The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  A few minutes later, a rose-pink Sarah swept into the room, smelling sweetly and clad only in a silken bathrobe. Greg caught his breath as he saw, through generous gaps in the robe, that she was naked beneath.

  “Something wrong?” she asked without the least concern there might be, then without pause, “I'll get you a sherry?” She crossed to the drinks cabinet, certain Greg wouldn’t refuse.

  “No, nothing wrong. It’s just some news - probably gossip - I’ve heard.”

  “Go on,” urged Sarah.

  After making her promise not to repeat the information, Greg told Sarah - without disclosing his source - what he’d learnt.

  "It's news to me!" Sarah saw her drink off in one as she seated herself beside Greg on the Chesterfield. “But whatever's going on, I should have known that rat Tennant was part of it! I’ll get my maid to track down Nigel so we can gauge how much he knows.”

  “That's the last thing I'd do - for my money it's better to say nothing at this stage!” Greg felt guilty - as though he’d been carrying tales. “I told you only because I thought it might throw some light on things. Say nothing and let me keep an eye on those two. I might also gain Nigel’s confidence when we go to Spain - and learn something of real value perhaps.”

  Sarah nodded agreement. “I never trusted Tennant, yet Lawson idolised him for some reason: gave him butler status, almost. But what I don’t understand is, as any proceeds are to be shared to the penny, what could Tennant, Nigel - or anyone - hope to gain?”

  Greg smiled at her naivety. “Everything, if your late husband left undisclosed assets. Are you sure he never mentioned anything? No antiques or holdings of any sort?”

  Sarah shook her head as she rose and crossed to the cabinet to pour another drink. As she bent forward to place her glass on the table, her robe fell open momentarily. Greg was instantly aroused, and found it difficult to conceal the fact. He wriggled into a more comfortable position as Sarah handed him the drink, which he took with one hand and placed on the table before him. Simultaneously he grasped Sarah’s wrist with his free hand and tugged her gently towards him. Sarah offered no resistance. She flopped willingly onto the couch, her robe hanging partially open to expose her lithe, pink body. Greg’s head pounded. They kissed each other hard and furiously. He cradled Sarah around her waist and laid her gently back. “What if someone comes in?” he asked breathlessly. “Wouldn’t dare,” she purred as she flung her robe fully open, “besides, it’s much more fun when there’s a risk, don’t you think?” The pair lay fully stretched on the couch, both deliriously eager to make love there and then. Sarah laid her head back and gasped.

  “Don’t be too gentle with me, Greg...Please…"

  Both sat serenely back after their lovemaking, Greg drawing hard on a cigar he’d helped himself to. He was far from unhappy with the development: it was welcome, despite the fact that he felt suddenly committed.

  “If I do help unearth buried treasure,” he said after some thought, “will you return the favour?”

  “Depends on what it is,” replied Sarah flippantly.

  “If we can raise the money, will you promise to sell us the cabin?”

  Sarah laughed aloud. “If you can get us out of this mess, you can have it."

  “I’m not after something for nothing.” Greg shook his head resolutely. “If we’re to have it, we’ll pay for it. I'd just like first refusal.”

  Sarah rose to pour yet another drink, but Greg raised his hands in protest: as much as he’d come to love booze of late, he couldn’t drink an endless supply of sherry.

  “There’s something else I’d better tell you, Greg.” The glibness had vanished from Sarah’s voice. “We’ve had a brilliant offer for the estate, which we're not in a position to refuse - unless you unearth buried treasure, as you put it.”

  “Then..?”

  “I’ve told you the cabin's as good as yours; it will make no difference to the sale of Penmaric. You and your girlfriend can have the property for the value of the land. The cabin was commissioned on a whim of Lawson's years ago, built on a shoestring and doesn't owe anyone a penny. The estate manager, Nigel and me have already discussed the situation, and I don’t think the price will be vast.”

  “Jan isn’t my girlfriend - she’s lovely, but…” Despite his words Greg felt he'd like to help Jan and Mick, and in some way repay them for their consideration. And in spite of the wealth he’d known in the past, and his present grandiose surroundings, Greg could think of nothing he'd rather own than the comparatively modest acreage and cabin at the rear of the house.

  ***

  "Two lattes?"

  "Well… I'll have one for sure," said Tammy as she turned to a shy-looking girl with lank mousy hair and a pale complexion. "You've got plenty of time before your bus comes, Molly. Stay for another cup and I'll walk with you to the stop..."

  "I've already ordered," cut in Goldie. "I can drink it if Molly has to rush off: I need to keep my caffeine level high in the absence of more potent stuff these days."

  "No need, I'll stay," said Molly, "I'm enjoying the chat; it's just that my parents start pestering if I'm not back." Her voice was suddenly thick and emotional. "They've had enough worry, and Jack's too much of a handful for them these days."

  "No problem at all," said Goldie considerately, looking at his watch. "We'll make sure you catch your bus." On taking a seat he flipped open a mobile. "These are my parents, look."

  The group sat comparing pictures, drinking coffee and chatting for some ten minutes or so.

  "I can't get over your little Jack, Molly," commented Tammy. "He looks such a rogue, so boisterous I'd imagine."

  "He doesn't take after me, you mean," said the self-deprecating young lady.

  "He will once you get your self-esteem back," said Goldie encouragingly. "You just don't feel very boisterous at the moment; I know I don't, but we'll get there."

  "I'm sure we all will," added Tammy as she finished her latte and stood. "We'd better be off now Molly… watch my things while I nip to the loo please."

  "I'll come with you," said Molly.

  "No prob’s with me," said Goldie with a chuckle. "I might try your eye-liner, Tammy, but I'll see no one nicks the rest of your stuff."

  *

  For the next few days, Greg and Jan worked doubly hard, on both the cabin and surrounding land. Greg found life hard going in the caravan - through some of the bitterest February weather on record. The temperature hardly rose above freezing and the biting wind remained almost constantly in the north-east. It wasn’t unduly cold in the caravan though; Greg found it relatively easy to keep warm with the new heater - and Red, despite his early lack of enthusiasm, seemed to have fallen in love with his new home.

  The problems arose when Greg wanted to do things normally taken for granted - like visiting the toilet, or showering. The site shower consisted of a crude twelve-holed brass rose, and delivered only biting cold water - when it wasn’t frozen up. Even a kettle of water was an effort to obtain at times.

  "I think I'm finding out what wild men of the woods are about now," he was to remark to Bart one day, he and his brother Simon having volunteered to help with renovation during their spare time. Their assistance had been invaluable with the kitchen re-installation, as well as insulation and re-lining of the plastered walls. It reduced costs considerably, the only labour outlay going to local tradesmen hired to give professional finishes to all the work.

  So as not to deplete the cash he’d clung to, Greg elected to live even more sparsely than to date. Having reduced his alcohol intake dramatically, the frugal wage he drew from Sarah paid his way, and eventually he was able to move his caravan onto the field below the cabin. That meant a saving on rent also, albeit a small amount. Greg became skilled at making inexpensive stews - from local veg. bought cheaply from neighbouring farms - though he didn't heed Eddy’s recipe for making broths from bacon wrappers and empty crisp-bags. Bart, on hearing Eddy’s proposal, came up with an even more novel
idea.

  “Me an' Si wuz reared by our dad's parents, so they 'ad a real struggle on,” he told Greg. “Granddad 'ud come 'ome pissed every Saturday and Sunday dinner, an' fall asleep in front o' the fire. 'Ardly a penny left for us poor buggers, so granny used to grease 'is chin wi' fat, and get us kids to chuck peas at him.” Bart paused to swig at his tea before continuing, “When he woke up askin' for 'is dinner, gran used to say: You've had it you dirty ol' bugger. It’s all down you, look!’”

  Greg thanked Bart for his help. “I’ll get you to grease my chin if I’m desperate.”

  *

  Fortunately, the cabin needed little outlay on materials either, the most important requirements being preservatives, insulation, plasterboard and paint, etc. It had seemed a thankless task until, one afternoon Bart, Si, Greg and Jan had stood back to view their progress before the light faded. Gazing through a frame of hedges from the point where Greg had first seen the cabin, they could at last see a reward for their efforts.

  It looked sharp and bright, the darkly stained wood given firm contrast by the solid base beneath, in turn softened by a few spontaneously planted shrubs and firs in the border they'd cut.

  “If we can get the catering gear up and running before I leave, we’ll have nothing to worry about,” said Greg happily. “We'll have weeks to spare before opening at Easter.”

  “Tell me it's none of my business if you like." A flash of doubt, almost hurt, crossed Jan’s face; she looked at the floor as she spoke. "I know I offered to have Red, and I will, but why are you so insistent on joyriding - if you can call it that, when you… we… would be better occupied here?”

  “We've almost done, though, and as you say, you made the offer...” Greg stopped and considered for a moment. “Jan,” he said eventually, “there are things I should explain.”

  Greg excused himself and led Jan into the cabin to recount events preceding his journey to Cornwall. He was glad to get it off his chest, conscious that his assumed identity was likely to cause embarrassment when finance was required.

  “I didn’t set out to deceive anyone,” he explained. “I wanted to leave the past behind and be someone other than Greg Alison for a while. Then it became difficult to retract – embarrassing, even.”

  Jan hadn’t been as slow on the uptake as Greg had imagined. “I thought you seemed to handle Sarah and her manager professionally - you certainly showed more composure than your average down and out. And I'd guessed there was more to you: you're a good lookin' bloke, Greg, but no one gets those lines under their eyes with a past as uncluttered as you made out.”

  Greg then took Jan further into his confidence, enough to tell her of his ex-wife's debts and to entrust her with the bulk of his savings whilst he was away. "Do you mind, Jan. I can't bank it for good reasons."

  "It's no problem as long as you know exactly what's there and seal it first."

  “OK, and you're sure you don't mind looking after Red? I'd put him in a kennel but…"

  “Don’t be stupid,” interrupted Jan. “Jamie will be over the moon.”

  *

  It was the Friday lunchtime before his departure on Sunday when Greg made a comparatively rare trip to the pub. He found several regulars eager to anaesthetise themselves in preparation for an afternoon kip. As, in an effort to catch up on recent events, he thumbed through a discarded tabloid, he was joined by Nigel.

  “Drink, Greg?” he asked as he called for a pint of bitter.

  “No thanks, I’ve cut down drastically of late. Might just manage a few bottles of wine while we’re over there, mind. I can afford their prices.” At that point, there was only one thing Greg wasn’t happy with. “How much cash d'you reckon I’ll need?” he asked.

  “Oh, not much. Allow enough for an overnight stop each way on crossing Spain: I suppose you’ll stay with your relatives till we meet back in Barcelona. Just make sure you have your passport.”

  "I have it with me, and my driver's licence." Greg smiled as he took a large travel wallet from his inside pocket. "I'm paranoid about losing it before we travel - thought about getting a strip of Velcro stitched into my pocket."

  "God, you look young there, Greg." Nigel, on opening the passport, smiled at the picture. "Are you sure it's still current…..?" He faltered as he spotted the date. "It's expired Greg … last summer."

  "No…no! I renewed it last summer, you're looking at the wrong date." Despite his certainty, Greg's voice wavered and his jaw fell slightly. He pointed at the date. "Look…!" The colour drained from his face as he realised what he'd done. "Shit, Shit! Shit! That's the old passport! God knows what I did with the replacement – it was such a chaotic period…"

  "Perhaps it's not too late." Nigel looked at his watch. "You couldn't have found out at a worse time though. The nearest Passport Office is near Cardiff, a hundred and forty miles away I reckon….and I was told by an acquaintance recently you need to wait a standard four hours for the process to be completed."

  "Can't I get a duplicate? It's all on record. The post-office can surely do something."

  "Let's find out right away," cut in Nigel as he produced his cell phone. "The chap I know had to make an appointment. If there’s a slot available on Monday morning we can get the next ferry perhaps. Trouble is the sailings are likely to be less regular at this time of year. As I said originally, a girlfriend booked me on. I'll see if she has a timetable." Greg detected faint traces of doubt entering Nigel's voice. He felt sure a delay of any significance would force him to abandon plans and travel alone.

  "Damn!" Nigel thumped the table and cut off the call. "She's not picking up! I'll see if I can get the Passport Office." After what seemed an age, Nigel was speaking to the relevant office in Gwent. "You can get a duplicate, Greg," he said as he handed over the phone. "But it's the same rigmarole: you still need an appointment."

  Within minutes the appointment was made and Greg handed back the phone.

  "Nigel, I'm so sorry about all this," he said. "I just cannot believe I've made such a stupid mistake. At best it makes our plans bitty, with a possible two days lost – and that's with me starting for Wales at six am Monday."

  "Bit of as bind, I agree. I won't need the Ranger before we leave, so take it back to the cabin."

  "I couldn't possibly inconvenience you any further…"

  "Nonsense! It's RAC covered, has a built-in Satnav and an almost full tank… which I claim against taxes. We can't afford for you to break down: if you get stuck on Monday it's all off. C'mon, drop me back home and get back to your caravan. And give me your doc’s for safekeeping until Monday."

  "You don't trust me any more," conceded Greg sheepishly, "not that I blame you."

  *

  Greg didn't relish the thought of driving to Cardiff and back before setting out, and was almost pacing the caravan floor by Saturday afternoon. He poured himself a drink and made an effort to relax for an hour and it was dark when he was awoken by a knock on the door.

  “It’s only me,” he heard Nigel shout, “You decent?”

  Puzzled by the visit, Greg jumped up and let Nigel in. “More trouble?” he asked as he opened the door.

  “Good news and bad really - which d'you want first?"

  "Bad. I'll keep my fingers crossed for the good."

  "There's only one ferry a week from Plymouth to Santander. Two from Portsmouth but it's best part of two hundred miles and adds hours to the crossing,"

  "So I'm knackered…"

  "Not altogether… Look.”

  He placed a stout brown envelope on the flap table. “Go on, open it, it won’t bite.”

  Greg knew the instant he picked up the envelope what it contained. “How on earth…?” he asked as he took the passport from his travel wallet. "The whole thing's a perfect replica, even the copy of my picture. The only things changed are the commencement and expiry dates; both are two years later than the original!"

  "It's the same passport and picture," explained Nigel. "Only the page has been substitu
ted for one with up to date info. But there is another difference…"

  "My name… It just says Jonathan Gregory – no Alison mentioned. My surname's been substituted with my middle name….But why? I only used the assumed name because…."

  "Because?"

  "Okay, mainly because I'm being hounded by my ex-wife's debt collectors if you must know..."

  "No need to go into details. I simply thought that if you should lose it, even if it's traced back to you it will look like identity theft."

  "I'm not sure about this lot. Is it worth the risk?"

  "What risk?" asked Nigel. "You'll never be stopped with that and you know it."

  "It's brilliant I agree, and I'm desperate to see the kids, but where on earth did you…?" started Greg, though Nigel cut him dead.

  “Ask no questions,” he insisted. Still Greg tried to explain the innocence of the assumed name, but Nigel would have none of it.

  “Whatever the reason, it’s your business,” maintained Nigel, “getting you to Perpignan and back's what matters.” Greg saw that it was useless trying to explain and too late to do anything other than risk the forgery.

  “Don’t be late in the morning,” said Nigel as he prepared to leave, “I’ll pick you up at six."

  *

  That evening Greg went down to the quay with Mick, Jan, young Jamie, Bart and Si, to hear the local brass band play. They practiced in a large open storage hall near the quayside every Saturday, and played on the quay itself on various afternoons and evenings throughout summer.

  It was a still, frosty night as they listened, the music recapturing for Greg all the magic of ‘quaint old Cornish towns’ he recalled from holidays past. Bart, never having been one to go without, went and fetched fish and chips and pots of curried sauce for the group. When they'd eaten he produced cans of beer from a multitude of pockets in his wax-less waxed jacket.

  “Just to wash the meal down wi'.”