THE ORANGE MOON AFFAIR (3 page)

“I want to know why my father was murdered, and my gut tells me it has something to do with this new project in Northern Ireland.”

I knew that the Gunn Group was complicated. It controlled many companies in the fields of electronics, engineering and chemicals. The assets were enormous and profits almost equal to the largest of multi-nationals. No mean feat for a privately owned business. Obviously with the amounts of money involved, there must be very tight controls on security, especially as the areas of micro-electronics and chemicals were high risk and the competition cut throat. I could understand Adrian's reluctance to talk business at the wake, but still there was this nagging doubt in my mind.

“I think I'll have a talk with Mary. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.”

Julie shook her head. “Don't disturb her just yet. It is the first real rest she's had. How about taking me for a walk around the grounds instead?”

“You're right and they're quite beautiful at this time of year.”

We passed the rest of the afternoon wandering the grounds talking. It was the first time since we arrived that we had been alone for any length of time and now that the funeral was over we could look forward to happier times ahead.

I led Julie around to the nondescript barn set aside from the main Hall. The only thing that could give away the fact that the barn was an aircraft hangar was the small round concrete helipad thirty metres from the hangar building.

Julie looked at me askance. “A helicopter?”

“Wealth does have its perks.”

“A private jet and a helicopter?”

“Well actually the Gunn Group has two helicopters and two more private jets.”

“Of course it does,” she said sarcastically.

The electric hangar doors slid open at the touch of the ‘app’ on my iPhone and revealed the interior of the barn, aside from the helicopter, there was a small yet comprehensively equipped workshop and maintenance area, and outside a five hundred gallon tank of Jet fuel. Julie watched as I wheeled the aircraft out of the hangar onto the pad, disconnected the ground handling wheels, stowed them back in the hangar and checked the fuel. My father always kept the helicopter fully fuelled and ready to go at any time. It made trips to London easy and quick.

It had been a while since I flew the Eurocopter, demanding a different set of skills to the fixed wing Cessna Mustang. This one was equipped with a full EFIS (Electronic Flight Information System) digital 'glass' cockpit, so I could fly 'blind' from Norwich to the London Heliport in Battersea on the river Thames only eight miles from the Gunn Group offices. This particular aircraft had been configured for right seat flying. I liked it better than flying from the left seat, as I could lock off the collective and use my left hand for changing radio frequencies and other instruments.

“When was the last time you flew this?”

“About two years ago. We'll take it tomorrow, I need to make an appearance at the office.”

“You'll take it, I have my own business to run and that means mollifying my agent and getting some work.”

“Where's your sense of adventure?”

“You get some practice in then we'll talk about my sense of adventure.”

Mary reappeared for dinner. The rest had done her good.

Some of the old bounce was back in her walk and conversation. I didn't want to spoil the atmosphere so suppressed my desire to bombard her with questions. There would be plenty of time after the meal.

She had been through a lot in the last eighteen months, having just recovered from a serious car crash the previous year in which two of her closest friends had been killed. After a long period in hospital and private nursing home she had pulled through.

“Mary, there are some things that have been worrying me about Dad,” I said, as tactfully as possible. She sipped the brandy delicately. “I keep wondering about this Northern Ireland deal. This afternoon I tried to talk to Adrian about it, but he brushed me off, virtually saying it was none of my business.” I paused, waiting for a reply. There was none. “Well, don't you think it is more than just a coincidence?”

She placed her brandy glass carefully on the side table and shook her head. “The police came to the conclusion that it was probably a case of mistaken identity. If there is anything they will find it Thomas.” She smiled. “You concentrate on learning the business. Leave the investigating to the experts.”

“I need to know what the Northern Ireland deal is all about. Adrian just said it was one of Dad's personal projects. If I’m going to learn about the company then it seems to me to be a good place to start. Did he say anything to you about it?”

“No, of course not. You know what your father was like about business. No work at home. All business was to stay where it belonged, at the office. Perhaps Adrian was just honouring your father’s memory by not discussing it here. I'm sure he will tell you all about it when you go in to work.” She drew a weary hand across her face. “I must go to bed, Thomas. I'm not really as together as I look.”

“Of course.” I helped her up and watched as she walked slowly across the room. “Are there any papers that Dad would have left in the house? Presumably, if he was handling the deal on his own he would have something here.” I felt I needed to press her on the subject. It was so strange that nobody seemed to know much about it at all. I know that the old man liked to keep business away from his private life as much as possible, but I also know that there were times when he brought very important documents home. Particularly those pertaining to projects in which he was personally involved.

“Please, Thomas. Enough. I never pried into his business affairs at all. Perhaps if I had I could have been a better wife to him. Now please, we can talk again tomorrow, but there is nothing much I can tell you.” She stopped at the door, turned and looked at me carefully as if trying to tell me something by telepathy. “I want you to do a good job now that you're in charge,” she said, tipped her head on one side as if asking a silent question, then turned and left the room.

Still feeling very much in the dark, I went to my flat in what used to be the old servants quarters. It was private in a separate wing of the Hall and had it’s own entrance through the kitchen. Julie poured us two glasses of Pusser's rum, a silent reminder of the catamaran and sunshine, and we sat in front of the large window looking out over the peaceful moonlit countryside.

“I know what you're thinking, Thomas. And I know you want answers. But you're not going to get them tonight.” She leaned across and nibbled on my ear, then got up and slowly took off her dress. Beneath it she was naked. She turned and headed for the bedroom

Well at least in this upside down world there were some things that had not changed. I downed the rum, picked up the discarded dress and followed her.

THREE

London – September 2012

T
he offices of Gunn Group Industries
were not in Central London, as people would expect. They were situated in a tall building in Twickenham. Close enough to the hub of things, but far enough on the outskirts of the City to be easy to get to from the country. The building was called Gunn House and was, appropriately, built by a subsidiary company, Langhorne Construction Limited. It was an eyesore, as are most buildings of this type. I was still contemplating the follies of modern architecture as the lift carried me to the top floor, home of the offices of the Board of Directors.

The collar and tie felt uncomfortable and the suit as if it was four sizes too big. Julie had assured me it wasn't, and Mary also made the correct noises. I was not convinced. The lift bumped to a stop, jerking me out of my daydream and the doors hissed open to reveal the reception area.

Directly opposite the lift was a desk at which sat a beautifully dressed and perfectly made-up young lady who looked up coolly as I walked towards her.

“May I help you, sir?” The standard question used a thousand times a day in a million offices.

“Mr Gunn,” I said.

“I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Gunn is not in.”

“I am Mr Gunn. Mr Thomas Gunn, the new Chairman.”

The girl looked at me blankly until she suddenly grasped what I had said.

“I'm sorry, sir. We aren't expecting you. Mr Newell didn’t warn me at all.” I held up my hand to stop the flow. A young-looking thirty, with long fair hair, I didn’t look the part of a city tycoon.

“Would you just point me in the right direction for my office and tell Mr Newell I'm here. I'll see him in ten minutes.” I hoped that sounded as a chairman should and having received her directions, she headed off for the office.

The old man really did believe in the Chairman having an office worthy of the position. It was huge. A thick carpet covered centre of the expanse of wooden floor; mahogany desk in front of the window, and table with settee and easy chairs for entertaining associates. Original modern paintings adorned the walls and the view across Twickenham and the Thames was breathtaking. Beside the desk was a complete console with a computer terminal, closed circuit TV and the usual intercom system. So this is where the Gunn fortune was generated. I could see why Adrian wanted to keep me out of the way. If this was a yardstick with which to judge the power wielded by the Chairman then he must be very upset that it was in my hands.

There was a knock on the door and a very correctly dressed, slightly overweight and rather severe looking woman in her mid thirties entered.

“Mr Gunn, my name is Jennifer Jordan. I am your assistant. I do apologise we weren't expecting you. Would you like some coffee?” She stood in front of the desk, expressionlessly, waiting for a reply.

“Yes please. Milk, two sugars, thank you.” I said. She turned and made for the door. I stopped her before she reached it. “Jennifer?” She turned and looked enquiringly. “Please smile, I like happy faces around me.” She dropped her chin, smiled shyly, opened the door and left. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of coffee, followed by a tight-lipped, somewhat irritable looking Adrian.

“Thank you, Jennifer. Good morning, Adrian.” I knew the use of her first name would annoy him, and that was just what I wanted to do. To make sure that he knew who now sat in the chair. “Please don't say it. I've already heard it twice this morning.” He looked a little nonplussed, as if I had just robbed him of a key phrase.

“You could have given me notice that you were coming in.”

“Why? What I want from you is a run-down on everything this Group owns, part owns or whatever. I reckon that would be the best place to start.” I hoped I sounded as if I knew a little about business. I hadn't a clue and was going to have to do some pretty rapid learning.

“If you had given me some warning then I could have had all the files ready for your inspection. As it is it will take time to get them all together.” He spoke stiffly, with his head held up, looking down at me in disgust. Adrian categorised everyone as either a businessman or a layabout. I was one of the latter.

“Adrian, in this day and age all I need is the computer login passwords and I can get all the information I need by just pressing these little buttons.” I indicated the terminal by the desk. He had the grace to flush.

He glared at me tight lipped, turned and left the office. I swung the chair around and stared out over the city, watching the slow-moving traffic like a giant worm threading its way through the undergrowth of houses.

I hated cities. Hell I hated offices.

But somehow up here away from the noise, the colours, shapes and shadows had a dream-like quality. I thought through the exchange with Adrian. Why all the blocking manoeuvres?

What was it that he didn't want me to see? Perhaps I wasn't a businessman but eight years as an officer in the Parachute Regiment as part of SFSG (Special Forces Support Group), had given me a suspicious mind and a nose for trouble. Something was afoot, and sure as hell it involved the old man and the kidnapping. There was a knock on the door and Jennifer entered carrying a bulky, blue file.

“Sir Ivan’s personal files and computer login passwords, Mr Gunn,” she said. “You’ll be needing them.

“Thank you. Can you give me a walk through on how the system operates?” In the modern world where access to information was vital, everyone needed reasonable computer skills. As a member of Special Forces I was pretty educated on most systems, but I needed people in the office to think I was a little naïve.

She smiled awkwardly and came around to the side of the desk, laid the file down and opened it at the first page of the text. “You will find all the necessary instructions here. Sir Ivan insisted that the whole system be made as simple as possible. He said he didn't want some computer programmer knowing more about the operation of the Group than he did.”

“That definitely sounds like my father. Was there any information that is
not
on the computer?”

“Not as far as I am aware, except for the design drawings for new projects, building plans, machinery and electronic devices. They are carried on a completely separate set of servers. Only the Chief Designer, the Chief Executive and the Chairman have access to those.”

“So the entire Gunn Group, its accounts, day to day running, personnel wages and everything are available from this terminal?”

“Yes. The file you have there has a limited circulation, again only to Board members. Other personnel in other departments have access to information that applies to their department only. Likewise with the Managing Directors and Chairmen of the subsidiaries.” She stopped talking and waited for my response. It was certainly a very neat way to keep abreast of all events. And all controlled from this office.

“What about the personnel files of all the Group Board members?”

“They are kept in the wall safe behind the Picasso.” She indicated the painting that hung on the wall above the small cocktail bar. I was beginning to get to know why Adrian was so against my appointment. I’m sure he would dearly like to have all the information that was in those files. People are most vulnerable through their personnel files and bank accounts. If you have neither, then as far as the world is concerned you don't exist. Identity is a plastic credit card.