No-one ever entered the great halls of London without being awed by the enormity of the space, the incredible craftsmanship of the masonry and the complex network of roof timbers, many of which had been reclaimed from old warships. The great hall looked just like the dining hall at Hogwarts, as depicted in the Harry Potter films.
A young man in a white linen jacket approached him and offered him a glass of cheap champagne. Bob took the bubbly, along with a flyer emblazoned with the words “The Maximillian Rochester Fund for Sick Children”.
Bob began to circulate, but it was proving rather difficult as the floor was crammed with people. The charity event had been blessed with a huge turnout. As he headed towards the top table, where he would shortly be sitting, an older, grey haired man called out to him in a plummy voice.
“It’s the scholarship boy!”
“It’s the thick rich kid!” Bob responded, in a pronounced and exaggerated Lancashire accent.
Forty years had passed since Bob had boarded at Harrow on the Hill Catholic College for Boys. He had won his place there as an eleven year old on a scholarship awarded by his father’s trade union. The scholarship’s aim was to improve social mobility, but it actually resulted in social misery. The paying boarders such as Max never let the other boys forget that they were unworthy of such an elite establishment. Even now, Max believed that greeting Bob in this way was just a measure of friendly camaraderie. He had no idea of the resentment that Bob harboured for his old prefect, either then or now. Still, it had always suited Bob to play along. That role playing, however, was about to come to an abrupt end, after Max’s earlier text message.
If Sir Max had suspected that his blackmailer was in the room, and he had lined up every one of the five hundred people present this evening, hoping to find the culprit, he would have failed miserably, doubtless alighting on the real Bob almost at the last pick. Sir Max felt safe and comfortable among his friends, and would certainly not have suspected any of them capable of doing such a thing.
The older man took the scholarship boy by the shoulder and led him to a quiet alcove. “Listen, old chap, I really must thank you for having a word in the PM’s ear. We received a significant contribution under the government’s ‘Big Society’ plan. That is really going to help put the hospices on a firm footing.”
“Not at all, Max. As a trustee it was my duty,” Bob replied. “Now, what are you drinking? I’m off to the bar.”
“I’ll have my usual, thank you, but do ask for the twelve year old malt, there’s a good chap, otherwise they’ll serve up any old tosh. Oh, and make it a double, if you would.” Sir Max winked. Bob smiled and fought his way to the bar.
***
Bob flushed the empty vial down the toilet, then left the cubicle and washed his hands. A few minutes later he was back in his seat, just two places away from Max. The aging malt whisky sat untouched in a glass in front of his old College prefect. Bob tried not to stare at it.
Sir Peter Maitland-Buckley opened the proceedings, which would auction off donated goods, experiences and outings to rich lawyers and bankers and bring in a large amount of much needed cash for the charity.
“Before we begin, I’m delighted to welcome our patron, Sir Max Rochester, who has agreed to say a few words,” he announced.
Sir Max picked up his whisky and sank it in one gulp before he stood. The whisky mixed with the potassium chloride and slid smoothly down his throat, warming his insides, as the applause died down.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Maximillian Rochester Fund for Sick Children I would like to extend a warm welcome to all of you who are attending this event. May I thank you all for turning out in such numbers. I trust you have all brought suitably large amounts of money with you.” There was a ripple of laughter, and Sir Max smiled with satisfaction. He cleared his throat, then brushed a hand across his forehead as he continued. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us remember why we are here. Most of us present will count ourselves blessed to have enjoyed comfortable and healthy childhoods, for the main part, and so now is the time to show our largesse and bring some joy into the lives of those children who are sick and dying.” Sir Max paused and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming our charming guest auctioneer this evening, the English born Hollywood actress Kate Jarret.”
The actress stood to much applause, and raised the wooden auctioneer’s mallet for the cameras. Such was the concentration on this beautiful young woman and her daring strapless dress that no-one noticed Sir Max. He sat down rather heavily, feeling decidedly unwell. He dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. A pained expression crossed his wrinkled face as he rubbed the top of his left arm and grimaced, but the pain seemed to pass and he sipped at a glass of water.
It was a nerve wracking two minutes before Sir Max finally succumbed to the clear liquid that Bob had introduced into his whisky. Eventually he tried to stand up, clutched at his chest and collapsed. There were gasps and cries of dismay, and chairs scraped against the floor as other guests jumped to their feet nearby. Bob was the first to his side, apparently making the old man comfortable as he breathed his last. Amid the noisy chaos Sir Peter made an announcement over the PA system, asking if there was a doctor in the room. There were half a dozen, and they began to hurry forward, but they were already too late. Bob ushered everyone back whilst cradling the old man’s head. Max tried to utter a few words, but they were little more than a whisper. Bob leaned in to listen. Then he leaned over Max and whispered in his ear.
“You should have paid me the five million, Max. You can’t spend it now.”
Max’s eyes widened in horror as he listened to the words, then he breathed his last breath, his expired body relaxing into Bob’s arms.
Chapter 11
Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London: Thursday, 6pm.
Andrew Cuthbertson was sitting at his desk pondering his options. He had noticed his colleagues staring at him all afternoon. It seemed that a couple of people had addressed him and he hadn’t answered. He hadn’t even heard them; he was absorbed in his own thoughts. They were concerned that the usually ebullient Andy appeared so withdrawn. He knew that in the next half hour the place would begin to clear and he could have the floor to himself. He needed to do something, but he didn’t know what to do.
After the meeting with Josh that afternoon, Andrew had decided to call the blackmailer off. Perhaps he could threaten him with exposure if necessary, but he had to try to keep him away from Josh, at least. Andrew had never believed the man would kill anyone, anyway. He was wealthy in his own right, he had connections at cabinet level, and he was well respected around the world. When Andrew had asked him why he was doing this, there had been no explanation in reply. He was told simply to supply the information required or his wife and daughter, and his employers, would hear about the girl in Bangkok. In fact, they would see the photographs of the very young girl looking scared and bemused, not to mention bruised, after Andy had finished with her. Andrew had been stunned at the threat. How could anyone have found out? Why couldn’t they have held the Partners’ conference somewhere else, somewhere where young girls weren’t offered to you for sale as if they were a fake Rolex?
Andrew had been so caught up in his own misery that he had not noticed the stir in the office. The senior equity partner on the floor was being hemmed in by staff, and eventually he gave in and picked up the phone.