by Alan G Boyes
Nearing fifty, he regarded the various internal reviews as likely to lead to yet another disruptive reorganisation and, possibly, an even more unwelcome job posting. He had been contemplating early retirement if it was ever to become an option, something he would not have countenanced a few years previously, but the July terrorists had immediately changed his depressed mood. After a career that had been spent largely debating and planning the theoretical, there was now something practical to do. The bombings had given him the opportunity to really get stuck into something big and possibly make a name for himself along the way. This was now a real challenge for him, and he was more than ready to meet it.
“Follow the money, lad. Always follow the money and you’ll get your reward.” The words had been spoken to him by his chief when Manders was a young officer in the Metropolitan Police. This usually proved to be a wise and true maxim, but the July bombers were “clean skins” – the name given to criminals not previously known to the police. They lived and worked in Britain, and came from respectable, law abiding families. Once their identities were known, Manders’ priority was to get a specialist team up and running which could begin the painstaking task of trying to identify and trace bank accounts and any suspicious financial transactions pertaining to the crime. It was going to take a very long time but his team was briefed and within twenty four hours of the bombs going off they had an enlarged office plus the extra desks and chairs for the additional resources provided to him. Communications equipment followed within hours. The powerful computers necessary for sifting and sorting the huge amounts of data were installed within two days and he was told that his budgetary limits were being increased. Suddenly, life for Manders had got an awful lot better.
* * *
Donaldson parked the sleek black Jaguar on the double yellow lines immediately outside the hospital entrance and walked briskly up the steps to meet Cindy. He wore his peaked cap and smart driver’s uniform that added elegance to his military bearing. He saw Cindy, her left leg heavily plastered, standing by a small green suitcase and leaning upon an aluminium crutch under her left shoulder. Donaldson gave her a broad smile, exposing his almost flawless set of white even teeth.
“Good morning, Mrs Crossland. You are looking very well,” he said with only the slightest of emphasis on the word ‘very’ as he picked up the case.
“Thank you, Jack. Yes, I’m fine but I’m not sure how I’ll manage the steps, so perhaps we can walk down the ramp.” Cindy started to walk towards the slope but it was not as easy as she thought it would be and, fearful of losing her footing, she flung her right arm out and held onto Donaldson’s jacket. Donaldson immediately responded, his rapid reflexes borne of years of training sprang into action and, with a speed and agility which surprised Cindy, he dropped the case and thrust his left arm around her to steady her. His grip was firm and certain, but not hard. Still supporting her, he deftly picked up the case in his right hand and started to walk slowly down the ramp.
“I would have got you a wheelchair had you waited. There is no point in risking a fall.”
Cindy knew she had been silly to attempt the walk which to her instant regret had given Donaldson the opportunity to get physically close to her.
“I think I can manage now, Jack, thanks.” Cindy was steady and felt uncomfortable that Donaldson’s arm was perhaps just a little too tight around her and that his hand was resting an inch or so higher than it needed to.
“Can’t have you slipping. Alan would sack me if I let you go now and you fell”. He was clearly enjoying this moment.
From the very first time that Crossland had introduced his wife to him, Donaldson had been longing to get to know her better and this was too good an opportunity to miss. He regarded Cindy Crossland as not only a very attractive woman but sexy as well, and Donaldson had often fantasised whilst making love to Ludmilla that it was actually Cindy moaning underneath him. How he would love his chimera to become reality! He thought about the sort of life they could have together, how hard he would work for her – the army had taught him how to be self-sufficient and practical – and his hopes were high that on the journey home he could ingratiate himself sufficiently to tempt her towards his deluded ambitions. Things could not have got off to a better start, with Mrs Crossland now physically close and apparently happy at having him hold her firmly.
Reluctantly Cindy allowed him to escort her to the car and he dutifully opened the front passenger door. Donaldson had ensured the front seat was fully set back to permit Cindy sufficient room for her plastered leg to remain straight.
“Can I get in the back?” Cindy asked. Donaldson pointed out to her that he had prepared the front passenger seat to permit her to get in easily and to sit comfortably for the journey. In fact, as Donaldson rightly commented, it was by no means certain that she would have even been able to sit with any degree of comfort in the rear of the saloon.
Cindy had a brief glance through the car window and nodded, but it came as an unpleasant surprise to her when she realised that for the next two or three hours she would be strapped into a seat next to a driver she intensely disliked. She eased herself onto the fine leather cushion, bottom first followed by her right leg, and then cursed when she couldn’t manoeuvre her left foot above the door sill and into the foot well. Donaldson removed his cap, leant forward and bent down, his face brushing against the side of her hair. Carefully and very gently, he placed his left hand underneath the calf of her leg easing it upwards and into the car. As Cindy leaned backwards into the deep backrest Donaldson stood upright and took hold of the seat belt pulling it out a little.
“Can I give you a hand with this?” he enquired innocently.
Cindy thought she knew only too well what he was likely to do next if she agreed, and rapidly refused his offer, quickly grabbing hold of the tongue and pushing it firmly into the clasp. Donaldson closed the passenger door and walked briskly around the vehicle to take up his position behind the wheel.
Apart from a couple of occasions – when Cindy wrongly thought Donaldson deliberately put the automatic into ‘PARK’ for no other reason than to have an excuse to brush her right thigh with his hand – the journey passed by uneventfully and by one o’clock in the afternoon the fat tyres crunched the gravel drive as the car made its slow journey towards the front entrance of Red Gables. She had to endure his overlong assistance as he helped her from the car, much the same as at the hospital earlier, and despite his protestations that he ought to see her safely inside, curtly dismissed him as soon as she was at the door. The old familiar feelings of rejection welled up inside Donaldson and his face reddened but he controlled his emotions. Cindy Crossland was different. Cindy Crossland was worth waiting for.
“Not even a bloody cup of tea, the bitch,” Donaldson muttered silently to himself as he returned to the car.
The night before Donaldson had lain awake, half dreaming and half imagining helping Cindy indoors and making sure she was perfectly comfortable. He had assumed that she would invite him in and offer him something to drink when they arrived at Red Gables, which would have been the perfect opportunity for the two of them to relax into conversation and get to know each other better. When it was clear that close contact with her was going to have to wait, Donaldson was more than disappointed, he was angered. But it will happen, he told himself. He was convinced that Cindy knew how attracted he was to her and misguidedly concluded that the real reason Cindy had been so dismissive at the door was because deep down she really did fancy him and was nervous about taking the plunge. He would be patient, give her more time. He had met a few women like that before and they had all given in eventually.
Although tired, Cindy knew she had to make a phone call to Peter, the ex-cabinet office colleague she had been due to meet on that fateful Thursday. She had been putting it off until now, not wanting a stream of visitors at her bedside, and she knew that whatever Peter wanted to see her about it was unlikely to be a subject suitable for discussion in an open hospit
al ward.
“Peter, its Cindy. Sorry we missed each other last week but given what happened I guess you may have had a few problems anyway.”
“Lovely to hear from you, Cindy. Hope you or Alan weren’t caught up in that shindig?”
“Actually, Peter I was. Got a broken leg and some other minor injuries as I was on one of the trains, the Liverpool Street to Aldgate one. I’m home now though, which is why I’m phoning.”
“My God! How awful for you dear girl. I’m so very sorry. Wished I hadn’t dragged you down here now. Anyhow, no need any more for us to meet just yet. I was being a bit mysterious by not telling you why I wanted you to come, bit of subterfuge really to make sure you made the trip. I feel dreadful now I know what’s happened. Anyway, the real reason was to have a surprise glass of champagne with you and then off for a bite together to celebrate my promotion. Can’t speak over the phone but I’m now at the FO and so we will have our little party another day. Superseded by events shall we say, but we must stay in touch. Let me know if I can ever be of help. You know – anything. Just ask.”
Peter was one of those civil servants who always chose what he said very carefully and yet always managed to make his words sound relaxed and informal. This could be very disarming and many a person had let their guard down and revealed just a little too much when in his company. Cindy therefore knew he meant what he said, and that he would definitely contact her again sometime. She momentarily wondered why – as she had left Peter’s world of high politics and its intrigues far behind – but he and his boyfriend Stephen, twenty years his junior, were both great fun to have around and she had really enjoyed the quite outrageous parties she had been to at the house they shared in Chelsea. The Foreign Office will certainly be livelier with Peter around, she thought.
It had been over a week since she had spoken to Gordon, and Cindy was finding it hard to concentrate. As the days passed, she had become more and more anxious that perhaps he had changed his mind and would not ring her mobile after all. She then wondered if he had lost the number and whether she should call him again, but decided that as this would be such a transparently false excuse it was likely to be very counter-productive. Either he did want to speak with her again or he didn’t, she told herself. If he did he would not have lost the number; if he didn’t call, there was little point in her chasing him. Despite her impeccable reasoning, this morning she had twice started dialling his number before aborting the call. Mrs Crookes, the cleaner, who normally came only twice a week, was now doing an extra three hours on Friday afternoons and would be arriving shortly and Cindy did not think it would be sensible to make a call to Gordon once she had arrived.
To take her mind off Gordon, Cindy decided to check her emails and logged on to her computer. Staring blankly at the small blue lights across the centre of the screen, indicating the normal start-up procedure of the operating system, a thought flashed into her brain. Impatiently she drummed her slim fingers on the desk beside her keyboard and wondered why computers were so slow to get going, yet so phenomenally quick at doing the really complex stuff. Her password prompt appeared and a few seconds later she had clicked the internet icon on the desktop screen. Selecting her preferred search engine, she typed in “Gordon Truscott” hoping she had spelled the surname correctly. It was a chance, she thought, just a slim hope, that there might be some information about this man that fate had brought into her life. As the search results rolled onto the screen, Cindy was amazed. There were at least fifty or more matches. Deeply curious, she rapidly scrolled through the list and read the summary of each until deciding to start with one of the more promising looking items.
Gordon Truscott. Born 16th February 1966. West Wickham, Kent. Attended Collington Road Primary School then Grovewood Comprehensive. Left school at 18, eight GCSE ‘A’ grades and 3 ‘Advanced Level’ passes, again grade A. No university. At aged 16 started writing games programs for the Sinclair ZX Spectrum and, later, the BBC Acorn computers. Reputed to be one of the most prolific of early games programmers with several well known titles to his credit both under license to software houses and in specialist computer magazines of the day. Started own games software company, ‘TrustSoft’, on leaving school and later aged twenty-two founded Truscott Commercial Solutions dedicated to producing software for the emerging business PC market. In 1999 sold Truscott Commercial Solutions for a reputed £300M. Also sole owner of Truscott Enterprise Holdings the full extent of its activities are unclear, but thought to include property development.
Single, never married. Truscott avoids overt publicity and spends most of his time at one or other of his homes. These include a large shooting lodge, extensively renovated, built on his 2000 acre estate in a remote area of the Scottish Highlands. Other properties are known to include a London penthouse suite overlooking the Thames and a villa in Monemvasia, Southern Greece. Interested in the Arts and occasionally seen attending charity functions at which Truscott is usually unaccompanied.
Cindy bookmarked the web page in order that she might return to it quickly and then set about accessing the other web sites listed on her search results pages. She became immersed in reading everything about Gordon, time sped by, and after a little over three hours she concluded that most of the other articles were more about gossip and supposition than hard fact. A few females had been named but nothing of any substance was forthcoming that might hint at a long-term relationship.
She returned to the search screen and clicked ‘images’ and pressed the enter key. Almost instantly, the screen filled with pictures of Gordon. Some were of him casually dressed, some in black or white tie for a particular charity gala or some such. A few showed him accompanied by a female but his companion was either the host or fellow guest. The photographs however fulfilled Cindy’s prime purpose of seeing exactly what Gordon looked like, as she had only faint recollections from the train. The clear images now showed him to be quite tall, probably a little over six feet with slightly waved brown hair, always – it seemed from the photographs – immaculately groomed. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his facial features, nothing to get overly excited about at all, but her heart was racing.
“I don’t believe it… three hundred million… on the underground?” Cindy muttered absentmindedly to herself. Then, more audibly, “So that’s what you look like”, and she immediately hoped Mrs Crookes didn’t hear downstairs.
She needn’t have worried. Mrs Crookes was pushing the powerful, red vacuum cleaner across the deep sitting room carpet gathering up non-existent dirt, whilst listening through a headset to her favourite Scissor Sisters latest album. Cindy’s expert fingers flashed across the keyboard and she paged back to the first text item. This time she studied the words in detail and the more she read and reread them, the greater her delight and anticipation of his promised phone call – the call that would change her life.
9
Alan Crossland had finished reading his emails when Jane opened his door and walked into his office. In her right hand, she was carrying a small DL-sized white envelope which she gave to her boss.
“I haven’t opened it but it has just been delivered by the police.”
“What? Did you say the police?” Crossland’s raised, incredulous voice reverberated off the oak-panelled walls. “Since when have they been postmen?” He continued, as he took the envelope. Jane remained motionless, clearly curious as to what its contents might be but Crossland made no attempt to open it in her presence and said a mere “Thanks, Jane” in a tone that clearly implied ‘goodbye’. Jane stiffened and slowly turned before she left the room, closing the heavy door quietly behind her.
Crossland carefully slit open the envelope and placed the letter onto the desk. It was obviously word-processed, despite the personalised salutation to ‘Dear Alan’ and informed Crossland that following the terrorist outrage of the 7th July, some bank accounts (not named or identified) had been frozen by the Bank of England in accordance with the powers entrusted to it by Pa
rliament. Hannet-Mar was not one of the banks involved but Alan was reminded of his obligations in respect of the legislation and asked to report any suspicious transactions immediately to the Anti-Terrorist Unit. His cooperation was being sought and in this regard he could expect a visit from the ATU to whom every courtesy should be extended.
Bloody cheek, thought Alan. He knew full well the law and the obligations of all banks in respect of money laundering or indeed the possible financing of terrorism. He might not be too fussy over some of his personal clients but he knew all those people and they were certainly not terrorists.
Anyway, he thought, I can only act once I know, or ought to know, or have reasonable grounds for suspicion. Until that arises, how can I assist the ATU?
Nonetheless, he was shaken. This was the first time the ATU or any law enforcement agency was going to visit his bank, and Crossland suspected that the delicate phrasing within the letter ‘to whom every courtesy should be extended’ carried with it an implicit threat. He knew he had nothing to hide that would be of interest to the Anti-Terrorist Unit, but he was also certain the ATU were not just going to pay him a social call. He hoped that their investigations would not lead to an in-depth examination of his personal files which were likely to reveal some uncomfortable, if not illegal, commercial transactions between some rather murky characters and the bank. Hiding the odd bank account from the Financial Services Authority was both easy and relatively risk-free, but concealment from the ATU was not an option. He would have to disclose all his files if asked.
