I kept an eye on Summerfield, mentally toasting him for the beer he was unknowingly paying for, and ordered another. At 4.20pm Summerfield received a call on his mobile phone. He glanced towards the door as he spoke, it was a very short call. Immediately after hanging up he turned and made his way to the bar for another drink. I held the paper higher making no eye contact at all, but listened. “Same again and a John Powers whiskey and ice please,” he said. His was the voice of an educated man. An educated man in a very unlikely place. Someone was coming to meet him. Who? Summerfield returned to his table with the drinks.
I discreetly removed the miniature camera from my bag and pocketed it. All feelings of the hangover were gone now thanks to the drink. A perk of the job. The pub was getting busier with all sorts of people, young and old, locals and tourists. It was a grubby, but lively place. The kind of place Rodney Summerfield could disappear and become nameless quite easily. Summerfield drank and glanced at the door often. Anytime now, I thought, surely it’s not going to be this easy?
At 4.35pm, the door opened. In walked the woman from the reception at Coughlan, Summerfield and Fraser. Still wearing her glasses and a huge smile, she made a beeline for Summerfield and kissed him squarely on the lips. Unbelievable. She removed her coat, sat down and was immediately in animated conversation with Summerfield. They chatted like excited kids. I studied her. She was quite beautiful in a bookish sort of way. Straight, silky dark hair just over her shoulders, flawless Irish skin, stylish blue metal rimmed glasses on a noble nose, red lips without the aid of lipstick, slim and well-dressed. She drank the whiskey. I mentally noted the brand Summerfield had ordered. John Powers.
I removed the camera casually from my pocket. After deactivating the flash I pretended to be looking at pictures on the small screen. The couple were busy talking and were totally oblivious of anyone around them. Turning the camera to the left at waist level, I took five photographs at different angles. I checked the pictures on the small screen one by one.
The first two were taken from the wrong angle but the last three were absolutely perfect. Two smiling lovers locked in conversation. Hands on each other’s legs. A picture says a thousand words. You are so fucking busted, Summerfield. I couldn’t believe my luck. I could have wrapped up the job right then with those photographs but I knew I would have to drag it out for at least three or four days.
I felt an unusual pang of guilt about it, but that was the name of the game. Poor old Tracy Summerfield. Just before 5pm, the woman rose, kissed Summerfield again on the lips and made an exit. Summerfield stood up as she walked away and smiled at her. I saw that he too was about to leave and was finishing his gin. I made ready to follow and downed the last of my beer. Summerfield put on his coat and left the pub turning right back towards his offices. The woman from reception was long gone and again I followed from a safe distance.
He walked down the dark wet streets straight past his offices and into the bright lights of Oxford Street. It was still packed with people and I picked up the pace so I wouldn’t lose him. Summerfield made his way towards the Tube station. I followed him through the crowds down the escalator to the Victoria Line Northbound. Perhaps he’s going home? It was only four stops to Finsbury Park. Travelling in the tube system was like being in a smelly sardine tin at that time of day, but Summerfield was tall enough to stand above most people. I had no problem tailing him and took the next carriage. I was able to observe him through the two panes of grimy steamed up glass that separated the carriages.
Ten minutes later he got off the Tube at Finsbury Park and made his away up the escalator, out of the station and across the busy streets towards his house. No funny business tonight then. The mobile phone in my pocket rang as Summerfield approached the door of his ground floor flat. My local pub was no more than a mile up the road from Summerfield’s flat, albeit through a slightly rougher area. Despite the freezing temperature I had had enough claustrophobia for the day and decided to walk it rather than catch a cab or a bus. Further up in the semi darkness, there were a few prostitutes on the other side of the road. They were hanging around in the car headlights as they passed. They were dressed in miniskirts despite the weather. A group of young men drove past them in a small red car. “You’re fucking rough!” one of them shouted as they drove past. “Am I?!” one of the girls retorted loudly.
I shook my head and carried on up the street. I knew I would need to find something to eat before heading to my local. Fifteen minutes later, I ordered a quarter pounder with cheese at the takeaway opposite the pub.
Love your healthy diet, buddy. There was an arctic wind howling through the dark streets. It rattled the windows and signs on the shop fronts and travelled straight through my clothes into my bones. It was a blessed relief to walk through the doors into the familiar friendly warmth of the pub. Various greetings sounded from the locals as I sat. I ordered a John Powers Irish whiskey with ice from the barman, who pushed the pale spirit over to me. It was smooth and pale. Similar to J&B scotch but with a smoky, fruity aftertaste. It was very good and was the first of many that night.
At 11o’clock the barman shouted, “Time at the bar please, time at the bar.” I ordered a taxi which arrived in minutes for the short drive home. I got out, paid the driver, and made my way to the security door outside the block. I entered using my key and pushed the button for the lift. There was a slimy, sticky feeling on the button. “Fucking cunts! Fuck’s sake!” I cursed loudly. The local kids had wiped snot on the button for the lift as a joke. Still cursing, I scraped my finger on the raw brickwork and made my way into the waiting lift and up to the fifth floor. The Polish house cleaner who came three times a week had been in, and the flat was clean and tidy. I washed my hands, brushed my teeth and gratefully headed for my bed.
Chapter Three - Gareth Lewer-Allen
I awoke to the familiar sounds of my north London flat. I was feeling a whole lot better than I had the previous day. I reached for my cigarettes and glass of water and my mind went to my client, Tracy Summerfield. The proof of her husband’s affair was in my hands. I needed no more. The routine of the morning began as usual and culminated as always with the grand opening of the lounge curtains. The sight was exactly the same as the previous day. Dark, grey, wet and miserable. Fucking hell. I cooked breakfast before turning on my mobile phone and opening my laptop to transfer the digital images from the previous evening. I decided I would contact Tracy Summerfield a bit later before travelling to Soho Square at lunch time. From there I would observe the movements of Rodney Summerfield once again. This time I would remember my fucking gloves. I turned on the television to watch the news. At that moment, the phone rang. The number was not recognised. Turning down the volume on the television I answered,
“Hello can I help you?”
A deep voice said, “Could I speak to Mr Jason Green please?”
“Speaking...”
“Mr Green, my name is Gareth Lewer-Allen. I have been given your number by an associate of mine. I would like to see you as soon as possible on an extremely urgent matter.” The voice was clearly from a man who was used to being in charge of people and things. Defined, well spoken, and devoid of bullshit. This was slightly annoying to me at that time of the morning.
“May I ask who referred you Mr Lewer-Allen?” The man on the phone gave a name of a previous client of mine. It seemed kosher.
“Well I could see you this morning, I do have some commitments from lunchtime onwards.”
“Mr Green, I assure you I will make it worth your while. As I said, it’s an extremely urgent matter.”
Intrigued I replied, “Sure, can I have your address please?”
Gareth Lewer-Allen was abrupt and quick with his answer. “I have been given your address Mr Green, and I have a car waiting for you downstairs at this moment. You will be driven to my offices and returned immediately after we have met. I trust this is alright with you?”
“Yes, that's fine, tell your driver I will be down in five min
utes.” “Thank you Mr Green.”
The phone hung up. Who is this cheeky fucker and what does he want? I dressed quickly and glanced at my watch. Ten past nine. There would be plenty of time to get to Soho Square and Summerfield if the client was as quick as he had been on the phone. I left the flat and pushed the button for the lift using my key instead of my finger this time. The waiting vehicle was none other than a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. A modern and very expensive rolls Royce. Dark blue in colour, it was certainly out of place in the Seven Sisters area. The standing driver was obviously expecting me.
“Good morning sir,” he said, as he opened the back door nearest to the building.
He was dressed in full chauffeur regalia including the cap. I smelt the leather upholstery and noticed the wooden panelling of the interior. Very nice indeed. The car pulled away smoothly and almost silently. I started on the driver.
“Do you have any idea why Mr Lewer-Allen wants to see me so urgently?”
“I'm sorry sir, I have no idea,” he replied.
“Well can you tell me a bit about him? Where he works, what he does, he told me very little.” I was still annoyed.
Why all this cloak and dagger shit? The driver sensed this and opened up a bit.
“Mr Lewer-Allen is an investment banker in the city sir. A very wealthy man. I have no idea why he wants to see you sir, I'm just the driver.”
He glanced nervously at me in the rear view mirror as he spoke. I accepted his explanation and sat back in the seat. Probably the usual cheating wife or similar. I defiantly lit a cigarette and enjoyed the ride. Better be worth my fucking while. I was not a morning person.
The car drove for forty minutes or so before reaching the bank area of London. It pulled up in front of an imposing Gothic four-storey building, where the car was met by a doorman in uniform. I was ushered through a reception hall and past a sign which read Omega European Investment Bank. We walked on until we arrived at an elevator. The place reeked of money. Marble flooring, impressive art deco style lighting. There were large portraits of stern looking men on the walls. The hushed corridors of international finance.
The lift was summoned. No chance of any snot on those buttons. The reception to Gareth Lewer-Allen's office was modern and completely sound-proofed. A smart looking elderly woman behind the desk gave me a curt smile and offered me a sumptuous chair. She immediately picked up the phone and informed the person behind two ornate wooden doors that I had arrived. I was shown into a huge and extremely plush office. There were massive bookshelves with finely bound leather volumes surrounding the walls. Near the window on the right stood a large antique globe. I walked across a Persian carpet and straight up to the desk.
“Jason Green,” I said, offering my hand.
Gareth Lewer-Allen stood up and responded with a very firm handshake. He was visibly gauging me from the start.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice Mr Green. Please take a seat.”
The man was dressed in a dark pin stripe suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie. The driver had been right. He was obviously an extremely wealthy man. He was balding and grey, but impeccably turned out. I put his age at about 65. My slightly more casual attire of black jeans, collared shirt, dark pullover and leather jacket were a bit out of place here, but it didn’t bother me. The man’s cold blue eyes were piercing and I imagined they would scare most people. The frown lines on his face told me that he was a deeply worried man. We both sat down.
“What can I do for you sir?” I asked.
“Mr Green, I am not going to waste your time. I have a serious problem. My 39 year old son lives here in London. He has a small surf shop close to Liverpool Street Station. They sell adrenaline sports equipment, snow boards, surfboards, kite boards. You know the kind of thing?”
I nodded.
“Well, Mr Green, I am a businessman, and I know when a business is making money. I also know when a business is not making money.”
I nodded again in understanding.
“Now, I financed my son’s little enterprise three years ago. It cost me £600k at the time.”
He dismissed the amount with a casual wave of his hand as if to indicate this was basically small change. He lent back in his seat as he continued. He spoke slowly and clearly as if not wanting to have to repeat himself.
“For the first year and a half, my son would approach me for money at least once every three months. Finance for stock and advertising etc. The business wasn’t performing very well at all. However, it was his dream, his baby, and I was quite happy to help out every now and then.”
I listened and wondered where this was going.
“Frankly I was grateful that he had decided to try to do something with his life and I thought it would do him some good. Even if the whole venture failed, he would have at least had some experience in the world of business.”
I sat and nodded.
“Well Mr Green, he hasn’t approached me for money in the past year and a half. He has moved into an expensive flat in Sloane Square. I don't know whether he has bought it or not. He tells me he is renting. On top of that he has bought a brand new Aston Martin. Now that is a very expensive car, Mr Green. He travels extensively all over the world. Basically, he’s living the high life and I don’t know how the hell he is paying for it.”
“Have you asked him how he’s managing all of this?” I asked, stating the obvious.
“I have, and he has told me the shop is doing very well. Quite frankly Mr Green, that is bullshit. I pass that shop twice a day and I have never seen any change in the place. It’s as dead as it has always been. He hardly spends any time there at all. Make no mistake, the place is well stocked and it looks good from the outside.
He has a website and a staff of two who seem to be doing a good job looking after the place. But I have been in business for too long Mr Green, and I know there is no way that little shop is making the kind of money he is spending. Not a chance.”
Intrigued, I shifted in my seat. “And you would like me to do what?” I asked.
The man sat forward and leaned on his desk. He glared at me with his cold pale blue eyes. “I want you to watch my son, Mr Green. I want you find out where he’s getting all this money from.”
“You’re worried he might be doing something illegal.” I said.
“I am,” he replied. “I am a very busy man and I don't need this in my life. If my son were to get into trouble of any kind it would have far-reaching consequences for my family and my business. I'm sure you understand?”
Suddenly I had the feeling this man thought he was talking to one of his employees. One of his ‘yes’ men. For me, this was the wrong approach. Annoyed, I decided to play along.
“I do understand Mr Lewer-Allen but I am also a very busy man and...”
Lewer-Allen raised his hand and interrupted, “Please Mr Green, just hear me out. I understand your fees are £150 per day plus expenses. Now, I have instructed my secretary to immediately transfer £10 000 into the account of your choice if you agree. I am offering you £1000 per day to get me the answers I need. My wife is starting to ask questions. I cannot afford to have anything go wrong with my family. I need to have some peace of mind.”
A few tense seconds passed. The offer was simply too good to refuse. The job would be a refreshing change from the norm and it surely wouldn't be too difficult to ascertain the source of young Lewer-Allen's wealth. I held the man's gaze without changing my expression.
Leaning forward I offered him my hand. “I'll begin immediately.”
Instantly his expression lifted. It was as if a huge weight had been taken from his shoulders.
“Thank you, thank you Mr Green,” he said, shaking hands with the same vigour as before. “I'm very pleased you’re on this for me.”
He handed me a personal calling card. The print was raised and it had an address, phone numbers and personal email. We both stood up.
“I will contact you when I have some definite inform
ation. I don’t play guessing games.” I warned.
“That is perfectly fine,” he said. “My secretary has a file with all the information I think you’ll need. She will also take your bank details. The money will be in your account by the time my driver gets you back home. It’s a huge relief for me to have you working on this matter. Thank you again.”
“Thank you,” I replied as I turned and headed for the two heavy wooden doors. I walked out without looking back and sat down with his secretary. She handed me a sealed red file. I gave her my bank details which she jotted down efficiently. She thanked me and nothing more was said as I headed to the lift. The doors opened immediately and I entered and pushed the button for the ground floor. Alone on the way down I shook my head in disbelief. Fucking hell, what a score.
The chauffeur was diligently waiting for me at the back door of the Rolls Royce.
“Home, Jeeves!” I said cheerfully.
“Yes sir,” was the reply. I threw my bag onto the back seat and got into the car. I opened the red file and began to read in silence as the car purred away through the traffic and the freezing grey drizzle.
Chapter Four - Richard Lewer-Allen
I browsed through the file on the way home. It was a breakdown of his entire life and made interesting reading. Richard Lewer-Allen was 39 years old. He had had a privileged upbringing, attending expensive private schools and was at one stage, 15 years before, on the brink of becoming a professional golfer. This hadn’t worked out as planned and was obviously a cause of great disappointment to his father. It seemed Richard's relationship with his parents was a bit distant. Cordial, but detached, as if father and son had a mutual dislike for each other but would endure that to keep the peace within the family. By all accounts, Richard seemed to be a very sociable person. He had a large circle of friends and seemed to enjoy the good life, with constant parties and general merry-making being the order of the day. On arrival back in Seven Sisters I decided to prepare a report for Mrs Summerfield and get it done with. It was a bit of a relief. I never really felt comfortable about needlessly extending the time frame for jobs. Especially for such an undeserving and beautiful woman. It would be a simple task. The photos would basically say it all. No doubt there would be drama, wailing and a great gnashing of teeth. There would also have to be a refund. I opened my laptop and wrote a quick summary of what had happened the previous day. I then printed the photographs and the report and put £350 cash into an envelope and called her. She answered immediately and seemed surprised at how quickly I had moved. Her voice trembled as she agreed that we would meet at 1pm that day. I logged on to my internet bank account and sure enough the £10 000 was showing in credit, just as Lewer-Allen had promised. Fucking hell, what a day.
The Jason Green series Box Set Page 2
