Generations of Love
Page 1
Generations of love
Wendy Pulford
Copyright © 2018 Wendy Pulford
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
PREFACE
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
My grateful thanks to various authorities in Canada and Britain who have given their assistance, to Lorena and Mello and Catherine for their editorial advice, Hannah and team for their publishing expertise, family and friends for their unstinting support, but most importantly to Sergei Rachmaninov in whose music I found the inspiration for this story.
PREFACE
Harold Wilson’s first term of government gave way in 1970 to that of Edward Heath. During Heath’s term the United Kingdom was taken into the European Union, but with divided ranks. Committed to British industry, Heath bailed out Rolls-Royce and Upper Clyde Shipbuilders in an effort of support, but subsequent attempts at legislation against unofficial strikes led to the work to rule by the miners with consequent power cuts and damage to British industry, all amid continuing oil difficulties and Irish problems. In 1974, Heath went to the country on a ‘who rules’ platform, but lost to Harold Wilson, who in his second term of office again found trouble with the economy and, faced with obtaining a loan from the International Monetary Fund, suddenly resigned in 1976 amid alleged rumours of MI5 interest. James Callaghan took over as leader and imposed deep cuts in public spending, dislike for these leading to the ‘winter of discontent’ in 1978.
With this background of industrial unrest, racial tensions because of the Ugandan Asian influx and problems starting to build in some of Britain’s high rise housing, the findings of a BBC poll showed the British public were worried.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
The fishing boat Patsy set down anchor just off the Ayrshire coast about a mile outside the Ardrossan harbour an hour before dusk on a cold February day. With the light almost gone, a dinghy with two men on board slipped unseen towards the jetty. One man came ashore and hurried up onto the main road and waited, a brisk wind tugging at his clothes. Within minutes a Ford Cortina slowed to a halt beside him. The driver wound down his window and took a package from the waiting figure. No words were exchanged. The car drove off and the man returned to the waiting dinghy. By first light the Patsy had weighed anchor and was back out at sea.
*
As a fine example of a Georgian interior, the private dining room of the Grosvenor Club near Regents Park was one of the best. Although it was now late in the evening, a fire was still burning in the large white marble fireplace, throwing flickering shadows around the high moulded ceiling. Rich gold damask curtains were drawn over the tall windows to keep out the chill of the night.
Out of the six dining chairs at the long table, three were still occupied, one of the four original diners having just left. The remaining men were enjoying another brandy, alone now, the waiters having cleared the table and withdrawn.
‘We’re on track then, Lionel?’ The speaker’s accent was typical public school but with a faint Scottish burr.
‘It seems that way from what our friend has just implied, Gregory,’ confirmed his companion on the left nearest to the fire. ‘We now have a firm medical prognosis and definite retirement date. Our guest has had some good results of late and that will stand him in good stead as a candidate’ he smiled ‘with, of course, some lobbying of the right people.’
‘There will be other choices.’
‘Indeed, Gregory, and no doubt some good ones. We need to be subtle.’
The speaker reached for the brandy decanter, refilled his glass and offered it round to the other two. They both declined, and with a shrug, he returned it to the tray in front of him.
The third person prese
nt had contributed very little during the whole of the evening. A display of complete boredom was still evident on his dark, almost swarthy face, as he studied the remaining contents of his glass. As with the others, he too was in his middle fifties, and they all had about them the air of those who feel they have reached a certain elevated position in their chosen profession. He now raised his gaze and surveyed his companions.
‘And if he isn’t given the post, Lionel?’
‘Then we’re no worse off, Geoffrey.’
This sharp, censuring retort identified Lionel Franklin as the acknowledged leader of the three. Even so, the third diner once more tried to make his point.
‘As I see it, if he did get the post he would have even more constraints than he does now. More eyes on him too. It’s a fine idea, but it might not work as we hope.’
Franklin gave the other man a cold, hard stare.
‘Look, Geoffrey, it was decided at the start that this was worth attempting and nothing has changed. It’s come at the right time, with the current problems in the country. We must grasp the opportunity. With the position secure, as I’ve said before, consider where this could lead; think of what other personnel could then be put in place.’
With another pointed look, he turned back to his brandy glass. He had dealt with Geoffrey Villiers for some years but never ceased to be exasperated by the other man’s lack of drive. Villiers enjoyed the prosperity and lifestyle that had come with his thriving legal firm, and certain other business interests, but through the years it had been Franklin’s own energies pushing the other man along.
Catching the eye of Sir Gregory Hamilton sitting across the table, Villiers gave a shrug of resignation and remained silent.
Hamilton stood and moved over to the fire.
‘How is your other matter going, Lionel?’
This remark appeared to lighten Franklin’s mood and, with a rare broad smile, cradling the refilled brandy glass in his hand, he went to join Hamilton.
‘It’s all going to plan, Gregory. No worries at all.’
Keeping his smile in place, he studied the other man. As a non-executive director at the Bank of England and numerous other companies, plus a family estate in Scotland, it might be thought that Gregory Hamilton had everything he could have wished for to enable him to live a long life to the full. However, his ample waistline and reddened cheeks spoke more of indoor excesses, rather than outdoor pursuits in the Scottish hills, which might well shorten those odds somewhat. Over the years Franklin had nurtured his association with this man, always making sure to conceal his distaste for the false aura of refinement he portrayed. That said, Hamilton’s banking contacts had proved to be very useful and, Franklin hoped, would continue to do so.
Whilst the other two seemed to revel in their mutual amusement, Villiers still gazed into his almost empty glass.
‘What about your niece, Lionel?’ he commented. ‘Time is moving on, you know, not long to go before she’s twenty-five. That gives us a year or two, but we need to think about things before then.’
Both men by the fire turned to look at their companion with some irritation, but for different reasons. With a trace of annoyance, Franklin tossed back the contents of his glass.
‘As you say, Geoffrey, things there haven’t gone to plan. I shall have to revisit the problem.’ He shot a glance at his fireside companion. ‘What’s the latest position, Gregory?’
‘I’ve done all I can, Lionel. The laddie says he’s beginning to lose interest.’ In his annoyance, Hamilton’s Scottish burr was more pronounced.
‘A mistake, I think, from his point of view. He knows it would be worth his while in the long run. Perhaps a little more effort?’ The remark was firm and decisive. ‘Geoffrey here’ he nodded towards the table ‘has reminded us of our time limit in this respect and I might have to give serious consideration to other contenders.’
‘I’ll have another word, that’s all I can do,’ muttered Hamilton, throwing Villiers a vicious look.
‘Good. I’ll see if I can move things on at my end.’ Franklin crossed to the table and replaced his glass on the tray. ‘Well, I think we’ve covered everything we can tonight.’ Then he turned back to the man by the fire. ‘No, just one more thing. When is the next arrangement in Scotland, Gregory?’
Hamilton looked at his watch. ‘With any luck there should have been one tonight, if the weather was favourable. It is February, after all! There’s one scheduled in a month or two and then one more several months after that.’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small diary which he consulted for a moment, then tore out a blank page from the back of the book, wrote on it, and handed it to Franklin. ‘These, as far as I am aware, are the dates. If, as I said, the weather is suitable.’
The other man consulted the paper and then placed it in his jacket pocket. After a moment’s thought he stated, ‘I’m going to suggest we close that particular avenue down. It’s been useful, but our friends are being a bit difficult at the moment. Perhaps then they might come to realise how helpful our mutual association is, rather than playing the superior partner. Serve them right.’ Hearing the obvious contempt in the choice of words, his companions glanced at each other, but said nothing. Franklin went on, ‘If we need any movement the other way, we can try something else.’
He stared at the other two until they nodded their agreement.
‘I’ll speak to Aubrey about it,’ he muttered. ‘Pity he ever got himself involved with them in the first place. I told him they’d be trouble.’
*
The dark blue Porsche purred through the wet London streets. At this time on a Sunday morning, combined with the poor weather, the traffic was light. Despite this, and the fact that he knew he was late for his first shift of this new detail, Alex Hartman had no intention of breaking any speed limits and he suppressed the urge to feel the undoubted power of the car. With the problems posed by the fuel crisis it was a shame he did so little long-distance driving. Apart from the occasional longer run, he seldom found the chance to appreciate the car’s true performance. However, he promised himself, when he had some leave, he’d take a trip over to Europe and let it loose on the autobahns and see what it could do. His grey eyes shone in anticipation. Yes, you needed something to look forward to in the downcast air of the country at the moment.
Although purchased secondhand, the Porsche 911 was his most prized possession, a present to himself for years of hard work; and he had worked hard, damned hard. An East End boy with a bad start, now a Detective Inspector in the Metropolitan Police, and just moved to the Special Branch. Not bad! During his time in the Army, uniformed police and then CID, he knew he’d been noticed not just for his natural ability but also for his single-minded application. He was well aware that there were people who disliked him for his ruthless approach to his career, but it didn’t bother him. In fact, he smiled to himself, he was amused to notice how colleagues never minded being involved with his operations; they just hoped to be pulled along themselves by his own success, and it was his intention to climb even higher. His handsome face became dark and serious. They were all unaware that the experiences of his youth had given him this compulsion to excel, to make sure that no one ever again abandoned him, forcing him, without warning, to fall back on his own inner resources. No, he told himself, it would never happen again. He was in charge of his own life now.
As he made his way out to Richmond he sensed again the strange feeling that this particular detail was somehow important.
Several days ago, he had been finishing up a report on a previous assignment when he was passed urgent instructions on his next. This new job was to head up protection for a High Court Judge who had received a death threat letter. It was thought possible that the threat might be related to a case being heard by him at the moment, but despite this, the Judge had been adamant about continuing with his involvement. The CID were investigating
the circumstances surrounding the origins of the letter. After his own perusal, however, this appeared to be of little use: standard plain typing paper with the words cut out of newspapers and magazines. He, himself, was detailed to be in charge of all security matters relating to the protection of the Judge at work and at his home in Richmond.
Then, a sealed note was delivered to him requesting his attendance at a meeting in Whitehall that evening. The note was unsigned, and no one appeared to know from where it had originated. At first he thought about ignoring it as someone’s idea of a joke. However, the more he thought about it the more intrigued he became, and he decided to follow it up.
With growing curiosity, he had followed instructions and was surprised to find Sir John Fraser, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, no less, waiting for him together with another man, more his own age, introduced as ‘Mr Francis’. No further information about this person was forthcoming, but as the meeting progressed Alex suspected his possible identity.
The Commissioner had apologised for the clandestine manner in which he had been summoned and referred Alex to his new protection assignment.
‘You in particular have been selected to be in charge,’ he explained. ‘You are to deal with the matter as routine, to all outward appearances, but we require you to keep your eyes and ears open during this duty, at the end of which you are to report back to either myself in person, or Mr Francis here. Any written reports are to be kept under your own confidential control.’
Uneasy about the lack of further explanation, Alex had decided he must make a comment. ‘It would be useful to have more of an idea of what I’m supposed to be keeping a look out for.’
It appeared, however, that neither Sir John nor Francis would be drawn any further on the matter. The latter muttered vague terms like ‘operational necessity’ and ‘something he need not know at the moment’, and went on again to make the point, ‘I must impress upon you that any extra enquiries made must be kept as low key as possible.’