by Bill Ward
She went downstairs to the lounge and picked up some of her clothes from the floor, which earlier had been discarded in frenetic haste to get naked. She knew she wasn’t stunning looking but she had a very fit body and with the help of makeup an acceptably attractive, if slightly plain face. Her best feature was the long legs she had inherited from her Mother.
From a young age she had been the school and district cross country running champion. She didn’t run competitively anymore but was a regular jogger and hours at the gym ensured she had a flat stomach and toned muscles. Anyway, as far as she could remember the bloke was so plastered he’d have shagged anything half decent.
It had been a right crack. He had money to buy champagne and even if he was showing off, Sam hadn’t cared. He wanted her and she needed somewhere to spend the night. She stood for a moment remembering how good his body had felt. How masculine and strong, and for a second considered going back to bed but her head was thumping, her mouth dry as the Gobi desert and she did have a plane to catch.
She laughed when she realized she couldn’t even remember the bloke upstairs’ bloody name. She noticed his jacket on the floor. She checked the inside pocket and found his wallet. She helped herself to his last eighty euros. He wasn’t exactly living on the breadline and it would come in useful. The driving license reminded her he was called Danny. She went back upstairs and had a quick shower. She poked her head back in the bedroom one last time. Danny was soundly sleeping.
She gathered up her bag and let herself out the front door. In three hours she would be in England and despite the mother of all headaches she knew it was the right thing to be doing. She knew with absolute certainty her brother would do the same for her.
Tom had spent the morning at the office of the highest paying tabloid newspaper. He had been a bit surprised at first they wanted to meet on a Sunday but the story was hot news and they were very eager to publish the story in Monday’s paper. The price agreed was one hundred thousand pounds for an exclusive story. Cliff Maxwell had done all the negotiating and definitely earned his ten per cent fee. He already knew everyone at the paper and had warned Tom before the meeting not to say anything. Tom was more than happy to keep quiet as he was definitely feeling outside his comfort zone.
One of the journalists showed him around the offices, explaining how everything worked, while Maxwell went off into an office with a couple of suits from the paper. By the time Tom returned, the price had been agreed and a contract was being produced for his signature. He was very pleased with the result as he would have been quite happy with half the sum.
Tom then spent three hours being interviewed by two reporters. There were photos taken and hands shaken and then he found himself standing on the icy pavement, wondering what to do with the rest of the day. He had left his betting shop in the capable hands of young Ben, who made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in experience. In truth Sundays were always relatively quiet in the shop. He remembered fondly when there was no racing on Sundays and shops weren’t even allowed to open. Now it was a seven day a week business. But opening longer hadn’t increased revenue. Punters only had so much money they could spend in a week. Now it was spread over seven days instead of six.
The advent of Internet betting had badly hurt turnover and he might get out the business altogether and invest his new wealth in a completely different line of work, perhaps a restaurant. People still went out to restaurants to eat. You couldn’t eat over the Internet.
The obvious thing for Tom to do was take the underground to Victoria and a fast train back to Brighton. He could be home within two hours. However, an idea had been gelling all morning that was much more enticing than the cold house that would await him. He telephoned the Imperial and asked for Melanie Adams’s room. The operator responded in a slightly irritated voice, which suggested he was far from the first to want to speak to her, that Miss Adams wasn’t taking any calls. He left a simple message saying he’d called and asking her to call him back on his mobile. As he put his phone back in his jacket, he felt the need to pinch himself to check he was awake. He had just telephoned Melanie Adams and he’d actually expected her to take his call. Was he completely bonkers! Certainly a couple of days earlier the idea would have been absurd.
Tom decided to go for yet another coffee and hang around for an hour in the warmth, on the off chance she did return his call. He found a branch of his favourite coffee chain and chose a large skinny Latte and a small Pannetone. The choice of a skinny Latte was a habit developed some years earlier when he had dallied for a short time with a health nut of a girlfriend, who found it abhorrent he had full fat milk. The girlfriend hadn’t survived long but he still drank skinny Lattes.
He recognized it was yet another anomaly in his life, as he made no other attempt to watch the calories he consumed. He received a funny look from the girl serving which he put down to the swelling and bruise on his face. He tried his sweetest smile and made a joke of his appearance, which elicited a friendly response that she’d seen worse.
He found a seat looking out onto the road. As he drank the Latte, he remembered his brief fling all those years ago and realized there had actually been quite a few girlfriends, who had just had walk-on parts in his life. At times it seemed he had made some spectacularly bad choices. He knew a number of people who had turned to the internet dating sights but felt that was a sign of desperation and he wasn’t yet desperate. Or at least he wasn’t going to openly admit to being so. Anyway, if he went on the internet his first inclination would always be to play poker rather than search for a woman.
He reckoned the cold weather was partially responsible for the place not being very busy and he passed some time calling his brother and updating him on events, alleviating the risk of his suffering a heart attack reading the next day’s newspaper. Maxwell had warned Tom that he had one day left of anonymity and then his life would never be the same again. Even sitting having a quiet cup of coffee would be difficult, as the press and public were likely to intrude in every aspect of his life for the next few weeks.
Colin had been completely flummoxed by the news and thought Tom was joking at first but once he realized he was being serious, then he wanted to meet for dinner, so he could hear all the gory details, as he put it. Normally Tom met up with Colin in London but with all the recent trips he’d been making up to town, he suggested that for a change Colin come down to Brighton. There had been a brief pause while Colin considered this revolutionary idea but his eagerness to learn more from the horse’s mouth about Melanie Adams, overcame his normal reluctance to venture down to the coast. As Colin worked in Piccadilly, only two stops from Victoria on the underground, a tentative agreement was reached that Colin would leave work early, which Tom understood to actually mean that he would leave on time, and Tom would collect him at Brighton station at seven on Wednesday evening. That Colin was able to make all these arrangements without first checking with Liz, came as a considerable surprise and gave Tom some hope his brother may not be quite as under her thumb as he had always believed.
Tom picked up the copy of the Racing Post he had purchased from a newsagent close to the café. For the first time in a very long time he spent some time scanning the classifieds to see what horses were being advertised for sale. He had always liked the idea of owning a horse and come close a couple of times to buying one from a local trainer he knew. Each time he had decided at the last minute, he couldn’t really afford the monthly costs to keep the horse in training, even if he could afford the capital outlay. His new funds would allow him to buy at least the back leg of a racehorse as part of a syndicate. It was an idea worth pursuing further. At the very least, having a horse in training would lead to him meeting other owners and that might provide valuable inside information to horses expected to win. Nothing immediately caught his eye so he looked at the betting offices for sale. Maybe he should expand his business and build an empire that he would then sell for millions to one of the big high street chains. He laughed ou
t loud at the thought. No chance! One shop was hard work. Two would be impossible.
His drink was finished and he was just beginning to doubt the wisdom of not going straight home when his phone vibrated. He didn’t like the mindless ring tones most people used to disturb your peace and always switched to vibrate so as not to disturb others enjoying their coffee.
He didn’t recognise the number and his simple “Hello,” was delivered more in hope than expectation.
“Hi, is that Tom?”
Tom was pretty sure that the distinctive American accent could only belong to one person. He felt a little nervous and cleared his throat before answering. “Yes this is Tom.”
“Hello, it’s Melanie Adams. Sorry I didn’t take your call, only the phones are going mad. Seems like every newspaper in the world’s been trying to get me.”
This is insane, Tom thought. I’m actually speaking to Melanie Adams. “I just wanted to check you were OK? I’m actually in town and was wondering if perhaps you’d like to meet up for a coffee or something?” He suddenly felt very foolish. Did he really expect her to rush out to his coffee shop to share a Latte with him?
Before she had time to reply he added, “I wondered if you knew anything more about Friday night’s events?” He waited to hear her excuse for not being able to meet.
“I’d really like that,” she responded without hesitation. “I’ve been feeling guilty all day that I never really thanked you properly. Why don’t you come by the hotel? I’ll tell them to expect you.”
Tom took a deep breath before answering so he didn’t sound as nervous as he was feeling. “OK. I’ll be in there in about half an hour, if that’s all right?”
“Looking forward to it.”
Tom pressed the end call button and stared at his phone for a second. That was surreal, he thought. I just spoke to Melanie Adams and she invited me over to her hotel. Not a bad day all in all. Ninety thousand pounds richer after paying Maxwell’s share and now mixing with one of the world’s most beautiful and exciting women. All my Christmases seem to have come at once. Life doesn’t get much better than this.
Brendan Connor had checked into a small hotel in Bayswater. It’s one of London’s most cosmopolitan areas, with a large number of hotels and Connor always felt at ease amongst the many different nationalities that live in or visit the area. It is a good place for someone to hide in the open. The Chief had given him license to use whatever means necessary to get to young Murphy. That meant he could contact the Chief’s top informant on the mainland, who went by the name of Jones and squeeze him for the information he needed. Jones was too valuable an asset to overuse but he worked for the Security Service and had been foolish enough to be entrapped with an underage girl, when on assignment in Northern Ireland. She had been carefully chosen and though she had said she was eighteen, she was in fact only fifteen. Cameras had been hidden in the hotel room and the photographic evidence was explicit. Jones faced the loss of his career and time in prison or occasionally providing intelligence.
There was a point where Jones was asked to provide information that he knew would lead to a colleague being kidnapped by the IRA and that could only result in a terrible death for the individual. Jones had at first refused to help, preferring to face the consequences for his time spent with the girl but then he was shown the evidence of his subsequently passing information to the IRA. There was again a film and recording. He was now facing a charge of treason and any jail sentence would be significantly longer than for the sex with a minor, so he had caved in and provided the necessary details.
After that, there could be no going back because he would be facing a murder charge. Fortunately for the Chief, Jones had since flourished in his career and with each promotion came access to even better information. Connor had never met him before and doubted Jones was his real name but the Chief trusted his information and that was what mattered. Connor knew he was going to need some inside help.
Connor arrived early at the meeting point in Hyde Park. He’d been growing a beard for a couple of days and now had quite thick stubble. He wore old jeans and a thick blue overcoat favoured by country folk. He looked as unremarkable as most of the others in the park. He sat on a cold bench, from where he could see the bronze statue of Peter Pan with its squirrels, rabbits, mice and fairies climbing up to Peter at the top and waited for Jones to arrive. Fortunately, given the freezing temperature, he didn’t have to wait long. The man approaching matched Connor’s image of a city banker. He wore a blue pin stripe suit under a long navy coat with a bowler hat on his head. There was no exchange of greetings. Connor had no time for anyone who would mess with an underage girl and wasn’t going to waste words. Both men’s eyes revealed what they thought of each other. Neither was there out of choice.
“We need to find a way of getting to Murphy. I need to know his whereabouts and any plans to move him,” Connor said.
“You won’t be able to get near him,” Jones replied disdainfully, in the upper class tones of someone educated at Eton and Oxford.
“Just get me the fucking information I need and leave the rest to me,” Connor said in a tone that didn’t invite discussion.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jones responded unenthusiastically.
“You better do better than that. I need results or else…” Connor let the threat hang in the air.
“I don’t respond well to threats,” Jones snapped.
“You make me sick,” Connor sneered. “We know how to deal with the likes of you back home. You get me what I want or you’ll end up behind bars and they don’t like your sort inside.” He knew he was laying it on a bit thick but it had the desired effect.
Jones turned paler; any fight draining from him at the thought of what would await him should he not comply. He didn’t like showing emotion. And he certainly didn’t like this terrorist criticising his lifestyle and making threats. He would have to call in favours. There were a great number of people owed him favours over the years and he stored them away like a camel does water until needed.
“It will take twenty-four hours,” Jones said in an even voice. He had no wish for any further confrontation.
Connor turned and walked away. He knew Jones would come through with the information. He had no choice.
When Tom asked at the front desk for Melanie Adams’s room, he found he was indeed expected. The receptionist almost came to attention as he pointed Tom towards the elevators and told him Miss Adams was in the Presidential suite, which was situated not surprisingly, on the top floor. As he stepped outside the elevator he saw a door to his right with two large men standing guard outside. Tom gave them his best smile as he approached and introduced himself.
“I’m Tom Ashdown. Miss Adams is expecting me.”
The first man gave a small tap on the door and in the same movement opened it. “Please go in,” he said indicating for Tom to enter.
As he entered the suite Melanie came towards him with a broad smile of welcome. “Hi Tom. It’s good to see you again. I’m so pleased you called me.”
Tom went to offer his hand in greeting but she ignored it and instead put both her arms around him, gave him a gentle squeeze and kissed him lightly on each cheek.
“I owe you so much,” she said, breaking the embrace.
Tom barely managed to speak he was so stunned by the magnificence of the room in which he stood. “Actually it’s my brother you should thank,” he responded. “If it hadn’t been his turn to pay for dinner, I would never have been there.” Then seeing Melanie’s slightly quizzical look he added, “It’s a long story,” regretting his original explanation.
“Well you were there and I’ll be forever grateful you were.”
Tom cast his gaze around the room. The sheer size of the place was the first thing to hit you. Then the opulence of furnishings reminded him of something from a royal palace. He wondered how many real Presidents might have stayed here as guests.
“Wow,” was all he could find to say. �
��This place is amazing.”
She smiled and glanced around her. “Guess it is kinda nice, though after a while one hotel room is much like another.”
This is nothing like the hotel rooms I know, he thought. For a start there was no bed. He was standing in a huge living room with magnificent centrepiece of a fireplace. Around the fireplace were sofas and chairs. At the other end of the room was a dining table with six chairs. Heavy drapes hung at the windows. What he thought to be Persian or at least oriental rugs were on the floor. A large mirror with an ornate gold frame hung over the fireplace. Lighting was provided by two chandeliers and magnificent pictures were on the walls that looked like they might be original masterpieces. He couldn’t imagine anything in the room would be a copy. He felt the room wouldn’t be out of place in the White House or 10 Downing Street. He wanted to regain his composure a bit and not act like the star struck idiot he was feeling. He’d stayed at some nice hotels in his time but this was a whole notch higher.
“How are you doing?” he enquired. Then added, “You look great.” He suddenly felt foolish telling Melanie Adams she looked great. The whole world knew she looked fantastic. But she did seem in much better shape than when they last met. She was wearing simple blue jeans and a white polo neck sweater that combined to give an appearance of casual sexiness, which many would aspire to but very few could achieve. As far as he could recall she was in her early thirties and he was as besotted by her as every other man who had seen her films.
“I’m doing good, thanks,” she responded. “How are you though? That bruise looks real nasty.”
“Looks much worse than it feels,” he answered dismissively. “I’m thinking of auditioning for Quasimodo.”
Melanie relaxed a little and smiled. “I’d say you’re a cert to get the part but I’m not sure that’s what you want to hear. Would you like a drink?”
