by Alan G Boyes
Cindy was not even cheered, and only cursorily complimentary, when an excited Alan phoned her one evening to say that one of his personal deals had really paid off. Several years ago, he had purchased a large volume of shares in some far eastern venture and the company, whose shares had not been exciting, recently leapt in value. No one quite knew why at first, but it emerged that a Chinese conglomerate were interested in taking the company over on the expectation that some oil rights the firm held would yield big profits. He had made over a million pounds and was jubilant. If anything, his new found affluence made him increasingly resentful of Cindy’s behaviour. Despite what Donaldson had said about there being no evidence of an affair, he was convinced that Cindy was not just going through some weird “woman thing” as colleagues suggested. The more hurt and resentful he became at her behaviour and lack of affection towards him, the more determined he was that she would not get half the combined assets if they divorced, especially now he had invested the Chinese money in some rather obscure offshore accounts. He had seen his solicitor again and she explained that both parties would have to declare their assets and also make a declaration as to whether they intended to live with anyone.
“Most people say ‘no’ to that, whatever their real intentions,” she explained. “After all, anyone can change their mind after six months or so and the courts are not likely to disturb an agreed settlement if one party is then financially better off than another.”
Cindy was denying an affair anyway, and still lived at Red Gables and stayed there at night. Not only had Donaldson confirmed that, but Alan had made a point every now and then of driving to Stillwood midweek and arriving late, around midnight, half hoping to find the house empty. Cindy had always been home.
* * *
In early March Cindy received a telephone call from her friend Peter who had agreed to provide her cover story at Christmas. He wanted to meet her and suggested either London or Stillwood. It was highly unusual for Peter to suggest meeting Cindy alone, and even more strange to offer to visit Red Gables. Normally he would invite people to parties or see them with his boyfriend Stephen, and a perplexed Cindy wondered what he wanted. She chose to meet at Red Gables, but lunch at the nearby excellent Black Pheasant Hotel. Peter arrived, immaculately dressed in a grey, but heavily pinstriped suit, a rather flamboyant slightly patterned pale green shirt and a quite outrageous scarlet tie that matched the handkerchief which flopped from the top breast pocket of his suit. Shiny black shoes, a long furled umbrella in his right hand and a large bouquet of flowers in the other, completed his appearance.
“My dear, how simply lovely to see you,” he gushed as he offered Cindy the flowers and turned his cheek for her to kiss, which she did before hugging him and inviting him in. They chatted for almost an hour about old times and colleagues, and not once did Peter ask about Christmas. In fact, he didn’t ask about anything that would justify him travelling especially to see her, and she was becoming more curious as to why he had called her. As they left in his car for the hotel, Cindy felt she had to ask the purpose of his visit, but Peter was in full flow reciting a very crude joke he had heard recently in a London gay bar. Although it made Cindy blush, she had to admit it was very funny and she made a point of trying to remember it as she knew of a couple of her female friends who would certainly approve of its vulgarity.
The joke distracted her thoughts and soon they sat inside the sumptuous restaurant and were ordering lunch when Peter turned to her.
“Did you know my darling that you have appeared on our radar, so to speak?” Peter asked innocently.
“No, what are you talking about Peter? A rather bewildered Cindy replied.
“Gordon Truscott is a name that’s familiar to you I believe?” He slightly raised his eyebrows as he started to talk more quietly, almost in a hushed voice but with more formality.
“What is this about Peter? How do you know Gordon?” As she asked the question, it dawned on her that Peter was now at the Foreign Office and this must have something to do with Assiter’s visit to Mealag in September.
“Oh, wait a minute. I think I know. The American visitor.” Cindy had not spent a large part of her working life in the Cabinet Office not to be discreet with names when it was called for, and the hotel was a very public place.
“Indeed, my dear. He’s looking forward to it very much I’m told. We don’t want any, shall we say, mishaps or accidents, so there has been an exhaustive threat analysis, you know the sort of thing, and of course your name has come up.”
“How the bloody hell was that, Peter? I’ve told no one of Gordon.”
“Well darling, it is our job to know these things, or if not ours those scruffy boys who occupy that ghastly building over the river. They really needn’t have bothered to tail Truscott since the American told his people you and he would likely be around in September.”
“What tail, what have you been up to and why are you telling me all this?” Cindy was becoming concerned, not because she had something to hide, but because of all the apparent mystery.
“OK, Cindy. Sit back and I’ll tell you, but I emphasise I am here as a friend, and only as a friend, and we have not spoken. Understood?” Cindy nodded.
“The American visitor carries a certain profile, shall we say, where it would not be in the UK interest if anything befell him or he was unhappy with his visits here, including his personal trips. His own country too, has similar concerns for his well-being, probably more than we do, and always insist on having some of their people close by, even when the American is on holiday. When we were told of his September trip, we of course carried out the necessary checks. Truscott is pretty familiar to us, tycoons get noticed and a distant eye kept on what they are up to. His people on the estate all appear to be exactly what they are, good honest folk and all that. Truscott though has money – lots of it – that could give him potential influence if he was minded to use it for purposes of which we may disapprove. Ally that to his contacts across the world and you can see, my dear, how careful poor Peter must be as I have to sign off this recreational visit.”
“Yes, I understand all that, Peter, but where do I fit in and why have lunch with me today?” Cindy was struggling to understand.
“Oh, don’t be so impatient, you naughty girl,” Peter said in mock reproof of her interruption. He could be quite incorrigible at times. “Before passing over their report the scruffy lot decided to make certain of one or two things, and that entailed them undertaking rather a lot of covert surveillance. The photos were very good though.”
“Peter, I know we are in a public place but frankly you are talking in riddles. What exactly are trying to tell me? What have you found out?” Cindy’s heart was racing and her mind in a spin. “If Five had found out that Gordon was up to no good, you sure as hell would not come and tell me. So what is going on?” Her voice slightly raised, Cindy was becoming mildly irate. She suddenly recalled her lunch companion’s reference to photos and, more nervously, asked “And what photos, Peter? What or who are they of? Can you tell me?”
Peter Knowles replied smoothly in a manner totally befitting his Foreign Office status. “My dear, you’re in them and, as always, looking marvellous. Remember when you picked up your friend at Oxford Station last month and after lunch went to that rather chic hotel round the back of Magdelene College for the afternoon? Also, that trip out to Meckerton to have lunch with some lady friends before you spent the afternoon at the Cheltenham Hilton where Truscott was staying?” He stopped allowing several seconds of silence to pass between them.
Cindy did not know what to say. She had no idea she was being followed, let alone photographed going into hotels with Gordon. In an instant Peter had just turned loving and precious moments into something that seemed rather tawdry. She started to cry. Peter immediately offered her his handkerchief which she used to lightly dab away the tears.
“You are real bastards, you know. She hesitated fearing the answer to her next question. “There were
n’t… weren’t any pictures of us in the hotel, were there?”
“No, no, my dear you have it all wrong. I’m here personally – when I shouldn’t be – as your friend, as there is more that you need to know. The British security surveillance people are really quite good you know, and they noticed that the good guys were not the only ones following you to Meckerton and then onto Cheltenham. A small blue car, driven by a pretty fit looking chap, was also on your tail so to speak”. He smiled benignly. “You had already been flagged up by the system of course, so everyone knew who you were, and your security clearance given your previous job, but they still had to be sure. All our people wanted was to make certain that it was Truscott you met. He had been followed all the way down the motorway from bloody Scotland, would you believe! The gooks on your tail naturally took a note of the blue car details, hire car it was, and rented by a bloke named Donaldson. Works with your husband, we think his driver, so presumably you know him?”
Cindy sighed deeply. “Yes. He’s Alan’s driver and anything else Alan wants him to be.”
“I’m here to tell you all this as I deduced, I guess accurately, that Truscott was the reason for your call to me at Christmas, and as a friend thought you may like to know about Donaldson. I was slightly worried until he was checked out that he may have been some kind of stalker, but of course it would have been difficult for me to make a complaint to the local police without a lot of questions being asked.”
“I’m very grateful, Peter, so sorry about losing it a bit earlier.”
“No matter, my dear, but please do be careful. I’m not sure what Donaldson is up to. When the boys realised he was tailing you they asked Uniform to stop him for a few moments on some excuse just to see what he did afterwards. They pulled him in at Cleeve. By the time he got going again, he turned round and went back home which strongly suggests he had no idea where Truscott was, nor if you were going to see him. Actually, of course, he may not even know of him.”
“Yes, I see” said Cindy, still thinking of Donaldson tailing her and wondering if he was doing so on Alan’s instructions or, more sinister, on his own account.
“Actually, I’m rather surprised at your husband employing Donaldson. Technically he’s clean but he’s only just the right side of that line, so to speak. He was always in trouble at the various schools he attended, got into bar brawls and such as a teenager, and then joined the army. They appeared to have some doubt about his conduct but nothing was ever proven and after that he joined the rather dubious profession of a mercenary, and so on. Not the sort of chap I would expect Alan to have as a chauffeur.”
“Yes, Peter, I know most of that. I find him odious; in fact the bloke gives me the creeps.”
They had finished their lunch and were enjoying the coffee by the time Peter had finished explaining the reason for his visit. He looked across at Cindy and said, “Very slight change of subject – are you happy?”
“Oh yes Peter, very much so, but obviously there is a lot I need to start sorting out and Alan is hurting. He doesn’t know of Gordon, or that anyone else is in my life, so cannot understand why things have gone wrong between us.”
“My dear, yes, I do sympathise. It must be awful for you both. We all strive for absolute pleasure, but if we get close to it I find it invariably results in pain to others, usually those that love and cherish us. Life can be so cruel at times. I knew I couldn’t do without Stephen from the moment our eyes met, but his partner at that time was so mortified. Simply dreadful, you know. My advice for what it is worth is to sort things out quickly and don’t look back. Less pain all round in the long run. Anyway, back to business. The Scottish place itself is almost a natural fortress so few problems there when the American drops by, but for our lads’ sake I do hope he doesn’t like mountaineering! I hope you all have a wonderfully happy time together. Do let me know, won’t you darling?”
Cindy, of course, agreed. Peter refused the offer of more drinks when they arrived back at Red Gables and stayed in his car. As he lowered the electric window, he called for Cindy to come closer.
“One final thing, my dear. In September, there will be several of our people and some of the Americans nearby. Almost certainly he will have a couple of his Special Forces chaps by his side most of the time, possibly in and around the house. I just thought you may like to know that you will not be on your own.”
Cindy thanked Peter again and waved him goodbye. She went upstairs and sat on her bed prior to changing. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the morning and thinking hard about what the future had in store for a life with Gordon Truscott. How many other Assiter’s did he know? If the US Secretary of State’s visit was anything to go by, living with Gordon was likely to be a very bumpy or very exciting journey or both. The thought of being followed by Donaldson and photographed by the Covert Surveillance Unit (CSU) still upset her. It had been at the Hilton in Cheltenham when Gordon had confirmed to Cindy that Assiter was definitely going to stay at Mealag after coming to Britain to meet the Prime Minister, along with several senior political figures in Her Majesty’s Government and Official Opposition. The press releases would say that after his three day meeting Assiter would be flying back to Washington, but actually he would arrive at Mealag on Tuesday 12th September and stay for about ten days, probably leaving on Friday 22nd. His journey to and from Mealag would be by unmarked helicopter, courtesy of the British government.
24
Assistant Commissioner Manders occupied a large office within the complex of New Scotland Yard, though it appeared to be much smaller owing to the numerous filing cabinets that were positioned around the walls. Manders desk itself took up about a third of the remaining space, and the addition of his sumptuous chair and two other leather faced chairs for visitors plus a small oval table, did not leave a great deal of actual floor space. The desk however was impressively clear, belying his workload, as he did not believe in disorder. Whatever landed on it was dealt with or delegated, the latter he closely supervised, and for that he needed to ensure he always had sufficient time to review his subordinates’ reports. Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Ritson was updating his boss on what was now referred to as the Hannet-Mar case.
“I think Styles’ wife was right to be suspicious of her husband’s death. The local nick weren’t too bright about investigating the crash. It seems they took the view that it was a simple traffic accident, and as the toxicology report showed Styles to be well over the limit, end of story. They pretty much ignored looking for evidence that could explain his drinking or the time lag from when he left the golf club and the time of death.”
“Are you saying that this was a crime made to look like suicide?” Manders asked cautiously, adding “Sussex could still be right that it was a simple case of drunk driving.”
“I’m saying I don’t know, but there are some disturbing features and we still have more to do. We looked at the crash scene. The bend on the road has crash barriers, positioned to prevent vehicles going over the edge no matter which direction of travel. Styles was allegedly coming down the hill, approaching the left hand bend. To miss the barrier, he would have had to deliberately steer the car onto the right hand side of the road risking oncoming traffic and then ensure the car missed the start of the barrier. Even drunk it’s hard to think he wouldn’t have braked and turned the wheel hard at some point, especially as he knew the road so well. Our conclusion is that Styles was either so drunk he momentarily blacked out and was just terribly unlucky to miss the barrier, or other factors prevented him from turning the steering wheel. Frankly, the odds favour the latter. I think we can rule out suicide.”
“So there’s more?” Manders listened but wanted all the details before commenting.
“Yes, and this is where it gets really interesting. I visited his wife. She is a bit angry at Sussex not taking her seriously, but more upset by her husband being branded a drunk. After I had shown interest in learning more facts about her husband, she seemed genui
ne in wanting to help, hoping I could reopen the case. I couldn’t promise that of course, reminding her that the purpose of my visit was essentially to seek her help in tracing some of her husband’s ex-business acquaintances. Crossland’s name came up and a number of other UK nationals, plus a few overseas people whom she said Styles had mentioned, but like most wives she didn’t take too much notice of the names so couldn’t remember them all.”
Ritson paused to take a sip of his coffee and helped himself to a bourbon biscuit. He carried on with his report, accompanied by the crunching sounds as he chewed – noted, but not commented upon, by Manders who rather frowned on such things.
“She said she could not recall the name of Halima Chalthoum but then came up with a bonus. Evidently, at most of the overseas conferences Styles attended the customary delegate photo-shoot. The photograph taken was always accompanied with a list of attendees and who they represented etc. Usually some high-ranking potentate would be an honoured guest at the gala dinner and, of course, everyone wanted to be in the obligatory picture. Styles always kept his presentation copy, probably to impress the wife or the golf club crowd. We are now going through all of them for the past two years, but on a quick scan of them there is no mention of Halima Chalthoum, nor Chalthoum Universal Holdings, nor the Corniche outfit. You can imagine there are a lot of names, and it will take us a while to get them all checked out as a lot are foreign nationals.”
Manders was thoughtful. He could order more resources be placed at Ritson’s disposal, but did the facts justify it? His DCS had done a good job, it might yield some result, but it was still looking extremely thin and there was no discernible connection with the Styles case and 7/7.