Andrew Segal
Arrogant, overweight, obsessive, Jack Gregory has just had his personal fortune filched from under his nose. Now he’s going to get it back, no matter what the risks to himself and his family; no matter who gets dragged into the firing line.
Undeterred by threats of kidnap and ransom, the crew of his luxury yacht murdered, businesses up in flames and bankruptcy beckoning, Jack is on the run, reduced to living incognito in a seedy Paddington hotel.
Ignoring his wife’s pleas, he hatches an outrageous plan to recover the lost millions. Its failure will end his already shaky marriage and guarantee him a permanent stay behind bars.
But Jack Gregory has always been a winner. Failure doesn’t figure in his world.
This time, however, winning will be no guarantee of success. This time, Jack’s in a Catch 22 situation and doesn’t know where to turn. Like a blind bull, he rampages on to a conclusion where even victory will be laced with the bitter taste of defeat.
Andrew Segal was born and brought up in London. An Insolvency Practitioner by profession, Andrew has, to date, written a number of children’s books in verse, had several short stories published and now produced The Hamilton Conspiracy, a financial thriller and his first full length novel.
Andrew lives in Essex with his wife, Roberta, and two cats; his daughter lives in West London with her husband, an advertising executive.
For relaxation Andrew and Roberta like to ply the English canals with family and friends in their 68’ narrow boat, Iron Butterfly.
Prologue: Hamilton, Bermuda
January 19, Tuesday. Current Year.
12.00 noon. The elderly gentleman sat back in his armchair, he looked ill at ease and kept running his fingers through the fluffy white hair behind his ears and sipping nervously at his drink. His face and head were brown and wrinkled from years of reclining in the sun, and his hands, similarly bronzed, were gnarled and showed signs of twisting with arthritis.
“They want me to have him arrested.” He sounded hesitant, and his speech quavered occasionally punctuating what remained of a once powerful baritone. “One man in particular keeps calling; talks to me in a curiously nasal American accent.”
“I know.” The young man seated opposite was an Oriental. He wore a pale blue tropical lightweight suit whose jacket sat immaculately on his broad shoulders; the trousers were pressed to a knife-edge. The two-piece looked expensive, as did the white shantung shirt and navy blue silk tie.
A gentle breeze blew in from the open windows of the fourth floor luxury flat bringing with it the sounds of the harbour, the clacking of cables against masts and the shouted instructions to crews involved in maintenance work on the streamlined yachts of their millionaire masters.
“What do you mean you know?” The old man undid another button at the neck of his faded khaki shirt as though it might make some difference in the heat. He sounded perplexed and kept crossing and re-crossing his legs, the knees, bony as his knuckles, protruding from baggy shorts looking like a throw-back to the days of “the Empire”.
“I make it my business to know, Judge. That is why my clients never argue my fees.” The young man’s English was perfect, almost over-precise, and spoken with a soft Chinese accent. He smiled and downed the last of his drink at a single draught, the ice clinking in the heavy cut glass tumbler.
“They’ve been making threatening noises. Of course, you know it’s happened before, though I confess they perturb me this time. But I will not be bullied or bought. If the Chief Justice can be coerced by these thugs, why good heavens, whatever next?”
“Do not be afraid Judge. I shall be watching very closely. After all,” the young man smiled again, “that is my profession.”
“Yes, yes of course. I’m not really worried, merely, shall we say, concerned. Still I’m glad you’re here, my dear. I always feel so much more secure when I know you’re in Bermuda, and not sailing that monstrosity of yours around the world.”
“I am here for a month, my friend. Then I have to fry another fish.”
“You mean you have other fish to fry. I’m afraid our proverbs seem to lose something in the translation.” The Judge was quietly amused. He glanced at the young man’s empty glass and levered his fragile frame out of the easy chair. “Let me get you another. Won’t you have something a little stronger this time?”
“Later perhaps. For now, the papaya juice is very refreshing.”
He handed his tumbler to the Judge who took it, and his own which needed replenishing, to the drinks cabinet behind the young man where he threw a handful of ice cubes into his glass first, giving himself a generous measure of whisky. Then he picked up a jug of juice and started to pour for the young man. “How long have I known you now, Kim? Four years? Five? And I wish you wouldn’t call me Judge all the time.”
“Seven years, Osbert.” The same soft tone.
“Seven years. My God! Where’s the time gone? Where has it gone? We shall all be old before we know it.” He chuckled to himself in an undertone as the heavy lead crystal ashtray smashed into the back of his skull splitting it wide open, his brains ballooning out into the nape of his neck. He fell to the floor without a murmur, his lifeless eyes gazing up at the young man who stood over him.
The young man laughed, a high pitched staccato that seemed to reverberate and hang in the air. “Yes,” he said glancing thoughtfully at his watch as he turned to make his way out of the apartment, “It is late, and I have to fry another fish.”
* * *
The mid morning sunshine blazed through the large picture windows bathing the furnishings in it’s light. From the kitchen came the pop and bubble of coffee percolating, its aroma wafting into the living room occupied by the woman. In the modern apartment the only other sound was the soft hum of the air conditioning, its rhythm broken momentarily by the click of the front door as her visitor made his departure.
The woman was in her mid to late thirties, her square features could have been described as handsome rather than beautiful. Her stylish spectacles were snapped in two. One thick lens forced from its frame had rolled along the floor leaving a straight red line in its wake, before finally coming to rest standing improbably on its edge like a solitary wagon wheel. From where she lay, her arms outstretched, her legs bent slightly to one side, the woman’s unseeing focus was fixed on the chandelier.
Her suntan contrasted starkly with her white clothing, a sleeveless blouse, and pleated skirt now in disarray about her muscled thighs. On the white marble floor her hair spread around her head like a fan, a fan that seemed to move and change in shape and hue from its natural mousy colour to something glowing, something radiant, as sticky red spaghetti streaks oozed through its strands making a fluid halo that burgeoned quickly until it circumscribed her from top to toe in a giant crimson lake.
As death confirmed its hold on her and the bloom of life drained from her cheeks her expression became transformed into the smooth tranquility of a sleeping child.
From somewhere distant came the sound of something like a hysterical peal of laughter, or perhaps it was just the high pitched yapping of someone’s dog.
