mr Chao was only one of an on-going series of meetings with prominent businessmen, whose enterprises were dependent on low paid, often immigrant workers. Mr Chao had many different interests and was a surprising source of information, but much of which, although accurate, would in the event turn out to be somewhat dated.
Chief Superintendent Bleasdale was pursuing a number of leads within businesses which were basically operating legitimately, although very close to the margin. Farmers in East Anglia and Lincolnshire, most of whom had voted to leave Europe, now found that their source of cheap labour from Eastern Europe continued to disappear like early morning mist on a warm summer’s day. Kevin Bleasdale was not a political person but blessed with a high degree of common sense. He had voted to ‘Remain’ but only to ensure that his holiday trips to Europe would not become affected in the future. He had little sympathy with those farmers, whose profits were based on intensive labour – fruit picking, potato lifting and so on. Without thinking, they had voted for purely historical reasons to leave the European Union.
For decades, even before Britain’s entry into what had then been called the Common Market, those farmers’ livelihoods were based on the back-breaking work of immigrant labour. But now, a different form of labour was emerging. Peasants from Eastern Europe, North Africa and even the Middle East were being encouraged to come to Britain, often illegally, to be ‘employed’ in conditions of total servitude, some might even say slavery. They were held in dormitories, paid very low wages, most of which was later deducted
as ‘living costs’. The gang masters hired out their labour to local farmers, making a considerable profit on the deal.
But it was not only in agriculture; in all the low paid industries a similar pattern was emerging. Girls were imported for the sex trade, although ostensibly as domestic workers; boys too were brought in for the sex trade on the pretext they would be working in kitchens in the restaurant trade; there was even a market for domestic workers whose employment was often completely hidden from the authorities. And, of course, many of these workers would arrive in the UK when quite young, but after a few years of deprivation and unremitting hard work, their usefulness to their owners and employers had gone. Thus, an even newer industry was emerging, basically one of removal and disposal.
Although no one would officially admit any collusion, there was an understanding that the economy did, in some part, depend on these immigrant workers. Many of the vegetables in Britain’s supermarkets were hand-picked, washed and sorted by immigrant labour. The farmers were invariably content to allow hiring contractors to supply the labour and, in the main, they asked no questions so long as the harvest was collected.
With the Brexit vote, the supply of au pairs reduced dramatically. Back in the ’50s and ’60s, young, western European girls answered advertisements to work in private homes for little more than board and lodging plus some spending money. The draw, of course, was the opportunity to learn English while living as a member of the family. After joining the Common Market there was a steady formalisation of this process but with the vote to leave, the availability of these young ladies was drastically and quickly reduced.
The previous ad hoc arrangements had been overtaken long ago and would never be reintroduced. Instead, seeing opportunities opening, new companies had been formed, acting as agencies to place young ladies, especially from Eastern Europe and possessing some Basic English, with good British households. Many girls saw this as an opportunity to exchange their drab existence and total lack of a future in their home environments into a life of excitement and travel. Many were duped into handing over their personal documents and many were brought into homes where they were treated no better than scullery maids and sex slaves. All their wages were used to pay off the ‘loans’ that had been created to pay the travel costs to the United Kingdom.
Thursday Page 23
