by Alan G Boyes
When they were not abroad, Gordon had found time to visit the cottage at Grimley a couple of times and Cindy had made a brief visit to Mealag. She had never felt such happiness. She was totally at ease within herself and everyday was an excitement for her. The cottage was proving to be the perfect base. It was near to the M5 motorway, making road travel easy, and the more she discovered about the city of Worcester the more she admired the way in which it had blended a modern pedestrian-only shopping centre alongside the old architectural and historically important buildings, none more so than the divine cathedral itself.
The brightly coloured spring and summer bulbs in her garden seemed to match her own bourgeoning joy as they rose strongly upwards before bursting into full bloom. The well-cut lawns provided her with a private resting place on warm afternoons, and the colours of the flowers and lush, fine grass contrasted pleasingly with the white stonewash of the cottage.
Gordon, too, was elated. He was pleased at Cindy’s divorce and that she and her husband had settled matters amicably. He had never before contemplated marriage, but he was now thinking more and more about when would be the right time to mention it. Margaret MacLean was in no doubt that before the year ended he would be engaged to Cindy, and was already speculating to her husband as to where the marriage would take place. She looked upon Gordon as the surrogate son she could never have borne, cancer in her early twenties necessitating major surgery that removed her womb and other internal organs. She had noticed how much in love Gordon was, and it gave her great pleasure to welcome Cindy whenever she made the long journey to Mealag.
Cindy and Gordon would not have been quite so ecstatically happy had they known that in June, when Gordon had stayed at Cindy’s cottage, his arrival had been noted by Jack Donaldson sitting in his newly acquired second-hand blue and gold Subaru Imprezza. Donaldson had not really expected to find out anything new when he undertook one of his random surveillance trips out to Grimley to see if Cindy was at home. It was a Friday evening and he had already driven Crossland from his London Office to Red Gables, collected his car and instead of eating at home had decided to have a meal in the Dog and Whistle at Drakes Broughton en route to Cindy’s cottage. He arrived a little before ten in the evening and stopped his car half way along a horseshoe curved cul–de-sac. The frontage of her cottage was in sight, about fifty metres farther along the road. He saw instantly that Cindy was home as the lights shone brightly against the darkening sky. He wondered what she was doing, how she would be dressed. His thoughts recalled how she had looked when he had visited Red Gables and how she had provocatively and deliberately leant over the table to tease him, only then to humiliate him when he responded.
“One day”, he muttered to himself. “One day”.
He had been stationary for about ten minutes when a car swept around the bend, travelling quite fast. It passed him so quickly that he was taken by surprise, but he noticed that it was a large silver Volvo estate. Almost immediately, the trio of rear braking lights glowed red and the driver stopped on Cindy’s driveway leaving the engine running. Within a few seconds, the electric garage door swung upwards. The car moved slowly forward and the garage door started to close behind it. Donaldson instinctively knew the driver would be male, even though he had failed to make out any features of the person behind the steering wheel, as no woman he had ever known would drive a large estate at such a speed. He pondered what to do next, whether he should walk past the cottage or stay in his car. The open lounge windows might enable him to get a good view of the visitor, but what if he was recognised? Before he had decided, Cindy began closing the curtains just as he glimpsed the silhouette of a man at the back of the room. He couldn’t recall Crossland ever implying or mentioning to him that Cindy had any living relatives, distant or near, in the various conversations the two had had over the years. No, Donaldson reasoned, this had to be someone new in her life, perhaps the reason for her changing attitude towards her husband that has led to the divorce.
As he waited, any lingering doubts Donaldson had about the nature of Cindy’s visitor vanished the moment the lounge light went out half an hour later and a single upstairs bedroom light went on. He watched intently, looking to see if he could make out any shadows behind the curtains, but their thick lining thwarted his voyeurism. Donaldson started the car and returned home, determined to find out more about Cindy Crossland’s new lover. The next morning he hired a small Fiat and drove to Grimley. The cottage windows were open, the curtains drawn back. He drove to the end of the road and slowly executed a three-point turn outside Cindy’s cottage. He saw nothing. Disappointed, he left the cul-de-sac and parked half a mile away and waited.
An hour later he gave up and returned home, but in the afternoon he revisited the cul-de-sac. Cindy was kneeling in the front garden removing the dying and dead blooms from the flowers, and he thought how good she looked even when dressed in her old gardening clothes. There was no sign of the man and Donaldson wondered if he had left early that Saturday morning, if so why? Perhaps he was married, a salesman perhaps, who had to get back to the wife and kids at the weekend, but could use some excuse about being held up during the week. His thoughts ran riot, but none came close to the truth.
As he watched her, Cindy stood up, her gardening finished, and she opened up the garage door by pressing a remote control taken from her pocket. The Volvo was still there! Not a salesman then for a quick stopover on a Friday night. His Saturday vigil gleaned no further information but Donaldson was not dismayed, knowing he would visit again on Sunday morning. He was pleased that his tactic of regularly switching cars and parking in slightly different places had been successful in ensuring his visits had not aroused the suspicion of Cindy’s neighbours. Nonetheless, he thought he should only visit twice on Sunday, first in the morning and at about ten in the evening. He never made the evening trip.
35
Alan Crossland was also really enjoying life and had returned to the office after a hectic weekend with Chloe. He actually disliked the fact that the divorce with Cindy might take some months to finalise, but it no longer played on his mind as it once did. Sure, he was still sad that he had lost Cindy, particularly as he did not know the reason why she had changed so much from the woman he married. It had caused him to seriously reflect upon their life together and wondered if he might somehow, however unwittingly, be partly to blame. He had always thought that Cindy enjoyed their marriage. He had given her freedom to work where and when she pleased, and never sought to control either her career or her hobbies. They had mutual interests, such as sailing and riding, and Cindy had always said how much she loved Red Gables and living in the Cotswolds. He wasn’t a gregarious man, had no expensive tastes and also looked forward at the weekend to joining Cindy, even when she insisted on having the local crowd round. He had tried, in every way possible he thought, to be a loyal, hardworking, supportive husband. The only thing he wondered that might perhaps be levelled against him was that he wasn’t adventurous or exciting enough for her, but she had never given the slightest hint that was true. It was, though, the only aspect of their lives where he felt he could be criticised. There had been a couple of occasions when Cindy had wanted to come to the London flat and spend the weekend in town, going to the opera or a West End show, and he had preferred to get out of London and away from all its noise and people to the calm and tranquillity of their home. He was determined not to make the same mistake in his new relationship with Chloe.
“Cindy was past, forget her and move on. Change your life, don’t repeat it” he kept saying to himself.
There was little chance of an easy going life when he spent time with Chloe. He had almost forgotten just how active a twenty-eight year old woman could be, and Alan was often reminded all too painfully of the thirteen year age gap between them. In early May, soon after they had returned from the hotel, they were talking one evening about their hobbies and interests and Chloe revealed she enjoyed the occasional game of tennis. Alan, keen to impress
his young conquest, mentioned that he had played it quite a bit at university – whereas the truth was that one drunken evening he and several others decided to hit a few balls at each other on the College all weather court.
Chloe immediately arranged for a game at a local club and Alan, desperate to look the part, had made a special trip to the shops to purchase white shirts and tennis shoes, plus a very expensive racket which differed considerably in size, shape and construction from any he had previously used. Chloe started gently enough and Alan was quite pleased how hard he seemed to be hitting the ball with his new racket. Slowly however, Alan was beginning to realise that the rallies were getting longer and that it was he, not Chloe, doing the running. His new shoes were beginning to cause a painful blister on each foot and his wrist and arm was starting to ache. Sweat began to trickle into his eyes as he threw the ball and looked up to serve, adding to the already considerable difficulty he had at mastering that aspect of the game.
Chloe by contrast, was able to accurately aim what Alan considered to be rather ferocious serves. If by some good fortune he managed to hit a return over the net to start a rally, it was he, and not Chloe, who watched the ball bounce speedily into an empty part of the court. Try as he might to place a shot in a position that she could not reach, Chloe seemed able to have plenty of time to reach the ball and hit it back venomously. After forty minutes, Chloe suggested they stop.
“If only because I don’t want you worn out for tonight!” she teased.
It wasn’t just on the tennis court where Alan found himself wishing he was at least a stone lighter and ten years younger. Chloe, seemed to live life at breakneck speed. She had a full-time job working as a history teacher at a public school for girls and seemed to enjoy a host of activities. She was definitely not a stay at home person, and both she and Alan rarely spent an evening either in his flat or hers. She loved going to the cinema at least once a week, the theatre or a show once a month. In addition to tennis she loved swimming, horse riding and badminton and wished she lived in the country as she liked trekking. Alan was thoroughly happy in her company. She was enlivening and he walked tall with pride whenever he accompanied her. Whilst his physical age and lack of fitness would sometimes become apparent, mentally he felt young again. Chloe had suggested he needed a new wardrobe and she came with him to ensure that he chose wisely. He found himself wearing brighter coloured clothes, in modern styles that he would never have considered when he was living with Cindy. His new bespoke office suits, too, were slightly more flamboyant in design and the size of the pin stripe. ‘Firenze’ was how his obsequious tailor described the Italian style, but his standard of dress still reflected the correct image of an executive city banker. Chloe had made suggestions about his hair styling and suggested he might try out a place she knew of in Chelsea. Much to his surprise he enjoyed the new look created for him, though was aghast at its cost.
Alan Crossland had become very much aware that Chloe was now an intrinsic part of his life and he was pretty certain the feelings he felt towards her were mutual. In fact, Chloe was very much in love, but was trying hard not to show it too much. She had been very badly hurt once and had vowed never again to go out with a married man so she was initially apprehensive when Alan had said at the hotel he was not yet divorced, lest it lead to another heartbreak or betrayal. Alan had quickly put those fears to rest when he showed her the papers from his solicitor and she relaxed more as they grew closer. She found Alan a welcome change from going out with young, single twenty-year-olds whose idea of a good time seemed limited to going to a pub, having a few drinks and then expecting to bed her. They lacked manners, grace and kindness, and she found them remarkably immature. It was for those reasons she had put aside her reservations when Tom, older than her by seven years and married, had first asked her out. Tom, like Alan, did treat a woman properly. He knew how to listen and be interested. He showed kindness and consideration, and was particularly sensitive to her needs of exactly when and how to make love to her, not just a rapid fumbling and quick bang. Their relationship had not worked out, not because Tom had deceived her, he hadn’t, but just as she and Tom were seriously talking of living together, his wife was involved in a head-on collision whilst driving her car. At that moment, Chloe sensed the accident would end her relationship with Tom, and so it proved. His wife had a long period of hospitalisation and subsequent convalescence, and Chloe and Tom’s liaisons became fewer and fewer. When Tom’s wife came home, still limping and suffering some permanent disability in her right arm, Tom told Chloe that he had to remain and look after his wife. She suspected he would, but it had hurt. She now felt that with Alan there was really something good happening for her, for them both, and that she could put the pain behind her.
The change Chloe brought about in Alan’s life gave him new-found assurance which permeated into his banking business. He became more proactive at work, suggesting to the board new plans and fresh initiatives. He wanted the bank to be modern, progressive and ambitious, not dull, dour and stolid. He was consumed by the idea of change, at home and office, and where better to start than a review of his own personal portfolio. His clients had served him well over the years, but perhaps this was now the time when he should write to the account holders notifying them of his intention to delegate their day-to-day control to others. Some of the investments might appear a little risky but none involved any criminal activity to his knowledge, and the initial up-front fees that he had received personally had long since been dwarfed by the returns they had provided to the bank and the clients. The only personal case that troubled him was that of the Chalthoum Universal Holdings account.
When he had met Fadyar at his home, she had led him to believe that the consortium or Chalthoum would be investing significant sums as had been the case with other Dubai based organisations. As it was, only a paltry £300,000 had been lodged at the bank and that, he reasoned, did not merit his personal attention; for a discreet but important commercial bank for wealthy Middle Eastern clients, probably not that of his staff either. He realised, however, he must be careful. The police were certainly suspicious of the account, and indeed he himself had serious misgivings once he had been shown Fadyar’s photograph and learnt of Styles’ death. The two were probably not related but it worried him nonetheless. He was also fully aware that somehow he had got into a position with the ATU whereby he had denied any knowledge of Fadyar and he could really do with the police getting off his back. He asked his secretary to get Detective Chief Superintendent Ritson on the phone.
“Ritson,” a barking voice rasped into the earpiece. The officer sounded impatient before Alan Crossland had uttered a word.
“Good morning Chief Superintendent, how are you?” Crossland thought he should be pleasant and duplicate the introductions his secretary would have already made on his behalf.
“Well, thank you Sir. But busy.” Ritson had moderated his tone but not the speed of his delivery. Crossland was not going to be rushed, what he had to say had to be carefully put.
“The bank will soon be undertaking a review of its activities, and one purpose will be to identify inactive or non-profitable accounts. I know you were interested a while back in Halima Chalthoum of Chalthoum Universal Holdings and the Dubai based Consortium she represents. I feel that account may not pass our review. As you are aware, there is only a modest sum by our standards in the account and it certainly has been disappointing to us that it has not been… ” he paused slightly, “… more heavily subscribed, shall we say. The bank is still waiting to learn the specifics of quite how we can assist the account holder with regard to the proposed investment, and after this length of time I am not optimistic that it is ever likely to be an attractive proposition for us.”
“In simple terms, Sir, what does ‘may not pass your review’ actually mean in plain English? Ritson asked, his voice having slowed considerably.
“Well, er, we might well decide to inform the client of our intention to close the account, and t
hat unless we hear to the contrary within a specified period we would return the final settlement balance to the Egyptian bank that sent the funds to us. I am informing you out of courtesy of what the bank is likely to propose, as I thought you might like to know.” Crossland could be smooth when it was required of him.
“Wasn’t this account marked only for your attention, Mr Crossland? I seem to remember that it was for some reason though I can’t recall quite what that reason was.”
Crossland knew that Ritson was probing to see if he gave the same answer as he had done several months before when Ritson interviewed him.
“It was and is still. However, as I believe I said to you when you visited us, it was only marked for my personal attention as it was a new account and, having not met with the account holder, I wished to keep it under review especially as I was hoping it would be a highly profitable account for us. Perhaps you would like more time, Chief Superintendent? We can put off the review for a week or so if it helps.” Crossland began to rather enjoy the exchange with Ritson buoyed by his newly acquired general confidence.
“That’s very kind of you, Sir, but I shall not need more time. I must advise that we would very much prefer you to take absolutely no action on that account, none whatsoever.”