by Tim Heath
Jessica was a career girl, and her job suddenly relocated that July. Tommy was faced with either the loss of his new true love or ending his footballing days at the club with which he’d always been. However, knowing his playing days were nearly over, he decided to leave with her and said his goodbyes. It all happened so fast.
Tommy suddenly needed a job. At first he kept his options limited. Without the specialist training, sports physiotherapy work was out of the question, and with his busy life before, he hadn’t done his coaching badges either. No doors seemed to open. Soon the need to get any job became the highest goal.
Then came a chance encounter with Brendan Charles, which unknown to Tommy at the time, Jessica had helped to arrange, and things took a turn for the better. Brendan offered him an excellent job compared to those Tommy had been looking at with an excellent starting salary. Suddenly Tommy had a career before him, and his options opened up. After three months he found himself on the company’s management training program, on the fast track, as Brendan said on more than one occasion. Brendan valued his small group of talented individuals and usually referred to the program as his Academy. It was at an Academy weekend that Tommy got a little too drunk and slept with a female colleague. Dirt was gathered, somehow, and this made its way home.
The break up was very sudden, and she was gone. His true love off and away as quickly as she had arrived. Tommy was heart-broken, but about the same time work seemed to open up, and this replaced the empty hole left by her sudden exit.
Before long, Tommy was back on track. He carried on at the Academy but kept his cards close to his chest from then on as he was no longer sure who he could trust. The break-up was only a momentary blip, Tommy told himself, on his otherwise upward journey. If she couldn’t stand his excellence, then it was best that she left, or so he tried to convince himself.
Jessica Ponter had been trying to contact Brendan all day. With the media world creating a circus of the Nottingham Forest takeover, she wasn’t having any luck.
“I really must speak to Mr Charles today,” she demanded with urgency, the voice on the other end having none of it.
“Well, as I’ve already said, the whole world wants to talk to him today, and he’s not available. Goodbye,” came the sharp reply. “But I’m not a reporter...,” she tried in her defence, but the line went dead.
Jessica swore under her breath, her blood pressure rising all the time.
Having finished work now, she quickly picked up her bag, which had a couple of printouts and a CCTV picture of Robert from that morning, put her jacket on and rushed out of the door.
The streets were busy as the rush hour traffic was in full flow with the evening now drawing in. Hailing a passing black cab, she opened the door as it was still pulling over.
“Cramborne Street please,” she belted out and took her seat in the back.
The cab shot off and got swallowed by the traffic, but it made good progress. Sitting in the back, Jessica chewed over the day's events. What was that man after, she kept asking herself? How did he know all those things? She knew she had to talk to Brendan, though she certainly knew he would not be happy about it.
After ten minutes the cab pulled over, and she jumped out, passing the driver a £10 note and disappearing before he could give her the change, not that this bothered him in the slightest. He’d seen that she was in a hurry and looked to have a lot on her mind. A good looking girl but he knew not to ask anything on this occasion.
Walking down Cramborne Street, Jessica carried on two blocks and ended up on the corner of Osborne Street. The entrance of the HICL offices came onto Osborne, but these were now crammed with TV camera crews, their vans filling the previously spacious pavements. Having been here once before, she knew a back entrance that would get her to the main reception, something that was now not possible through the security guarded front doors. Once inside, she made her way through the narrow corridors to the large reception area, which was surprisingly quiet.
“Please can I speak to Mr Charles, Miss,” she asked politely to the middle-aged receptionist.
“I’m afraid that this will not be possible,” came the sharp but polite reply, the voice instantly recognisable from her countless phone calls. She’d apparently had a stressful day of it.
“I assure you that Mr Charles will want to speak to me immediately. Please get him on the telephone,” Jessica continued calmly.
Apparently taken aback by this unknown visitor, the receptionist quickly made a call, as if going through the motions, her headset sitting neatly on her perfectly kept hair.
“There is a young woman down here insisting upon seeing you at once, Mr Charles,” she said with little effort at trying to get Jessica’s request answered. She sat there for a moment, apparently listening to a reply through her headset, her eyes giving nothing away but a little smile started appearing on her mouth.
“As I said,” she stated triumphantly, covering up the mouthpiece on the headset with her left hand, “he doesn’t want to see anyone!”
“OK. Tell him that Miss Ponter is here to see him,” Jessica added, not wanting to stress the importance as she was sure of what the outcome would be. Speaking through her headset again, the receptionist’s eyes quickly darted up to look Jessica square in the face, her expression suddenly changing.
“He’ll see you right away, Miss Ponter,” she said, almost sincerely. “Please take the lift to the eighth floor,” and she pointed to the far side of the lobby, in the general direction of the lifts.
3
It was well after lunch now at the Department of Trade and Industry joint meeting, as Mary Ingham addressed the group again to bring things up to date. The atmosphere had grown calmer throughout the day and jackets were off, sleeves rolled up. A tray of used coffee cups sat on the desk; a few crumbs left over on the plate of biscuits.
“The Nottingham Forest takeover may need a little looking into,” Mary opened. “The purchasing company is part of a much bigger firm, the Gambles Holdings Group, which is a giant, though we haven’t come across them much before. We looked at a takeover some time back, but they are much bigger now with interests around the world, though they are mainly based in the UK; certainly, most of their head offices are.” She looked around the room briefly, but it was clear nobody else knew any more than she had printed on her memo in front of her, a piece of work quickly put together by those in the background. “HICL we’ve certainly come across as a FTSE100 company. They are the purchasers, and this does not create too much of a problem being UK based. We’re yet to track the financial growth of HICL, but this is being worked on at the moment. I expect to have the information in the next twenty minutes. It’s mainly through takeovers, we expect, but because of the Gambles Holdings Group involvement we need to make sure that they aren’t using HICL as just a channel.” She picked up another sheet of paper.
“It does seem that the Gambles Holdings Group touch many aspects of industry and we might have to tread carefully. They own a telecoms giant and are strong in the computer market. As well as their new football interest, there have been links to the Gaming Industry, Law and Order, as well as political and even military connections. I’m expecting these by tomorrow.”
They’d all come across such corporations before, dealing with takeovers and the like for many years. Figures didn’t always make much impact as all the firms coming across their desks were in the billion pound bracket. It was often the personalities behind such companies that remained in the memory.
Brendan Charles sat in his large chair behind the lush Brazilian hardwood desk. His office was quiet now, since the arrival of Jessica. He sat there thinking about the conversation he’d just had. She’d gone as quickly as she’d come, which Brendan was grateful for, but what she said was still bouncing around his head. His mind ran through all the possible reasons for this guy snooping around in the background. Brendan was a big thinker and an intelligent man. He also had lots of contacts in just the right sort of pla
ces, and he was sure that he’d get to know who his new secret admirer was.
The phone on his desk rang as he saw that his secretary was putting a call through.
“I have him on the phone for you, Mr Charles,” she said, connecting the call.
“Hello, sir,” Brendan said somewhat cheerfully.
“Hello, Brendan. So how are things going?” came the smooth reply.
“The takeover is going as can be expected. I’ve been the most non-contactable person on the planet,” he said, his attempt at humour not drawing a response. “We’ve rearranged the press conference for tomorrow so that we can introduce Tommy as the new boss, but have to, of course, see off the existing one today.”
“How are you planning to do that, Brendan?”
“We need to spin it so that it looks like he’s jumping ship. We have some things on him that should persuade him to fall in line. Then we’ll leak something to the press anyway that’ll offset the relative surprise at Tommy’s appointment. You are sure about him now, aren’t you?” Brendan said, without thinking it through correctly.
“Brendan, have I ever been wrong? Of all the people I would have thought that you at least would have faith in my ability by now. Look what I’ve turned you into, after all.”
Brendan realised his mistake and closed his eyes briefly, taking a short breath before replying.
“Of course, sir, I don’t know what came over me.” He paused, before quickly changing the subject. “There is another issue that I need to mention. I’ve been informed that a man was snooping around at the DoI. He monitored our meeting with Jessica Ponter at the Thistle Hotel using the hotel’s CCTV system.”
“What happened?” the voice asked.
“Seemed to only focus on the corridor. Perhaps he had wind of an affair and was trying to confirm the rumours. I don't know. He’s possibly an employee at the security company as he used a password to gain access, but that’s no guarantee. Might be a journalist, some tabloid trying to find some dirt with this takeover, but he was there before it was announced so I think I’d rule that one out.”
“I take it you are onto it, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m pulling in some muscle. We’ll check out the security firm as well as try and track this guy down ourselves. He won’t cause us a problem, sir.”
“Don’t let him. Be careful but keep me informed. If anything looks strange, I want to be the first to know. But sort it out, OK?”
“OK, sir. I’d best go now. People to call,” and with that he dropped the receiver quietly and pressed stop on his recorder attached to his phone, opened the front of it and removed the tape, placing it carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He sat for a couple of minutes and pondered things again. Picking up a diary from the top drawer in his desk, he opened it up at the contacts section and proceeded to look up some names. Finding the right name, Brendan carefully entered the numbers into the handset and waited for it to be answered.
“Hi, it’s Brendan,” a pause but a response was not expected. “I need you to deploy a few people to do a little sniffing around. Get a guy to the offices of SecureCCTV and have them look into a guy named Robert. I’ll fax you shortly a still photo we have of him, from when we first became aware of his snooping. I need to know what connection, if any, he has there. Failing any leads down that route, see what you can find out in general on him. Until we know who he is you are not to touch him but I want him under surveillance. When you track him down, give me a call on my mobile. You have the number. You have twenty-four hours.” There was a slight pause, and the line went dead. Brendan smiled a little, a rare pleasure he allowed himself only occasionally, usually when he knew he had just gained the upper hand. Replacing the handset, Brendan swung back deep into his leather chair and kicked off his shoes.
“Who are you, Robert?” he said and knew that the game was now on.
At the City Ground, Nottingham, there were hundreds of television press and newspaper journalists crammed into the main conference suite. The last twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind. Starting with the stock market rumours and then the takeover announcement, they had all been trying to outdo each other in who could break the next big story. The early edition of The Times and Daily Express both announced the exclusive news that the old manager had left the club that very evening, going, they claimed, with mutual consent. None of the tabloids accepted this, and thus the rumours grew.
By 9 am there was a frenzy of activity, and it was standing room only in the two hundred seater suite. Two long dressed tables stood at the top of the room, dozens of microphones in front of both the centre seats, with two other chairs either side of these. The noise in the room dropped to an excited hum as the two doors on the left-hand side of the top tables suddenly opened as Brendan Charles, CEO of Harman Insurance Company Ltd, walked in accompanied by another man, Stan Hunter. Stan was Brendan’s takeover king, having purchased most of the firms that GHG now owned. Stan was the person who had been central to the takeover of Nottingham Forest.
They took their seats at the front, deliberately taking their time as the room grew even quieter, almost silent but for the dozens of bulbs that were flashing from the photographers at the front, each working to capture every possible angle of this breaking story.
When the two men sat down, Brendan poured water into two empty glass tumblers, and the room fell utterly silent. All eyes fixed on Brendan, and he sat there coolly. After about ten seconds, he stood and started to address his audience.
Robert gradually awoke just after seven, as his wake up call buzzed away in the background. Coming round, he thanked the caller and returned the handset to its position. He got out of bed and had a long stretch, his tall frame meaning that his hands reached to the ceiling. His hotel room was neat and tidy, and the thick curtains kept the light out well. Switching on the table lamp, he checked his phone while reaching for the television control. He flicked on the news channel and went to fill the kettle.
As hotel rooms went, this was a decent one. A four-star rating, it was a lot nicer than some of the places he’d stayed in before, and he had stayed in a lot of places. But being a city centre hotel, it was more or less what you’d expect to have.
Having been up late watching a lot of news, he was aware of what the papers were saying, but he still opened his door to find his requested copy of The Times outside on the floor.
He flicked through the back pages, stopping briefly to make himself a coffee when the small kettle had boiled. The sports section was covered with the Forest takeover, with news of the current manager’s shock departure, the reasons of which were not stated too profoundly. Robert could read between the lines and had a good idea what was going on. He noted that the press conference was set for nine o’clock that morning, which a related news report confirmed on the television at the same moment. Robert finished his coffee, having made only a small one; he was trying to cut down. He then went into the bathroom to take a shower. As Robert was finishing and stepping out of the shower, there was a knock at the door. He grabbed a towel and listened again. Another little tap on the door was followed by a ‘room service’ call from a female voice on the other side.
His ‘Do Not Disturb’ card hanging on the door’s inside handle, he walked over to it, water still dripping from him, and quickly opened the door enough to give the maid a slight shock.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware…,” she stated quickly, though Robert was quick to jump in.
“It’s OK,” he said in her defence, his hands coming up as he spoke making, his towel drop just enough to catch her eye. She couldn’t help but take a glance, which only made her go even more red as she realised what she had just done.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, turning around quickly and pushing her trolley back down the corridor as rapidly as possible.
Robert smiled to himself and closed the door. Drying himself as quickly as he could, he went over to the wardrobe where he had a selection of
different outfits hanging up and selected the appropriate one, Robert dressed quickly. Opening up his briefcase, he rummaged around until he found what he was looking for, a Media Corps journalists ID badge made out in the name of Thomas Carter.
“Welcome back, Thomas,” he said fondly to himself while putting on an outer jacket that would cover him up enough at least to get out of the hotel without having to answer too many questions.
Giving his room a quick once over, he went to the cupboard to make sure the safe was locked. In his pocket, he had a spray can that he carried around wherever he went. When sprayed it released a small greasy film on any surface, just enough that, if someone were to touch it, it would leave a little print. And if anyone decided to clean up after themselves, they would, of course, wipe away the substance without knowing it. The only way around it would be to re-apply it, but that would first mean knowing where it was applied, and secondly mean having some, which Robert knew would be highly unlikely.
Robert applied some to the safe and on a few other places that he got used to putting it on, places that room service wouldn’t touch but an intruder would.
Grabbing his things together as well as a notepad and pen, he left his room and walked down the hall, taking the stairs down the three flights. It was just after eight o’clock when he came out through the front doors and hailed a cab that was passing not too far away. Getting in the back, he shut the door and sat down.
“Where to, mate?” said the cab driver.
“The City Ground please,” Robert replied, and the cab pulled off and went down the road.
