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Ricky Roskov
Book 26
Copyright © Geoff Wolak
This book is a work of fiction, technically accurate in the detail of geographical locations, and the time period history. It is young adult romance, conspiracy and murder-mystery.
Causing trouble
Bonza had a few social issues for me to discuss during a radio show, but I had just seen Sky News, a famous BBC presenter sacked because of sexual allegations against him. Somehow, I knew he was innocent.
I summoned Laz, and I sent him off to find our BBC presenter and to get the story, the real story.
When Laz returned, many hours later, he informed me that the man was indeed innocent. And he handed me a girl’s diary, a page marked.
Laz began, in an oddly pompous courtroom voice, ‘This woman, who was a girl of sixteen at the time of the alleged incident, had what you call a sexual crush on TV presenter named Mark Gilham –they were in the same school in the city of Brighton.’
I tried not to grin.
Laz continued, ‘The girl was obese, she still is, she received state medical assistance for self-harm, and she spoke with child psychiatrists on a regular basis. She generally had a bad odour and was an outcast in the school - everyone avoided her.
‘Mark Gilham was two years older and very popular, he played guitar in a band, and he was quite noticeably in a relationship with the most sought-after girl in school, who he married and is still with, they have three fine children.
‘The accuser, Rosy, made a complaint to Brighton Police five days ago, but made no complaint at the time of the alleged incident, not least because no one would have believed her, and her parents never let her out at night.
‘She told the police that she had been sexually assaulted outside of a local nightclub at 1am, despite the fact that she lived on a remote farm and had no way to get to the nightclub and back.
‘The police decided that there was no evidence, and they also noted that the lady was currently a medicated mental health patient, but then an Inspector Clements sold the story to your friends at The
Sun newspaper for three thousand five hundred pounds, an illegal act.
‘At the same time, this inspector sent an official letter to the head of the BBC, warning that manager of pending police action against the accused presenter, but no action was pending, the inspector wanted to cause the maximum publicity for his contact at The Sun, Andy McGuire.’
‘I think I know that man, he’s quite senior at the paper.’
‘Senior, yes, but also a child molester.’
‘Really? Get me some solid evidence against him, please, I have some people to crucify. And Laz, why do you sound like a barrister all of a sudden?’
‘I … was in character, as you say. Was it not fitting?’
‘Fitting, yes, if you had been in a courtroom.’
Two days later, I sat down in the studios of Radio Leicester, Bonza sat listening in, David Hutton to be on the show but he was not nervous these days.
Mic adjusted and tested, technician ready, and my green light came on to start recording.
‘This is Ricky Roskov, Radio Leicester, and a big welcome and hello to all those people listening far and wide around the UK, and down on the Falkland Islands, because they can apparently get these British shows down there of a cold night, the sheep warming up next to a real log fire.’
Bonza laughed loudly as David looked shocked, then I realised that my “sheep” comment could have been misunderstood.
‘We start with a social and criminal issue, from the city of Brighton down on the south coast.
‘Thirty years ago … there was a certain girl in school in Brighton, a girl that lived on a remote farm. She walked half a mile each day and then got the bus, her parents not driving her to school. In the summer she sometimes cycled to school.
‘And this particular girl … she was very fat, she had a serious body odour problem as well as mental health issues, she was a self-
harmer and … someone with an odd relationship with her parents, both parents now dead.
‘So this girl, an outcast - fat and ugly and badly smelling, was known to the cruel kids in the school by various nasty names, and she was shunned by all – especially the boys.
‘When she was sixteen years old she had a crush on an older boy by the name of Mark Gilham, the same Mark Gilham that was until recently reading the BBC News … before he was wrongfully dismissed from the BBC.
‘Mark was two years older than this particular girl, and he was very popular in school. He played the guitar, he played soccer for the school team, he was tall and handsome, and he was dating the bestlooking girl in school – whom he later married.
‘They’ve been together for thirty years and have three great kids, all grown up and now and producing grandkids.
‘But Mark was just fired by the idiots running the BBC, because a week or so ago our fat smelly girl with mental problems made a complaint to the police in Brighton, that when she was sixteen she was sexually assaulted by Mark Gilham outside a local nightclub.
‘Now, for those of you out there with a keen mind, you might have noticed that she lived on a remote farm and had a strained relationship with her parents - they would never let her out at night, certainly not to a pub or a nightclub.
‘So it begs the question … as to how the most loathed, most smelly fat girl from the school got herself to that nightclub and back, and just happened to be sexually assaulted by the school’s most popular boy.
‘We spoke with her sister, who says that there’s no way in hell that our smelly girl went to a nightclub, or was allowed out, or that any boy would go near her, not least for the smell.
‘We spoke to girls that knew her in school, and they were amazed that our smelly girl would have the cheek to make such a false statement to the police, since no boy in school would ever go near her – and the girl never went out at night anyway.
‘And to top it all off, we have her diary. Apparently, she made a diary entry every single day of her life, I guess after she learnt to
read and write and not use crayons, and that diary mentions her crush on Mark Gilham. It also has an entry for the night in question, when this alleged sexual assault took place.
‘It says … got a head cold, took some tablets and cough medicine … to bed early. The next entry, the next morning, is that she feels worse and will stay in bed.
‘Now, this could, of course, be used to prove that she was never sexually assaulted that night, or any other night.
‘But the police did not investigate the matter because they had already checked the police computer, and our smelly lady had a history of shoplifting as well as many stays in mental health facilities.
‘They considered her a nutcase, to be accusing a well-known BBC presenter … for an incident that occurred thirty years ago.
‘Brighton police took the statement, but did nothing with it, which brings us back to the previous show and … do our police take these things seriously and respect women and respect rape and sexual assault claims as they should?
‘Given the mental health issues, and the thirty-year lapse, I agree with Brighton Police … that they should not have taken such a claim seriously, it was very light on detail and on some handy evidence.
‘If she had claimed rape, a baby born, a witness or two available, something, then I’d hope that Brighton Police would have reacted in the correct manner and investigated a little further.
‘And that brings us to our next issue, a low-life gutter crawling scumbag of a police officer called Inspector Richard Clements down in Brighton Police.
‘What this scumbag did … was to notice that a false complaint of sexual assault had been made against Mark Gilham at the BBC. He then sold the detail to his good friend Andy McGuire at The Sun newspaper for three thousand five hundred pounds. Which is illegal, of course, police officers cannot sell confidential complaints or statements.
‘And what our scumbag police inspector then did … was to write an official letter to the head of the BBC, stating that a serious complaint had been made against Mark Gilham, and that charges may be brought soon – which was a lie, the case had been dropped.
‘Our scumbag of an inspector did so in order to see Mark Gilham sacked, a story that The Sun newspaper claimed as an exclusive, because they bought the detail from Inspector Clements down in Brighton Police.
‘Now, here’s the thing. I think that I read somewhere … that a person is innocent till proven guilty in a court of law. But as far as the BBC are concerned, any allegation made – obviously not an allegation against Jimmy Saville – must see the presenter sacked straight away, which is wrong.
‘BBC morons, listen up and pay attention. Sometimes allegations are made-up against famous people. You ignored ten thousand allegations against Jimmy Savile, now you get one false claim and foolishly act on it in haste.
‘So, being the kind of person I am, I’ve contacted Mark Gilham and I’ll be funding his very expensive High Court legal battle against the BBC, at the end of which the BBC will be left with a bill for about four million quid. And I hope that the man that sacked Mark Gilham in haste is sacked for doing such an unjust thing.
‘Listen up, BBC managers and senior BBC dickheads. Your presenters are all innocent till proven guilty, or until the evidence is overwhelming. Pay attention, this next part is going to hurt.
‘The letter you received from Inspector Clements was false, a lie, a fabrication that you never bothered to investigate or follow through on.
‘But here’s the kicker, listen carefully. Inspector Clements sold his story to The Sun, to his friend Andy McGuire, and the BBC – a news service – failed to notice that Inspector Clements of Brighton Police, and Andy McGuire of The Sun newspaper and also of Brighton, are both long-standing and practised sex offenders.
‘They both like nothing better than driving to isolated toilets around Brighton and the south coast of a dark evening and sucking off teenage rent boys, some as young as twelve years old.
‘When Andy McGuire was sixteen, he raped and stabbed a fourteen-year-old boy after sex, and he then spent time in borstal and in various mental health places.
‘When he was twenty-six he crashed his car, drunk, a teenage rent boy in the car and hurt, McGuire telling the police that he was just giving the lad a ride home, and not sucking him off.
‘And how do I know all that? Because someone at The Sun newspaper sent me the detail,’ I lied. ‘And we checked it, which begs the question as to how someone at The Sun newspaper knew for twenty years what Andy McGuire got up to in his spare time.
‘I was sent photos, secretly taken, of Andy McGuire and Inspector Clements stood side-by-side being sucked off by young boys outside of isolated countryside toilets.
‘I will, of course, send them on to the police, and Inspector Clements and Andy McGuire will both get themselves a nice twelveyear stretch in a shit old prison, not in one of my nice new prisons I hope. But at least they’ll have some drugs to buy from the prison guards.’
David Hutton shook his head as Bonza smiled widely.
I continued, ‘If you two scumbags are listening, expect a knock at the door in the morning, some time in a cell, in fact a lot of time in a cell. Buy yourselves a paperback or two.
‘Now, there’re many aspects to this case, not least how the hacks at The Sun could think that they’re sharp operators, yet Andy McGuire had worked there for twenty years and was senior.
‘But someone did know, I received some the evidence detailed on Sun Newspaper headed paper, and a fax from their offices regarding Andy McGuire. Perhaps it was an honest reporter. Ha, just kidding, of course.
‘And how many police in Brighton knew about Inspector Scumbag Clements, and his fondness for sucking off young boys? If they did know … they were not telling, another example of British police officers doing a great job of closing ranks.
‘And it was Roman Emperor Hadrian himself who said: my legions close ranks like professionals, but not as good as the British police, of course, no one closes ranks as well as they do. And that was written in stone two thousand years ago and has survived the test of time.
‘Now, as stated, one aspect to this sad story … is that a person is innocent till proven guilty in court. Supposedly. A second aspect is our police, and the quality of our officers – many on the make, it seems.
‘I will be assisting Mark Gilham to take High Court legal action against the BBC for wrongful dismissal, and High Court legal action against Brighton Police, for the false statement sent officially by Inspector Scumbag Clements.
‘So, Chief Constable of Brighton, you’ll need to set aside three million quid for the legal action and settlement, so maybe you should cancel some overtime, sell some cars, take more bribes, sell the force helicopter.’
Now, David Hutton was both laughing and shaking his head at the same time.
‘You also, Chief Constable, need to deal with what Clements and McGuire got up to at remote toilets around the region, a bit of a stain on your good reputation, and not just a stain on your man’s trousers.’
The technician, the manager and Bonza, rocked with laughter.
‘And here’s the kicker. Scumbag Clements and Scumbag McGuire are both married with grown kids. So I think their wives might have something to say about the news tomorrow. Raised voices might be heard, because wives generally don’t like it when their husbands suck off teenage rent boys and come home with stains on their trousers.
‘But the one ray of light in all of this mess … is Mark Gilham, because I did have him checked out carefully, going back thirty years, and he is very squeaky clean and innocent, a good man, a great father and husband, and someone that everyone in the country can feel safe around.
‘People of Britain, Mark Gilham is a great man and an even greater husband and father, and if you read the story in the papers … then you must now know that you were lied to and played. He’s a saint, I know – I checked carefully, his accusers are the scumbags here.
‘Yet despite being saint … Mark is the victim of this story, he and his lovely wife and kids hurt by the false statement, and then he
gets sacked by the idiots in the BBC based upon the quick read of a false statement, a statement that they never checked, a statement sent by a sex offender of a police officer.
‘This is a … dirty, nasty, grubby story of bad men, of corruption and illegal payments, bad police officers, and of a man sacked when he was innocent.
‘And the Editor of The Sun newspaper may have to explain why his newspaper paid a police officer using a company cheque, not cash, an evidence trail left behind.
‘But let’s take a moment to consider the tabloids, and if they go too far sometimes. Parliament … is the home of our democracy, but Parliament does not defend our British democracy, our free Press does that, our tabloids defend our democracy by reporting on corruption and on the rich and famous trying to get away with murder.
‘But what did the tabloids do in this case? They encouraged police corruption, and instead of reporting it they made use of it to release a false story, the newspaper getting itself played.
‘Instead of the newspaper investigating child abusers … they gave jobs to child abusers and paid off sex-offender police officers. Not quite what the defenders of freedom and democracy are supposed to do, the tabloids are supposed to investigate and then to embarrass the rich and famous – those who are up to no good.
‘The tabloids … are supposed to expose the corrupt police officers, not help them, to expose the sex offenders not aid them with money – a cheque written. So the tabloids need to look again at their unofficial role as defenders of democracy in this country.
‘I would like to think that they continue their role, of reining in the rich and famous and the corrupt people, but that they might – now and then - check the accuracy of what they’re reporting.
‘And, finally on this story, I have handed Mark Gilham some money and sent his entire family on a great holiday as our legal teams get ready to roast a few idiots, starting with Brighton Police and the BBC.
‘As to the fat smelly lady that made the false allegation, we’re not naming her because she’s been suicidal for thirty years, we don’t
want to push her over the edge.
‘But what the nation has to consider, what our lawmakers and judges and police have to consider, is how they handle a complaint from a vindictive nutcase of a woman, and should she be sent to prison?
‘And what of the BBC managers? Are they protecting the integrity of their service by immediately sacking someone like Mark Gilham without a proper investigation? Are we all guilty by accusation, or guilty when proven so in a court of law?
‘I think I saw it written down once, innocent till proven guilty unless you work in the BBC. Perhaps in the Bible.
‘And to those fee-paying BBC viewers that like Mark Gilham, keep liking him, he did an excellent job as father and husband, and he’s completely innocent of all accusations, just that his boss at the BBC is a bit of a moron.
‘And to those people that read about Mark Gilham and were shocked, pay attention: you were duped, fools. Start to realise … that sometimes you’re fed a pack of lies in the wrapping paper for your fish and chips.
‘And if The Sun newspaper really is the champion of the working class man in Britain, run the apology, and put blame where blame is due, take the right side of history here and keep defending our democracy for us.
‘Don’t stop investigating the rich and famous up to no good, but don’t pay-off corrupt police officers - they’re the ones making this country a bit shit for us all. And if you do pay-off a corrupt police officer, don’t use your company cheque book.
‘So, solicitor David Hutton: are the police required to notify someone’s boss when a man is arrested or investigated?’
David began, ‘If someone is a teacher, and has been accused of sex with a child, then yes - they are required to notify the headmaster of the school, because the accused teacher could harm other children before a jury finds him guilty nine months later.
‘If someone works in a bank, and is accused of fraud, then they should not continue to work in a bank obviously till they clear their name. So in some circumstances the police have to act.
‘If a man works in a factory, and is accused of assault, would the police notify his boss? No, no reason to. In this case it was to boost the sales of the newspaper and to make mischief, and a police officer that takes money should be sent to prison, of course.
‘But it does happen, all newspapers pay sources, and pay police officers every day of the week, and that has been going on for the past fifty years or more. Many police officers sell information, and are corrupt – as we all know.’
‘Were the BBC right to dismiss our presenter?’ I posed.
‘They were being over-caution, coming on the heels of the Jimmy Saville scandal, but you are innocent till proven guilty. If there was no case … then Mark Gilham would have won at an employment tribunal and received two or three year’s salary. But the damage to his reputation would never be fixed and his wife might leave him and his kids never talk to him again.
‘That won’t happen in this case, you stepped in and you spoke to his wife and reassured her, not that she needed reassuring – she was solidly behind him, and she remembered the nutcase girl from school.’
‘And what about him taking legal action against his smelly nutcase accuser?’
‘If the accuser has issues … then the courts would block it, and she probably has no money anyway. So he has little hope that she faces justice.’
‘And if next week she accuses someone else?’ I posed.
‘Then we hope that we have police officers that will recognise what she is – a fraud.’
‘So she can keep accusing people … and will never stand trial for doing so?’
‘If she has mental health issues she’ll never be charged, no.’
‘What a very stupid legal system we have,’ I said with a sigh. ‘She makes a complaint and the media gets hold of it, and some other innocent man gets sacked and vilified. Let’s hope we get some new laws soon.
‘So, onto the next issue for this show, as if the last one was not enough to keep you awake tonight. Let’s talk about Jews, and Jews
playing the victim when they’re not the victim.
‘My ancestors were Jews on my father’s side, so I’m happy enough to criticize Jews and Israelis and not be called anti semitic. And if a Jew does want to pick a fight with me … bring it on.
‘So … down in Bournemouth there are many pensioners, and as you all know I like to help our pensioners, Jewish pensioners or otherwise.
‘In one particular apartment block of mostly Christian pensioners a young Jewish family moved in, since it was not a block just for pensioners, but there was already an elderly Jewish couple living in the block.
‘Now, also living in the block are pensioners Dereck and Babs, and they live on the top floor, have done for twenty years. But now they’re getting on a bit, eyes not great, Dereck’s legs are not great, and there’s no elevator for the building – a three floor building.
‘So when Dereck and Babs want to go out they turn on the stairwell light, a light which was there when the building was built and a light that has been there for thirty years.
‘Problem is … the new Jewish family, who want the light switched off on the Sabbath and at certain other times, for religious reasons.
‘What that would mean … is that pensioners Dereck and Babs would have to walk down three flights of stairs in the dark, and so would the other residents, including the old Jewish couple.
‘And the new Jewish family, they’re taking Dereck and Babs to court, which will cost money and cause a great deal of stress to an elderly couple, legal action to force Dereck to switch off the light and walk down the stairs in the dark – which will probably see him fall and hurt himself.
‘So Dereck and Babs, and all of the other residents who’ve been there for twenty years, are now facing an expensive legal battle with the new Jewish family, who say that on the Sabbath you Christians in this Christian land must observe Jewish practices.
‘Funny, but I thought that this was a secular country, any religious faith tolerated, so long as others were not inconvenienced. And what if a Muslim family moved into that block, and wanted the light off at night during their various festivals?
‘So, who sets the laws and practices in this country? Is it the Government, the local police, our courts, or is it the court of common sense and neighbourliness?
‘It seems to me that Dereck and Babs and the others have lived in the block for twenty years or more, so they have the rights, not the new Jewish family – who want to start dictating what happens in a place where they are the minority – just like the West Bank.
‘So the full force of my expensive legal team will be employed here, to help Dereck and Babs and the other residents, to fight the new Jewish family in the courts. And hopefully to see the issue in Parliament, to get a ruling as to whether or not a small number of religious people can dictate policy to a wider population of nonbelievers.
‘If the Jewish community wish to take sides here, we can have a very loud and very public debate in the media as to who takes precedent in this country, supposedly a Christian but secular country.
‘If a group of religious extremists move into a British street, can they dictate that everyone in the street is dead quiet, a day off work once a month? Or are the rights of the rest of the people in the street taken into account, and take priority?
‘We all know what the answer should be, majority rule, and British law rules supreme here. And British law dictates that if the lights are off in a dark stairwell then the owners and operates of the building would be taken to court.
‘British law dictates … a well-lit stairwell, or you face a fine and imprisonment for not providing a well-lit stairwell in a building shared with many families.
‘What the new Jewish family want … is to override basic British law and for the courts to take pity on them, because they’re Jews and … sometimes people don’t like them.
‘Well, you can be damn sure that the British people won’t like this Jewish family after reading about this story in the newspapers over breakfast.
‘And if the Jewish community feels like they have to make a stand, then I’ll make sure that this story is in the newspapers for the next six months, and I have very deep pockets for legal action.
‘Alternatively, the Jewish community in Bournemouth might see sense, and not try and harm old British pensioners by forcing them to use stairwells in the dark, which is just bloody ridiculous – as well as illegal.
‘If it was one British family moving into a block of Jews that might be different, but this is a Jewish family moving into a block of mostly old Christians, and the old Jewish couple already there have never tried to have the lights switched off for religious reasons.
‘Perhaps common sense will break out, but since the new Jewish family wish to take legal action against frightened old British Christian pensioners … I would guess not.
‘And if I have to, I’ll buy the apartment of Dereck and Babs, move them out to a nice quiet place, then move in some very loud heavy metal devil worshippers. So, David Hutton, can you force someone to turn off the lights on religious grounds?’
‘No, of course not, it’s ridiculous, and British law is clear - the stairwell must clear of debris and be well-lit, fire escape signs must be seen, or the owners and operators of the building get sent to prison. The lights must be on when people use the stairs, that’s British law.
‘And if a Jewish family stayed in a hotel on the Sabbath the lights would be on and stay on, that’s the law, so it’s a silly argument, and if the judge in Bournemouth ordered the lights off he would be struck off – he can’t judge against our Health and Safety laws.’
‘So we hope he throws out the case, all costs to the very meanspirited Jewish family. This is Ricky Roskov, signing off for this session, and reminding everyone not to visit quiet country toilets to suck off teenage rent boys, there may be someone with a camera hidden in the bushes. Goodnight.’
The show was plugged heavily, and my people had warned Brighton Police and The Sun newspaper, as well as the BBC, that they would all be accused in the show.
After the show had aired, the Editor of The Sun called. ‘You let us off the hook some…’
‘You do defend democracy, some of the time, so keep at it.’
‘McGuire has been sacked, and was punched and kicked out the office, but … this is going to hurt us, and McGuire used a company cheque to pay Clements, so we may get the boys in blue come calling.’
‘Blame McGuire.’
‘We will do.’
‘And roast the BBC. Will you apologise to Mark Gilham?’
‘Yes, front page tomorrow, we need to get back the moral high ground, and our readers love you so we can’t upset our audience. You didn’t mention taking us to court…’
‘You were duped, it was not malicious.’
‘Wait … that Inspector, Clements, he just killed himself.’
‘Good, one less scumbag out there. And McGuire’s family?’ I asked.
‘Son is a trainee solicitor, daughter is here working for us, a trainee reporter. They may have words later, loud words.’
‘I sent what I know to The Met, they can arrest him.’
‘So where did you send Gilham?’
‘To a nice beach hotel, someplace nice and warm.’
‘Better than this place in winter.’
‘And who will you be siding with in Bournemouth, the Jews or the Christians?’
‘We won’t touch a hot potato like that. You can, we can’t.’
I put on the BBC news, and they were running an apology to Mark Gilham, the lady presenter less than lady-like in describing her bosses.
Blair called next. ‘The BBC will have to reinstate Mark Gilham.’
‘I’m not sure he would go back, not after such a kick in the teeth.’
‘Would be difficult, yes, and the stigma always stays. And now we have to send a Home Office team to Brighton.’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger!’
‘I would like to some days! And that police inspector left a note before he killed himself, it said: fuck you all!’
‘Let’s not use him as a recruiting poster for the police, eh.’
‘You let The Sun off the hook…’
‘They were duped, and they’ll run a front page apology. And we’ll need them coming up to the next election.’
‘You’re becoming a pragmatist. But be careful with taking on the Jews, they’re a very powerful lobby.’
‘If they want a fight it will be a public fight,’ I warned.
‘That they won’t want, and they’re in the wrong, our laws dictate a well-lit stairwell, a judge can’t alter that.’
The Sun newspaper apologised to Mark Gilham in the morning and lambasted the now-dead Clements, which was cheeky since they had paid Clements.
And Sky News was debating religious freedoms in Britain, and if those freedoms went too far, since the trains and buses should also shut down for the Sabbath, and airports, yet airports in Israel kept running, and in Tel Aviv Friday and Saturday night was disco night, most cafes and bars open and doing a roaring trade.
The local council in Bournemouth then stepped in and reminded everyone of the Health and Safety laws of communal buildings and hotels; lights in stairwells were a must.
The slide begins
Russel called me the next day, snow on the ground, and the slide down the FTSE100 Index had begun, not just the sliding schoolkids seen outside on the icy streets. He would “sell-short”, as well as bet the futures down as the market fell.
I sent a message to Ross Daniels - the slide had started, as well as to Lee Tong and Rolf.
An email later from Russel, and he and Chessington had been buying repo houses for the Barclays’ Private Fund, but repo houses that were in certain areas and that might suit higher-earning families.
Lars, and my Lake Valley partner, had sold land to Barclays, now more than a hundred plots, and a new cluster of villas would be built on a ridge above the golf course. That golf course already had a pontoon, but now offered a lake taxi, a nifty speedboat to take people across the lake at high speed.
So a golf enthusiast could stay at the hotel across the lake from the golf course, or a resident of the west side could park his car and get the water taxi across to play some golf.
Plans were now being made for several pontoons along the lakeshore, places where a person could make a phone call and book a water taxi. A family, living near the golf course, could take the water taxi across to the hotel, have a meal and a drink and then take the water taxi home.
I made a call and checked, and “green stuff” was seen growing in many places along the shoreline, something for the insects to eat, the insects to then be eaten by the fish. But we still added fish food to the lake, and hotel leftovers were dumped in the lake once a day at dawn, a feeding frenzy seen, the water boiling.
Downstairs, the Swedish men handed me drawings, and I sat with a cup of coffee and some cake as I studied the designs for the new Lake Valley apartment clusters. The apartments were square, two bedroom and posh, back doors opening to a glass-enclosed corridor, that corridor joining the blocks together.
At the centre of the cluster, surrounded by tended lawns and gardens, would sit the communal facilities and the medical bay. On offer would be a large café, a nice restaurant with a panoramic view above that cafe, a heated indoor pool and spa area, and a heated outdoor pool nearby, a library and reading room, hairdressers and specialists, a pet centre, management and staff offices.
They had a copy of Rolf’s designs, the valley below Villa Rasmussen, as well as an artist’s sketch, sure to upset Barclays.
The sketch had been drawn as if a photo had been taken from the lake, a beach at the centre of the sketch, pontoon and sailboats seen, the area behind the beach to display tended gardens, winding walkways going up, a café/restaurant a large centre feature, around it many two-floor apartment blocks, all with red-tiled roofs.
The apartments would sit on a road, that road being behind the apartments, and on the lake side would sit a path, benches, tended gardens, a nice view down to the beach, terraces seen. And Rolf had the first few Swedish residents interested in a place there, the apartments would not be cheap.
The Swedish managers here also had a copy of the proposed Nottingham Rock Pool drawings, so I studied the designs.
Outside of the central diving area would sit a large square apartment block eight storeys high, at the opposite end would sit our hotel - with a roof terrace and top-floor restaurant – ten storeys high.
The rock pool would be enclosed by a twenty-foot tall concrete wall, with strong glass viewing portals, and at the top of that wall would sit the entry/exit areas, showers, and medical facilities, which would include an expensive decompression chamber on the ground floor.
The pool itself would be large, and deep in many places, many caves to swim through, many a large fish to glimpse. And with ten dives a day at forty-five minutes maximum, sport divers would be making us some money. The deeper section, that would be for technical divers, who would pay for its use as they either learnt the trade or practised their skills.
At ground level would sit many classrooms and offices, for the teaching of both sport diving and technical diving. There would also be labs for British marine biologists to make use of, and many fish tanks that could be viewed by the paying public; kids would be able to peer into tanks full of crabs and small fish – as if at the beach and peering down into rock pools.
I told the Swedish men to make the kids’ area larger, a separate café for them, a large viewing screen to show movies about marine life, and we would let in school groups. It would become an aquarium, and it would make extra revenue for us.
Calling the council, they were very keen for an aquarium, so I sat down with my architect later in the day and he would design a large aquarium, and there was room for it, two classrooms to be grabbed plus some parking space.
And if part of the apartment block’s ground level was an aquarium shop and ticket place, we’d have even more room.
Greg’s mate then called, and he had a building and did not quite know what to do with it, it sat atop a huge hole in the ground. And there was no building left. Which had me puzzling his use of the word “building”.
‘How deep is the hole below this non-existent building?’
‘The hole is … two hundred yards square just about, and forty feet deep in most places.’
‘What … was the hole used for?’ I puzzled.
‘Nothing, there was an underground stream that caused subsidence and they had to dig down after the building was demolished, to shore-up the side because it’s near an underground train line. It has two feet of concrete down one side.’
‘What’s around it?’
‘No shops or houses for two hundred yards, a kids’ playground and some parking.’
‘Where is it?’
‘East London, but not as far as the new Docklands towers, not a bad area.’
‘And planning permission?’
‘Council wants a tower of apartments, but it doesn’t have to be social housing.’
‘Suggest to the council … that I’d create a scuba diving centre, with apartments above it.’
‘Scuba diving? Oh, like this planned place in Nottingham.’
‘Yes, salt water and … fish and crabs, people pay to use it.’
‘I’ll talk to the chap I was discussing it with.’
He called me back an hour later, the local council keen since they would build a new school on one side and new shops on the other side, new towers positioned nearby. So we had a go.
I called Barratts, and they had the use of more cranes now, from France, so they were not so stretched. And they reported that many of my Docklands projects were ahead of schedule, crews working through the winter.
Sardinia
I flew from London to Rome and changed for Sardinia, the Italians on the flight happy to see me, the Italians on the second flight –Rome to Sardinia - more than just happy to see me.
Bill and Ted had met me in Rome, and they would be the token force of bodyguards that were not needed, not least because the Italians had a small army on hand when we landed. And we landed into sunshine but with a cold wind blowing.
At a nice hotel, not far from the site, we checked in and dumped luggage, soon in minibuses and being escorted to the site. Stepping down, I found Armani and a team of builders and architects, as well as the site manager and his nursing home managers.
I greeted them all, the main site manager then giving me the tendollar tour of what was where. I could see eight Frances House style nursing homes rising up each side of the valley, but all seemed to have a large blue pool in front of them.
They also seemed to be surrounded by Italian style villas and houses with red-tiled roofs. I asked about them.
‘They are staff and guard houses, sir, and some special treatment places. Also some are restaurants. No resident lives there.’
In the centre of the valley lay the specialist medical centre and research labs, and local non-resident pensioners could be treated here – since we’d have the kind of experts that the local hospitals would never pay to retain.
Walking down, I could see that the beach had been cleaned up and altered, it now looked fantastic, clear blue water with rocks a few hundred yards out, a promenade at the back of the beach similar to Scorfo Valley.
Behind it sat a water feature surrounded by tended gardens, several beach clubs, and sedate restaurants tucked away, all a lot more low-key than Scorfo Valley.
At the beach I met an old couple who had moved in yesterday, the couple delighted to meet me as Armani stood at my side; it was as if I was the Pope.
Armani explained later, ‘Sixty people arrived yesterday, and a hundred will arrive today, a slow approach since they are still testing things and more staff are due to arrive. The residents start to arrive formally next week, three hundred a day.’
‘Are any from this island?’
‘Many were born here, and they know the winters and summers and are not concerned by them obviously. They come prepared for both.’
‘How long to fill up all the homes?’ I asked.
‘Priority in Phase Three and Two will be given to local people, and they start to arrive next week. Outsiders are mostly Phase One people. We think it will be full in six weeks, but many Phase Three rooms will be reserved for local people.’
‘How many Phase Three does the island produce?’
‘At least two hundred a month.’
‘And the homes they give up?’ I asked.
‘Mostly they go to the children, but some are sold to pay fees here, but here we target social residents mostly, not much money to leave after death.’
We met a second old couple, also delighted to see me, then inspected the closest home as the reporters snapped us, this home only holding two hundred residents so far.
Sat with cups of coffee, we chatted with some of those residents as the TV cameras filmed, and I asked about where they had been born, where they had worked, and what family was left behind.
Life on the island could be cheap for some families, but most items were imported - therefore more expensive, better-priced imports now coming from Ross Daniels and our Corsican operation.
In the manager’s office later I asked practical questions - now being something of an expert on the facts and figures associated with these types of nursing homes, before we set off to a nearby valley, this one earmarked for a similar nursing home cluster.
Stood on a dusty roadway, a large valley now having its skin removed, Armani detailed what might go where. This valley was less steep than the first site and it offered natural rounded sides, which
was good. It also had a dry and dusty gorge that infrequently held some water.
Another sixteen nursing homes would be built here, a carbon copy of the first site, the warehouse to be shared, one warehouse manager for both sites.
In the city, Armani introduced me to the council, men that I had met before, and we made plans for the second and third sites, the city now reported as “alive” in the winter and a bit manic in summer.
Local house prices were rising, new apartment blocks also seen to be rising around the area.
Photos posed for, and I headed to a posh hotel with Armani and his team, a nice meal enjoyed in the hotel as we discussed Vatican issues; there were a few people that I would get Laz to investigate.
In the morning, I enjoyed a quick walk around the city in a cold wind, hands shaken with many locals, many snaps taken of me, and I tried a bakery which was also a café, no charge for my tasty pastries. But the owner did snap me for his advertising. Back in London after two short flights, and I landed in the snowy slush, and I figured that dry snow would have been better. At the new apartment, I enjoyed a hot shower and some take-away curry with Pat and Dingle, after which I felt better. Flying was never a pleasant day’s outing.
I long chat to Bonza on the phone, followed by a chat to the twins, and I sat checking my emails for an hour, sure to send me to sleep.
Wine bars
Lucas called me in the morning, and my deal with the man I had met in Hamburg was going ahead, and quickly, and soon that man’s eleven wine bars would all display a red facia with “Roskov Wine Bar” on them.
But the reason for the call was not just to discuss our new German friend, Lucas had found a British wine bar and bistro company that was for sale for some reason. A check made, and Lucas had realised that they were in trouble, a heavy annual rent payment being the issue plus some old debts.
So he had made them an offer, for us to take over their twentyfour bistros, all positioned inside the M25. They owned the buildings at nine venues, the remainder leased.
The deal was worth seven million quid given the current turnover and the four good-sized properties, plus furnishings, plus readytrained staff and a keen clientele.
I agreed the deal, and Lucas made the bid straight away, solicitors sat waiting, and by 5pm we had signed. The wine bars cum bistros would now be re-branded, all staff kept on – even the group manager, but the purchasing manager would be let go since we had our own warehouse.
The next day, and Big Pharma called, a chain of pharmacies in trouble, and would we be interested? These pharmacies were spread around the UK, had a good High Street footprint, and they reported a fair walk-in trade – just that they also paid rent and did not own the buildings.
I spoke to Greg and got his opinion, then I spoke with Lucas, finally to Rolf, and we could use money from his recent stock market trading, or money from Lee Tong.
Deal agreed, and we would soon operate an extra forty-six pharmacies, but we would benefit from lower overheads due to our warehouse and our deal with Big Pharma.
And we would now try and buy some of the buildings, one by one, five available to be purchased straight away, and all came with
apartments above the pharmacies.
I spoke with Big Pharma and they were happy, better prices for us on drugs. And they were also happy with the research coming from places like Scorfo Valley.
Ross Daniels called the following day, and we had secured the land over the road from our huge desert nursing home complex north of Malaga, Spain. The land was smaller than the first tranche by thirty percent, and work would start straight away on water and sewage and roads, the original consortium keenly funding it. After my second Parliamentary debate in a row, I headed back up to a cold grey Leicester, no debates planned for a week or so – Labour Party meetings ignored.
In the suites at 9pm, Laz knocked and appeared. ‘I shall not speak as if in court.’
I smiled. ‘Take a seat, Perry Mason.’
‘Ah, one of my favourites, I have been studying his style in court.’ He sat. ‘We have been debating your housing issues, and calculate … that a push on small unit housing and fifty-percent mortgages will benefit the country if prices rise too swiftly four to six years from now.’
‘Why that time frame?’
‘Your successes will breed success, and … optimism.’
‘Ah.’ I sipped my cup of tea. ‘It’s something I consider often, my feel-good factor.’
‘It is feeling too good,’ he quipped. ‘Optimism is growing too quickly.’
I nodded to myself. ‘It is something that I had originally planned, to get the ex-council houses sold using fifty-percent mortgages, but the councils sold far fewer than expected. Now we can look at that again.’
‘Our estimates of your building programme are as you discuss in your meetings, and on track, yet … not excessive at this juncture.’
‘I’ll alter a few things, create more small houses and apartments, offer more fifty-percent mortgages.’
Laz turned his head to the wall. ‘The wife of David Hutton is seriously ill at home, he is at the office, she will pass out.’
‘They don’t live far,’ I said as I jumped up, coat grabbed. ‘Meet me there!’
Downstairs, I rallied Pat and Dingle and we sped away, just a half a mile or so, and we pulled up outside their house just a minute later, a house I had visited several times.
At the front door, Pat and Dingle holding back, I said, ‘Laz, unlock it.’
It clicked unlocked.
Inside, I rushed to the lounge and found her sat on the floor holding her baby lump, red in the face, and she was shocked to see me as I took my coat off. Shocked and pleased, and unable to move.
Laz,what’swrongwithher?
Musclespasms and a knottedintestine, bloodsupply to the baby affected.
Save the baby, increase the oxygen content. ‘Take it easy,’ I told her.
‘How … how did you get in?’
‘Door was unlocked.’
‘I … I locked it, and I just heard a click unlocked,’ she puzzled.
Laz’s voice began, ‘Touch the baby.’
She looked up. ‘Who … who said that?’
I touched the bulge, getting a slight tingle.
She stared right at me. ‘What was that tingle?’
‘You felt that?’
‘Yes, what … what was it?’
‘I have fixed her intestine,’ came Laz’s voice.
She looked up and around. ‘Who the hell said that?’
‘You’ll be fine now.’
‘Fine? Call a damn ambulance.’
‘No need.’
‘No … need?’
‘You’re in for a shock.’
‘Shock?’
‘The … baby you’re carrying, it’s … a reincarnated soul.’
She stared at me for several seconds. ‘I read books about it, and that French book about you recently.’ She waited.
I heaved a sigh, and as I knelt there I brought out my wings to a loud gasp. ‘You were chosen to carry a reincarnated soul, and few are ever chosen, few of us born, many now in my care and on my team.
‘When the baby is born you’ll have extra money from me, and some security, because the little perisher will have a destiny.’ I put my wings away.
Feeling a lot better, she eased up with my help. ‘That voice?’
‘An angel.’
‘Like you?’
‘No, a real one, I just borrow the powers of the angels. I’m human.’
Sat on the sofa, she noted, ‘All the pain has gone.’
‘We saved the baby, more oxygen.’
‘Was it in danger?’
‘Yes, you would have probably been induced early.’
‘Christ, at five months that would be dangerous!’
‘Don’t worry, and relax - babies can sense these things.’
‘Where’s David?’
‘In work, I’ll call him.’
Laz’s voice issued, ‘He is on his way, I sent him a text message from your phone.’
‘You can do that?’ I puzzled.
‘No, I … push the buttons not control it directly.’
‘Ah.’
She was studying the ceiling. ‘Well don’t be bloody rude, show yourself!’
Laz appeared.
‘He … doesn’t look like an angel, looks like that old man at the library that smells bad.’
Laz frowned at her as I hid my grin.
‘He takes human form, to chat to us.’
He turned his head to the patio glass. ‘You have foxes in your garden.’
‘I’ve been feeding them.’
‘The mother was killed, the pups will struggle to survive.’
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daughter, as he had carefully explained to her uncle when he first took her. He had carried out his plan of giving her a first-rate education and a means of livelihood; and as long as he or his wife lived, she had a home. But she was a poor match for a prospective baronet.
Sir Joseph asked a few questions as to her birth and parentage, which Mr. Helston answered as fully as he could. Her father, Arnold Lutwyche, was a member of a reputable family which had gone to the West Indies, and there gained, and subsequently lost, a large fortune. He had no near relations, being the last of his line, and had been brought up in a luxury which, after the early death of his parents, had been found to be wholly unjustified. He had married Mr. Chetwynd-Cooper's sister, against the wish of her family, the opposition being solely on pecuniary grounds. Melicent had been sent to England on his death, her mother having predeceased him.
In his brief account of her home-coming, and Mr. Mayne's guardianship, Helston made no mention whatever of the Boer half-brothers and sisters, simply because he never thought about them. From the day of Melicent's first arrival in England, no word had come from Tante Wilma. Melicent herself never seemed to realise that the Boer woman's children were in any way akin to her. The stupor of coldness which had congealed her heart in the old days had seemingly rendered her incapable of loving anybody. Even now she loved but few; and those slowly, and, as it were, with difficulty. She repudiated her African life so wholly that Helston and his wife had hardly ever heard her speak of it.
But Brenda was urgent in recommending delay. She thought Sir Joseph ought to bring pressure to bear upon his son not to go forward in the matter at present. She owned that she was not altogether certain of Melicent's feelings. It was then that Lancelot's mother showed cold surprise. Naturally she did not find it difficult to believe that her son's attractions had proved fatal.
"Lancelot himself seems to have no doubts," she said. "It is possible he may understand the woman he loves better than you yourself, Mrs. Helston."
"That is very possible," said Brenda.
"His particular reason for wishing the engagement announced," said Sir Joseph, "is that his newspaper wishes him to go to St. Petersburg on a three months' commission. He would like to be married on his return, in the summer. His mother and I have every desire to see him settled, and he is by no means a boy who has given trouble in the way of flirtations—I mean, that I feel tolerably sure of his knowing his own mind; and that being so, I should not feel justified in putting obstacles in his way."
Brenda was aghast. She tried to say that her main objection to the engagement was the insufficient knowledge of each other possessed by the contracting couple; and that, if they were to be separated during the whole of their betrothal, and married with little chance of improving acquaintance, she felt considerable anxiety for their chances of future happiness.
It ended by Lady Burmester taking up the cudgels definitely on behalf of Romance. She naturally felt it most unlikely that, quite apart from the question of position, any girl could ever possibly repent marriage with her boy. She seemed inclined to treat Mrs. Helston's hesitation as an implied slight upon an exemplary son.
When Brenda found that Melicent herself was against her, she surrendered. The arrangement was in truth just what the girl had wished for. Her engagement would be merely nominal for the next three months while Lone Ash was in building. It would be there, an impregnable barrier against Hubert Mestaer, and in no sense a drag upon herself. The calmness with which she faced the idea of parting from her lover added the final touch to Mrs. Helston's conviction that there was something desperately wrong. She began to think she must be mistaken in her girl after all. Was her head really turned on finding herself the chosen of one of the county eligibles? It must be so. Doubtless the girl herself did not realise it. Excitement lent a glamour to the situation, and Melicent, like many another silly maid, mistook the glitter for the rainbow glory of the wings of the Love-god whom she had never seen.
Not even her husband could understand the full depth of Brenda's disappointment. It seemed to her that she would have to learn Melicent all over again. She brooded over the subject continually, searching and
searching for a motive for conduct which nobody but herself found in the least unnatural.