by Alan G Boyes
He buzzed his secretary’s phone. “I’m not going to lunch today Jane and you can cancel any of this afternoon’s appointments. Thanks.”
He thought it would be prudent to undertake an immediate review of his personal files to make absolutely certain there was nothing he had overlooked. It did not take him long as he was very familiar with them, and by mid-afternoon he was nearly finished and apart from one was totally satisfied. Most involved investments and accounts lodged by or for various foreign multi-millionaires, mainly Russian, Middle Eastern or American, and he was feeling rather relieved. The one he had a slightly uneasy feeling about was the latest addition to his personal drawer, the Halima Chalthoum email on behalf of Corniche Consortium. As promised, all the paper documentation had arrived and appeared to check out. The funds had arrived, via a respected bank with branches throughout the Middle East, but he was none too sure whether there really was a properly constituted and functioning consortium. When he met Fadyar she was very reticent to talk about its intentions and changed the subject. Crossland was beginning to realise that he knew very little about Fadyar Masri other than she obviously wished to disguise her identity, at least to the extent of using a different name, and that she had been had been recommended by his old friend Kenneth Styles – at one time probably Crossland’s most profitable personal client but who had sold everything up a year back and now enjoyed comfortable retirement in Sussex. He rang Kenneth’s number and his wife Penny answered.
“Oh. Hello Penny, Alan Crossland. Just a quick call to see how you both are and to have a word with Ken about a mutual friend of ours.”
A brief silence followed.
“Alan, you haven’t heard then. I’m sorry I thought I sent out the funeral invitations to all our friends but Ken died several weeks ago,” she replied faintly.
“What? No, surely not? Oh, Penny, I am so, so very sorry. I really didn’t know. What happened? Did the fags get him?”
“No, Alan, nothing like that. He was driving back from the golf club when his car went off the road on that dangerous hill just outside Eastbourne. The strange thing was that he was well over the limit, nearly three times according to the police. But you know Ken, he never really drank much and only ever had one drink if he was driving. Everyone at the club said he only had one glass of wine after the match. We assumed he must have called into a pub on the way home as the accident occurred at three in the afternoon and he left the club, which is only half an hour from here, just after midday.”
Alan Crossland was stunned. He had known Styles for twenty years and could vouch for his temperate habits. He didn’t know what to say, other than to proffer more commiserations and to promise that he and Cindy would definitely be down before the end of summer. The news had visibly shaken him. He shook his head, his mouth went dry. Slowly he replaced the receiver. He thought he could hear his heart as it began to thump away inside him, slowly at first then rapidly as the wave of fear travelled from his brain to his stomach before rising upwards again and crashing into his chest. He shuddered and sweated. He was certain that whatever had befallen his friend, it was not likely to have been an alcohol-related road accident. Suicide perhaps? But that made little sense. Ken was a wealthy man enjoying a happy retirement with his wife whom he adored.
The more Crossland thought about Styles the more convinced he became that his friend’s death was more likely to be related to his past employment. Crossland knew himself that consultancy in the Middle East rarely followed Western ethical standards. Styles was good, very good. He had brought to fruition the financing of some of the most prestigious and expensive projects in the Arab world and could personally bring together chief executives of multi-national organisations to sign up to deals. He had the skill to always remain on excellent terms with both sides in a negotiation even when, rarely, it went sour. Perhaps, unwittingly, he had upset someone or maybe he knew too much about a particular contract. Whatever it was, Crossland did not believe Styles had died in an accident. Another shiver ran down Crossland’s spine. He had good reason to be fearful.
10
Gordon Truscott was a careful man. His father had died when he was just three years of age and his mother had struggled to keep a roof over their heads, often having to take on a part-time cleaning job in addition to her full-time work as an insurance clerk. She ensured that Gordon’s childhood was happy and safe, and was delighted when he had shown considerable aptitude for the subjects taught to him at school. Gordon had not just gained knowledge and passed examinations, he had understood the merits of loyalty, devotion and particularly the virtues of hard work and the value of money. His meteoric and unexpected rise to untold wealth and fortune brought about initially by his quest to teach himself how to programme the earliest micro-computers had not distorted those core beliefs. In those early years of personal computing he wrote games programs for fun, until he started to receive ever more lucrative offers from the fledgling magazines that needed to satisfy the hungry appetites of their new, young readership. The money rolled in, and being astute he quickly formed a small company and began copyrighting his material. Annual licence fees earned him more in a week than most men earned in a year, and very soon he was able to expand into bespoke business software offering PC-based solutions to global companies with deep pockets.
His personal life contrasted sharply with that of his business persona. He had seen the struggle and sacrifice his mother had made and this had made him risk-averse when it came to personal relationships. For many years he had successfully eluded the tenacious clutches of several females, although that had not been difficult. He simply did not love them, nor even feel a strong emotional attachment, but he was slightly bewildered as to his feelings for the woman on the underground. He hardly knew her, yet she excited him. He felt an affinity and warmth towards her that he knew was totally irrational, but was also a powerful attraction. He had spent days, and some nights, thinking about her and whether he should honour his promise to phone her, apprehensive as to exactly where it might lead – but there was something very compelling about her. He had met women of all nationalities, sizes, shapes and status. Rich, powerful women and those from the poorest of countries, but they easily slipped from his mind. Cindy, though, was different.
She seemed to be invading his mind, persistently, almost to the exclusion of everything else. That didn’t just make Cindy Crossland interesting, it made her dangerously alluring. She was clearly intelligent and well educated – the manner of her speech and choice of words even in those extreme conditions told him that – though he wished he had been able to see more of her face and features when he was close to her in the carriage. Most of the time however, it had been pitch black and impossible to see anything at short-range and even when the emergency lights were in place he had not been able to see much as there was frenzied activity going on around them and the doctor was attending to Cindy. He had hoped to see her in hospital but the brief glimpse he managed from the doors of the hospital ward revealed only that she had light brown hair.
Cindy had told him on the train she was married, but it was nonetheless a shock to see the man at her bedside. Gordon knew instantly by the body language and the concern etched into his face it was her husband, and that chance sighting was what had delayed Gordon from making the call. He needed to be absolutely certain that he was prepared to face the consequences and had spent the last few days on the losing side of an irrational debate with his conscience. He checked the time; four thirty in the afternoon. He took a deep breath, picked up the telephone and dialled her mobile.
The call itself was brief lasting little more than two minutes, but that belied the volume of information and words exchanged. Both spoke with gathering enthusiasm and speed, often the two of them speaking simultaneously yet both perfectly understanding what the other said, though Cindy carefully avoided letting slip anything that might have revealed she had been gleaning information about Gordon on the internet. At her suggestion, they agreed to meet for lu
nch the following Tuesday at the Bunch of Grapes in the small Worcestershire village of Meckerton as it was far enough away from Stillwood for her not to be recognised. Gordon did not offer to pick her up, and Cindy did not suggest it to him. It suited them both not to ask.
The next few days, Cindy could hardly contain her growing excitement and anticipation. She started doing things she hadn’t done for years, such as loudly singing along to a favourite CD, the volume level on the amplifier turned up high. She skipped around the house, flitting from room to room for no apparent reason whilst lightly muttering to herself. She was happy again.
For the first time since the crash, Cindy felt like returning to the feature article she had been preparing prior to the bombing. Such articles were still something of a novelty for her, but she was enjoying undertaking the research and the discipline that imparting sufficient factual and interesting information within a relatively small number of words imposed. She had so far managed three articles, or rather two plus the one in preparation.
Her first since she left mainstream journalism had concerned the Black Country and how it became the beating heart of Britain’s industrial revolution with great iron foundries that produced the massive engines and heavy engineering equipment that powered the nation to prosperity. Her second was a complete contrast, a walker’s guide to the canals of Worcestershire.
Whilst researching that article, walking alongside a disused canal early one Sunday morning, the path widened until she came to an open space of common grassland dotted with some trees and large brambles. A small band of ten people stood facing each other in a large circle. Each had a dog sitting at their feet. The spectacle was so unexpected and surprising, Cindy stopped to look. After a brief moment, the dog owners started walking slowly clockwise around the circle having told their dogs to stay, which they all did for a few seconds. A young black Labrador was the first to break ranks and ran into the middle of the circle to loud shouts of “No” and “Get back”. The clearly embarrassed owner fearing that her dog would be the sole transgressor, need not have been concerned. Seeing the Labrador running free and clearly enjoying itself, two – and then three – other dogs, all springer spaniels, joined in the revelry and began playfully chasing each other. Four owners were now frantically running into the circle themselves trying to catch, scold or even plead with their respective dog to come back but this only extended the game. Cindy thought the whole thing hilarious and laughed out loud. When order and calm had eventually been restored one of the circle, a grey-haired man of medium build (whose own dog Cindy noticed had not been one of the miscreants) called out in a broad Worcestershire accent to the reassembled group, “That wasn’t very good was it? It wasn’t even very funny despite it causing a great deal of mirth amongst the spectators.” Everyone, including Cindy laughed.
“I couldn’t help it,” she shouted. “I hope I’m not in the way or putting them off.”
“They’re supposed to sit still even if they are being distracted, that’s the whole point of the bloody exercise though you wouldn’t believe it by looking at this lot.” As he finished his sentence, he airily waved a long walking stick he was carrying in the general direction of the assembled group.
“Join us if you want,” he called out.
Cindy spent the rest of the morning walking in and out of dogs that were supposed to sit still and ignore her, throwing dummies for them to retrieve, and when the dogs had been turned to face in the other direction, putting tennis balls behind bushes prior to the owner sending the dog to find them. Overall, she had been impressed with the dogs and even more with their dedicated owners. In the pub afterwards, she had learnt all about them.
They were members of a small gun dog club, though not all wanted to shoot or even go beating, their aim was just to achieve a really obedient dog. Whilst the club itself separately ran more formal and advanced training as the dogs progressed, a few members local to the particular area went out each Sunday for what they termed informal training. The group would meet up, give two or three hours training to the young dogs, principally in obedience and retrieving, then adjourn to the nearest pub. Cindy enjoyed herself enormously and she left with an open invitation to contact the grey-haired man, whom she now knew as Don, a qualified trainer of springer spaniels, to join them again.
Cindy turned on her computer to continue composing her third feature, “Gun Dog Stories – by those who try to train them” gleaned of course, and written down in note form with permission, from Don and his friends.
Alan Crossland was feeling slightly more relaxed. Several days had passed and the ATU had not paid him a visit. The weekend was looming and having spent a week in the Shoreditch flat, he was looking forward to Red Gables and seeing Cindy. At 2:45pm, he said goodbye to Jane and stepped into the back of the car waiting outside the front door of his office building. He asked Jack to stop at Woodstock where he bought Cindy a large bunch of roses and was indoors just as the 6 o’clock news bulletin came on. Alan was not accustomed to buying flowers or surprise gifts as some husbands do for their wives, but a couple of colleagues had said that ‘women like that sort of thing’. As he was desperate to make his wife happy, he had resolved to do everything he could to make her feel wanted and loved since her return from hospital. Cindy put her arms around his waist and briefly kissed him on the cheek as he passed her his present.
“Thank you, Alan, what a marvellous surprise. You. Buying flowers?” she said, jauntily. “What have you been up to?” she added with a mischievous note, overly exaggerating the word ‘have’
“Not much really. The flat will need a bit of a tidy up. Sandra and Susie left it in a bit of a state; those oils make a real mess of the sheets, you know” he replied drily.
For a split second, Cindy was unsure if she heard him correctly. Then laughing loudly, she shook her head, causing her hair to move left then right before it fell gently back strand by strand to its original position. Alan thought she had enjoyed his quick repost to her question, but in fact Cindy was laughing at a vision of a naked Alan in bed with two blonde bimbos each rubbing scented oils onto the others bodies. She could not think of anything less likely or more grotesque, and in her current mood of elation, it made her laugh heartily.
A couple of hours later, Cindy was seated in a spacious armchair, a footstool supporting both her legs, trying to work out the sudoku puzzle in The Daily Telegraph. Alan was on the sofa, reading a book.
“Shall I put the news on?” Cindy asked.
“Not for me. Not unless you want it. I’ve had a pretty tough week and I might get to bed soon.” He hoped Cindy might, just might, take the hint and oblige tonight. A broken leg might stop Cindy walking far, but it wouldn’t stop them making love.
“OK, I won’t be long myself,” Cindy was non-committal. “By the way, I’m thinking of getting out and about a little next week. The leg is coming along fine and I think I can manage quite a distance, so thought I might go and look in the shops or something. Haven’t decided which day yet, probably Tuesday or Wednesday,” she innocently remarked, using the excuse she had thought of, in case Alan phoned home on Tuesday and failed to get an answer. Mrs Crookes, the housekeeper, would also have to be told the same lie.
“Are you sure you’re up to it, Cinders?” Alan asked, reminding Cindy that he only used that silly nickname when he wanted something. She now loathed it. It reminded her of when they first started to go out together.
Crossland continued with what he felt was a kind offer, “Tell me which day and I’ll make sure Jack is around to ferry you about.”
This was the very last thing Cindy wanted, and it took her off guard. Inwardly she cursed herself for not anticipating Alan’s response and now had to think quickly or she would never convince him of her cover story. Maybe she could turn this to her advantage if she was bold.
“Absolutely not, Alan. I’m sorry, but that man has a problem and I find him quite threatening at times. On the way back from the hospital I felt he was deliberat
ely putting the automatic into PARK as an excuse to touch my legs, and he brushed against me whenever he could as he helped me in and out of the car. He makes me shudder. No, Alan, I am quite capable of getting a taxi.”
“I’m sure you’re just being over-sensitive and looking for things that don’t exist. The man’s a driver, damn it, and a good one at that. It’s sometimes safer to put the selector into PARK. Anyway, how do you help someone who can’t walk in and out of a car without touching or brushing against them? But have it your way, use a taxi.” Alan rose and came over and kissed her gently but fully on the lips. “Maybe see you later, goodnight.”
Once he was upstairs Cindy exhaled a long, deep sigh. Tuesday couldn’t come a moment too soon; Alan’s closing remark already forgotten.
The weekend passed uneventfully and far too slowly for her. At times she snapped at Alan and had to apologise quickly, putting her bad temper down to her frustration at still having the leg in plaster. This was partly true, but she knew the real reason was that Alan intruded upon her thoughts of Gordon. However, Tuesday arrived at last.
Cindy woke a little before eight to find the mid-August sun already casting a square of golden light around the closed curtains. Brilliant rays speared into her bedroom and danced their way from wall to wall, illuminating the room in a soft yellow glow despite the curtains. She loved this room. It was not grand like the so-called master bedroom, though still large, and it provided a cosy and warm haven even on the coldest of nights. This morning was not one of those. The summer sun was hot, even at this hour, and she could feel the heat pushing its way into the room. As was usual she had slept naked, and turning the cover sheet to one side, she stepped out of bed and stretched her arms, looking at herself in the full length mirror. She anxiously examined her face, to check if any blemishes or spots had appeared overnight and she pulled her skin so tightly that it made her mouth contort into weird shapes. Relieved, she examined her eyes – no deep lines there, nor on her neck. Her breasts were still firm but perhaps ought to be just a shade larger; her tummy wasn’t too bad she thought, still pretty flat, thanking the Almighty that she had never borne children; and her legs were definitely good, at least they both would be once the plaster was removed.
