The Mallorcan Bookseller (The 3R International Series Book 1) Page 3

  The Trader had been identified as a potential liability by his company, not just because of a suspected drug habit, but because of a reckless streak in his trading. His employers, an old established company at the Stock Exchange, had engaged 3R, Greg’s company. This wasn’t his idea of the type of work he usually took on and he certainly wasn’t enjoying it, However, they were a very good client and had called in a favour, not least because the Trader was the son of one of the senior partners.

  As Greg looked back at his target he remembered when the pub had been called Henekey’s back in the day, but it had been renamed in the late 70’s. He’d used the pub a lot during the 90’s and recalled either reading or being told that the original refurb had taken place in the 1920s, probably at a time when pubs were generally being restyled with a more modern look, so it must have been quite something to see the pub being given such a classic late Victorian interior. He smiled. His mind was wandering around these facts when his phone buzzed with a text, ‘Call me ASAP’.

  It was from Chris MacDonald, John’s oldest son. John Mac was one of his oldest clients, actually, he was his oldest client and he had taken a chance on Greg, when he set up 3R when he left the Service. It was usually Mac who rang him, so he wondered what was wrong. He had seen enough of what was going on with the Trader, so it was time to wrap this up. He texted back ‘5 minutes Chris’.

  In one of the pubs the Trader and his friends had been in, before they got to the Cittie of York, Greg had seen him exchanging some small packets with one of the others in the group, a smaller guy dressed in a smart light blue suit, who was obviously getting the drugs and supplying the Trader with coke or something similar.

  It had been too busy in the other pubs for Greg to be able to create a situation where he could safely engage with the Trader. Now he took a moment and looked around the pub, checking out the clientele for any possible risk. Nothing.

  ‘Okay, time to sort this,’ he thought.

  He picked up his pint. It was a pity to waste one of Samuel Smith’s finest, but needs must. He changed his walk into a slight stagger and walked across to the booth where the four guys were sitting and did a very good impression of tripping and throwing his beer over the young Trader.

  “What the hell!”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Greg, slightly slurring his speech and he started to try to mop down the young man’s clothes, deftly reaching in and removing the wallet from the Trader’s inside jacket pocket.

  “Get off me you drunken piece of shit.”

  “Now that’s not very nice. You should learn to respect your elders.”

  “Oh, piss off mate and be bloody grateful I don’t take you outside and teach you how to respect your youngers.”

  “No need for that young man,” said Greg and he started to walk away.

  “Good. Bugger off. Right, another boys? On me.”

  As the Trader got up, Greg started for the door, but as the Trader approached the bar he put his hand to his jacket pocket for his wallet. After a mix of drink and drugs during the afternoon and evening, he did well to put two and two together and realise Greg had dipped his wallet.

  “Guys, he’s stolen my bloody wallet!”

  They all scrambled outside into the road and one of them saw Greg who looked like he was just turning into an alley just up from the pub. Greg was waiting for the action to start and allowed them to see him before moving into the alley, where he then hid in the shadows right at the front of the alley.

  He knew they’d be unprepared and would just run straight past him into the alley. He would then have them blocked in the alley and sure enough, in they came with the Trader at the front. ‘Is that a bit of courage or just drink and drugs bravado?’ he thought to himself.

  “Oh, there you are. Hiding in the shadows are we? I think you have got something of mine,” said the Trader.

  “Yes and I suppose you want it back?”

  The Trader paused, recognising the drunk, who had spilled beer over him, was no longer apparently sounding drunk.

  “Listen mate, I don’t know what’s going on here, but just give me my bloody wallet and you can walk away, no hard feelings.”

  Greg smiled back.

  “I can walk away? What about you? Do you want to walk away or what about your friends? Guys, do you want to walk away and leave me and young Matthew to have a chat?"

  The Trader looked stunned. ‘How does he know my name?’ Then thought, ‘He’s looked in my wallet that’s all.’

  “Yes, very clever mate, you’ve looked in my wallet, so just give it back before I come and take it back off you.”

  The Trader was looking at the guy in front of him. He looked in his sixties, well built and looked pretty fit, but there were four of them.

  “So Matthew, you’re probably thinking this is one old guy on his own and there’s four of us. But really, are there four of you? What about you James, or you Martin? How would scrapping in the street appear to your employer?”

  The two guys looked at each other and then at the man in front of them.

  “How do you…..?” James began.

  “What, how do I know you work for a large trading company in the city?” said Greg.

  Even as they nodded Greg continued, “Because they are a very old established firm who value their reputation and will go to some lengths to protect it. Now if you run along now, I might just leave your names out of my report.”

  He saw the two guys visibly lower their shoulders, any idea of a fight had been knocked well and truly out of them with just the mention of protecting the organisation’s reputation.

  “Guys, what are you doing? He’s bluffing.”

  “Matt, this isn’t worth it. You need to sort this out. Your old man will go bananas,” said James.

  “Good call James. So you two can go, whilst I stay and have a chat with Matt and his friend here.”

  “James, Martin, guys, come on, we can do this. My dad will see you’re okay. We can’t let this bastard get away with this.”

  They said nothing as they quickly walked out of the alley.

  “Hey mate, you haven’t spoken to me yet and by the way, you’re scaring no one here,” said the guy in the light blue suit pulling out a flick knife from his back trouser pocket.

  Greg watched him for a moment, looking for signs of fighting capability. The knife was in Cummins’ right hand but he was standing straight in front of Greg, in a passive position, rather than adopting any sort of open and athletic stance.

  “I wondered when you’d speak. Billy isn’t it? Billy Cummings, entertainment fixer and sometime low life drug dealer to Traders with too much bloody money and no bloody sense.”

  “Are you old Bill?” said Cummins.

  “You may well wish I was in a minute Billy,” and Greg didn’t give him any time to think as he sprung at Cummins, deflecting his knife hand away with a left forearm block that shook the knife out of Cummins’ hand, before he hit him hard with a driving right punch to the stomach that took Cummins off his feet and dumped him on the ground.

  The Trader just stood there, frozen.

  “I don’t know who you are, but my dad would never have agreed to this and you won’t know what’s hit you when he’s finished with you.”

  “I think you will find that your Chairman has already spoken to your father about this Matt and he understands his position in the firm is dependent on you changing your ways. As of now, you are on sick leave and there is a room booked for you at a very private and very expensive drug rehab centre just a few miles away. Count yourself damn lucky that the Chairman still thinks enough of your father to have agreed to his request to get you specialist treatment. But understand this. If you leave the treatment programme or lapse in any way, they will terminate your position with the company. There are no further second chances. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” said the Trader quietly.

  Greg saw that Cummins was starting to sit up and he bent down to help him up or so it
looked to the Trader, but then he heard Cummins scream as Greg bent his right arm back and in a grotesque motion snapped the arm with a sudden and vicious twist of the forearm.

  “Sorry Matthew, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I understand and I’ll do it and please don’t hurt me.”

  “Oh good,” he smiled, “I’m so glad you agree, now come on and we’ll leave this piece of shit to crawl back under his rock somewhere.”

  Just at that moment, a Range Rover pulled up at the front of the alley and Greg walked the Trader towards the car and sat him in the back seat.

  “This is Tommy. He’ll take care of you. He’s from Barbados and is very friendly, but he’s also an ex-para, so please do not do anything to annoy him. The back doors will be locked until you arrive at your location. Once there he will escort you to the reception and you will be booked in and then allowed to make one phone call to speak to your father. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  All the fight had been taken from the Trader. He looked at Greg.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s your father that needs your thanks Matthew. He went out on a limb for you with the Chairman, so don’t mess this up and you’ll get your life back,” said Greg.

  Greg made the call as he walked back into the alley and picked up Cummins’ knife and found the nearest drain cover to drop it down.

  “It’s done Sir Henry. One young messed up trader on his way to rehab.”

  “Thank you Greg. I know this was a messy one, so one favour deserves another. Let me know anytime you need to call it in,” said the Chairman.

  *****

  As he continued walking towards the underground station Greg rang Chris MacDonald.

  “Chris, what’s up?”

  “Hello mate. Listen, there’s no easy way to say this, but Mum’s dead. She’s been murdered.”

  Greg took just a moment to let it sink in.

  “Where are you Chris? Is everyone there, your dad especially?”

  “We’re at the villa and yes we’re all here. Greg, she was beaten to death.” Chris’s voice faltered.

  Greg looked at his watch. It was now 5.30pm.

  “Chris, I’m so sorry. I’ll be with you as soon as I can and Chris, we will get whoever has done this to your mum.”

  He messaged Tommy to meet him at his apartment after dropping the young Trader off at the rehab clinic and to be ready to take him to LHR or Gatwick, depending on where he could get the first flight to Palma de Mallorca from.

  He then had a thought and dialled a number.

  “Greg, I wasn’t expecting you to call in your favour quite so quickly,” said Sir Henry.

  “Neither did I Sir Henry,” said Greg.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “It is actually a favour you need? I was only joking just then.”

  “I wish I was too. I need to get to a client in Mallorca and quickly. His wife has been murdered. Strictly speaking, I’m breaking client confidentiality here, but I’m sure he won’t mind in the circumstances, but it’s John MacDonald’s wife I’m talking about.”

  “What? You mean John from Trent MacDonald?”

  “Yes, I don’t know any more details at the moment, but it’s important I get out there quickly.”

  “Good God! Greg, I’ll call the team now and they’ll get things ready and you will get a text confirming the airport and time.”

  “Thank you Sir Henry.”

  “Now give my sincere condolences to John and his boys and listen, you call me direct if you need anything Greg and I mean anything.”

  “I appreciate that and I will,” said Greg.

  Five minutes later he got the text telling him where to go and two hours later he was in the air in a Gulfstream G550, Sir Henry’s company jet, with the co-pilot asking him if he wanted anything to drink. He sat back in his seat and thought about Sheila MacDonald.

  He knew she was from the East End of London and had had a tough upbringing as a young girl, but she had met and then married John, a local boy who was just setting up a small engineering company under the railway arches near Southwark.

  She had supported John through thick and thin as he first built up a national company and then a multi-national conglomerate when he merged with Trent Holdings to create Trent MacDonald. She held a special place in Greg’s heart as he knew that it was Sheila who had encouraged John to take a chance on Greg’s new company, 3R (Risk Reduction and Resolution), when MacDonald Engineering was still in its early stages and they were having problems with protection rackets at some of their sites.

  THREE

  It seemed a long time since he was growing up in Slough, but Greg Chambers had done two things well. One was studying at school and the second was learning to fight and fight dirty when needed.

  He got a scholarship to Cambridge to study languages and philosophy, something that he knew made his parents immensely proud, but he found the huge wealth divide of the students both frustrating and challenging. He could handle the occasional barbed comments from some of the stuck up privileged kids, either with an equally sharp retort, or a stinging right hook if necessary. However, it also helped him understand how to build relationships based on trust and friendship, rather than rank and money.

  At Cambridge he enjoyed the physical contact sports, playing rugby and learning to box. Not that he wasn’t able to handle himself, as he had had to learn to look after himself growing up on the Britwell estate in Slough, so he already had a pretty handy set of street fighting skills, not all of which fell within boxing’s Queensbury Rules.

  He enjoyed the university environment, winning his sports blues for both rugby and boxing and it was his friends back home, rather than his parents, who first noticed his accent was changing. He hadn’t planned this or even realised this was happening, but he accepted it, realising that it might benefit a Slough boy wanting a career in the City.

  That all changed when he was in his third year at Cambridge. He had been doing the rounds at the career recruitment meetings and had been given some good signs by some of the big players in the City. It happened after he had been doing some laps around the running track and was just starting his warm down when he saw a woman watching him. She was a few years older than him, maybe around twenty seven or twenty eight, dressed casually in check trousers and a smart figure-hugging cream polo neck top, with flaming red hair down to her shoulders. A twenty one year old being looked at by an attractive woman was usually sufficient to get any guy’s interest and Greg was certainly no different. He couldn’t stop himself having a second look, just to check he wasn’t mistaken and ‘No, she’s still looking at me!’

  The woman smiled. ‘God, she knows I’ve looked again,’ he thought. He felt himself going red and just hoped that the sweat he had worked up from his run was covering his embarrassment. He wasn’t short on experience with girls, but they were girls, not strikingly attractive older women.

  She started to walk towards to him, still smiling and he instinctively flinched when she said,

  “It’s Greg, isn’t it?” in a wonderfully flowing Irish lilt.

  “Er, yes. How do you know my name?”

  “Oh, I was looking at the rugby team sheets and someone mentioned you were out here running, so I thought I’d say hello.”

  She smiled again and he relaxed and so it began.

  *****

  This was no chance meeting. It took a little while until he realised what was happening and that Fiona, the name she gave him, wasn’t actually chatting him up. She took her time, slowly but surely getting his trust. She took him for drinks in some smart bars and then a nice meal. They talked about everything and nothing. She asked him what he wanted to do with his life, what he thought about free speech and what he would do for his country if we, god forbid, had another war.

  He loved talking to her. He loved being with her. He loved her accent. But he was also puzzled and found himself getting frustrated why he saw no encouragement
from her to take things any further, to something more physical. Then he found out why. She had taken him for a walk along a quiet pathway, by the river when she made the proposal.

  She was a recruiting officer for MI6 and he had been spotted at one of the events with the big city traders – she later explained the intelligence services had people within these companies who they asked to keep an eye out for people with potential. Greg had been spotted by someone used by MI6.

  He didn’t say yes straight away. Something which he was later told went in his favour. But then having made up his mind he went through the selection process. He had no idea how he was doing and was given no sense of his progress either. Other people in the process fell by the wayside and eventually he was told he had passed. He knew that working for military intelligence wasn’t like being James Bond with fast cars and beautiful women on his arms, although secretly he hoped there might be some of that at some stage!