by Bill Ward
BETRAYED
POWELL BOOK 4
Bill Ward
Copyright © 2016 Bill Ward
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13:
978-1533561732
ISBN-10:
1533561737
I would like to mention Emma, Rebecca, Ben, Chloe, Natasha, Alexandra, Cassandra, Victoria and Danny. An amazing and varied collection of children! I love you all.
I also wish to say a huge Thanks to Jel for all of my cover designs. A fantastically gifted designer, who interprets my very brief notes and delivers amazing covers!
CHAPTER ONE
Fear gripped every cell in his body. He now knew the terror of being hunted. Was this how the fox felt when pursued by a pack of dogs? He could hear them approaching and was regretting his decision not to keep running.
He had been out of breath and his legs were turning to jelly when he decided to hide in the clump of bushes. He had hoped they would give up searching and then he could make his escape. So far that was proving to be a flawed plan.
Although he couldn’t risk moving his body, his brain was hyper active. Right now, he was regretting more than just choosing to hide and not flee. Top of the list was the decision not to join two of his friends in training to run the Brighton marathon but sport had never held any fascination. For the twenty eight years of his life so far, he had avoided all forms of physical exercise.
He had been fooled into thinking it was unnecessary as he ate healthily and his weight hadn’t changed much since he was a teenager. Why didn’t someone point out to him, he might one day have to outrun two men both intent on doing him serious harm.
Other regrets were coming thick and fast. He wished he’d never decided to study journalism. Even more, he wished he hadn’t then decided to investigate the people living in this country house. Hell, even though he called himself a reporter, he didn’t actually have a job since being let go by the local newspaper. They had budget cuts and applied the rule, he was the last to join so would be the first let go.
Most of the other reporters were dinosaurs not long away from collecting their pensions. He had wanted to prove the paper had made a terrible mistake, by breaking a big story on the front pages of a national newspaper, not just some local rag. Now he feared the only way he would make it onto the front pages would be as a headline announcing his death.
Perhaps he was over reacting? He needed to get a grip. He wasn’t Bob Woodward and this wasn’t another Watergate. Scott Rivers wasn’t Nixon. He was just another manipulative son of a bitch brainwashing and exploiting lost souls in search of something new.
The truth was, he had been fed up of working for a local paper but didn’t appreciate the paper deciding when he should leave. He had ambition and wanted to be working in London on a national daily not be buried away in West Sussex.
Now his ambition had led to him desperately hugging the ground with his heart beating so fast, he thought it would explode. He was more than just scared, he was terrified.
He could hear their footsteps crushing the leaves and twigs as the two men came closer. They were walking slowly, obviously searching the trees and bushes for any sign of him.
“He definitely ran in this direction,” the man he knew as Roger said to his companion.
“Stuart,” the other man called out. His name was Tommy and he was Scott’s right hand man. Living at the house, you quickly learned Tommy was a man who didn’t expect to ask twice when he wanted something done. “Come out here and we can all get back in the warm,” Tommy encouraged. “Scott just wants to talk to you. He’s very disappointed by your attitude. He wants to understand better why you want to leave. And if you still want to leave after a further conversation, you can go without any problem. We just need to get you to sign a confidentiality agreement.” Tommy sounded very reasonable and it made him even more menacing than usual. Stuart knew for certain Tommy was not a reasonable man.
Stuart was tempted to put an end to matters by standing up but he couldn’t sign any agreement, he wouldn’t then be able to publish his story. That would mean everything he’d gone through was for nothing.
At least they didn’t know he was a journalist. They just thought he was unhappy with Scott’s teachings and wanted to leave. When he’d said as much to Scott, it had resulted in him being locked in his room, despite his protests. They treated him like a naughty child. He was allowed out for breakfast and that was when he sneaked out through the toilet window and made a run for the woods.
“Stuart, if you don’t come out here, I’m going to get pretty pissed off,” Tommy warned. “I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
Stuart was getting extremely uncomfortable where he was hiding. The grass was damp and the morning dew was seeping through his clothes. It was April and so far proving to be a very wet Spring. He desperately wanted to stretch his limbs. Instead, he held his breath and didn’t risk moving a muscle. The woods were extensive and eventually surely they must go search elsewhere.
“He’s not here,” a disgruntled Tommy said, after a minute. “We’re wasting our time. Let’s go.”
Stuart sighed with relief as he realised they were leaving. He didn’t dare move for several more minutes but he could detect no hint of danger. There was only silence in the woods, interrupted by the occasional sound of birds flitting about in the branches of the trees overhead.
He slowly raised his head to check the situation. There was no sign of anyone and he climbed to his feet, shaking the leaves from his clothes and stretching his muscles. He allowed himself a small smile and believed for the first time he might actually be able to escape. Brain defeats brawn…
“I guess Roger was right after all,” Tommy said, emerging from behind a tree and interrupting Stuart’s thoughts.
Stuart was frozen to the spot for a second. His brief moment of joy quickly dissolved in a wave of panic.
“Come and speak with Scott,” Tommy encouraged, taking a few steps nearer. “I don’t get why you’re acting so strange. Scott likes you.” They were now about twenty metres apart.
Stuart instinctively turned and ran away from the danger Tommy presented. He knew it was hopeless. Tommy was fit and athletic. Stuart spent most of his time sitting behind a desk exercising his fingers on a keyboard. Sheer desperation kept him in front for a while but he could hear Tommy gaining ground.
Stuart was running around the edge of the high wall, which circled the house and grounds. No wonder the house was called Tintagel. It was like a bloody castle! According to legend, Tintagel was supposedly where King Arthur was born. Scott thought of himself as King Arthur but actually he was more in the mould of Merlin, weaving spells over his followers.
Stuart couldn’t hope to climb over the massive wall, which must be at least fifteen feet high. He would soon be at the main gate but it would be locked and there was no hope of escape. Adrenaline had kept him going further than he would have thought possible but his legs were once again hurting with the effort of running and he had to stop or he would shortly collapse.
He came to a halt and bent over double, trying to catch his breath. He turned back to face Tommy, who was now walking toward him, showing no signs of being out of breath. It was never an equal match but the bastard was laughing at his pitiful attempt to escape.
“I don’t want to speak to Scott,” Stuart said defiantly. “I just want to leave.”
“You need to get fitter,” Tommy answered with a smile. “We’re going back to the house. You lead the way.”
There was a large tree branch on the ground and Stuart thought about picking it up as a weapon but decided against. He had no doubt Tommy could beat him senseless if it came to a fight. Better not to provoke him.
He started walking towards the house without further argument. He felt defeated and there was nothing else to say.
CHAPTER TWO
Powell arrived a couple of minutes early at the house in Putney. He knew it was becoming a bit of an old fashioned concept but he couldn’t imagine turning up late for a meeting. Too often, he found younger people in particular would send a message saying they were running late. Brought up in a time when there were no mobile phones, you made sure you allowed time for unforeseen circumstances and arrived early if there were no delays. Powell considered being punctual a sign of respect for the person you are meeting. He showed the same respect to everyone but especially for a potential new client.
He had a minimum amount of background from his telephone conversation with Clara Buckingham but she had almost begged him to meet. She had been referred to him by Angela Bennett, who he had helped recover her children from Saudi Arabia. Powell had stressed he could not return to Saudi, where if he was arrested, the best result might see him languishing in a jail for a very long time. It was better not to ponder the other possible outcomes of returning to a country where they did not treat kindly, foreigners who broke their laws and Powell had broken them in abundance.
The upmarket sounding Clara had confirmed that the help she needed wouldn’t require him to leave the country and thus he had accepted the invitation to her home. He had looked her up on the internet and discovered she was married to a Charles Buckingham and they definitely belonged in the super rich club. Even the name shouted privilege and old money. They both came from wealthy families so there was no hint of Clara having married into money. She seemed to be best known for helping various charities while he was a stockbroker.
Powell thought it a little odd it had been the wife who made the call. There was possibly some significance in Charles’s reluctance to initiate first contact. Perhaps he didn’t believe his daughter was in as much trouble as Clara had suggested. Or maybe he didn’t like to air the dirty, family laundry in public.
A maid opened the door, introduced herself as Rosa, and showed Powell into the living room, confirming he was expected. Rosa promised Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham would be with him shortly. He accepted the offer of coffee and took a seat on the cream, striped sofa.
He glanced back to check his feet hadn’t left any dirty footmarks on the beige carpet. He felt like he was in a show home for a very exclusive development. There were few signs a family actually lived in the room. Perhaps that was down to Rosa’s diligent work. He found himself wondering if they also had a butler. He’d never met a real life butler, only seen them in films.
Powell was intrigued why anyone with so much wealth would want his services. Why was he a better option than the police or courts? Not that he was complaining. He had been pleased to receive the call requesting help. He needed a new challenge to help him forget the events of recent months, which had seen terrorism on his doorstep in Brighton and a former lover murdered.
Life was returning to normality and bringing with it a touch of boredom. He was superfluous to the smooth running of his bar, where Afina had everything under control, and he wasn’t very good at sitting around doing nothing all day. Afina had suggested he should take up golf but the idea didn’t appeal, especially given the recent April showers.
After a couple of minutes, Clara Buckingham swept into the room, followed by her husband. She was the epitome of elegance. Probably in her fifties, slim and attractive, she wore a simple black dress. It was the large, silver necklace which shouted out for attention. A stylish, short blond haircut and expertly applied makeup suggested she had certainly made an effort to impress. Or perhaps she always looked so manicured and perfect?
Her husband was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and yellow tie. He must surely have dressed specifically for the meeting. Powell couldn’t imagine anyone lounged around at home in such attire.
“Pleased to meet you Powell,” Clara said in a cut-glass accent, as she approached. “Thank you so much for coming. Angela speaks very highly of you. In fact, she credits you with saving her life. Says she felt like committing suicide until you stepped in to help. She says you are resourceful, courageous and honest. She’s quite a fan.”
Powell stood up and returned the surprisingly firm handshake. “Good to meet you, Mrs Buckingham. Angela exaggerates.”
“Please, call me Clara. And I hope she doesn’t because you sound like exactly the person we need.”
Charles Buckingham emerged from behind his wife. He was ruddy cheeked and bald. Despite the expensive cut of the suit, it only partially managed to hide the large belly. He was showing all the signs of someone who enjoyed too much fine dining.
“Charles Buckingham,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Powell.”
“I think you’re just wasting your time but my wife is insistent we need your help.” He threw his hands in the air and shrugged before sitting on the sofa.
Powell was a little taken aback by the less than effusive welcome but it was as he had surmised, Charles Buckingham was not entirely in favour of this meeting.
“Please take a seat,” Clara suggested.
Powell sat back down in the armchair, leaving Clara to join her husband on the sofa. The maid entered and set down a tray containing freshly brewed coffee, milk, cups and saucers.
“We’ll pour thanks, Rosa,” Clara said and the maid left. “How do you take your coffee?” Clara asked, looking at Powell.
“I’ll have mine quite milky, please,” Powell replied. “No sugar.”
Clara poured three cups and handed her husband black coffee without asking his preferences. Powell missed that closeness with a partner. The questions that didn’t have to be asked and the familiarity of many years spent together.
It would soon be twenty five years since his wife was murdered. It was already two years since his daughter Bella was also murdered. How did the famous song go? ‘Regrets, I've had a few; But then again, too few to mention.’ It wasn’t true of his life. He had far too many regrets. He’d done it his way and in the case of his wife, she had been killed as a result.
Clara sat back in her chair. “I think I should explain our problem.” After a brief pause to collect her thoughts she continued, “I believe our daughter Harriet is in danger.” She again paused to allow the seriousness of what she had said to sink in. “Ten months ago she moved out and went to live in a commune near Haywards Heath.” Clara found it difficult to say the word commune and made it sound like something unwelcome you might find on the sole of your shoe, after going for a walk.
“Full of bloody hippies,” Charles added.
Clara gave her husband a cold stare before continuing. “She is a completely changed person. That man Scott seems to have mesmerised her.”
“Who is Scott?” Powell asked.
“The man who runs the place,” Clara explained. “He doesn’t have a title or anything. At least, not that I know of, but he sets the rules and is in charge.”
“And why do you believe Harriet is in danger?”
“She is out of her depth.”
Aren’t we all. Powell already had misgivings about the outcome of the meeting. He suspected Harriet was not so much in danger as acting against the wishes of her parents. “How old is Harriet?” he queried.
“Twenty,” Clara answered. “She will be twenty one in four months.”
“That’s the bloody problem,” Charles interjected. “She comes in to her inheritance at twenty one.”
Powell thought it would be indiscrete to ask the sum but imagined it would be substantial. Instead he asked, “How was Harriet as a teenager? Has she always been a bit rebellious?”
“Not especially,” Clara replied. “Since about seventeen she has used our house more as a hotel than a home but I think that’s fairly normal for teenagers.”
“So you don’t think this is just a fad, which she will move on from when she becomes bored?”
“I’m very concerned,” Clara replied
. “She seems completely infatuated by this Scott fellow. She gave up her career to work on the commune’s farm.”
“It was hardly a career,” Charles said sharply. “She was a receptionist in a film production company. Her main job was to look pretty.”
“Have you met this Scott?” Powell asked.
“I have,” Clara replied. “He’s charming but must be at least fifteen years older than Harriet.”
“Are they having a relationship?”
Again it was Clara who answered. “She came home for the weekend and I asked her that very question. She said they weren’t in a relationship, it was just sex. She was trying to shock me but I didn’t rise to the bait and asked her if she was at least taking precautions. She said most of the time it wasn’t necessary because of his sexual preferences. She then asked me if I needed her to explain what she meant. I pointed out I hadn’t found her under a bush and neither was it an immaculate conception so I understood perfectly well.”
Powell was getting concerned his visit was going to be a complete waste of time. It seemed Harriet’s mother simply objected to her daughter’s lifestyle choices. “It does sound as if Harriet is happy. You said she was in danger. Frankly, I haven’t heard anything to suggest she is in any danger.”
“That same weekend, I went through her bag while she was walking the dog with Charles. I found a tin with something that looked like tobacco and some papers for rolling cigarettes. I’m not stupid. I know it was an illegal substance. She never did drugs until she met this Scott fellow.”
Powell wondered if that was just wishful thinking. “Did you confront her about the drugs?”
“Of course I did and she just told me I was old fashioned, and screamed at me for going through her bag. Said there was nothing wrong with smoking an occasional joint. She thinks it will soon be legal in most countries.”
“It is quite common amongst young people,” Powell said gently.
