Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (10 page)

Chapter 20

It's always good to have friends in low places. Splatter69 was Giles’
first ever, online subscriber. Splatter worked as a warehouseman at the
Driver and Vehicle
Licensing Agency
in Swansea, and was a drinking mate of some local coppers, who had
contacts with local informants, who had contacts with other un-named police
forces, who, in turn, said they had contacts with dubious characters at the
DVLA.

Apparently, they all owed one another favours, and the upshot was that,
within three hours, Giles had Mrs Hathaway’s name, telephone number and address
in his hand.

*

Despite this success, Giles didn't sleep well. His fitful dreams had
been filled with scenario after scenario, each one more bizarre than the last -
and at the end of each business proposal, Mrs Hathaway said ‘No!’ He offered
her more and more money - and each time he upped the ante, she said ‘No!’ He
offered to marry her and sign a pre-nuptual leaving her his whole empire - and
received another derisory reply.

Consequently, he was surprised when, he called her number at nine in the
morning, and heard her answer, ‘Yes?’

‘Do you
really
mean it?’ cried
Giles. Three hours sleep had taken it’s toll on his cognitive faculties.

‘Do I really mean
what
? Who
is
this?’

‘Er-sorry - my name is Giles - Giles Montagu-Scott.’

‘Never heard of you.’

‘I run a magazine called
Daring
Dooz
. It sells all over the world.’

‘How did you get this number?’

Tricky one. Giles decided bypass the truth, and just to go for it.

‘I’d like to offer you a contract.’

‘Oh really!’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘You know I charge £8 an hour?’

Giles had no idea what she was talking about, so he carried on going for
it.

‘Meet me at my office in the Shard tomorrow at 10 and I’ll explain
everything. It’s all above board. You can bring a lawyer if you want. I’ll pay
the lawyer’s fees - anything - just say you’ll come.’

It was the Shard that tipped the balance. She had often thought about
going to the top of the Shard, inspired by her distance learning course
Climbing iconic building exteriors at night -
techniques for the over 60s.
This might be a chance to take a closer look
at a possible route and the availability of handholds and resting places. And
anyway, she’d heard the views were lovely.

‘10 you say? And I can bring a lawyer?’

‘Yes - you can bring a team of lawyers,’ said Giles barely able to
contain his excitement.

‘One more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘How
did
you get this number?’

‘Operator here. I’m sorry, but the line has disengaged,’ said a high-pitched
voice.

‘What?’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘Poor phone connections at the Shard?’

‘’Fraid it’s true,’ said the operator lady, sounding more like Giles
every second.

‘Real dump. Built on a swamp. Basement electrics shot. Shouldn’t be
surprised if they pull it down - give it 18 months, tops.’

‘So,’ said Mrs Hathaway, writing on her pretty lilac telephone pad.
‘Giles Montagu-Scott,
Daring Dooz
,
the Shard, 10am tomorrow.’

‘You got it!’ said Giles ecstatically, and depressed his iPhone end key
faster than he had ever depressed anything in his life.

Well, thought Mrs Hathaway, it all sounded very interesting. She’d never
cleaned anywhere as posh as the Shard, plus there was the opportunity to see if
a midnight climb was on the cards, although the sharp angle might make
abseiling back down a little tricky.

It had been a very strange call - mysterious, lacking in substance and
downright idiotic in places, but there was something about Giles’ voice -
something that sent a little shiver down her spine. The shiver was a new
experience, but as she sat down in her comfy sofa, picked up her morning cup of
chamomile tea and placed her receiver back on the hook, she decided she rather
liked it.

*

In the flat exactly
opposite Mrs Hathaway’s apartment, Charlie Sumkins was deciding he really liked
something as well.

It had been a bit of a
rushed job. The flat was Charlie’s, but it had been rented out to some Scottish
asylum seekers, who, despite the fact that they spoke only Colombian Spanish,
had fully understood the six armed thugs he had sent round early that morning
to explain that the tenancy had been terminated. They had got dressed and
packed everything they owned into a hold-all, including several kilts, a set of
bagpipes and over two million pounds-worth of cocaine, and set off for the
local Burger King to discuss their next move. Unfortunately, en route, they
were apprehended by twenty fully armed police, following an anonymous tip-off.

Charlie pressed a
button on his laser eavesdropping system and listened with undisguised pleasure
to a pristine tape recording of the whole of Mrs Hathaway’s telephone
conversation. Amazing! All picked up from window vibrations.

Maybe technology was
the way to go - rather than the current unrelenting stream of mindless
violence. Either way, he didn't care - he’d got what he wanted, and now he
could show the muscular old tart what happens when you mess with Chuck the
Fuck.

Chapter 21

Giles had
been in his office suite since 8 o’clock, tidying cushions in his architect-designed,
sunken meeting area, making sure there was a full range of coffees and teas.
Specially selected editions of
Daring
Dooz
were scattered casually on his original
Le Corbusier LC10
coffee table.

He looked
out of the huge glass office wall. A low sun was shining from the east, turning
the Thames mist into a shimmering golden carpet. But his only thought was,
‘What if she gets lost in the fog?’

At five
minutes to 10, there was a knock at the door. He took a deep breath, looked in
the mirror, and opened the door, only to be greeted by two workmen in
ill-fitting overalls.

‘Daring
Dooz?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yer telephone’s
duff. Come to fix it.’

‘There’s
nothing wrong with the telephone.’

‘Not what
it says here,’ said the larger of the two men, shoving a grubby clipboard into
Giles’ face.

‘Stick your
moniker on this form - ‘ere down the bottom.’

As a
somewhat confused Giles was signing, the second workman squeezed past and began
checking the room. He found a phone picked it up listened for a second, then screwed
up his face.

‘Sounds OK
to me - no worries then guv. Must have been some other office, can't trust no one
these days.’

They left
as suddenly as they had arrived.

Giles
leaned back on the door and scratched his head.

‘What the
hell
was that all about?’

‘Wouldn't
you like to know,’ said Charlie Sumkins, quietly to himself.

He
chuckled, leaned back in his chair, stared up at the Singapore fan and waited
for the show to begin.

*

‘Mrs
Tallulah Hathaway and her solicitor, Digby Elton-John, 10 o’clock appointment
for Mr
Giles
Montagu-Scott,’ said the voice from ground floor reception.

‘Right, send them up,’ said Giles.

He’d long dispensed with the services of a personal assistant. Given his
appalling secret, the last thing he wanted was someone stumbling over the
truth.

He walked across to the huge glass wall, thinking how London’s panorama
would be a suitably impressive backdrop. As he passed the wall mirror, he
noticed his hair was slightly dishevelled from when he given his head a
scratch. After a quick, panicky combing, he assumed the position. Hands behind
back, a five thousand guinea suit in grey cashmere, crisp, white, open-necked
shirt by
Arthur
Gluck of New York
- all illuminated by the golden rays of the morning sun. Perfect.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

‘Come right in,’ said Giles in his friendliest possible voice.

The door opened and in came Mrs Hathaway.

‘Good morning. I’m Tallulah Hathaway and this is my solicitor Digby...’

‘Elton-John,’ finished Giles. ‘And I’m Giles Montagu-Scott, CEO and managing
director of
Daring Dooz International
- where fantasies become fantastically fantastic.

She was tall, slim and elegant with astonishing, pale-blue eyes. She was
going to be a
sensation
. In contrast,
Digby Elton-John
was bald, portly man with a
far-away look in his eyes. He didn't acknowledge Giles at all. His gaze seemed
fixed on Mrs Hathaway. He had the shocked, open-mouthed, ecstatic look of
someone who has just won the lottery.

If he
had
won the lottery, it
would not be before time. He looked as though he’d just been held out of a
window at the back of the Law Courts and dropped headfirst onto a skip
containing the leftovers from the solicitors’ clerks’ canteen.

‘Take a seat,’ said Giles, indicating the sunken meeting area.

They moved over, descended the glass steps and sat down on the built-in
sofas.

‘Tea, coffee?’

‘Chamomile please.’

‘And Digby?’

Digby was not at home. When she had called in to ask him to accompany
her to the Shard, his previously, self-administered electro-convulsive therapy had
ensured he had no recollection of her ever visiting his office. He had fallen
in love with her, all over again. He couldn't believe his luck. He was actually
out and about with this gorgeous creature. Getting into a cab. Going to some
posh offices. Coming up in a lift. And now, sitting down with her. It was too,
too wonderful - he was completely lost in the romance of it all.

‘
Digby,’
said Mrs Hathaway
pointedly. ‘What would you like to
drink
?’

‘Oh!’ said Digby, switching to automatic pilot, ‘large scotch please.’

She frowned at him. It was more than he could bear.

‘Second thoughts, a black coffee.’

‘Great,’ said Giles, ‘
Kopi Luwak, La Esmeralda or St. Helena?’

‘That’ll be fine,’ said Digby, quietly,
and reverted back to staring at Mrs Hathaway with saucer-like eyes.

‘Well,’ said Giles, ‘I sense you’re a
person who likes to get straight down to business - as I’m sure the Enfield
bank robber can testify.’

Mrs Hathaway looked shocked.

‘How on earth did you know about
that
?’

It was Giles’ turn to look shocked.

‘What! I mean you’ve been on all the
national TV and radio, plus the front pages of the red tops for days.’

She looked confused. She had no TV, no
radio and was much too busy to read the papers. And she’d been up most of last
night, watching videos on abseiling techniques.

‘Someone filmed the whole thing with a
mobile - groin grab, upside-down, wallop!’

He played a news clip of the tape on the
TV.

‘You’re part of the national consciousness
now. I mean, there was a rugby match on TV yesterday, where the commentator
described an illegal pile-driving tackle and a “bit of an Enfield bin”.’

Giles went on to describe the wall-to-wall
media coverage, and the national search that had been going on to uncover her
identity.

‘But I’m a cleaning lady.’

‘Not anymore. Not if I have anything to do
with it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I have a plan.’

‘Oh, good,’ she said, suspiciously.

Giles sought to reassure her. He described how he knew what it was like
to have next to nothing and, how, thanks to the magazine and its three million
subscribers, he had become fabulously wealthy.

‘But I don't want to be wealthy - I just want Aub…’ She stopped and
blushed a little.

Giles immediately changed tack. ‘But that’s enough about
me
- what about Tallulah Hathaway?’

Mrs Hathaway was a little put out by what she had nearly said, so she
decided to humour Giles, at least until the bloom had left her cheeks.

She told him how she had been a self-employed cleaning lady for thirty
years. She stressed how meticulous she was in her approach to cleaning, then
slipped into a long description of the best cleaning products and techniques to
use in various circumstances. She became so enthused, she completely forgot
about the blushing thing.

Giles was pleased to hear all this. It was obvious she was the genuine article,
but Christ, if he heard any more about brushes, buckets, mops, applying
chemicals, hoovering, wire wool pads, bleach, preparing surfaces, scrubbing,
buffing, dabbing, rubber gloves and wringing things out, he’d call reception
and ask them to send up a freelance assassin. Not for her. For him.

‘But how does the unarmed combat fit in?’ he blurted out, just as she was
about to describe how to remove bodily fluids from the grill of a
Roberts
R505 radio.

‘Oh! That’s just for fun.’

Giles doubted whether that view was shared by the Enfield bank robber,
with two broken collarbones and a ten-year stretch to look forward to. But he
nodded and smiled.

‘I do
karate,
kyusho,
taekwondo, aikido, hapkido and aiki jiu jitsu,
kickboxing and Queensbury rules boxing. Just correspondence courses and video
training. That Enfield affair was the first time I’ve had to deal with a real
person. She blushed again because, of course, that was not true - as Vic and
nine solicitors would unhappily testify on oath.

‘So, it’s just unarmed combat?’ said Giles.

‘Why no! I love
all
physical
activity courses. I’ve done so many over the years.’

‘Such as?’

‘Climbing, that’s rock and Alpine, abseiling, riding, canoeing,
potholing, rifle shooting and, oh yes, I once did a course on the maintenance
and accurate use of handguns and sub-machine guns. And I’ve done scuba diving,
free-diving, cliff diving, yachting, wind surfing, kite surfing, skiing,
snowboarding - lots of things really. Mostly correspondence courses and video
training, but sometimes, like when I got my pilot’s license, I combined it with
a skydiving holiday.’

This was better, much better, phenomenally much better, fucking
phenomenally
much better than Giles
could ever have imagined.

‘That’s impressive.
Very
impressive. Just what I was hoping. So, I’d like to make a proposal.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m already spoken for.’ The blush returned.

Giles looked confused and Digby looked overcome with grief, despite
having received this information just prior to his recent convulsive therapy session.

‘No, no,’ cried Giles, ‘a
business
proposal.’

‘Oh, I
see
. That’s fine,
then.’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘but remember my rates are £8 an hour - not a penny
less.’

‘No,’ said Giles. ‘Let me spell it out.’

And spell it out he did. He explained about
Daring Dooz
and how he’d like to do some stories featuring her in a
series of dangerous, even life-threatening situations - something a woman with
her exceptional skills would relish.

Back in his office, Charlie chocked on his vodka-Campari split.
Dangerous and fucking life threatening! All it would take was one crafty
tarantula, one cheapo Taiwanese carabineer, one over-aggressive black mamba, or
one crevasse too far - and his sperm count would be splattered all over
everyone’s breakfast table.

Back in Giles’ office, Mrs Hathaway opened one of the magazines on
the
Le Corbusier LC10
and flicked through the pages. She stopped at a story, which was, in
Giles’ opinion, one of his best. It was about a pole dancer who, while still in
her working costume, skied to the North Pole, then, after a brief spell back at
work in the
Cerdo Espada
nightclub,
Heckmondwick, repeated the feat in an even more skimpy outfit at the South
Pole. It was called
Pole to Pole to Pole
to Pole to Pole
.

She tutted. The tuts were infused with a mixture of disbelief,
contempt and indifference.

‘I’ve never seen such rubbish in all my life.’

‘It’s terrible,’ agreed Digby, looking over her shoulder. ‘How much
is a subscription? You know, just to keep abreast of what the underclass is
reading.’

Mrs Hathaway glared at him. Digby evaporated.

‘No, no,’ cried Giles, his voice breaking into a cracked falsetto.
He sensed it was all about to slip away, so he decided to bite the bullet.

His voice became hushed. He moved closer. He gave a deep breath,
which sounded as though he was suddenly developing asthma.

‘I’m going to tell you something, nobody else knows. It’s been my
terrible secret for over five years. I must ask you to
never
to reveal it to a living soul.’

Mrs Hathaway and Digby agreed. Although, back in his office, Charlie
wasn’t too sure.

‘Perhaps if it’s going to be
that
much of a shock, I’ll have another chamomile tea.’

 
‘Any chance of a fortifyingly
large Scotch?’ pleaded Digby.

Mrs Hathaway didn't give him the treatment, because, ever since
she’d mentioned she was spoken for, Digby looked as though he’d just won a
holiday at a nuclear waste dump.

Once the chamomile and Scotch were in place, Giles took another deep
asthmatic breath.

‘Let’s move over to the window.’

They moved over to the window.

‘Walls have ears,’ whispered Giles.

‘This is a window,’ said Digby, who had brought the bottle over and
was already pouring himself a second scotch.

There was a short confused pause, before Giles spilled the beans. He
drew Mrs Hathaway and Digby very close and whispered the whole sorry, but highly
successful, tale of deception into their ears.

The sound level of this juicy information was too low for Charlie’s
equipment to pick up. All he could hear was the sound of his own frustration -
the continuous thud of flick knives hitting the wood panelling on the other
side of the office.