by AFN CLARKE
“I do plan to find out all there is to know about the way the Group operates, Adrian," I said watching the CEO of my father's company's eyes carefully. I didn't like him and I didn't trust him. "What was my father doing in Northern Ireland?” I was expecting a reaction, but not quite as dramatic as he visibly turned pale and I thought his eyes would pop into his champagne glass. “Is anything wrong, Adrian?” I asked.
He coughed and made little choking noises. “N... n... no. It's OK. I just swallowed a large mouthful of champagne. It went the wrong way.” He coughed again and recovered his composure. Adrian seemed to have developed a nervous tick at the corner of his right eye. “It's a new project. A proposed micro-electronics factory to be constructed just outside Belfast. It was your father's own personal project. I'm afraid I don't know much about it.” His composure returned and before I could question him further, he excused himself and mingled with the other guests. I let him go as this seemed hardly the time or place to pursue him with the ferocity I felt.
“Adrian seemed to be in a hurry to escape from you.” The voice of Hamish McDougall came from behind and I turned to see his friendly face smiling at me. He had been my father's closest friend since before I was born. An MP and Minister of State for Trade and Investment, he seemed to drift through life, tidying up other people's problems quietly and efficiently. He would never be Prime Minister, he just didn't have the flair, but then again he was quite happy looking after his constituents and carrying out a worthwhile job in the Government.
“Yes. I seem to have struck a nerve, though why I don't know.” I took a sip of champagne. “Presumably you've heard that I'm taking over as head of the Group?” He nodded and patted me on the arm.
“Yes, I'm glad. It's about time you came out of yourself. You've been ducking and weaving for too long.” I tensed ready to let my anger rise again, when I caught his eyes. They were laughing at me. “You have to learn to control that quick temper of yours, too. It just might get you into trouble and there is no room for histrionics in the Board Room.” He was right, of course. The shock of grey hair, laughing eyes and relaxed attitude of the man always defused any situation.
“Listen, if you need someone to talk to, just give me a call. Mary has my number.” At that moment Julie came over and told me that Mary had gone to rest. Hamish excused himself and we were alone.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Just tired. She's more relaxed than she has been for a long time, probably relived that you've taken the job. Doesn't like Americans much does she?”
“I'm sure she'll make an exception in your case. And she already has in my case.”
“How so?”
“I have dual nationality, my mother was American, born in Santa Barbara California.”
“I knew that. Well your step mother is relying on you to pull the family together." She hesitated and then, with a touch of mockery, added. “She also wants to see you married and have an heir.” She looked at me with a sideways grin, gauging my reaction to the comment.
“No way. Not yet. I like the practice we are getting, but I don’t think I'm ready for children.”
“That's what I told her. Well, not in so many words, but close enough.” We both laughed, awkwardly. Julie had changed over the past few days.
When I first saw her, she was a dream vision floating through the evening twilight and soft streetlights. A sophisticated poised and confident beauty that most men hungered after and very few had the balls to approach. Her grey/green eyes and direct look I knew could freeze any unwanted attention without her having to utter a word, and I was immediately fascinated. I was sure I had seen her on the cover of Vogue, or Elle magazine and continued to watch her easily brush off the young rich 'bar-flies' that frequented Café Carlo.
Perhaps it was the scar that looped across my forehead where the shrapnel had carved my flesh open and cracked my skull that caught her eye, or that I sat quietly watching her, frankly admiring her beauty, amused by the murmur of excitement that ran through the restaurant in Capri.
She turned and saw me, smiled, and walked over, much to the dismay of would-be suitors who were left standing at the bar with their mouths open.
“Carlo tells me that the Fountaine Pajot Sanya 57, is yours.” Her New England accent surprised me as I had assumed her to be European.
“It is.” I stood and indicated a seat for her to sit down, which she did with the elegance and assurance of a Royal Princess. “My name is....”
“Thomas Gunn,” she interrupted easily, smiling. “I do my research, something my father taught me was very important.”
“Then I am at a disadvantage, Miss....”
“Sutton. Julie Sutton.”
“And your interest in the yacht?”
“Purely selfish. I was looking for a private charter for a week or two and Carlo said you were available.”
“Carlo said that did he?”
“He did.”
“And how much did you pay Carlo to ensure I was available.”
She laughed quickly, a musical sound and mischief in her eyes. “A lot. Too much. Money is not the issue, my privacy is. And I like adventure. You seem to fit the description.”
“I wondered why I suddenly had no business this week.”
“You are available then? As I said I will cover whatever you lost on your previous charter.”
“If you have done your research then you know money has no interest for me. I'm sure Carlo told you that too.”
“He did. But I like to pay my way.”
“Privacy does have a price.”
“I see we think alike.”
We fell in love on the second day and sailed to Gozo, where we stayed, anchored in a solitary bay for six months. Julie refused all work, much to her agent's frustration, and I had little to do anyway during my extended convalescence, until the real world crashed our paradise.
Julie squeezed my arm, snapping me back to the present and my duty as host as some of our guests were leaving.
With most of the people gone, I cornered Adrian again and told him that I would be down at Head Office some time during the week to make a start on learning the business.
“I want to know everything about this micro-electronics factory in Belfast before any more decisions are made,” I told him firmly.
“But there are still some negotiations to be completed, and other formalities. I really think they ought to be dealt with now, not later,” he said in a tone that implied I should let those who know about these things get on with it.
“No. Under the circumstances I'm not rushing us into any decisions.” I took vicarious pleasure watching him squirm.
“If you insist,” he said stiffly and walked out to his waiting car.
“You seem to have ruffled his feathers a bit,” said Julie, standing beside me. “Something tells me you are not going to have an easy time with him.”
“I don't trust him.”
“Is that why you're goading him? Or do I detect a spark of interest in the Group?” She was laughing at me again.
“I want to know why my father was murdered, and my gut tells me it has something to do with this new project in Northern Ireland.”
I knew that the Gunn Group was complicated. It controlled many companies in the fields of electronics, engineering and chemicals. The assets were enormous and profits almost equal to the largest of multi-nationals. No mean feat for a privately owned business. Obviously with the amounts of money involved, there must be very tight controls on security, especially as the areas of micro-electronics and chemicals were high risk and the competition cut throat. I could understand Adrian's reluctance to talk business at the wake, but still there was this nagging doubt in my mind.
“I think I'll have a talk with Mary. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.”
Julie shook her head. “Don't disturb her just yet. It is the first real rest she's had. How about taking me for a walk around the grounds instead?”
“You
're right and they're quite beautiful at this time of year.”
We passed the rest of the afternoon wandering the grounds talking. It was the first time since we arrived that we had been alone for any length of time and now that the funeral was over we could look forward to happier times ahead.
I led Julie around to the nondescript barn set aside from the main Hall. The only thing that could give away the fact that the barn was an aircraft hangar was the small round concrete helipad thirty metres from the hangar building.
Julie looked at me askance. “A helicopter?”
“Wealth does have its perks.”
“A private jet and a helicopter?”
“Well actually the Gunn Group has two helicopters and two more private jets.”
“Of course it does,” she said sarcastically.
The electric hangar doors slid open at the touch of the ‘app’ on my iPhone and revealed the interior of the barn, aside from the helicopter, there was a small yet comprehensively equipped workshop and maintenance area, and outside a five hundred gallon tank of Jet fuel. Julie watched as I wheeled the aircraft out of the hangar onto the pad, disconnected the ground handling wheels, stowed them back in the hangar and checked the fuel. My father always kept the helicopter fully fuelled and ready to go at any time. It made trips to London easy and quick.
It had been a while since I flew the Eurocopter, demanding a different set of skills to the fixed wing Cessna Mustang. This one was equipped with a full EFIS (Electronic Flight Information System) digital 'glass' cockpit, so I could fly 'blind' from Norwich to the London Heliport in Battersea on the river Thames only eight miles from the Gunn Group offices. This particular aircraft had been configured for right seat flying. I liked it better than flying from the left seat, as I could lock off the collective and use my left hand for changing radio frequencies and other instruments.
“When was the last time you flew this?”
“About two years ago. We'll take it tomorrow, I need to make an appearance at the office.”
“You'll take it, I have my own business to run and that means mollifying my agent and getting some work.”
“Where's your sense of adventure?”
“You get some practice in then we'll talk about my sense of adventure.”
Mary reappeared for dinner. The rest had done her good.
Some of the old bounce was back in her walk and conversation. I didn't want to spoil the atmosphere so suppressed my desire to bombard her with questions. There would be plenty of time after the meal.
She had been through a lot in the last eighteen months, having just recovered from a serious car crash the previous year in which two of her closest friends had been killed. After a long period in hospital and private nursing home she had pulled through.
“Mary, there are some things that have been worrying me about Dad,” I said, as tactfully as possible. She sipped the brandy delicately. “I keep wondering about this Northern Ireland deal. This afternoon I tried to talk to Adrian about it, but he brushed me off, virtually saying it was none of my business.” I paused, waiting for a reply. There was none. “Well, don't you think it is more than just a coincidence?”
She placed her brandy glass carefully on the side table and shook her head. “The police came to the conclusion that it was probably a case of mistaken identity. If there is anything they will find it Thomas.” She smiled. “You concentrate on learning the business. Leave the investigating to the experts.”
“I need to know what the Northern Ireland deal is all about. Adrian just said it was one of Dad's personal projects. If I’m going to learn about the company then it seems to me to be a good place to start. Did he say anything to you about it?”
“No, of course not. You know what your father was like about business. No work at home. All business was to stay where it belonged, at the office. Perhaps Adrian was just honouring your father’s memory by not discussing it here. I'm sure he will tell you all about it when you go in to work.” She drew a weary hand across her face. “I must go to bed, Thomas. I'm not really as together as I look.”
“Of course.” I helped her up and watched as she walked slowly across the room. “Are there any papers that Dad would have left in the house? Presumably, if he was handling the deal on his own he would have something here.” I felt I needed to press her on the subject. It was so strange that nobody seemed to know much about it at all. I know that the old man liked to keep business away from his private life as much as possible, but I also know that there were times when he brought very important documents home. Particularly those pertaining to projects in which he was personally involved.
“Please, Thomas. Enough. I never pried into his business affairs at all. Perhaps if I had I could have been a better wife to him. Now please, we can talk again tomorrow, but there is nothing much I can tell you.” She stopped at the door, turned and looked at me carefully as if trying to tell me something by telepathy. “I want you to do a good job now that you're in charge,” she said, tipped her head on one side as if asking a silent question, then turned and left the room.
Still feeling very much in the dark, I went to my flat in what used to be the old servants quarters. It was private in a separate wing of the Hall and had it’s own entrance through the kitchen. Julie poured us two glasses of Pusser's rum, a silent reminder of the catamaran and sunshine, and we sat in front of the large window looking out over the peaceful moonlit countryside.
“I know what you're thinking, Thomas. And I know you want answers. But you're not going to get them tonight.” She leaned across and nibbled on my ear, then got up and slowly took off her dress. Beneath it she was naked. She turned and headed for the bedroom
Well at least in this upside down world there were some things that had not changed. I downed the rum, picked up the discarded dress and followed her.
THREE
London – September 2012
The offices of Gunn Group Industries were not in Central London, as people would expect. They were situated in a tall building in Twickenham. Close enough to the hub of things, but far enough on the outskirts of the City to be easy to get to from the country. The building was called Gunn House and was, appropriately, built by a subsidiary company, Langhorne Construction Limited. It was an eyesore, as are most buildings of this type. I was still contemplating the follies of modern architecture as the lift carried me to the top floor, home of the offices of the Board of Directors.
The collar and tie felt uncomfortable and the suit as if it was four sizes too big. Julie had assured me it wasn't, and Mary also made the correct noises. I was not convinced. The lift bumped to a stop, jerking me out of my daydream and the doors hissed open to reveal the reception area.
Directly opposite the lift was a desk at which sat a beautifully dressed and perfectly made-up young lady who looked up coolly as I walked towards her.
“May I help you, sir?” The standard question used a thousand times a day in a million offices.
“Mr Gunn,” I said.
“I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Gunn is not in.”
“I am Mr Gunn. Mr Thomas Gunn, the new Chairman.”
The girl looked at me blankly until she suddenly grasped what I had said.
“I'm sorry, sir. We aren't expecting you. Mr Newell didn’t warn me at all.” I held up my hand to stop the flow. A young-looking thirty, with long fair hair, I didn’t look the part of a city tycoon.
“Would you just point me in the right direction for my office and tell Mr Newell I'm here. I'll see him in ten minutes.” I hoped that sounded as a chairman should and having received her directions, she headed off for the office.
The old man really did believe in the Chairman having an office worthy of the position. It was huge. A thick carpet covered centre of the expanse of wooden floor; mahogany desk in front of the window, and table with settee and easy chairs for entertaining associates. Original modern paintings adorned the walls and the view across Twickenham and the Thames was breathtaking. Beside
the desk was a complete console with a computer terminal, closed circuit TV and the usual intercom system. So this is where the Gunn fortune was generated. I could see why Adrian wanted to keep me out of the way. If this was a yardstick with which to judge the power wielded by the Chairman then he must be very upset that it was in my hands.
There was a knock on the door and a very correctly dressed, slightly overweight and rather severe looking woman in her mid thirties entered.
“Mr Gunn, my name is Jennifer Jordan. I am your assistant. I do apologise we weren't expecting you. Would you like some coffee?” She stood in front of the desk, expressionlessly, waiting for a reply.
“Yes please. Milk, two sugars, thank you.” I said. She turned and made for the door. I stopped her before she reached it. “Jennifer?” She turned and looked enquiringly. “Please smile, I like happy faces around me.” She dropped her chin, smiled shyly, opened the door and left. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of coffee, followed by a tight-lipped, somewhat irritable looking Adrian.
“Thank you, Jennifer. Good morning, Adrian.” I knew the use of her first name would annoy him, and that was just what I wanted to do. To make sure that he knew who now sat in the chair. “Please don't say it. I've already heard it twice this morning.” He looked a little nonplussed, as if I had just robbed him of a key phrase.
“You could have given me notice that you were coming in.”
“Why? What I want from you is a run-down on everything this Group owns, part owns or whatever. I reckon that would be the best place to start.” I hoped I sounded as if I knew a little about business. I hadn't a clue and was going to have to do some pretty rapid learning.
“If you had given me some warning then I could have had all the files ready for your inspection. As it is it will take time to get them all together.” He spoke stiffly, with his head held up, looking down at me in disgust. Adrian categorised everyone as either a businessman or a layabout. I was one of the latter.
