by Tim Heath
Brendan had an excellent relationship with all three teenage children and even though he would have bouts of unexplained moodiness and would occasionally raise his voice in a temper––once throwing a dinner plate across the room––Catherine always knew that he loved her and valued her more than anything. The children did too, helped by the fact that he genuinely enjoyed spending time with each of them. There was a sense that he wanted to protect them a little, especially the two girls, and he knew that by being there for them as they grew up, they’d always know he was available to help them later on in life if they ever needed it.
Brendan was the most active enforcer of all regarding family time, probably due to the fact of the potential all-consuming business life he lived. Very rarely had there ever been a conflict between his work and home life but his one significant fallout with Nigel Gamble had been on the eve of a family vacation to America. Nigel had suddenly announced the purchase of another major company, and he’d expected Brendan to drop everything he was doing over the coming week, including the holiday, to make it happen. Brendan was furious and stood his ground, risking everything, and went away as planned. Nigel had been taken aback at the time, feeling threatened that such a critical figure could opt for his family over significant business plans. In time, though, he logged that piece of information, waiting for the moment that he could turn the tables back on Brendan by holding to ransom the one thing he seemed to value above all else.
Finishing in the garden, Catherine came in and washed her hands in the sink, drying them on the towel hanging on the front of the oven. Since Brendan had nearly finished his juice, she picked up the jug from the side and proceeded to go over and top up his drink.
Brendan looked up at her, smiled and stood to embrace her. He held her for a moment, arms loosely draped around her waist, and then he pulled her into him tightly and kissed her gently on the lips. Catherine stood silently for a minute, enjoying the moment before she took him by the hand and led him to the stairs.
“Catherine you have that look in your eye!”
“Well, you know what I want then!” They climbed the stairs and went into the bedroom.
“Be quiet and close the door,” she said, entering the bedroom. Having closed the door, Brendan turned to find Catherine already half naked.
“You know you get more beautiful every day,” he said.
She came forward, grabbed him passionately and they fell back onto the bed together in each other’s arms, spending the next forty minutes as if they were newly wedded.
Having fallen into a restful sleep, Brendan was awoken by the bleeping coming from his pager, and he gently freed himself from the entangled arms of Catherine. Pulling up his trousers, he stood and walked over to the pager, picked it up and walked into the bathroom. It was a notification that he had a voicemail message. Grabbing his mobile, he dialled into the messaging system, entering the security code when prompted and heard the news that Terry had left earlier that morning. Catherine called from the bed.
“Anything important, darling?”
“You know me; nothing is more important than you and the children. It’s not anything that can’t wait until first thing tomorrow.”
Now in the bedroom again he kissed her gently on the forehead. And it was indeed true: as ruthless as he’d been in business carrying out mainly Nigel’s plans, he’d always drawn the line at the front gate. Ever protective of them all, he hadn’t even let them know much, if anything, about the man he worked for, though Catherine, as most wives do, had picked up quite a bit over the years by what he didn’t say. Still, she learned not to ask much about it, grateful for the obvious distance there was between her husband’s working life and his home life. And she loved him all the more for that, as did his children.
The following morning Simon Allen had just about pulled his notes together, though they were still in quite a mess and probably only readable to him, such was his tilted handwriting, the letters bending so far to the right that they were almost horizontal. Still, he’d always preferred to work things out on paper instead of computers, a habit going way back to his college days and those mathematics lessons he’d so enjoyed.
Simon lived alone and had been alone most of his life. Not a young man anymore, he’d grown to enjoy his own company which ultimately became the stumbling block to the few women he on occasion got to know a little better. When it came to the crunch, Simon preferred his own space and off the women went. Of course, this had always been hard at the time. Maybe he’d just never met the right person––which is how he would convince himself as he tried to deal with it all before moving on, continuing, as usual, becoming more and more a loner. Work gave him the opportunity for interaction within a safe and set perimeter. He therefore really enjoyed the company within these boundaries before being able to retreat to his own space again. Picking his bag up, he headed off to another coffee shop. He planned to scan through things, to get them clear in his head, before reporting back his findings and seeing what further investigation would be needed.
Terry Goldman jumped out of bed as the phone rang loudly. It was still early, and he’d had a late night. Frustrated by the intrusion, he went over and picked it up.
“Who the hell is...”
“Terry, it’s me!” Brendan said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been getting lots of junk callers, I just thought it’d be one of them but.” Brendan had grown a very short fuse with Terry over the years since he’d been told to employ him; he was still at a loss to understand why he was of any use anyway. That anger came to the surface once again, cutting in quickly before Terry could get going.
“Shut up and listen!” Brendan paused, aware he was shouting a little too loudly. Composing himself, he continued: “I have a friend of mine who’ll be able to help Mr Allen with those figures he was researching. He’s from the company and should be able to answer some of those questions, you know, straighten things out.”
“Oh, great, I see. I thought you’d be angry at what he was doing?”
“Angry, why? He’s just not understood correctly. I need you to arrange a meeting with him, please.”
“Certainly, as soon as I get into the office I’ll...”
“Now, please!” Again that anger was there, his voice showing all his frustration before he calmed to continue. “Call him straight away and tell him you’ll come and get him. I have a taxi on its way to you at this moment.”
“Oh yes, of course, sir. I’ll call him straight away.”
“Good. This will make me very happy and quite forgiving, you know,” he said ending the call, trying to sound as believable as he could.
Terry got dressed as quickly as he could, but still, the doorbell rang while he was doing his tie up. Grabbing his phone and bag, he raced downstairs as the driver was just about to get back in the cab and leave.
“Hold on,” he said, getting in the back seat, his ear to the phone. “The Coffee House please on Kings Street,” he said to the driver. Having got hold of Simon as he raced downstairs, Simon had told him where he was. Briefly explaining that he had something that would help, Terry said he’d come and get him and then hung up. Pulling up at the café ten minutes later, Terry slipped the driver some cash and asked him to wait a moment while he went in and got his friend. Getting out of the car, Terry walked over to the doors and went inside, spotting Simon on the far wall, already well through a large cup of coffee.
“Hey, there you are. What’s the rush?” said Simon.
“Sorry, I’d had a message late last night about a representative from HICL who’d be happy to chat with you. I’d arranged a meeting for this morning but forgot to tell you last night, falling asleep, before waking this morning and calling you. I’m sorry, but I know that it’ll be worthwhile.”
“Terry, you get more disorganised by the day. The way I see you gazing at that computer of yours anyone would think you’d be on top of things.” There was an edge and undertone to Simon’s words that made Terry f
eel uncomfortable. Shifting a little awkwardly on the spot he moved things on again.
“We need to go now, Simon. I have a cab waiting outside. We’re running late.”
“Really?” Simon looked up in surprise, checking that it wasn’t a joke. “You are such an idiot! Wait until I get into the office––this is going on your record! You really should get more organised and leave the dirty sites for home!”
Simon looked at him more menacingly now in the face as he turned, surprised that he’d let it slip out through his mouth. Slight panic hit Terry who battled to ignore it and tried to pretend nothing had been said. How did he know, he kept asking himself? Maybe it was just a comment, but there had been something in the way he looked at him. His mind racing, they walked towards the door.
Quickly leaving the café and walking across to the still waiting taxi, they got in, and it pulled away. Being the senior person, Simon made a point of speaking to the driver before Terry could say anything.
“The offices of the Department of Trade and Industry please on Trent Street.”
“Actually no,” Terry said, jumping in and correcting Simon. “We need to go to the HICL building instead, do you know where it is?” The driver nodded and turned left at the end of the road.
“Excuse me, Terry? Do you mind telling me what you are doing?”
“I’m sorry, Simon, I’ve just been in a bit of a mess today.”
“You need to sort yourself out, Terry. You really do!”
Terry turned to look out of the window, letting the comment ride. Why he was helping Simon find these answers he didn’t know. After all, he knew that Simon would be the one who came out looking good––he always did. He would get all the credit, and this was really starting to get to Terry.
The driver, aware of the heated words being exchanged, could see in Terry’s eyes that he was wound up, so he just kept quiet, doing his job before pulling up on the road fifty metres from the entrance to HICL, the street already crammed with parked cars. The two men got out, with not another word spoken.
Walking up the road as the taxi disappeared around the corner, they pressed the intercom on the main door. The doors opened without the need to say who they were. Apparently, the camera mounted on the wall confirming it was them.
Both men walked up to the front desk. As he’d been instructed, Terry said, much to Simon’s bemusement:
“We have a meeting here at nine thirty. We’re expected. The name’s Simon Allen and Terry Gold...”
“Take a seat over there please, I will just call through,” said the lady on reception. Terry looked at her for a moment, his mind already diseased with lustful thoughts groomed by his hours on the internet. Having leered for just a bit too long, she glanced up and didn’t look happy. Terry turned away and ushered Simon over to a couple of sofas on the far side.
Five minutes later, the receptionist called Simon over. “If you’d be so kind as to go through those doors on the far side, he’ll see you now. You can send the other guy away.”
“With pleasure,” he said, being as charming as he could, wanting to re-exert some power and authority back into things.
“That’ll be all, Terry. Off you go.”
Terry looked up a little put out. After all, he’d been the link for this to happen. But he got up and slowly left, trudging off down the road looking for another cab to take him to the office.
Simon Allen turned and walked as directed, through a tall door leading off from the reception area on the left-hand side into a stone-floored hallway, where there were some conference rooms. They seemed to be a little more basic than he would have expected. Surely the main ones were on higher floors, carpeted and warm. These were nice but a lot simpler, with easy-clean cheap vinyl floor tiles everywhere. It was all clean and new though, and Simon just waited in the corridor area, not knowing exactly where he should be.
After two minutes a door opened, and Simon turned to greet the man who appeared.
“Hello, I’m Simon Allen from the Department of Trade and Industry. And you are?”
“I’m Mr Hague, Head of Claims here at HICL. I believe that I will be able to help you with your investigation by giving you some answers I’m sure you’ve been dying to know.” He walked on in, taking the hand of Ted Hague, who had a firm grip as he shook hands with Simon. Clearly, he hadn’t been Head of Claims all of his life, but he seemed friendly enough now, and with the chance to get to the bottom of things, Simon was glad for the meeting.
8
Nigel sat reading in his lounge, a jazz CD playing quietly in the background. Putting the book down on the small table next to his chair, he stood up and stretched. His desk, which sat in the corner of the room, was covered in papers and reports. Nigel had for a long time now been in the practice of drawing up timelines and detailing in which order things needed to progress, and he’d been reading through most of them until late last night and again earlier that morning.
He knew some more research was needed and that might mean another return home, though having not long been back he didn’t fancy the prospect and went as little as he could because it wasn’t safe. He walked back over to the desk and looked at a folder that detailed most of the firms that he owned. In his earlier days, he’d been far less careful and had made multiple purchases making many mistakes in the process. Most of these had been cleared up though, and much of the early success had been sold on or closed down in order not to arouse any suspicions.
Nowadays his wealth came from a broad range of industries. The companies he owned were so big that they ran themselves most of the time, bringing in, in some cases, millions of pounds in profits every single day. Energy and renewable fuels had been a significant area of growth in business in general, and the Gamble Holdings Group had been at the forefront of all of this, having the sole rights now for all the leading energy providers. They now held all the aces as it was Nigel Gamble’s researchers who had made the breakthroughs needed to satisfy the world’s growing energy requirements by developing the successors to petrol and gas.
Weaponry had been another massive area, and the Gamble Holdings Group led the way in this field and continued to dominate the market. Their technicians, under Nigel’s guidance, created whole new defence and fighting systems which revolutionised combat equipment and of course offered great wealth when sold to the highest bidder. The Gamble Holdings Group weapons had therefore gone around the world, but Nigel would only sell to countries where his interests would not be affected.
In healthcare, the Gamble Holdings Group scientists, who were the best that money could buy, advancing research tenfold following several vital breakthroughs, and now held all the leading patents in every field of medicine. These were the more obvious visible sides to the Gamble Holdings Group, but there were many more much smaller parts that to Nigel were just as vital. One team, for example, were headhunters and specifically worked for Nigel to bring the right people, the people he wanted, into the group right across the board. Their tactics were sometimes unusual, and often illegal. The results were always the same though––they got their man or woman, who continued to do their usual job but was better paid and now was working for Nigel. In his eyes, everyone was a winner.
Another team just looked at security issues and his personal safety, not only the guards at his home but an active group that followed orders and went out to track people and stop them. Nigel often used them to clean things up and to eliminate people that shouldn’t be around. Of course, though, they were just people who Nigel didn’t want around, and in most cases, they hadn’t done anything wrong, yet.
Dropping the folder back on the desk, Nigel closed the curtains and walked back to the bookshelf, removing the books from the second shelf and undoing all the locks. He slid the large bookshelf to one side, closing access from the kitchen and opened the door that was revealed.
Walking into his secret room, he turned on the light. Standing there, he always had that sense of excitement mixed with fear. Pain and pleas
ure, this place and those feelings still walking hand in hand. And with the light on, standing as tall as ever, just fifteen feet in front of him, sat his own WENTWORTH door, the bronze well-polished and sparkling in the light.
Simon Allen and Ted Hague had been talking for twenty minutes. Simon had gone through things, and Ted had been listening intently, a recording device in his inside pocket also catching everything for analysis later.
“So as I see things, Mr Allen, and correct me if I’m wrong, it is that you’ve somehow got some figures that you assume to be accurate and have used them to come up with some half-cocked solution that fits.”
“No, excuse me, I haven’t...,” Simon said, a little taken aback by the tone of the question. Ted cut in rudely. “And then you come here expecting an explanation. What you are potentially saying would make you liable. I presume you’ve already told some journalist?”
“No, I haven’t, what do you take me for?” Simon was starting to feel a little uncomfortable, suddenly sensing battle lines were now being drawn between them.
“So you’ve not reported these inaccuracies then?”
“No, not yet, I wanted to get things straight in my head first.”
“But things aren’t straight, are they?”
“Look, I don’t like the tone of your voice. I work for a Government organisation and have done a thorough job––don’t try and tell me I’ve made a mistake!” Simon didn’t appreciate the intimidation nor the implication that he’d made a mistake in his research, something he doubted very strongly. Ted seemed unperturbed as he continued.
“Oh, but you have. You’ve made a huge mistake, and that’s going to cost you dearly.”
