Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  “No Gordon, if I move in with you straightaway it will only antagonise Alan with possible unpredictable consequences. I’ve told you, I prefer to wait a little longer before moving in. Alan needs firstly to come to terms with the fact that our marriage is over.”

  “Then I think you should leave him Cindy. Surely that’s best for you and for Alan? Why not rent a cottage or something?”

  The idea was so simple she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Not only would it bring home to Alan that the marriage was over, but it would give her time to settle the divorce and to ensure that her feelings and emotions had some time to settle before she plunged herself into another full-time relationship.

  “I suppose I could, though it would probably have to be a flat.” She replied, still half thinking.

  “Why? When you get back, find yourself a cottage. You can decide what and where, and I will buy it through the property company. You can rent it from the company, if it makes you feel better. When you leave to live with me, I can either keep hold of it or sell it.” Cindy was momentarily taken aback but knew this was a perfect solution for her.

  “That would be wonderful, Gordon. Are you really sure?” Cindy was thrilled at his suggestion. “You could even visit!”

  “That’s settled then. When we get back, you must find somewhere you like, tell me the details and I will do the rest.”

  27

  Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Ritson was once more reporting to his boss Assistant Commissioner Manders. Ritson and his team had spent a great deal of their time going through the delegate lists and studying the photographs. None of the known names, including that of Halima Chalthoum, had appeared on the lists and the extra resource that Manders had given Ritson had only one more week to help on the Hannet-Mar investigation.

  “As I said, Sir, not very promising. What we have done is try to trace and verify the new female names that appeared on the lists in 2004, but there are forty-one. We have been able to quickly eliminate twenty-three of those as easily traceable through UK, European or US agencies, leaving eighteen. We have crosschecked those eighteen against the names of the companies they claim to represent and twelve are apparently legit. However, we have not yet been able to contact all the relevant personnel people to obtain verification of their employment. Seven of the eighteen appear to be self-employed consultants – in those cases, if we followed them up, we would be contacting the people themselves so have held back on those.”

  “What about the photographs of this Chalthoum woman on the bank’s file? Didn’t you say Crossland had certified copies and an affidavit?” Manders’ recollection of detail astounded Ritson; it also embarrassed him as he had forgotten about them.

  “Well Sir, I took the view that to revisit Crossland might alert him, if he was involved,” but it sounded unconvincing and Manders was not impressed.

  “Look Bill. We now know enough about 7/7 to rule out Crossland of any involvement in that but I think that we may have turned up something else which Crossland is either into up to his neck or he’s being used as a patsy. If he is involved, we need to know damn quickly, but even if he is an innocent dupe, he is the only one that allegedly has a photo which ought to match with a photo in the Styles collection.”

  “But if there is no likeness, we aren’t any further forward.” Ritson was getting a bit confused as to where this was going.

  “Christ Bill, use your bloody head. Go round to Crossland and ask to take away the picture he claims is of Halima Chalthoum. At the same, time get him to look at the delegate photos. Assuming he denies any likeness and continues to deny meeting any of the women in those photos, then get the lab boys to compare Crossland’s picture with the few remaining photos you have from the filtered delegate photos. They can compare them digitally. Even if the woman has changed her hair, there’s a good chance they will match something up and then we have her real name. We will also then have a lot to make Crossland sweat about.”

  Manders was in full flow now and before Ritson could interrupt he continued, “If it all goes belly up, and nothing matches, we drop this until and unless money moves from the account.”

  Ritson didn’t argue, though still somewhat puzzled and next morning he was in Alan Crossland’s office. Crossland was trying to appear calm but inwardly he was becoming increasingly concerned at the continuing interest being shown by the ATU in the dormant account of Chalthoum Universal holdings. Ritson asked for the photograph of Halima Chalthoum and Crossland passed it over.

  “I will take this back with me and return it by courier this afternoon, Mr Crossland. Thank you very much.” Ritson carefully placed the photograph between several sheets of paper in his own file, placed it in his brief-case, and from it took out a large manila folder containing several enlarged photographs of individual delegates who could either not be contacted or traced at this time.

  “Perhaps you could now look at these photographs, Mr Crossland. Is there anyone here you know or have met?” Ritson asked calmly.

  “Presumably you want me to see if Halima Chalthoum is here? I have said before I have never met the woman, so to recognise her I shall need her photo back.” Crossland felt confident in his story and was becoming slightly impatient, thinking Ritson was being silly, trying to trip him up in such a clumsy way.

  “Mr Crossland, if you please, Sir, I want you to answer a simple question. Do you recognise any of the persons in these photographs?” and he pushed the folder nearer to Crossland.

  Crossland was now irritated, wondering where all this was leading to, but he took out photographs and began examining them one by one. When he came to the fifth one, his heart stopped. It was unmistakeably that of Fadyar Masri. His mind swirled. Should he say he recognised the photo? No, he reasoned, he couldn’t do that. This was the Anti-Terrorist Unit for Christ’s sake. He could be locked up for years just for knowing a bloody suspected terrorist, let alone opening an account for her. He sipped his coffee, trying to appear natural, and turned over the page. When he was finished, his composure regained, Crossland handed back the photographs.

  “Sorry Chief Superintendent, I don’t think I can help.”

  Ritson had closely observed Crossland. He noticed the over eagerness to first sip his drink and then to quickly turn over photograph number five.

  “Please, we want you to be very sure. Have another look.” Ritson was applying pressure and Crossland was not amused.

  “Well, if you insist,” he said tetchily.

  Having gone through them again, he handed them back to Ritson. Ritson pocketed them in his file and said in a firm voice, “I need you to be very clear on this Mr Crossland. Are you absolutely certain you have never met nor seen anyone in those photographs? Take your time.”

  “No need to. I’ve told you before. No.” his reply was firm, but impatient.

  Twenty-four hours later Ritson was again in Manders office and speaking to his superior. “Crossland said he didn’t recognise anyone in the Styles photos and I gave him every opportunity to study them carefully. He seemed a bit edgy, slight hesitation at number Five, but if he was hiding anything he carried it off pretty well”.

  Ritson paused, expecting some comment but as Manders only raised his eyebrows, he continued. “The computer lads say there is no match on the Halima photograph to any of the filtered Styles ones, so it seems as though we have drawn a blank. The whole thing is bloody odd, though. I mean, setting up an account where none of the names can be traced and the holder has never made an appearance; where Styles acquaintance doesn’t appear in any of his photos, and where the money is still dormant.”

  This time Manders did respond. “Well, Bill, it still remains a possibility that the woman that met Styles is in the photos. Your guys have not analysed every mug shot in the conference pictures, so she still might be there, but it’s not worth much more time on this unless something else turns up. If the money moves, let me know. Meanwhile, if you have some time, why not go back to basics? Check out Cros
sland’s known associates, relatives, that sort of thing. You never know, it might turn up something.”

  28

  Alan Crossland was once more mingling with the guests in the large lounge at the Asterhays Hotel. He had decided to book himself in for Easter and rather hoped Anna would join him, but she declined. The pressures of recent weeks were beginning to make him feel edgy. He found it hard to concentrate and was also finding it difficult to get to sleep at night without the help of a couple of stiff glasses of whisky and paracetomol, and he thought that a few days away might help his general well-being. Besides, he reasoned, Christmas had turned out better than he hoped, and who knows – he might find another Anna.

  As he surveyed the large ballroom, his mind started wandering back to the last meeting he had with the ATU. What were they onto? Was Fadyar really implicated in some terrorist plot? He went over and over the evening he and Cindy spent with Fadyar at Red Gables, almost a year ago. There was nothing about Fadyar that alarmed him. She was very amiable, polite and cultured. In fact, she was pleasant company and whilst she was quite clear on her requirements of the business aspects, at no time was she overbearing about them. Conversation had been easy and there was no hint that the woman might be involved in anything remotely connected with terrorism. True, the setting up of the account was rather unusual, but it was certainly not unique – and if that smooth detective really had any evidence of wrongdoing on his part, he sure as hell would have made it known by now. No, Crossland reasoned, probably the cop is just wanting to make a name for himself and being overzealous.

  His thoughts then turned to Cindy. It really pained him that they were breaking up. He had brought Mapley Townsend’s letter with him to the hotel, crumpled into a ball and thrown in his bag at the last minute before he left home. Mrs Crookes had placed his letters on the kitchen unit, as usual, and the letter from Cindy’s solicitor was on the top. It was the only one he opened, though he quickly flicked through the others to see if there might be something else of importance, half hoping there would be a letter from Cindy. Negative. The solicitor had written only in the briefest terms adding to the angst Crossland was feeling, and he had shed a few tears as he read the letter. He wondered why his marriage and all his hopes, their hopes, were now cruelly reduced to no more than twenty-five cold words.

  “Hi.” A voice was nearby, but Alan did not hear it. His mind was preoccupied with Cindy and he was wondering where she was and what she might be doing. He wanted to believe Donaldson’s ongoing reports and Cindy’s own denial as it gave him more of a chance to rescue the situation, but his gut instinct and knowledge of Cindy made him doubt her. As his thoughts meandered over past events, he recalled yet again the meeting with Fadyar which sent a shiver down his spine. The sudden realisation that Cindy was at Red Gables when Fadyar came to dinner, and its possible implications for him with the ATU, made the nerves in his stomach tighten. He had denied meeting Fadyar, but if ever the police interviewed Cindy he would be in real trouble. In better times she may have been persuaded to cover for him, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen now. Cindy would hang him out to dry, especially if she wanted to spend her life with someone else. The thought made him angry.

  “The bloody bitch would do that, I know it,” he muttered almost silently to himself. His mind raced ahead and images of him being interrogated again by the police flashed before his eyes.

  “Hi, my name is Chloe. You seem a million miles away.” The voice again, only louder this time; obviously someone trying to make an introduction to another lonely soul in the crowd.

  “Hello, I’m Chloe,” a woman shouted and Crossland turned. She was standing right next to him. “You don’t seem very interested in any of us, are we that bad?”

  Crossland chuckled, pleased to break away from his thoughts. He apologised and introduced himself.

  “In case you didn’t hear, I’m Chloe. I’m twenty-eight, single, no children and I smoke. Cannabis if I can get hold of it, otherwise Dunhill.” She smiled at him.

  “OK, that’s a pretty good start. I’m forty-one, not yet divorced but soon will be, no children and I don’t smoke.” Crossland continued the style set by Chloe.

  “The ‘not yet divorced but soon will be’. Is that the ‘bloody bitch’ you were muttering about?” Chloe jauntily enquired.

  “Oh God, did I really say that? Hope I didn’t say anything else, otherwise this might be a brief hello and goodbye!”

  Chloe laughed. Alan noticed that her hair was a slightly darker colour than Cindy’s, a glossy reddish-brown, straight and cut quite short, hanging only as far as her chin. Physically she was very slim and petite, her head barely reaching to the top of his shoulders. They sat down and spent the rest of the evening talking about themselves and also looking around the room, making up wild suggestions about their fellow guests and guessing what sort of persons they might be. The more outrageous they were in their fictional descriptions of their fellow guests, the louder they laughed. By the time the evening had drawn to a close, Chloe and Alan had decided that at least one of the other guests was a psychopath as he twitched his shoulder as he spoke; the lady wearing a rather boring dress with what appeared to be arrows patterned across it just had to be an escaped convict, and the tall man drably dressed in a blue suit standing alone in the corner was a police constable as he was eyeing everyone up and down. They had marked three married men who were at the hotel with their female secretaries, and at least two lesbian couples. The latter observation was not far from the truth, though they had identified the wrong people – and there were three. Alan, having gained confidence from his experience at Christmas, spoke quietly to Chloe at the end of the evening.

  “It would be great if we could have a coffee in my room or yours if you prefer, but if you are tired I understand.”

  “Your room sounds good to me,” and with that they walked slowly over to the lifts and Chloe pressed the illuminated square button to call the lift.

  “Same as mine really” Chloe commented upon the room as she entered it. She picked up the kettle and filled it with water before placing it on its stand.

  “Just going to take a quick shower” she said as she plugged the kettle into the brass-plated socket on the wall nearby before calling out, “Mine is black, no sugar.”

  Alan realised he had just been ordered to make the coffee and walked over to the cups whilst Chloe closed the bathroom door behind her. The low-wattage kettle seemed to take an age to boil and the water was still not hot enough when, true to her word, Chloe reappeared after no more than five minutes. Her short hair was wet and she was dressed only in a towel.

  “Not ready yet, then” she said. Then giggled, “The coffee, not you, I meant!”

  Alan was fascinated by her. She was fresh, young and carefree, all the things he had lost over the years, and he was already becoming quite attracted to her.

  “Only be another minute or so. Why do hotel kettles take so long?”

  She didn’t answer him directly.

  “Bring it over then when you can,” and she dropped the towel and walked over to the bed. Alan glanced at her. She had a good figure but was certainly slim. Her breasts were small and pert and her tiny round bottom sat below an impressively narrow waist. By the time his eyes had wandered to her legs, she was already climbing into bed. The kettle eventually boiled and he made the drinks, taking hers over to her.

  “Better have a shower myself, I suppose?” It was more of a question than a statement.

  Chloe glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling in the light from the room, and flamboyantly threw back the duvet.

  “The coffee will get cold if you do”.

  Alan looked at her lying invitingly on the bed, any thoughts of a shower instantly forgotten, and rapidly removed his clothes. He stroked his fingers through her wet hair and she placed her arm around the back of his head, pulling his face towards hers. She kissed him hard on the lips, before placing her hand between his legs. He started to climb on top of her b
ut she pushed him back.

  “Not yet, be patient!” her voice soft and sexy in his ear.

  She grabbed her cup from the bedside table and swilled a large sip of the steaming hot liquid around the inside of her mouth several times before quickly swallowing. Instantly she leant over him plunging her mouth onto his male hardness. Alan gasped aloud, the searing heat further inflaming his desire and his hands fumbled to find her breasts. As he cupped them in his hands, she turned her face and took another swig of the coffee before again placing her hot mouth onto him. The exquisite sensations were almost too much to bear. He released her breasts and lay back.

  “God, that’s so good Chloe. So good.” Alan had not experienced such heightened pleasure as this; Cindy had never been keen to experiment sexually and it had disappeared entirely from their lovemaking years ago. Chloe leant forward. Once more she refilled her mouth; once more her lips took him in. She started sucking, gently at first then harder and harder in rhythm to the strokes she was making with her clasped fingers. Alan started raising his thighs, urging her not to stop.

  “Harder Chloe, harder,” he cried out to her. Chloe’s sensitive, moist lips detected his moment was almost due, the further swelling of him telling her he was near. Taking one quick last gulp of the coffee she opened her mouth and took him deeper into her throat. Tightening her fingers and rapidly squeezing her lips, she kept swallowing hard as Alan thrust his hips skyward.

  Lying back on the bed, he seriously studied her nakedness for the first time. There were no faded sun tan markings, and even her arms looked white. In fact she looked small, vulnerable and pale but Alan realised that Chloe was anything but a timid, young girl. The freshness of her complexion, her deep brown eyes and reddish close-cropped hair made her appear even younger than her age, but this innocent looking girl had just given him the most exquisite pleasure of the kind Cindy had denied him for too long. He was elated.