Frankly, thinking about it, they were both in a win-win situation whichever way it went.
Man, life was just dandy. What could possibly go wrong?
A room. A discreet space, neutral, anodyne, comfortably anonymous, a positive symphony of taupe, yet possessing an impressive panorama. Perched high in the heart of the City, famous buildings could be glimpsed through the tinted windows, both historic and modern. The dome of St Paul’s nestled in the shadow of new glass and steel towers, thrusting, shiny and brash. London was fast becoming the global capital.
The room was thoroughly isolated, both physically and electronically. Men sat around a central table. Gloomy men. There were more furrows on their brows than in the fertile fields of Lincolnshire. They perceived their power, so effortlessly gained and compulsively clung to, was beginning to slip. They felt under attack, under pressure as never before. They were not happy with the way events were unfolding. There had been grumbling. And sighing. Lots of sighing.
In short, they were having a good old-fashioned man-sulk!
There were four in the room. There should have been five but one had inconveniently suffered a cardiac arrest the evening before and was at this moment the worried half of a man/machine entity beeping away merrily in the London Heart Hospital. Perhaps the thought of this meeting had contributed to his current indisposition. It said much for the compassion of his colleagues that not one had considered enquiring as to his state of health. None of them would dream of wasting time visiting their sickly colleague.
These five men were grandees. King-makers all. Men In Grey Suits, or MIGS. And they held on to their power like a tramp holds on to his mangy dog. The MIGS transcended such mundane concepts as politics. They were inclined neither to the left nor right nor centre. They were, in fact, inclined only to look after themselves, and formed an unofficial cabinet which controlled Britain. Each was a commercial baron, a merchant prince, a captain of industry, moguls rich beyond avarice and cunning beyond measure.
These five men had recently got heavily into debt – but not in the same way as that experienced by millions of struggling families throughout the rest of the country. They had connived with corrupt officials to force through subtle changes in legislation, thus creating an environment which encouraged unsustainable personal debt – and then their companies had moved in smoothly to service that debt, increasing their wealth exponentially through payday loans, high interest short-term loans, credit card loans, in fact loans of every kind. They had effectively become the masters of Britain by financially enslaving the population.
In addition, as if that wasn’t enough for any man, these five also either directly owned or indirectly influenced nearly a quarter of Britain’s assets, including all the power companies, two of the ratings agencies, a hefty chunk of the insurance and pension market, a tenth of the FTSE top one hundred companies – and every DIY shop in Basildon. James once owed unknowing loyalty to these men in a roundabout sort of way, being part of the establishment himself, although at the time he was entirely unaware of their influence on his career. James’s old boss, the ex-PM, he of the broken nose and formidable perspicacity, even he had to bow his knee to these men, and now, after two years, they still burned with rage over the changes instigated by James, changes which subtly shifted power within the heart of British politics. The big parties they held in the palm of their hand, had done for decades, but these new IMPs could not be controlled in the usual way.
The four had been discussing the state of their alliance. It was neither a lively nor inspirational conversation. Far from debating their way forward and formulating plans and strategies, they were becoming mired in recriminations. Petulance. Dismayed that their influence was under attack and being slowly but steadily eroded, they had been lamenting the loss of one of their more effective organs, the Joint Services Operations, Non-Military, and its supremely competent leader, Hugo Chaplain. The loss of JSON had been a sore blow. How could anyone in power be controlled if there was no one to collect the dirt? Bell was easily malleable, as any senior politician always is, having been associated with numerous questionable actions in his frenzied desire to reach the top, but these damned IMPs were vetoing much of his legislation, legislation designed to support the MIGS and their policy of continual enrichment. Dammit, some of them were even finding their rate of accumulation was declining. They still getting richer all right, but at a much slower rate, and that was simply not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. And like all arrogant egotists, they took to whining like spoilt kids when matters did not go their way.
A mobile phone rang, silencing the conversation. The ringtone was Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’. The man listened without speaking, his face slowly darkening. ‘You imbecile! Are you telling me I cannot rely on you to control the situation?’ he ground out. ‘Well you’re the Prime Minister, do something about it. Now!’ He slammed his mobile onto the table in disgust. ‘My defence contracts are no longer secure. That’s billions in jeopardy,’ snapped Sir Thomas Woolley. ‘Bastard PM can’t even get a simple vote through Parliament nowadays.’
‘I did not come here to listen to your pathetic complaints,’ snapped Abraham Brasenose. He’d finally had enough, having just endured more bleating than a herd of Blackface sheep lost in a foggy Yorkshire dale. The phone call was the last straw. ‘We’ve all suffered in one way or another so shut the hell up.’ He was their leader, a man so influential and wealthy a mere nod was enough to condemn tens of thousands to unemployment or send the pound spinning downwards like a sycamore seed falling in autumn. He was the evil genius behind the Leyland cypress, benefitting from a double whammy of selling untold millions of the trees to unsuspecting gardeners nationwide, then cleaning up the hedge trimmer, chainsaw and stump grinder market. ‘The real question facing us is not how much we’re losing but why the economic and political landscape is changing. Money can be plentiful again but only if we counter these new changes in the country from which we have gratefully extracted so much.’
‘There’s the rub,’ agreed a waspish-looking man, thin and angular, with the close-set eyes of an assassin. ‘Abraham is right. We should have been looking closer at these new Independent MPs. There’s a wind blowing through politics and we have to learn to bend or we will break.’ Adam Netheridge had no sympathies for his fellows. He thought them soft. He was the youngster of the group and was sometimes treated accordingly, but wondered what their attitude towards him would be if they realised he’d poisoned their missing colleague. A subtle plan had just come to fruition and now Lord Robin Newnham was reaping the benefits of ingesting monkshood with a curry, a rare poison noted for inducing cardiac instability. Naturally forewarned of the consequences, Netheridge had ensured an astonishingly quick response by the paramedics, for which his victim was already expressing gratitude. He planned to prosper accordingly.
Netheridge was a man with a damaged moral compass.
He was in good company.
‘The common man is shaking off the cloak of apathy which we have worked so hard to stifle him with over the last twenty years. I’ll not see all that good work go to waste,’ observed Brasenose.
‘I agree,’ said Woolley, still smarting. ‘People are slowly emerging from their political indifference. They’re getting involved again, and this needs to be avoided at all cost. Apathy is our secret weapon; when people don’t care, we can do what we like. An alert and inclusive electorate is dangerous to us, and Timbrill’s politics are thoroughly inclusive and his constituents distressingly alert.’
‘So what are our alternatives? What pressure can we bring to bear on the man?’ asked Brasenose. ‘He’s undoubtedly the key. These new IMPs regard him as their unspoken leader.’
‘That damned GIMP,’ snapped Woolley. ‘He’s trouble. People are waking up. It’s the small stone that starts an avalanche.’
‘Colourful metaphor, but not much help.’
‘Chaplain should have reined him in.’
‘Well he didn’t and now we�
��re left to sort out this mess.’
Netheridge cursed James roundly, his language atrociously offensive. He was the least influential of the group, which actually meant he was the least wealthy. They were multi-billionaires all – but he was merely a billionaire a few times over.
‘I’m glad to see the extent of our problem has finally focused your mind.’ Brasenose’s tone was as dry as a Bedouin’s sandal.
‘It’s not bloody fair. We’ve worked hard to get where we are,’ muttered Woolley.
‘For Christ’s sake, we need action, not this self-indulgent grumbling,’ snapped Netheridge, still fuming. They were so bloody spineless. Perhaps he should start looking at ingenious ways of despatching them all, one by one, Agatha Christie-style. Mmm, now there’s an idea, he thought.
‘Timbrill is famously immune to blackmail, our usual weapon of choice,’ observed Brasenose.
‘Well then, let’s employ pecuniary persuasion.’
This sent an almost undetectable ripple of unease around the table. Now they would have to invest some money – and as stinking rich as they all were, none of them liked the thought of that.
‘How much?’ asked Brasenose, voicing their collective discomfort. ‘What’s the going rate for an MP nowadays?’
‘Depends on the MP,’ said Woolley. ‘I’ve collected souls in exchange for a pair of opera tickets. Others are inconveniently burdened with a sickening flux of morals, and they’re the most expensive to buy. I think we need the experience of someone with street knowledge to pitch the – ah – invitation at the correct level.’
‘I think Mr Netheridge, having just displayed a fine turn of gutter language, is the natural choice. As you were the one to advocate a bribe then perhaps you should put up the collateral,’ Brasenose suggested suavely.
Netheridge boiled with anger, but kept his expression neutral. Bastards all! Definitely time to start procuring some more monkshood.
‘That’s agreed, then,’ said Brasenose. ‘You’ll initiate an operation?’
‘Certainly,’ agreed Netheridge. And you’re next on the list, you slimy turd! ‘But we have to consider a back-up plan. Timbrill may well refuse the invitation, however generous. He has a disturbing reputation for honesty. We must consider alternatives.
‘There’s his wife.’
‘Yes?’
‘Also immune to blackmail. The woman’s proclivities are nationally admired. That leaves us with limited options.’
‘Are you suggesting a physical threat, distasteful as it may be?’
‘Sadly, she’s again already proved to be annoyingly resistant to such methods. No, Chaplain’s failure has made that course impossible. No doubt she will contact the police, who will throw their entire weight into the case. Since JSON’s demise there are now a disturbing number of honest officers infecting the force. Another symptom of our decline.’
There were curt nods of agreement. Two years ago the MIGS had had the Met and ACPO in their pocket, but no longer, and that new Lord Chief Justice, Cruikshank, was proving to be a right slippery customer as well. A real thorn in their sides.
‘The bird,’ growled the man at the end of the table, contributing for the first time. He was always taciturn at these meetings, preferring instead to observe his fellows. He knew their weaknesses, could discern the fine variations of deceit between them, had even discovered Netheridge’s sly poisoning, having paid one of his assets handsomely for an independent toxicology report. The man was as subtle as a blood-crazed ferret running up a trouser leg – and just as charming. He’d have to keep a close eye on young Adam, the nasty little tyke.
‘Yes?’ enquired Woolley. Matthew Black spoke sparingly at these meetings, but his words were pithy and always worthy of consideration.
‘Use the bird. If you have the bird, you have the woman. If you have the woman, the man is yours.’ Black was an industrial titan, a grizzled man, thickset and bullish. His companies operated a cartel, an intricate, hidden, oh-so-clever arrangement allowing him to manipulate the paint industry. All of it. From infant faces to the Forth Bridge, everything painted in Britain – and a goodly part of Europe as well – was painted with products he manufactured from companies he owned, and it had made him immensely, astonishingly wealthy. That’s the whole point of a cartel.
‘The bird?’
‘That blue parrot.’
‘Get your facts right. It’s a macaw.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a pink and purple parakeet from Piddlehinton, it’s the key. The pressure point.’
‘Avicide?’
‘Pointless. You merely eliminate your lever.’
‘Kidnap, then.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You mean we’re going to have to look after it?’
‘You fail to understand the principle of kidnapping,’ said Black. ‘The victim is taken, shown once under controlled conditions to prove it’s still in good health, then disposed of quietly. The woman will for ever hold out hope that the bird will eventually be returned.’
‘Pluck it!’ exclaimed Netheridge enthusiastically.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Kill it, pluck it, then send feathers on a regular basis to fool her into thinking it’s still alive.’
‘I like your thinking,’ said Woolley.
‘The damned thing is still dangerous,’ said Brasenose doubtfully.
‘It’s a bird, for God’s sake. How dangerous can it be?’
‘Ask Chaplain’s associates. They’re out of prison now. I think you’ll find they consider it very dangerous indeed. Ask them about their scars.’
‘Drugs and a cage, that’s all it takes.’ Netheridge warmed to the idea. ‘Miller can handle the details.’ He had a man.
‘Miller. Ah yes, the thug.’
‘He’s a tool. We all surround ourselves with tools,’ snapped Netheridge.
Out of the mouth of babes, thought Black sourly. He had better things to do than sit here arguing with these idiots. Newnham, Woolley and Brasenose had inherited their fortunes, along with some unpleasant genetic defects, whereas he and Netheridge had forged their own empires. The difference in thought processes fascinated Black. The wrinklies, as he sneeringly dubbed them, clung frightened to their fortunes, ever keen to accumulate but wary of innovation. He and Netheridge were an entirely different kettle of fish. Both were proactive, both had started with nothing. Netheridge’s vast fortune was lightbulb-based. He’d identified and then bribed key officials, arranging for EU legislation to be introduced phasing out the old-fashioned filament bulbs in favour of low energy LED lamps, lamps that were manufactured exclusively by his companies. Marketed as immeasurably more reliable, Netheridge ensured a subtle flaw had been engineered into the design, causing the lamps to fail prematurely and so necessitating constant renewal. The mark-up was eye-watering! Even Black had to acknowledge Netheridge’s ingenuity on that scam.
Black was proud of his own history. He had started as a shop assistant and worked his way up to the very pinnacle of his trade. His fortune now increased at the rate of many thousands of pounds a minute. Every minute. Of every day. Each year, his personal enrichment swelled by more than the gross national product of many minor countries, yet he never forgot where he came from.
Swaffham. What a dump! He’d hated his unhappy childhood there so much he’d arranged to have the town blighted by two huge wind turbines. It’s great to be rich!
Nevertheless, their alliance remained very productive, and he did need to keep a close eye on his colleagues. Particularly Netheridge. A dose of monkshood could arrive at any time. All of them were capable of such treachery if the rewards were great enough. As he was himself, of course.
It would be unfair to say their association was based on mutual trust and comradeship.
‘We’re agreed then. We will send an invitation and if that fails, turn our attention to the woman, and by extension, her bird. We may well discover that the macaw is the key,’ said Brasenose. ‘You’ll get your employee
on it immediately.’
Netheridge nodded. If Miller could figure a way to administer poisoned chicken curry to a notoriously fussy eater, then extending an invitation to Timbrill should be a walk in the park.
Failing that, he’d simply kidnap the parrot. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d have any trouble identifying his target. Just grab the largest blue bird in sight and stuff it in a cage.
This was going to be easy.
CHAPTER THREE
James crawled forward, eager to reach his goal, knee joints cracking in protest against the floor. Celeste watched haughtily from the sofa, unmoved by his difficulties. They, of course, were self-inflicted, and she allowed herself a small smile of fondness. He was born to bear such burdens, her poor leather slave. A soft creaking attended his snubbed movements, a discreet sound accompanied by an occasional faint chink of tensioned buckle.
The Kneeling Man was at it again. Doing what he did best.
Bertie cocked his head at the familiar sound, watching idly from his perch by the lounge window. It was dark outside, the curtains drawn, the phone off the hook, the room cosy and intimate, warmed by the fire and lit by a scattering of candles. Daddy had been away for a few days, but now he was home for the weekend. They both very much anticipated his return from Westminster, but in different ways. Bertie loved the attention, the conversation, the stroking and hand-feeding of the best Brazil nuts to be found in London, whereas Celeste’s welcome was of an entirely different nature. Time to play – and to set him to his task.
Time to meditate!
He was edging closer now, so close she could detect the faint aroma of warm leather emanating from his clothing, then he settled directly in front of her, taking up position between her parted legs. Sitting back on his haunches, he wriggled against his bondage, useless arms strapped around his chest in a straitjacket, peering up at her with wide-eyed expectation. She idly stroked his flank with her calf and felt the silky texture of his leather body suit slide across her skin.
Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World Page 3