North Prospect

by Les Lunt

  North Prospect

  Tales of Suspense

  VANTAGE BOOKS

  2012

  A selection of five short stories:

  North Prospect

  Assumptions…al-Qaida? ‘Nothing is as it first seems…’

  Lost and Found in Sacramento

  The Woman who died Twice

  The Affair

  Published by Vantage Books

  email: vantagebooks@rocketmail.com

  Copyright © Les Lunt

  The right of Les Lunt to be identified as the author of these works and has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Visit www.leslunt.com to read more about Les Lunt’s books on Kindle.

  Also check out his blog at www.leslunt.blogspot.com

  North Prospect

  Assumptions . . . al-Qaida? “Nothing is as it first seems”

  Lost and Found in Sacramento

  The Woman who died Twice

  The Affair

  North Prospect

  It’s rather sad. When I first married Sue she was quite slim, fun to be with, someone who enjoyed walking in the countryside. In fact when we first got together we actually went camping, amongst other things. North Wales was the obvious venue; a lot of mountain walks and rock climbing. As I was a young lieutenant in the Royal Marines, recently commissioned at Lympstone, leave was a rare luxury so having places to go was important. At just an hour’s drive across from Chester where Sue lived, and not too far from where she was studying to be a teacher, North Wales was the perfect place for our courtship…such an unusual word these days.

  As a student teacher she was obliged to take classes which were normally unpopular with the rest of the staff and she would often take the girls from her class for P.E or games. Sometimes we went running together, (she was marathon capable that’s for sure). Now, when I am home on leave, I am wishing that she wasn’t there. I know that when I return from the Centre she will have spent most of the afternoon on her computer, on-line shopping, spending her mother’s money like there was no tomorrow. Or she might be watching afternoon television or listening to Radio 2, which seems to be a favourite pastime as well. Of course, the most serious complaint I have is that she eats too much. She loves her boxes of chocolates, which is why she now weighs in at fourteen and a half stone. I find it a little embarrassing when the other ladies join us in the Mess.

  A little over a year ago, Sue inherited two and a half million pounds from her mother, plus a house in west London and a cottage in Devon. The cottage in Devon is useful as it isn’t too far from Lympstone where my main base is, but it is just as likely I could be in Plymouth, or at another base. Sue has no other living relatives; no sisters, no brothers, no aunts, so that in the event of her sad demise I should be her sole beneficiary. Therefore I have a vested interest in her eating. I smile as I wrap another box of Monk Bar Exclusive handmade chocolates (sold at a very reasonable £26. 55 a box) or, as a really special treat, for Easter I will give her a large box of Brent-Cartier, purchased via a friend of course, from one of the world’s most famous chocolatiers in Chelsea.

  When Sue’s mother died, suddenly and unexpectedly, there had to be a post mortem. The cause of death? Myocardial infarction. Apparently, heart disease might run in the family. My my, what a strange world we live in, but hey...there is a slight problem. I am temporarily attached to 42 Commando, Royal Marines, based near Plymouth, that’s all I am prepared to say, and despite the fact that I only have five months to run after a six year engagement, I am soon to be posted. We are off again to Lashkar Gah and, to be honest, the posting comes at a very bad time for me.

  My very close friend, and you can read what you like into that, is a doctor stationed at Lympstone, the Royal Marines Commando Training Centre in Devon. She’s Royal Navy. Most people forget that the Corps, that is, the Royal Marines, comes under the Admiralty, not the Army. Now, my C.O. has asked me to extend my commission: it seems I am good at my job. I can say no more on that or what I actually do, but suffice to say that the money on offer bears no comparison to what lies at home.

  Myself and Dr. Carrie Howarth or, more correctly, Lieutenant Carrie Howarth, aged 26 and a graduate of Liverpool School of Medicine, have been secretly seeing each other for about eighteen months now and during that time we have been quietly ‘evaluating’ my dear wife’s wealth. (And health).

  The cottage in Devon was the biggest surprise; more than half a million pounds! For a cottage! Well, I say cottage, it’s a sixteenth century Devon Long House, thatched, with a huge paddock and stables, set in twelve acres of prime grazing. It even has the quintessential stream running through one of the fields. It’s beautiful. I keep my horses there. Speaking of horses, (I shouldn’t say this should I?) Sue only travels down when she feels the need to see me. I guess she’s still in love with me.

  The thought that I might actually kill someone, someone who wasn’t out to kill me, is a little worrisome. I say that because I have had to kill in the past. It’s not a pleasant thing to do. The first time was out on patrol in Northern Ireland. Despite the Good Friday Peace Agreement, we, that is my troop, engaged in a fire fight with the Real IRA. Two of my Marines were wounded and my sergeant, Tommy Burns, escaped with his life only thanks to the skill of an RAF helicopter pilot and a medic on board. We might easily have lost him. I am glad to say that Tommy is now fully recovered and back with the troop and will be coming along to Lashkar Gah. I am so glad; a good sergeant is worth his weight in pure platinum. As for the Real IRA boys, all I can say is, two didn’t make it. It was a fair fight. In Afghanistan, working from a compound, it won’t be. IEDs all over the place and children used as suicide bombers… it’s sickening. I keep reminding myself, only five little months to go, that’s all and then…

  Now you might think it logical that, since I am her only living relative, naturally I would expect to be the sole beneficiary of my wife’s will. Not necessarily so. You see, Sue loves animals. Donkeys in particular. Of course I have a copy of her will and I am one of the beneficiaries. You might even consider thirty-five thousand a year for life a seriously generous amount. But as to principal beneficiary, that honour goes to the Polperro Donkey Sanctuary in Cornwall. The amount I receive compared with the donkeys of Polperro is, frankly, peanuts.

  I had really great news recently from Sue. (I was on a training exercise abroad). She told me she had been suffering, (I like that word), from acute pains in her chest. I saw my boss and was able to take a week’s leave to take Sue to a leading Chester cardiologist. After a series of scans, including an MRI, it transpired that two of Sue’s main cardiac arteries were blocked. The cardiologist told me quietly that they call the main artery the ‘widow- maker’, or presumably, in the case of women, the widower- maker! I like that. The consultant suggested that Sue have a couple of stents put in and of course she readily agreed. I was keen as well. I mean, operations can go seriously wrong. I had tried to push for a by-pass since I gather that is even more dangerous.

  In the event, Sue was only kept in the clinic for two days. Being a private clinic there was obviously no rush to have her leave, after all they were making a shed- load of money (my money). Sue left the clinic looking really awful. I knew she wasn’t feeling too well because she refused the Belgian chocolates I had bought her. For a while I was really worried that she ha
d decided to go on a diet of some sorts. Imagine! No chocolates! But, my luck was in and, two days later, she was hail and hearty, eating greedily from a large box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray.

  The really good news that came along that week was that Sue still had chest pains despite the two stents. I immediately suggested a by-pass operation, but the consultant said it was too risky because of her overall physical condition and that it was normal to have a little pain. He gave her a small spray of Glycerine Trinitrate which was to be administered orally when she got chest pains. Thankfully, Sue rejected the spray, saying people would think she had bad breath. The consultant then gave her a prescription for some patches, which she places on her arm each morning to alleviate the angina.

  I had a shock when I took Sue back to her house in Chester. She said she was thinking of selling up and moving into the cottage in Devon, to be nearer to me. How romantic, except that I could hardly agree to this plan as Carrie had partially moved in and we were living as man and wife. It would be a bit awkward if Sue joined us…well, it would be a disaster wouldn’t it? So, we had to have a plan.

  We decided, that is, Carrie and I decided the house in North London would have to go. When I suggested this to Sue she readily agreed and, I’m pleased to say, with some enthusiasm, she even said she’d accompany me to the estate agents office in Hendon. That trip quickly realised an offer of £650,000. I encouraged her to accept it. The sooner the cash was in the bank the better.

  To be on the safe side, Carrie moved back into the officers’ residential block and I took up sole residence at the cottage, commuting the short distance to the Training Centre every day. This proved to be a good move as one morning, without warning, Sue suddenly turned up in a taxi. She had travelled to Exeter St David’s station from Chester and got the small local Exmouth train to Exton.

  I immediately noticed that Sue had lost weight and, most importantly, I could find no evidence of chocolate intake. Disaster loomed! To my surprise, she said she’d like to dine out and that she had already called The Old Red Lion pub in Exeter. Thank heavens she hadn’t called the Well House Inn, for only two days before Carrie and I had dined out there with a few brother officers and their wives. (What a party!)

  Suddenly I had an idea. We had to be pro-active in these matters. I met Carrie in the Mess ante-room. It was there that we devised a plan that would free us both with, of course, a little over three million pounds plus a couple of properties. But, we had two major, major, problems. Firstly, Sue was still alive. And secondly the will. How could I possibly change the will without Sue knowing? It was Carrie, (oh clever, clever Carrie), who came up with the solution.

  Being in the Services gave me a certain amount of freedom. Sue had decided to return to Chester to conclude the sale of the house. I was able to convince her that I was needed on base. In reality Carrie and I had a week’s leave which we took in Spain. We drove separately to Gatwick: she had booked the flight, the hotel and the hire car on her credit card.

  Looking back, I suppose I should have noticed. But I am jumping ahead of myself. We landed at Alicante and drove down to Gandia beach. Our hotel, ‘The Bayren’, overlooked the beach and, being right on the sea front, we could either swim or meander along the promenade and eat out in one of the many sea front restaurants.

  We returned looking sun-tanned and perhaps a little too confident. On reflection I should have been more careful: however, for the present, everything went well.

  I found Sue back at the cottage and, thankfully, she had not tried to reach me on base. She is well aware of the nature of my work and that I am not ‘on call’ as it were, like civilian workers Down to work: Carrie had done her homework well. I had ‘borrowed’ several samples of Sue’s official letters and Carrie had, by now, perfected my wife’s signature. I certainly could not tell the difference. The original will had been drawn up in Chester by a firm of solicitors by the name of Rankin, Rankin and Constance. I remember Sue telling me that the young lawyer who had prepared the will had been very ill and I know it came as a shock to her when he left the firm soon afterwards. I do believe she was rather attracted to him.

  The firm of Alexander, Hayman and Cubit, Solicitors, have an office in a Georgian block of buildings that miraculously escaped the bombing of Plymouth in World War Two. Known as The Crescent, it houses mainly lawyers and architects although recently dentists have somehow crept in. No doubt estate agents will be next.

  Our appointment with Mr Hardcastle was set for eleven a.m. He entered his room at eleven on the dot: in fact the tower clock had just begun striking. Not a good sign. Carrie and I had prepared a secret word which would bring the meeting to an abrupt end in the event of unfavourable circumstances. This man was good, too good for our benefit. Since I had no intention of completing the interview, I began by asking Mr Hardcastle if he would act for us should we wish to purchase a house in Plymouth. I saw his jaw drop. Had we not come in about a will? Or had his secretary get it wrong? However, he agreed to act as our solicitor should we go ahead and purchase a house in Plymouth. That was all. No papers to sign, a wasted day. We both agreed, Mr Hardcastle was a fine lawyer but too good for our benefit.

  We still had the rest of the day to re-plan. Carrie suggested Barnstaple. I agreed. It was in the sticks and we seriously needed a dummy lawyer. There must be one out there somewhere. After a Chinese lunch in Plymouth we drove across to Barnstaple. During our brief lunch Carrie had checked out a list of lawyers in Barnstaple on her i-Pad. A quick phone call and an appointment was made to see Mr Kevin Carter-Smith. On arrival, Carrie and I smiled. He was perfect.

  “Call me Kevin,” he announced. He must have been, well I suppose he must have been of sufficient age to have qualified as a lawyer, he looked very young to me. Shall we say he was just perfect for us? He was one of the ten per cent of lawyers who give the rest a bad name.

  It’s not fair really that men, unfortunate enough to be named Kevin get such a bad press. However, in Kevin’s case it was justified. He ambled into the office late; exactly twenty minutes late for our appointment to be exact. He promptly dropped his notepad onto the floor and, in the scuffle to grab it from under his desk he cracked his head, nearly knocking himself out. Perfect.

  I presented Carrie as my wife, Sue. In his haste to shake hands, he dropped his fountain pen, nib first. I could see the frustration on his little, cherub-like face. I felt sorry for him. He assured us he was okay. I was really beginning to like Kevin.

  It took nearly two hours to write the will and get it word perfect. ‘Sue’ assured Kevin that she wanted all the money, in the event of her death, to come to me. I presented as being ‘deeply touched’. With regard to the cottage, that too came to me, in the unlikely event of my wife’s death, of course. I spied the first sentence; ‘Renouncing all other wills, etc. etc.’ Beautiful.

  The will would have to be witnessed after it had been checked over by us, so we made another appointment for the following Thursday with identification, a passport and council tax bill, (neither of which we had, so I offered a Mess Bill. Kevin was impressed). The firm had six days to have it typed and checked over, in preparation for signing.

  We left the office bursting to laugh. Once in the car, Carrie laughed so loud that people in the car parked next to us looked to see if anything was wrong. What a woman! What an actress! And the problem with ‘Sue’s passport? Easy, when Sue was slim, she looked like Carrie…I think. We would soon see if Kevin spots the difference.

  That night we stayed at The Rising Sun pub in Umberleigh.It was the perfect retreat. We had a nice meal, a couple of pints of Tribute real ale and then early to bed, early to rise. Next morning we were back at Lympstone in time for breakfast in the Mess, our business concluded.

  Needless to say, the following week, when we both returned to see Kevin, everything was set for signing. He produced a witness, one of the firm’s typists. He assured us it was quite normal under the circumstances.

  It would be a few days before I would see Ca
rrie again and even longer before I saw Sue. We were off to the USA for desert training. I called at the cottage and found Sue faithfully watching Deal or No Deal. She had made a start on a large box of Thornton’s Classic Collection. I understand they were on special offer at the local Co-op in Lympstone. I like Thornton’s and I even indulged in one of the caramels. Sue of course encouraged me to have another, which I agreed to do, as long as she had one as well. Between us we finished the box: all forty-two chocolates gone, eaten, in a gluttonous half hour. I felt sick. I had eaten five.

  I explained to Sue that I was duty officer that night and I would have to get back. She was clearly disappointed that I wouldn’t be staying but she understood. Once at the Centre I was needed right away, so my planned meeting with Carrie in the Mess had to be postponed while I accompanied the duty provost sergeant to Exeter police station where they wanted to interview an errant Marine.

  That done, I returned to the Mess but Carrie had evidently retired to her room and as it was well after three a.m. I thought it best not to disturb her. My troop would be away for three weeks, initially staying at Quantico in Virginia, then moving on to San Diego. After desert training, on our return, Carrie and I planned a long weekend in Paris. It would be a nice bit of leave before my sojourn in Helmand Province. There would be no ‘runs ashore’ in Lashkar Gah.

  After San Diego, I flew back to Quantico to attend a series of seminars for Intelligence Officers. By the time I returned to Lympstone I was exhausted. For the first night of my return I booked into the Mess and next morning I sought out Carrie. We breakfasted together, assessing our situation.

  *

  Paris never lets you down. We had both recently seen the Woody Allen film, ‘Midnight in Paris’ and were enthusiastic Francophiles so a few days in Montmartre at the Tarrass Hotel, an art-deco style place near the Sacré-Coeur, was a wonderful break from routine. It was a fantastic few days, over all too soon. Carrie certainly wasn’t keen to fly back to the daily routine, especially with the imminent prospect of my absence but I reminded her about the money and she soon perked up. I had to remind myself sometimes.