by Paul Mathews
Herbert grinned and shook off Conor’s attentions. Britt chuckled drily but didn’t speak.
‘You just finished your overnight duty, mate?’ asked Herbert.
Conor saluted. ‘Yes, sir! Officer O’Brean requesting permission to stand down, sir!’
‘I just finished, too. I’m having breakfast then going home. But it’s a working breakfast, if you know what I mean.’
Conor didn’t know what he meant. Because he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was reading the menu on the wall.
Britt leaned forward and whispered to Herbert. ‘What did you mean about the VIP?’
Before Herbert could reply, Conor interrupted. ‘I’ll have the waffles,’ he shouted to the barmaid. ‘Medium-rare. And a tube of sugar water on the side – make it a litre.’ Then he sat down beside them. ‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend, Herbert?’ He held out his hand. ‘Conor O’Brean. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.’
Britt smiled and shook Conor’s hand. But she didn’t say a word.
‘You’re not a nun, are you?’ asked Conor. ‘Have you taken the vow of silence? You poor thing. Having to listen to this young fella gibbering on all day. And do you have a name? Or don’t you bother with names down at the convent? Maybe it’s a nod of the head? Or a delicate sigh?’
Herbert saved Britt from further interrogation. ‘Her name is Pellie Cann.’
Conor froze for a second. ‘You’re joking? Like the bird? You’ll be telling me next you met her in St James’ Park, with all the other pelicans!’ He started giggling again.
Herbert smiled. ‘Actually, I did.’
Conor exploded into laugher. He was like a hyena that was high on helium. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘I’ll just pop to the little boys’ room and calm myself down. Then I’ll be back to join you good citizens for breakfast.’ He jumped up. Then convulsed with fits of laughter as he made his way to the toilet.
As soon as his friend was out of earshot, Herbert spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Cann. But I can’t talk about the Code Red situation now that Conor is here. He’s a press officer. They’re like the unofficial secret service. They report back on everything they see and hear.’
‘Let’s go somewhere else then.’ Britt didn’t mean to sound desperate. But she couldn’t help it.
‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about it anywhere else. This pub is like a second home. And the security cameras haven’t worked for years. What’s spoken within these four walls never goes any further.’
‘What about later this afternoon?’ She was sounding more desperate by the second.
‘Sorry. After the morning I’ve had, I’ll be going straight home and crashing out for a few hours.’
Britt sighed and stared at the wall. There was a poster on it. It read ‘Live Tonight – Super-Mega Electro Thrash! Starts 8.00pm’. It was her only hope. ‘Are you free, this evening?’
‘Yeah. I’m off now until Friday. Uncle’s orders.’
‘How about the gig here tonight? They’ll be so much noise, no one will hear us having a private conversation.’
Herbert thought for a few seconds. ‘I’ll have to check with my girlfriend.’
What was there to check? She wasn’t asking him out on a date. Couldn’t he make a decision for himself? Then she remembered. He was a Labrador. He obeyed commands – he didn’t give them. She decided to try some reverse psychology. ‘Look, it’s fine.’ She stood up. ‘If you don’t want my help. We’ll forget it.’
Herbert reacted immediately. ‘No, no!’ He checked no one was listening and then whispered. ‘I screwed up. I need your help.’
The toilet door slammed shut. It was Conor. It was time for Britt to go. ‘I’ll see you here at eight, Herbie.’
Herbert nodded. There’s a good boy, thought Britt, imagining patting him on the head. And she hurried out of the pub.
Chapter 9
Howie’s government car turned a corner and his destination swung into view. The building’s design was so chic and ultra-modern it could easily have been mistaken for an investment bank’s headquarters. But the rows of people visible through its giant glass windows, frantically going nowhere on running machines, confirmed its true identity. This was a gym for the highest of high rollers – the Canary Wharf branch of American Fitness.
His car pulled up outside. He thanked the driver, told him to wait and stepped out. Howie checked his bleeper. It was 11.16am. It had taken more than an hour to get here from the First Lady’s residence. It was time he had tried to spend usefully by checking his bleeper for updates from Martha Blake. But there hadn’t been any. No ransom demand, no hostage video, no body discovered. That was good news, of course. But it would have been nice to have heard something. The only useful e-comm he’d received during the journey was from American Fitness, confirming that Cherry Blush, the president’s personal trainer, was working today. But it also said she often worked off-site. He would just have to hope Cherry was in the building.
Howie stepped through the gym’s grand entrance. The interior was just as high-class as its exterior. Whoever owned these places had serious money. The reception area’s side walls were dominated by two larger-than-life posters. A beautiful, super-fit woman in her late twenties was excitedly lifting two dumbbells, without breaking sweat, and urging Londoners to ‘Get American Fit!’ He tutted. Everyone was obsessed with America. Howie was quite happy to stay British unfit for the moment.
‘Hello, sir. Are you a member?’ asked a young woman behind the reception desk.
‘No. I’d like to see Miss Cherry Blush, please.’
‘I’m afraid Miss Blush is fully booked today, including some off-site visits. Would you like to leave a message?’
Howie didn’t have time to leave messages. ‘It’s urgent. I need to see her now.’
‘That won’t be possible, sir. Only our Premium Club members can demand to see Miss Blush at their convenience.’
This reminded Howie of his last visit to his local medi-centre. On that occasion, he’d ended up paying £500 for a private appointment with a doctor. A doctor who had gone from being fully booked to being suddenly available – once he’d paid the fee. He wasn’t planning on repeating that mistake here. ‘What if I told you that it’s a personal matter?’
The receptionist smiled. ‘Then I would tell you that you should contact Miss Blush about that matter in her own personal time.’
Howie sighed. This woman obviously had experience of working in a doctor’s surgery. ‘Can you at least tell me where she is?’
‘I’m afraid, for reasons of client confidentiality, I cannot provide you with that information. But it is available to our Premium Club members.’
This was going to be even harder than getting a medi-centre appointment. Howie thought about flashing his security service ID. But that wouldn’t be a good idea. Firstly, he didn’t want this receptionist knowing his true business. Cherry’s colleagues probably knew the president was one of her clients, and he didn’t want to arouse any suspicions. Secondly, for all he knew, Cherry could be involved in the president’s disappearance. If she was, and this receptionist told her that a special investigator was asking after her, she might follow the president’s example and disappear herself. No. He would have to do this the hard way. ‘So how much is this Premium Club membership?’
‘It’s £50,000 pounds for the first year.’
Howie almost fainted. ‘What about for one month?’
‘It’s £5,000. Payable by card. And there’s Miss Blush’s personal fee of £2,000 for unscheduled appointments. Payable in cash only.’
Seven thousand pounds? He could get fourteen doctor’s appointments for that money. There was no way he wasting £7,000 of taxpayers’ money. It would be crazy.
But then he realised. If he wanted to locate Cherry quickly, what other choice did he have? He didn’t know where she lived, or who her friends were or where she spent her spare time. And Martha Blake’s people woul
d have only done the most basic of checks on her when she was hired – assuming they even did that. They certainly wouldn’t know anything about her daily movements.
Howie reluctantly handed over his newly acquired credit card. ‘You win. One month’s Premium Club membership. But I need it done quickly. And I need to see Miss Blush ASAP.’
‘Certainly, sir. I can obtain all your personal details when I process the card.’ She waved his card over a pay-terminal, glanced at its screen and returned it a few seconds later. ‘Your membership fee has been processed.’ She then pointed to a glass square on the counter. ‘Scan your right hand, please.’
Howie did as he was told. A red laser beam scanned his palm in seconds.
‘All done. Welcome to American Fitness, Mr Howard Pond.’
‘Good. So where is Miss Blush? And when and where can I see her?’
The receptionist checked a digi-screen. ‘You’re in luck, Mr Pond. She’s right here in the building. And she’s suddenly become available for consultation.’ She gave him the type of smile he’d only ever seen from successful bank robbers in old-world movies. ‘Would you like to pay the £2,000 consultation fee and see her now?’
He wouldn’t like to pay it. But he had no choice. He opened his wallet and handed over the £2,000 in cash that Martha had given him that morning. That hadn’t lasted long.
The receptionist placed the money in a secure metal box. ‘Thank you.’
Howie glared at her. He was a pretty streetwise guy. But he’d been stung for £7,000 in fees within a few minutes of stepping inside the building. Not even investment banks could get away with that.
The receptionist spoke into an intercom. ‘New Premium Club member Howard Pond to see you, Miss Blush.’
‘Thanks, honey!’ trilled a voice from the intercom. ‘Send him through!’
The receptionist turned to Howie. ‘Miss Blush is in Room C, through the double doors. Just place your palm on the reader.’
Howie walked to the double doors and placed his right hand on another piece of square glass. A green laser scanned his palm. A series of security lights flashed. Then the electronic door slid open. He walked through and the door slid shut behind him. He was impressed. It was Tech that worked. That meant there wasn’t just mega money behind this business. There was super-mega money.
He walked along the corridor, found Room C and knocked. The door opened and standing before him was the young woman from the posters in reception. She looked even more stunning in person. She flashed him a smile that could stop a train.
‘Welcome to American Fitness!’ she gushed, in a cheery London accent. ‘Mr, erm … Sorry. I’ve forgotten your name already! What am I like?’
Howie sucked in his belly. ‘The name’s Pond.’ He pushed out his pectorals. ‘Howie Pond.’ But he could only hold it for a couple of seconds, before he started coughing.
‘That don’t sound good. Let’s get you in the warm.’ She ushered him into her bright, modern consulting room. Howie regained his composure and sat down.
‘Now, Mr Pond. You are a Premium Member. And I like to think I’m a premium personal trainer. Well, they put me on them posters, didn’t they? You know, I always feel a bit funny when I walk through reception and see my face staring back at me. So weird. I’m much better in the flesh, don’t you think? You don’t have to answer that. It’s just me having a bit of fun. Fitness should be fun, shouldn’t it? And it is, with me. I wanted to make that clear. Now, you’ve literally just joined, yeah?’
Howie was astonished. She’d managed to say all that in a single breath. He paused a couple of seconds, to make sure she’d stopped talking. ‘Yes, I’ve just joined.’
‘Great. Now you plonk yourself down. Make your glutes comfortable – that’s what we call your bum cheeks around here – and me and you are gonna talk fitness.’ She looked around. ‘Now where are my digi-wotsits?’
Howie watched, as she buzzed around the room. He could see why the First Lady had her suspicions. She could easily have been a model.
Cherry located her digi-pen and pad and turned them on. Then she sat down and began the session. ‘So, the best way to start is if you tell me your personal goals.’
Howie only had one personal goal. And that was to find the president. But he wouldn’t be informing Cherry that the nation’s leader was missing.
‘Then we’ll take all your measurements,’ she continued. ‘Height, weight, muscle mass, blood pressure. All your vital bits and bobs. Then we’ll work out a full programme for you.’
It was time to drop his bombshell. He showed his ID. ‘Actually, I’m a special investigator for the National Security and Intelligence Service. I’m here because the president is one of your clients. I need to ask you a few questions.’
Her face dropped and her manner became less friendly. ‘Is it about the business? Coz if it is, you need to speak to Maxim’s people. Not me.’
‘Maxim?’ The name meant nothing to Howie.
‘Viktor Maxim – the owner. He’s Russian. And he’s in town this week, as it happens. So go and hassle him. Not me.’
‘No, it’s not about the business. It’s a …’ What was it? He couldn’t say what it was really about. His mind went blank.
Cherry filled the silence. ‘Is it one of them random security checks?’
Thank goodness for that. ‘Yes. It’s one of those.’
‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Are you gonna want your £2,000 back?’
Howie thought for a second. He had undoubtedly been conned. But he could turn it in his favour. He looked her in the eyes and spoke in a calm voice. ‘If you cooperate, and answer my questions truthfully, I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t compensate you for your valuable time.’
Cherry narrowed her eyes and puckered her lips. ‘Alright, Mr Pond, I’ll answer your questions.’ She switched off her digi-pen and pad, dropped them on her desk and crossed her arms. ‘So what you wanna know?’
Howie would have to tread carefully. He would start off with some background questioning, before turning to her relationship with the president. ‘How long have you been the president’s personal trainer?’
‘About two years.’
‘When and where do you meet up?’
‘Twice a week – in his private rooms at the palace. Mondays and Wednesdays usually. Sometimes he cancels and we rearrange. But not often.’
‘So you saw him yesterday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A normal session, was it?’
‘Yeah. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘I was just asking. And it’s Tuesday today, so you’re seeing him tomorrow?’
‘Unless I hear different, yeah.’
It was time to intensify the questioning. ‘How did your professional relationship begin?’
‘The president wanted to keep fit. I’m a personal trainer. It’s not rocket science.’
This next question was a little delicate. He would have to phrase it carefully. ‘You just provide fitness services? Rather than other … professional services?’
Cherry gave him a filthy look. ‘Yes. Dirty old men have to go somewhere else if they ask for extras. And that includes you, in case you were getting any ideas.’
Howie blushed. James Bond never had these problems when he was interrogating beautiful women. Bond would have deployed his devastating charm and good looks by now. Cherry would’ve already told him everything she knew. And she wouldn’t have charged him £2,000 for the privilege. But he was Howie Pond. So he’d have to carry on with the questions. ‘Did you and the president develop … a relationship?’
‘Course we did. Relationships are part of the job.’
Howie paused. ‘Has it developed into a physical relationship?’
‘Yeah. Very physical. He sweats buckets doing those press-ups.’
Howie wasn’t sure whether Cherry was deliberately misunderstanding his question or just being a little bit slow. He would ask her again – very bluntly – and watch her reaction.
‘What I mean is … have you and the president become lovers at any time?’ He held his breath.
Cherry paused, her face giving nothing away. Then she leaned forward and replied calmly, ‘Do I look like the kind of girl who sleeps with married presidents?’
Howie could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. His mouth felt dry. He swallowed hard. ‘No. But appearances can be deceptive, Miss Blush. I just need a “yes” or “no” answer.’
‘Then it’s a “no” answer,’ she replied firmly. ‘I swear on my granny’s life.’
Howie was a pretty good lie detector. He’d had a lot of experience dealing with truthful, and not so truthful, vice presidents and senior civil servants. There were lots of giveaway signs. But the eyes were the best barometer. And Cherry had maintained eye contact throughout their whole conversation. The First Lady may have had her suspicions but that’s all they were. There was only one conclusion. Cherry Blush was telling the truth.
Howie nodded. ‘I believe you. But I need to know if the president ever discusses his schedule with you? Where he’s going, who he’s meeting?’
Cherry shook her head. ‘I’m his personal trainer. Not his personal secretary.’
The door flung open. A huge, shaven-headed man in a black security uniform stood in the doorway. He didn’t look happy. ‘Mr Maxim needs to see you, Miss Blush,’ he grunted. ‘He’s in his office upstairs.’
‘I’m with a client, Arnold. I won’t be long.’
‘He needs to see you right now,’ Arnold growled. He smiled at Howie with all the warmth of a debt collector at a funeral. ‘I hope that’s alright with you, sir.’
Fortunately, Howie had finished his questioning. He was satisfied Cherry and the president hadn’t been in a relationship. And she didn’t seem to know anything that would be useful to his investigation. ‘Of course. Give me one minute to wrap things up and we’ll be right out.’
‘I’ll be back in here in sixty-one seconds, if you’re not.’ Arnold left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘Arnold is a really nice guy when you get to know him,’ chirped Cherry. It was the first unconvincing thing Howie had heard her say. ‘Now, about the £2,000 …’
