by Iain Cameron
The drive to Ditchling was always pleasant in the Aston as it offered a good mix of road conditions to keep him awake, even after a hard day. Driving through Hove was always a pleasure as he could admire the smart houses and the attractive girls, before picking up the by-pass where the car's six-litre engine gave him a thump in the back as it left everyone else for dead.
His progress came to an abrupt halt at Coldean Lane, which as usual at this time of the early evening, was choked with traffic. Ten minutes later, the long straights and beautiful scenery of the Ditchling Road beckoned, restoring his good mood once again.
The village of Ditchling was a quintessential Sussex village with rose-covered thatched cottages, narrow streets overhung with oaks and silver birches, quaint pubs selling real ale and traditional English fare, and possessing a colourful heritage dating back to the days of Alfred the Great.
The sting in the tail for all beautiful villages of this ilk was in attracting thousands of tourists. It was not unusual in mid-summer to find the centre of the village at a complete standstill, clogged with cars, delivery vans, and buses, and with tourists, so intent on reading the blue plaques and looking at old houses, they were unaware they were standing in the road and in grave danger of being mowed down when the traffic started to move again.
Stavely House, on the eastern outskirts of the village, had stood there for over three hundred years but having been modernised and re-modelled numerous times, it now took on the air of a new house trying to mimic an old style. With six bedrooms, reception rooms, a tennis court, and a swimming pool, it was now too large for one man as Sir Mathew Markham was divorced and his children had all flown the coop, so it was no surprise to see a ‘For Sale’ sign had been erected in the front garden.
He knocked and was surprised to see Sir Mathew open the door. ‘Hello Mathew.’ Lawton said, putting a friendly hand on the old man’s shoulder, the chairman didn’t do ‘man-hugs’. ‘Is Mrs Hodges off for the day?’
‘Hello, William, come on in, come in. No, she got a call this afternoon to say her mother has taken a turn for the worse. It’s lung cancer now,’ he said leading him into the library. ‘They don’t expect her to last the month.’
‘How awful.’
‘Well if the old bat had given up the ciggies when Kate told her to, all those years ago, she wouldn’t be in the place she is now.’
Markham eased his large bulk into his favourite leather armchair while Lawton sat on the bright but comfortable flower-patterned settee, and placed the folder he had been carrying beside him. The chairman had already started on the whisky and was reaching for the bottle to top-up his glass. This was a bad sign as booze clouded his crystal-clear judgement and brought out an argumentative nature that always seemed to be bubbling below the calm, studied exterior.
The chairman offered him one but he declined and in the absence of the redoubtable housekeeper, Lawton headed into the kitchen and made coffee.
When he resumed his seat on the settee, he opened the folder.
‘How did the monthly meeting go on Monday?’ Markham asked.
‘Fine, Mathew, no burning issues to report.’
For the next few minutes he briefed him on recent software developments, sales levels, new ideas and what the senior management team were up to, with particular reference to wives, girlfriends, divorces, and children, as he liked to hear all the personal stuff. He then moved on to the three main items topping their agendas whenever they got together, company accounts, the proposed sale of the business, and progress or otherwise on Project Kratos.
‘I’m a bit light on the financials this month, Mathew I’m afraid, but what I've got is the Flash Report, sent out last week by David’s number two before the numbers were finalised. It’s ninety-five per cent accurate and fine for our purposes.’
‘Oh. Where’s David? Is he away somewhere?’ Markham asked, reaching for his coffee cup. The whisky was on the back burner now as there were more pressing issues to discuss.
‘David wasn’t at the meeting. We haven’t seen him at work since Friday and as he didn’t make an appearance this morning, I asked Jules to call round at his house but when no one came to the door, he called his home number. He heard the phone ringing inside but no one answered. I’m getting no reply from his mobile either.’
Markham sat back stroking his neatly trimmed beard. At one time it was black, giving him the air of a television presenter or a West End actor but twenty years ago, it turned silver to match his thinning hair and he now resembled the esteemed professor of Egyptian hieroglyphics at a Cairo research facility, a pose he cultivated.
‘How odd. David’s never gone AWOL before, especially at this time of the month. You know how he likes to have a go at the poor sods for spending too much money.’
‘I agree but–’
Markham’s hand shot up. ‘It’s more important than that, William. I’m in the middle of delicate talks and if word gets out that our Finance Director has suffered a heart attack or a nervous breakdown, it could all fall apart. You know what it’s like with those Koreans, trust is everything.’
Trust? Koreans? What the hell was the old fool babbling on about? What talks with Koreans? Was it in reference to the sale of the company? If so, nine companies had stuck their oar in; two Japanese, three Americans, three British and one Russian but no Koreans.
‘Find him William. We need David back at his desk pronto.’
A bewildered Lawton talked him through the financials and other major software developments but by the time they started to talk about Project Kratos, normal service had been resumed. He handed Markham a two-page paper summarising the development team’s progress over the last four weeks and it was obvious he wanted to read it in full, as he sat back in the chair, holding the document out in front of him.
After a few minutes he put it down, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is fantastic, William. I never believed we’d get this far. Good God, it looks like we could have a working prototype inside a couple of months.’
‘Yes I know, it’s terrific news.’
Markham Microprocessors, in common with most of the companies in their field, had grown frustrated by the batteries of mobile devices as they were struggling to cope with the huge loads being placed upon them by high-definition pictures, games, videos, applications and music.
With the proposed rollout of a 4G network across Europe promising a whole host of new, unheralded but power-hungry services, it was now widely recognised that battery technology had not kept up with other developments in the electronics industry and a crisis was looming.
A Markham software engineer called Gary Larner, a maverick who walked the thin line between genius and madness, was obsessed with the idea of extracting electrical power from radio waves and given the parlous nature of battery technology, Lawton gave him his head and a large budget to find out if he could do it.
He didn’t, but using his basic ideas and concepts, the current development team took it much further and now they believed they were on the cusp of producing a working prototype. If successful, mobile devices would never need to be charged from a power socket, as a Markham microchip buried inside would charge it with energy extracted from radio waves in the air. This would not only annihilate one of the major aggravations of modern life, but also turn the company into one of the biggest hitters in the business.
‘How are Marta and Sanjay doing? Are you looking after them?’
‘They want for nothing. They’re working all the hours on the project as you can imagine, staying late and coming in most weekends, but everything’s fine.’
‘Make sure they are, we don’t want them going off the rails like our Mr Larner, do we?’
He nodded. ‘Of course not.’
Their discussion came to a natural conclusion ten minutes later and Lawton rose to fix them both a whisky. He handed a glass to Markham and trying to sound as calm as he could, said, ‘who are the Koreans you’ve been talking to?’
&
nbsp; Markham peered at him over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘Didn’t I tell you, William?’
Lawton shook his head. ‘No you didn’t.’
‘I must be getting forgetful in my old age. It’s the Han Industrial Group, a large conglomerate, based in Seoul. They’d heard of us through the Korean shipping group we use to ship the Medusa chip set, Crown Transportation.’
Lawton nodded.
‘Yong Nahm’s cousin is the MD of the Han group and they got talking and he mentioned he had been looking to buy a high-tech company for several months.’
‘How have these talks progressed?’
‘They’ve been more like negotiations than talks, to tell you the truth.’
Markham looked embarrassed, as well he might because Lawton knew he had kept it from him deliberately, because he knew he wouldn’t like it. He had a better memory than the old man and Lawton felt sure he didn’t remember hearing a dickey bird about this.
‘They would be a good fit for us as they have a growing electronics division and huge amounts of money to invest. They like us because we’re cutting-edge and they think we could turn their mobile phone business into the world’s largest.’
He babbled on few more minutes, about the work Han did assembling circuits and building laptops but he couldn’t concentrate. He knew a lot about the Han Group, as he had travelled to South Korea many times. They were an aggressive buyer of companies, keen to build additional revenue streams away from their core industries of oil and forestry on which the huge industrial conglomerate had been founded, and which provided their large cash pile.
In their approach to acquisitions they adopted what had become known in business circles as the ‘Cisco Model,’ but with a little twist of their own. Whilst they followed the American networking company by insisting an acquired company adopt their procedures and systems wholesale, no matter how good or expensive they were, they also insisted on putting a Korean management team in place, including a new managing director.
He shuddered in fear. What the hell was he going to do at the age of 54 with no job and no income? His wife said she always wanted to retire to Spain where they owned a villa, but to do what? Improve his tennis serve and his golf swing, or to catch a better suntan?
How long would it be before a ‘golden parachute’ payment sank deflated into the Med and his savings ran out? How long could he stand listening to his wife's constant nagging about his swelling paunch, complaining about his underperformance in the bedroom, or moaning about him getting under her feet whenever she tried to clean up, a belligerence heightened by flinging too much cheap Rioja down her neck? How long would it be before he would find it all too much and there he would be, bashing her over the head with his new five hundred quid Titleist driver and chucking her lifeless body over a cliff?
He knew all of the main companies in the microprocessor design business and none were looking for people of his calibre. In any case, many of them had branded him Sir Mathew’s poodle, with no real ideas of his own. His determination to make Project Kratos a success was designed to prove all the doubters wrong and if successful, would turn him into one of the most influential and important men in the business.
However, a working prototype was still several months away, too late in the day to stop this curved ball the old man was bowling. He made it sound as if Han were now assembling their troops, ready for the onslaught. Perhaps it was worse than that. Maybe they were already inside the compound.
He needed time to think, to plan, and deploy his defences but of one thing he was sure, stopping the Korean takeover had now become his number-one priority.
SEVEN
He walked into the Shakespeare’s Head in Chatham Place to be greeted by Maggie behind the bar like a long-lost relative. DI Henderson’s flat in Vernon Terrace, in the Seven Dials district of Brighton, was only a few streets away and while he wouldn’t describe the pub as his local, as he didn’t believe he went in there all that often, the familiarity of the bar staff suggested otherwise.
He took a seat at the back the bar and lifted the newspaper lying there but didn’t read a word, as his mind was still on a call he received from CI Harris just as he was leaving the office this evening. It wasn’t an enquiry about his team’s progress on Operation Poseidon as there hadn’t been any, but instead he wanted his take on a surveillance job in Worthing which had gone belly-up.
It wasn’t one of Henderson’s jobs, but he had bags of experience in this area, firstly for the Football Intelligence Unit of Strathclyde Police, attending football matches and watching the crowd while they were concentrating on the game, and secondly, with the Strathclyde Drugs Unit, mounting long-term surveillance on gangs, trying to catch them with their hands on the merchandise.
Harris was collaborating and canvassing the opinion of a ‘seasoned officer,’ as the good book told him to do but in reality, the man had little practical experience to draw on and he was more likely filling in gaps in his knowledge. He had been ‘fast-tracked’ into the Chief Inspector’s job following a first class Psychology degree from Durham University, a post-grad diploma in Criminology from Cambridge University, and a bag full of brownie points after participation in a successful joint operation with the Metropolitan Police and Customs, who were involved in smashing a gang that were trafficking modern-day slaves from Africa.
It emerged later that perhaps the Chief Inspector had not been the active and resourceful participant on the investigation as he had led everyone to believe, but by then it was too late and the job was his. Rapid promotion was at the heart of his problem as he had missed out on all the street craft, locker-room banter, and gut-wrenching experiences an apprenticeship in uniform would have given him, and while he excelled at administration, budgets, and office politics, he was crap at all the other stuff that most coppers believed mattered.
He was at the end of his first pint when Rachel arrived. She looked beautiful as she sailed through the door, looking as if she owned the place. A journalist with Brighton’s daily newspaper, The Argus, she wrote a weekly column on the environment and rural affairs and when her editor let her off the horticultural leash, occasional forays into profiles of prominent local people.
She worked more regular hours than he did and would have been home by six, which would give her an hour and a half to get ready. He had been waylaid by the call from his boss and didn’t get home until seven, only enough time for a quick wash and a change of clothes, and well, the grooming and styling results spoke for themselves.
On leaving university with a degree in English, Rachel wanted to become a motoring journalist but life in Brighton was way too much fun, as she had worked at the local paper for six years and he couldn’t see her moving. They’d met nine months ago at one of DS Hobbs’s regular dinner parties and the fact that she was still here and putting up with his odd working hours, black moods, and sartorial shortcomings, was testament to her legendary tenacity, or perhaps a sign that she really liked him.
She was wearing a light blue dress, brightening up a dreary, cold evening and revealing enough of her tanned legs to remind him of their late summer holiday in Cyprus together. Her black hair had recently been cut short, giving emphasis to the roundness of her face and highlighting deep green eyes that often shone with mischief and affection.
‘How’s the carjacking case going?’ Rachel said after he placed a drink in front of her, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, chilled, large glass.
‘Has Rob been talking to you?’
‘Rob Tremain? No, I hardly ever see him, he’s never in the office.’
‘Fibber. He’s frustrated at getting nothing out of me, he’s started using you.’
‘I hope you’re joking.’
Her face looked stern, a boss reprimanding a junior member of staff for a serious indiscretion.
‘Of course I am, but I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘Well there’s no need to question my ethical integrity. Rob might not value his, but I value mine.’
He was joking but nevertheless he was careful what he said in front of her, as she might believe in Chinese Walls and professional ethics, but there were plenty of people she worked beside who didn’t and were expert at teasing facts from reluctant witnesses.
‘The gang left the house they robbed cleaner than a doctor’s surgery and knowing our luck, we’ll find a bit of DNA or a fingerprint and I bet it won’t be on the database.’
‘It was a Porsche they took this time?’
‘Aye they did,’ he said, lifting his pint, ‘a GT2 RS whatever the hell that means.’
She frowned at the bare-cheek of the thieves or perhaps in lust for the car. ‘It stands for Gran Turismo Rally Sport. It’s a cracker and the one I would go for out of the lot of them. It’s aggressive and fast but still a car you can use every day to drop the kids off at school or to do the Sainsbury’s shop.’
He gave her a reproachful look as he resettled his beer glass back on the mat. ‘I think your little Seat is fast enough.’
‘It is, but it doesn’t stop me wanting.’
A few months back, she was badly injured when her Mazda MX5 hit a people carrier coming out of a driveway. He knew the accident wouldn’t dent her interest in cars, but there were times he wished she would set her sights a little bit lower.
‘Where do you think they sell them as I’ve never seen any of them in the magazines I read.’
‘Our researchers are doing the same thing. Maybe you should all get together one night and swap stories.’
She gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘Don’t be silly, I do it just for fun.’
‘Is this what you call it? If there's a degree course going, you could teach on it.’
‘C’mon, tell me, where do you think they end up?’
‘My best guess is the Middle East or China. Give them a set of new plates and a new colour job and their new owner wouldn’t give a monkey’s where it came from, especially with forty or fifty grand knocked off the price.’
