The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  I decided to travel on the Tube to Finsbury Park and on to Liverpool Street Station from there. I looked out the window and saw with relief that it had stopped raining. I grabbed my bag and jacket and headed out and down towards the station. The events of the day had lifted my spirits. Although I told myself I had never suffered from seasonal affective disorder, I doubted I would ever get used to the English winter. It seemed to drag on forever. The sun never getting very high in the sky. The hours of daylight shortened, and of course the biting cold and wind. Fucking miserable! Still, nothing like a cool ten grand to warm things up a bit.

  The Tube journey to Finsbury Park was uneventful. I read more of the file and studied the photograph of Richard Lewer-Allen. He was a tall chap, two inches taller than myself, six foot three, wore glasses and had a liking for trendy bespoke clothes. A dedicated follower of fashion.

  The rain was still holding off as I walked out of Finsbury Park station. I lit a cigarette and decided I would make the short walk to Tracy Summerfield's house. As I made my way, I noticed a group of five black youngsters walking towards me. They were dressed in tracksuits and Nike trainers. They wore corn rows in their hair and were adorned with a plethora of gold or fake gold rings, chains and necklaces. The youngsters all seemed to have a similar swagger mixed in with a fake limp. What’s the story with the fake limp? Fucking dreamers. I prepared myself for the inevitable drama as I approached the steps to Tracy Summerfield's house. Taking a deep breath I rang the bell. She was obviously waiting and opened the door quickly.

  She was well dressed as usual and her face was expectant, anxious, and beautiful all at the same time.

  “Hello Mr Green, please come in, it’s freezing out there.”

  “Please call me Jason,” I said as I wiped my boots on the doormat.

  “In that case, please call me Tracy,” she replied in a shaky voice.

  We made our way to the lounge and sat as we had done the previous day. I removed the large brown envelope with the report and the photographs and held it to one side.

  “It’s not good news, Tracy. I believe your husband is having an affair with the receptionist from his firm.” I had decided not to delay the inevitable. I felt a pang of genuine compassion for the clearly distraught lady sat in front of me. A true lady, tall and dignified. She didn't deserve this sort of nightmare. The tissues came out as I knew they would.

  “Fucking bastard,” she said under her breath. I removed the photographs and handed them over to her, she took them and spent a few seconds looking at each of them, all the time barely managing to maintain her composure.

  “I'm so sorry to have to tell you this. Unfortunately I have to do it quite a lot in this job. I also have this for you, it’s the balance from your deposit,” I said handing her the small envelope with the £350.

  “Thank you Jason,” she said as she took it. And thank you for doing this so quickly for me. At least I can get on with my life now.”

  The tears and sobbing came now. I felt an unusual urge to get up, sit next to her and give her a comforting hug, but that would be wrong. Instead I sat grim faced and waited it out. After what seemed an eternity she regained her composure and looked up at me, forcing a smile.

  “I don't know what I'm going to do,” she said.

  “Perhaps talk to a friend? Someone you can trust?” I said.

  “Yes, yes I'll do that,” she said. I stood up and made ready to leave. She stood and ushered me through the hall. I opened the door and took a step outside into the bleak afternoon. As I turned around to say good bye she suddenly lunged at me and held me in a hug around my neck. She smelled good. This was unusual and certainly unprofessional, but I reciprocated and held her also for what seemed a long time. Eventually she let go, straightened herself and smiled.

  “Thank you again Jason,” she said.

  “No problem Tracy, you look after yourself.”

  I turned and walked away, feeling bad for her. Rodney Summerfield you fucking asshole. I shook my head as I started the walk back towards Finsbury Park tube station. Anyway, job done, another happy customer. I smoked. The walk back to the station was uneventful as was the trip to Liverpool Street Station. I bought a newspaper from the newsagent. It was a short distance from the massive station through the chill to the business premises of Richard Lewer-Allen.

  The shop was called The Boardroom. It looked professional from the outside as I walked past. It was a mixture of old and new. The building was obviously ancient but it had four large bay windows all crammed with brightly coloured surf, snow, and skate boards. There were mannequins kitted out in the latest sports gear and accessories. There was a huge black canvas sign over the top of the windows with the company logo and name. Above each window hung a separate canvas with smaller signs reading ‘hardware’,‘clothing’,‘accessories’,‘free internet’.

  As I walked past I noticed there were boards and branded posters hanging from the ceiling inside. Gareth Lewer-Allen was right, the place was well stocked and for anyone keen on extreme sports, it was a good looking and inviting shop.

  There was a young man behind the sales counter, he had long blonde dreadlocks and was chatting on the telephone with a bored look on his face. I continued past the shop and on for another fifty metres or so. Turning around I noticed there was a pub directly opposite the shop. It was called The Mare and Melon. It would provide a warm place from which to observe the shop. I lit another cigarette before crossing the street. I needed to smoke before going in. The smoking ban had been in effect for years. Although I despised the fact I was an addict, it was a cause of great annoyance. I made my way back towards the pub, crushed the stub out on the wet pavement with my boot, and pushed the brass handled doors open.

  The place was fairly decent. It had the comforting smell of stale beer, and was reassuringly dark and full of partitioned nooks for privacy. More importantly, it was warm. I approached the bar and was greeted by a fat bald man in his late sixties. He looked like a man who enjoyed his drink - big red nose, bright rosy cheeks and a terrible comb over. I ordered a pint of Löwenbräu and made my way to one of the tables at the windows. I took a seat and a deep draw of the beer, placed my newspaper on the table and relaxed. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed. I sat, drank, and watched the shop across the road. The rain and drizzle was holding off. Hundreds of people had walked past the shop, all of them rushing, huddled into their coats, a few of them glanced inside but not one person entered.

  The pub started to fill a bit. There was occasional laughter and muffled conversations. I left my bag and newspaper on the table, ordered another beer and put it with the bag. I motioned to the barman to keep an eye on my table, he nodded his understanding and I headed out for a smoke. I leant against the wall of the pub, lit up, and looked around. I figured it wasn't really the time of year for this sort of business, it would be for the snowboarding I guessed, but the majority of sales for that sort of kit would have been before Christmas. Perhaps it was the wrong location? There certainly was a lot of passing trade but no customers. I could see through the glass door that the young deadlocked salesman was still chatting away on the phone. I guessed that Richard Lewer-Allen was probably not in the shop and decided to cross the street to check it out. I pushed the doors open and stepped on to the pale wooden floors of The Boardroom.

  The young salesman dropped his head, made his excuses to whoever he was talking to on the phone and hung up.

  “Good afternoon sir, can I help you?” he said with a surprised look on his face.

  “Yes please,” I said “I wanted to have a look at some skateboards.

  My son is having a birthday in a few weeks.”

  “Sure thing!” he replied pleasantly. “If you would like to step this way I'll show you some cool boards.”

  I followed the youngster to a corner dedicated to all things skateboard. The sales banter continued, I was shown all sorts of boards, wheels, and accessories by the enthusiastic salesman. We spoke for five minutes or so. I imp
lied that for the moment I was just pricing the equipment and asked for a list of his chosen items. The salesman cheerily agreed to this and we returned to the sales counter. As he wrote I casually asked, “so have you been busy?”

  “No sir,” he replied, shaking his head with feigned concern. “It’s been very quiet. Right, there you go sir.” he said politely, handing the paper to me.

  “Thanks very much,” I said, “I'll be back closer to the birthday.”

  We said our goodbyes and I left the shop. I turned right and walked for thirty or forty metres before crossing the street and walking back to the pub. My bag and beer were on the table where I had left them, the landlord nodded at me as I returned to my seat and sat down. I glanced at my watch, it was 3pm and the grey sky was starting to darken. I wondered if Richard Lewer-Allen would show up at work today. I took out the red file and studied the photograph of him. It was obviously taken with some friends. He looked relaxed and happy. There were a couple of good looking girls in the background, drinks on the table, probably taken in the garden of a pub in Sloane Square in the summer. Richard was wearing expensive-looking prescription sunglasses. I removed my laptop and camera, snapped a few shots of the shop across the road and set about transferring the images to the computer. As I was moving the images across I noticed that the laptop was connected to the wireless network from The Boardroom across the road. I ordered another beer, returned to my seat and watched the shop through the window as I drank.

  My mind wandered. From what I could gather from the file, Richard was a socialite with a large circle of friends, mostly quite well-to-do. He enjoyed his life to the full by all accounts, with a steady stream of girlfriends. I logged onto Gmail and entered the email address of Richard Lewer-Allen. Next job would be to hack the password. I tried a few combinations based on his date of birth, his company name etc. but every attempt failed. I sighed and drank deep of the Löwenbräu. The shop lights had been put on now, showing the colourful kit on display.

  Still no punters and the shop assistant was grinning into the telephone again. At that moment a car pulled in and parked right outside the window from which I was looking. It was a silver coloured Aston Martin DB9. A new one. I immediately closed the computer screen and watched attentively. It was surely Richard Lewer-Allen. An extremely tall and thin man got out of the car, he was wearing jeans, an expensive looking jacket and a scarf. He glanced across at the shop front as he locked the vehicle, he looked about the right age and he was wearing spectacles. I shuffled the papers in the file and looked at the photograph. The man outside was a winter version of Richard Lewer-Allen. There was no doubt. I gave a sigh of relief as I saw Richard cross the street and make his way into the shop.

  The shop assistant quickly got off the phone and rose to meet his boss, shaking hands. They smiled at each other and seemed to chat like old friends. Richard pulled up a stool and sat in front of the sales counter. He appeared to be a very relaxed and cheerful person, both him and the salesman were now laughing. A very pleasant working environment for them both. Wondering what the two were talking about, I discreetly took a photograph of the car outside the window and again of the shopfront. I made a mental note of the time, 3.30pm and getting dark fast. It was a welcome change for me to be involved in a case which actually required some mental effort. Not the usual crap. This was going to be a challenge and an interesting one at that. Plus it was paying very well indeed. I had no qualms about relieving Gareth Lewer-Allen of some of his cash. Neither did I have any qualms about extending the time frame for this job. I felt sure, with the right surveillance, in a matter of days I would have ascertained the source of Richard's wealth.

  The two people in the shop across the road laughed and chatted away, not a lot of work seemed to be happening, more like old friends catching up after a long time apart. I watched and my mind wandered. Who was Richard Lewer-Allen? What sort of life did he lead? What did his house in Sloane Square look like inside? Would it be a modern minimalist space in keeping with his very flashy car? Did he have a girlfriend at the moment? If so what did she do? Where did she work? What did Richard do on Sunday afternoons? What channels did he watch on TV? What food did he enjoy? What countries did he like to travel to and what would he do on those holidays? What are your secrets Richard? These were all questions to which I would have to find answers. Yes, it will be interesting.

  I took another draw of the strong beer. It was starting to taste good. An hour passed without incident. At 4pm Richard Lewer-Allen stood up, shook hands with the salesman and left his place of business.

  I held the newspaper up to block my face hoping that Richard wouldn’t come into the bar. It wouldn’t be a train smash if he did, but it was best to stay unrecognised. I glanced around the paper to see the tall figure unlocking and entering his car. He looked like a thoroughly likeable person. He had a kind, somewhat mischievous face. The car drew admiring glances from the people on the street as it pulled out and drove away down the road. I decided to call the shop across the road. The number was in the file and was also on the canvas on the shop front. I keyed the number into my mobile phone and watched the dreadlocked salesman lift the receiver across the road. “Boardroom, good afternoon,” he said.

  I changed my voice slightly so it wouldn't be recognised,

  “Oh hi, can I speak to Richard please?” I said, “I'm sorry sir you've just missed him, he’s gone for the day.”

  “Oh right,” I said, “I’m actually a friend of his, do you know where he’s gone?”

  “I’m sure he’s gone home sir, can I take a message or perhaps you’d like to call him on his mobile?”

  “No problem, I'll do that, thanks a lot, bye,” I said hanging up.

  I knew it would take Richard at least an hour to get back to Sloane Square through the traffic. I would beat him easily by taking the Tube. I finished my pint, stood up, grabbed my bag, nodded in thanks to the barman and made my way out of the pub and down the busy road toward Liverpool Street Station. It was just before rush hour and the huge building was beginning to fill up. Thousands of people filed in like robot moles and made their way down their respective holes. I made my way down the escalator to the Circle Line Westbound. The train took two minutes to arrive. There were no seats so I held on to the railing as the train trundled off into the dark tunnel. As usual there was not a lot of human interaction going on. Everyone was reading, sleeping, pretending to sleep, or listening to music with headphones. What a fucking nightmare. I hated the Tube. After what seemed an eternity the train pulled up at Sloane Square. There was a pre-recorded voice that came over the speakers in the train,

  “Mind the gap,” it said.

  Obediently I stepped well over the gap between the train and the platform and made my way up onto the street grateful to be out of the closed claustrophobia of the Tube system. It was totally dark now and all the street and shop lights were on. I had memorised Richard's address but I needed directions to his road. I got the information from a newspaper vendor who was shivering in his scarf and beanie. It was not far and I made off, lighting a smoke. Sloane Square was a far cry from Seven Sisters. There was no litter, and the road was lined with trees on either side. There were fashionable designer shops, trendy wine bars and restaurants filled with the well-to-do. The place felt a lot less threatening than the rest of London, a lot more relaxed. The cold night air was starting to bite now. I wished I could duck into one of the pubs and have a whiskey but I needed be around when Richard Lewer-Allen got home. If indeed he was on his way home. My hands were aching now. I removed my gloves, put them on and pulled my jacket tighter around me as I walked. I arrived at Southwall Road. It was impressive. Lined with trees and four storey Georgian mansions on either side. There were service lanes on each side of the busy street to enable the wealthy residents to park their cars. I made my way up a small hill into the lane on the right. I was looking for Grimsby Mansions, which was number 48. There was a polished brass sign on the first building I passed which read 34 Sou
thwall Road. I had picked the right side. I pressed on past the ornate wrought iron balustrades that lined the grand old buildings. There were some pretty good looking cars parked on either side of the lane. Porsche, Mercedes, BMW. Eventually I came to Grimsby Mansions on my right. It was much like the rest of the buildings on the street. I knew Richard lived on the top floor so I crossed the street to have a look up at his flat. There were a few empty parking places under the trees, I guessed one of them would be for the silver Aston Martin. I looked up at the building, every floor had lights on except the top. Good. He hadn't got home yet, I had beaten him. I couldn't stand around in the dark waiting for him to arrive, it would appear suspicious and I didn't want him to pull in and see me in his headlights. Just down on the main road there was a bus stop under a street light. I would not seem out of place down there and I could easily keep an eye on Grimsby Mansions. I stepped over a small railing and down some slippery grass onto the pavement of Southwall Road. There were four or five people huddled in the shelter waiting for a bus. I leant against the outside of the shelter, lit a smoke and waited. A double decker bus arrived after five minutes and the waiting people rushed to get in to the warmth. Lucky fuckers. I figured I would give him an hour to get back, or I would move on and call it a day. What the hell, I had made £1000 already.