Chapter 1 - Once Upon a Time in the Midlands
The monochrome winter sky cast a silvery hue over the urban landscape energised by digital advertising streaming from towering billboards. A canary yellow double-decker bus pulled into the terminal and disgorged its passengers with a pneumatic hiss. Marcus stepped onto the platform and popped open his umbrella to the pitter-patter of light rain. Sporadic sluicing of car tyres on wet streets sprayed muddy puddles onto glistening pavements; the acrid city air intensified its malodorous pith on the iron footbridge spanning a congested dual carriageway; Marcus dropped down the far side onto waste ground leading into a trading estate daubed with graffiti street art. Inside the wooden cabin on a garage forecourt, Robert sat behind a desk in front of an open key cabinet.
‘Morning Robert,’ said Marcus. ‘Did she pass the MOT?’
‘On this occasion your Skoda scraped through the test,’ he said. ‘She’ll soldier on for another year, possibly two, providing you take it steady.’
‘I’m not doing a great deal of mileage these days,’ said Marcus.
‘How’s the hotel business?’ asked Robert.
‘Flat out, working day and night; all three function rooms are fully booked; I’ve a 14 hour shift ahead of me before I get home this evening.’
The traffic was nose to tail like a shimmering snake all the way from Birmingham to the market town of Great Chagford. Marcus parked in his reserved spot at the rear of the Kings Head hotel whose Tudor style frontage stood centre stage on the high street. The pint-sized pompous hotel manager, Bill Jobson, stood in the entrance with legs apart, arms folded and a red face contorted with rage.
‘Where the hell have you been Marcus?’ he yelled, beads of sweat rolling down his bald head. ‘It’s after 8 a.m. and the cleaning crew have no idea which function room to prepare. Get your bloody act together,’ he said and stormed off into the back office.
‘One of these days,’ thought Marcus. ‘One of these days…’
‘The assistant manager has the worst job in the whole wide world,’ said Molly brandishing a mop. ‘You’re either having your arsed kicked from the powers above or the lackey’s below are nagging you. I told the nasty little man we’ll clean the upstairs first but he insisted on the instruction coming from you.’
‘Thanks Molly, you’re right as always. What would I do without your support. Did the red carpet arrive for the ballroom?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’ll call the supplier and chase the delivery.’
In the lobby, the clock was striking 11 p.m. when Marcus left the office and drove home to the New Meadows housing estate, his terraced house amidst hundreds of identical homes which formed the sprawling residential development. He prepared a tuna sandwich, poured a glass of red wine and sat in front of the television. Soon after, his wife Suzy appeared in the hallway.
‘You’re late back,’ he said. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Please don’t give me any grief,’ she replied. ‘We’d an after-work training session from the dispensing optician on how to operate the new appointment system. So boring.’
She poured filtered water into a tumbler. ‘All of us went to the Black Bull afterwards.’
‘Who gave you a lift home?’
‘Why do you want to know? … Eh! We’ve been joined at the hip for 10 years and now you’ve turned into a snooty busybody.’
‘Only making conversation, my darling.’
‘Well don’t! And for God’s sake change the sheets on your bed, there’s a rancid stench throughout the house.’
‘It’ll have to be in a week or two when I get a day off. In the meantime I can always sleep with you in the master bedroom, it’s been years since we had a cuddle.’
‘I don’t share a bed because of my hot flushes, and the change of life extinguished all interest in sex. You should remember that by now you complete cretin.’
‘How could I forget?’
‘I’m away to bed,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’
Marcus topped up the wine glass and watched a programme about the re-introduction of sea eagles into Scotland. He fell asleep on the sofa and dreamt of flying high in the sky like a bird, peering down at the green valleys of the Highlands, and out over the rolling white tops of the Atlantic Ocean. Soaring on the thermals with a freedom of the skies; diving straight as an arrow into the deep blue sea for a tasty herring. When he came to at three in the morning, the thought of being a sea eagle in his next life had lifted his spirits. He performed his ablutions, smeared lavender oil on his wrists and sprinkled a few drops onto the pillows of his bed. The alarm woke him from a deep sleep at 7 a.m. He crept downstairs, quietly closed the front door to avoid waking Suzy and arrived at the hotel within the hour. He sat at his desk facing a brick wall and clutching a mug of black coffee while checking his post. Mortgage interest rates had increased several percentage points along with the car loan repayments. There was a reminder from the dentist and the monthly credit card bill was higher than normal.
Bill Jobson thundered into the office. ‘Morning Marcus,’ he said and paused. ‘Do you know something, you remind me of a vagrant. Your white shirt is grey, your suit is all crinkled up and you look like you’ve been up all night.’
‘I’m averaging 12 to 14 hours a day with no free time for what must be 16 weeks now,’ pleaded Marcus.
‘Don’t whinge at me you useless so-and-so, you’re paid to do a job,’ he said and spluttered, raining spittle onto the desk. ‘Instead you’re a ne’er-do-well moping around with no purpose.’
Bill Jobson kicked the door shut on his way out. Marcus put his head in his hands as the sliver of optimism, triggered by the sea eagle documentary, evaporated from his soul. He felt as if his mind and body were trapped in an underground lair being whipped by evil rats, forced to claw at the soil, until all traces of energy were exhausted. He wanted to curl up and die. Nothing mattered anymore. His coffee was cold. In two more weeks he would be 40 years old. In the bathroom he threw cold water on his face and peered into the mirror. Unhappiness, grey pallor, loose jowls and sad, vacant red eyes glared back at him … his inner self sinking and drowning, deeper and deeper into a perpetual pit of misery. His mobile buzzed and, ‘Dad’, appeared on the screen.
‘Are you still in the mundane job, Marcus? You should have found a proper career. Have you heard the good news about your brother?’
‘No, I’m too busy, what happened?’
‘Ned has been appointed Senior Sales Manager covering all three showrooms. There’s Jaguar and Mercedes to add to his Alfa Romeo outlet. Your mother would have been very proud of him. Are you coming to the celebration?’
‘I don’t have much free time at the moment to drive to the south coast. Maybe in a few more weeks.’
‘I suppose you’ve dirty sheets to wash and carpets to hoover. What a tedious life you lead. In fact you’re nothing but a glorified cleaner.’
‘At one time, I enjoyed being an hotelier.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘You should have had children, it might have spurred you on to be more ambitious like your brother. I’m taking care of the grandkids tonight when Ned and Kirsty go to a restaurant for their anniversary. Kirsty reckons you’re the poor relation in the family.’
‘Let me know the date and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Don’t bother. We’ll hire someone else to wait on us!’
The phone went dead.
‘Marcus,’ shouted Molly from down the corridor, ‘Mr Liam Ford is in reception.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The guy from the golf club to arrange their AGM in the Brown Trout or Salmon Suite depending on the head count, he’s wearing a pink V-necked Lacoste sweater.’
Marcus hurried along the corridor. ‘Pleased to meet you Mr Ford, I’m Marcus Morgan dealing with your social event. Take a seat while I make some notes.’
‘Are you a golfing man, Morgan?’
‘My passions are walking, following the stock market and bird watching.’
‘What kind of birds are you referring to?’ he said and sniggered, holding two cupped hands outright and squeezing invisible orbs. ‘Great tits.’
‘Currently it’s sea eagles,’ said Marcus smiling sardonically.
‘Takes all sorts.’ He grimaced and sighed. ‘Right Morgan, we require the following…’
At dusk, the lights in the optician’s window shed a warm glow onto the high street.
‘I’ll do the locking up so you can go home,’ Suzy said to the staff.
Like magic, Matt the ophthalmologist appeared from a consultation room. ‘Time for me to inspect your eyes,’ he said through a wide smile.
Suzy bolted the door, pulled down the blinds and spun round into his arms. Her hand caressed his bulge and a salvo of exploding passion grenades shuddered through her body, their hungry kiss interrupted by the ringing of a mobile phone.
‘I’ll have to take this,’ he gasped.
She dropped to her knees, held his thighs and ran her tongue along the outline of his erection.
At 11.30 p.m. while driving home, Marcus noticed Suzy’s sister, Lily, waiting by the bus stop and pulled alongside to offer her a lift.
‘How’s you, Marcus?’ she muttered, struggling to manoeuvre her spherical body into the contours of the seat; a bouquet of beer, stale sweat like rotten eggs, cigarette smoke and animal fat permeated the car. ‘Here’s a chip, lad,’ she said dangling a soggy fry next to his mouth.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve just finished your shift at the Blue Bell?’
‘Aye. And had a fiver deducted from me wages to cover the cost of a forged note, the bastards. I’m positive it was one of them lads over there next to the hairdressers. Pull up! Are you deaf or what, I told you to fucking stop!’
She lowered the window and bellowed at the group of teenagers. ‘You fucking wankers! I’m going to set my Bob onto yos, he’ll break yer fuckin backs.’
A pebble bounced off the bonnet with a metallic clank.
‘They’re throwing stones at us,’ screamed Marcus, accelerating away from the scene.
‘Bob will fix them cunts once and for all wiv a right good kicking,’ growled Lily.
Outside the block of flats, she puffed and panted in her endeavours to exit the car leaving golden crumbs of batter and greasy chips ground into the upholstery.
‘It’s a canny big dent in yer bonnet,’ she said. ‘If you were a real man like wor Bob you’d have squared up to those kids and gave them a fucking hiding.’
She slammed the door shut and waddled into the darkness. Marcus arrived home and assumed Suzy to be asleep as the lights were out. He tiptoed through the house and made a cheese sandwich with stale bread, scraping away the blue mould, and watched a catch-up programme about pink flamingos in the Camargue. The notion of a monogamous pair of flamingos spending a lifetime together in a colony of 40,000 was both astonishing and enchanting. In bed, he immediately fell asleep and dreamt of walking in flippers through an expanse of marshland accompanied by an elegant flock of pink flamingos. He heard a door close followed by rapid footsteps, maybe it was part of his dream.
At 7.30 a.m. Marcus was examining the blistering paintwork surrounding the dent on the Skoda as Bill Jobson shot into his car parking slot.
‘Liam Ford reckons I should sack my goofy assistant manager and hire a gorgeous bird. He suspects it would be good for business.’
‘I presume you’re not referring to our feathered friends,’ queried Marcus.
‘Supercilious moron,’ muttered Bill Jobson striding into the hotel.
Christine from administration quietly opened the office door and asked Marcus to collect the cash float from the bank.
‘You’ll need to have Bill Jobson sign the cheque,’ said Marcus. ‘Tread carefully though, he’s in a foul mood.’
‘It’s already signed and you’ve plenty of time before the bar opens,’ she said. ‘Hey, look busy, Jobson’s heading in our direction.’
‘I’ve a message from the boss,’ said Bill Jobson, ‘to discuss the post of assistant manager. Let’s hope you’re getting the boot.’ He gave a short derisive laugh and disappeared into the Salmon Suite.
‘I wonder what’s on the agenda with the owner,’ queried Christine.
‘No idea and don’t care.’
‘Why’s Jobson so horrible to everyone?’
‘Maybe his wife has something to do with the bad temper.’
‘I’ve met her once, and it was more than enough, she came across as loud, course and controlling.’
‘Rumour has it she beats him up, so perhaps he takes his frustration out on us,’ said Christine.
‘They deserve each other,’ said Marcus. ‘If it wasn’t for you and Molly, I’d tie Jobson to a wooden post in the market place and tar and feather him, then buy a one-way ticket to Australia.’
‘Or clamp his arms in medieval stocks and throw rotten fruit at his head,’ Christine said and laughed.
Marcus stood in the queue at the bank and noticed Evelyn as the teller – the sweet girl from his estate with red hair and a freckled face of innocence.
‘I’ll put the coinage to one side for you to collect later,’ said Evelyn. ‘The manager, Mr Henderson, wants a word.’
‘What for?’ asked Marcus.
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Maybe he’s going to discuss the hotel’s annual facility.’
‘That’s the domain of Bill Jobson, not mine.’
The bank manager came out of a smoked glass door. ‘Come this way Mr Morgan,’ he said. ‘It’s of a private nature so we’ll use my office.’
‘May I ask why you wish to talk to me?’
‘Take a seat and I’ll explain,’ he said gesturing with his hand. ‘Coming straight to the point, some bigwig from the City of London wants you to attend a meeting.’
‘Must be a request for Bill Jobson who runs the hotel, I’m only the assistant manager.’
‘Nothing to do with the hotel or its manager, it’s to do with you, Marcus Morgan. Now, the instruction comes from high above and I believe it to be of a serious nature as the NCA are involved. I’ve no idea what it’s regarding but you’re booked in for 11 a.m. tomorrow and obliged to sign the NDA today.’
‘I’m confused,’ said Marcus. ‘What are those letters referring to?’
‘NCA is the National Crime Agency and NDA is a non-disclosure agreement.’
‘There must be some mistake,’ queried Marcus.
‘Afraid not, sign here and there. Bill Jobson has instruction from the hotel owner, Ralph McNara, to release you for the day. Ralph and I believe it’s a case of mistaken identity but remember, and don’t forget, the NDA means you cannot discuss this conversation or the details of your appointment with anyone, including me and Bill. The official version is you’re going on a training day.
Marcus made his way down the High Street to the hotel and dumped the heavy bags of coins onto Christine’s desk.
‘What took you so long?’
‘There was a queue.’
‘Bill left a message to say he’ll cover for you while you’re attending the training day.’
Marcus found it strange to arrive home in daylight.
‘You’re back early,’ said Suzy.
‘I’m going on a training course in London tomorrow, so having an early night.’
‘Strangely enough I also have an administration tutorial over the weekend until Monday evening.’
‘I’m exhausted with work, work and more work.’
‘Me too.’
‘It’s been a miserable week, give me a hug.’
‘Urgh! Don’t be sloppy … I reckon we’ve run out of steam.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well there’s nothing left between us really, the sparkle in our marriage has fizzled out. You’ve a depressing life and it seems I’m miserable most of the time. Maybe we should have a trial separation,’ she said before running up the stairs.
‘We can barely afford to stay together,’ he shouted to an empty landing.
‘She’s been distant for some time,’ contemplated Marcus as he opened a tin of sausage and beans and poured the contents into a pan. He felt uneasy and troubled while reflecting on his relationship with Suzy.
‘I remember a similar situation in the past when she had affairs with an estate agent and then the accountant. Maybe this time, it’s the beginning of the end.’
His posture became lifeless and he slumped onto the couch with an empty anxious nausea that pitted his stomach and overwhelmed his feelings, making him retch.
‘I should never have tied the knot when she was unfaithful the first time and promised it wouldn’t happen again. Five years since we made love. Am I fooling myself in this sham marriage and so-called career in hospitality, my entire life is going nowhere.’
Marcus pondered as to how many fragments there were in a broken heart, and after each sentiment was ruthlessly discarded, were these emotions depleted one-by-one until nothing remained. Like a lost soul wandering across a desert without water or any means of transport; withering in the sunlight; drying into dust. He numbly watched a documentary on the geographic channel of the black eagle in Namibia and continued to deliberate.
‘I could leave Great Chagford and work on a cruise ship for five years, or in a hotel in Saudi Arabia, and save enough money to buy a bed-and-breakfast in Cornwall.’
Despair subdued his dream of escape and anxiety peppered his skin with goose pimples.
‘How would I find the time for interviews. We’re in debt and the house is worth less than the mortgage.’
A text pinged onto his smartphone: ‘Sat. 4th March – golfing AGM in the Brown Trout Suite. Don’t forget the red carpet, Morgan,’ Liam Ford.
‘That’s my 40th birthday celebration organised, a servant to the obnoxious golfers in Lacoste sweaters.’
Marcus’ demeanour became engulfed in hopelessness. He turned off his mobile and tuned into a wildlife programme of sanderlings comically scampering along the beach; gannets, the mightiest of seabirds, plunging at terrific speed into the blue ocean; graceful oyster catchers wading amongst the rocks as arctic terns swooped to and fro, piercing the air with their high-pitched screams.
At midnight while Marcus shaved, his expression in the bathroom mirror highlighted the emptiness inside and told the story of a little boy lost. However, his inner strength came from knowing that one day, given the chance to change his life, the creative spirit deep within would flourish and he could achieve greater things. He did not pine for riches, simply happiness, with an aspiration of running a guesthouse in a village close to the sea.
The early morning train to London was almost empty and Marcus experienced a small degree of rejuvenation in his mood when the whistle blew. It shunted out of Birmingham New Street, the familiar staccato percussion of metal against metal, as the carriages rumbled their way south to London Marylebone. Marcus decided the unexpected day off was there to enjoy and the meeting would be an unequivocal case of mistaken identity. He walked through Marylebone station and down the steps into the underground tube network where he took the Piccadilly line to Holborn and arrived at the venue with an hour to spare. He sauntered round the pristine streets of the City taking in the atmosphere and went for coffee in a Prèt a Manger café on High Holborn. Young men in sassy suits and professional girls in stylish office wear, ate avocados on organic rye with lattés to go. Flocks of pigeons strutted, bobbed and pecked outside the café while hoovering up the breadcrumbs on the pavement. Marcus laughed to himself as to how silly the whole debacle had come about and after a brief discussion he would visit Covent Garden and have a glass of wine before catching the train home.
The high-rise offices on Gray’s Inn Road were built of stainless steel and the outside lift streaked up the exterior of the building to the 27th floor. Marcus could hear his shoes clip-clop on the marble floor and echo around the vast glass atrium. He nervously approached the reception desk and handed the girl a letter which confirmed his appointment.
‘Please take a seat Mr Morgan,’ she said, pointing to an area of classic leather sofas and aluminium coffee tables.
An elegant woman in a dark business suit and white blouse appeared in front of him. ‘Mr Morgan,’ she said lowering her red-framed spectacles. ‘Thank you for attending, my name’s Amelia Ferguson, please follow me to the interview room.’
‘This is a total mystery, who am I seeing today?’
‘The first session is with the FCA followed by the SFO. Tomorrow you’ll meet the NCA.’
‘Forgive my ignorance but I’ve no idea what these acronyms denote?’
‘FCA is the Financial Conduct Authority, SFO is the Serious Fraud Office and the NCA is the National Crime Agency.’
‘It’s certain to be a case of mistaken identity and take no longer than a few minutes. I’m booked on a train to Birmingham later this evening…’
‘The finance team will decide if it’s mistaken identity,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s a serious matter Mr Morgan and we’ve allocated several days to process this stage of the inquiry, please follow me.’
She tapped a code into the keypad and the metal door silently slid open. Two security men stepped forward and led Marcus into a windowless room where they meticulously searched his person.
‘He’s clean,’ said the older man looking up to a surveillance monitor.
Amelia Ferguson returned and shepherded Marcus down a dark corridor into a boardroom whose floor-to-ceiling windows had panoramic views of the City. A thin man in a blue suit entered, whose intense green eyes exuded an air of menace and his chunky Rolex glittered gold.
‘I’m Trevor Hills, the link man for the joint investigation through the FCA and the SFO. I want you to relax and listen to what I have to say, but first we must go through security.’
Amelia spread a sheaf of papers in front of Marcus.
‘Thanks Trevor but I promise it won’t take long, your organisation has confused me with some other Marcus Morgan.’
‘We’ll see … You were born on 11th February 1976. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your father and now deceased mother are Jim and Moira Morgan of 14 Rosetree Gardens, Solihull, Birmingham. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have one brother, Edward Morgan, born on 4th May 1980. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You and your sibling went to Alderbrook School and later to Solihull Catering College. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘At college, you received a grant of £9,000 for your education of which you still owe £6,700. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a current account with the HSBC bank, number 62055942 and sort code 20-07-71, dating from your student day’s?’
‘Yes but I closed the account when I left college in or around the year 1996.’
‘The account remains active with a credit of £5.75.’
‘Really. May I have the £5.75 before you shut it down?’
‘Are you taking the piss, Mr Morgan?’
‘Of course not! Can you please tell me what the hell’s going on?’
‘Perhaps you will explain why your account is being used for money laundering purposes,’ said Trevor Hills pushing the open passbook across the table.
‘Is this a joke, I’ve never seen such a colossal figure in all my life.’
‘Your balance of £5.75 in 1996 has suddenly become £3,700,005.75 in 2016. Perhaps you’re able to shed some light on your lottery win Mr Morgan. We’ve established the audit trail of five million dollars came from the USA via Mexico. Perhaps you’d prefer if we speak en Español?’
Marcus began to shake uncontrollably as waves of panic raged through his mind, making his body shiver under layers of cold sweat.
‘I’ve not handled the account since my student days,’ cried Marcus, ‘and I’ve only been to Spain once, on our honeymoon to Nerja. I’m an assistant manager in a small hotel and drive an old car. I’ve got debt and struggle to live within my means. Please believe me, I’m not a money launderer.’
Two athletic men in matching grey suits entered the room. Trevor Hills introduced them as SFO operatives, Mark Randle, sporting bloodshot eyes sunk into a pitted face, and Jake Mahoney with a roguish look whose angry stare resembled slivers of amber ice. Silence pervaded while Amelia placed a pot of coffee in the centre of the table.
‘Calm down Marcus,’ said Trevor smiling. ‘It was imperative to gauge your reaction and it’s obvious to the British authorities that you’re innocent.’
‘Would you like some coffee?’ asked Amelia in a soothing tone.
‘Thank you,’ said Marcus, his hands trembling as the warm cup touched his lips. ‘How could a massive sum of money find its way into my old account, are you sure it’s genuine?’
‘The money most certainly exists,’ said Mark Randle.
‘We understand the cash was wired to your account in error by a Mexican drug cartel,’ said Jake Mahoney. ‘The Americans believe it forms part of a multiple-tranche of low-value transactions totalling 100 million dollars destined for the U.S. construction industry; part of a widespread laundering scheme of cartel funds under the control of the Mafia.’
‘A sum of five million dollars is peanuts in the world of narcotics,’ said Mark Randle. ‘It’s not uncommon for their accountants to budget millions lost from cash eaten by rats, so it’s no wonder they’re not in a hurry to reclaim it. To make matters worse, several gangland executions, including a crooked U.S. banking official linked to these proceedings, have stalled the investigation.’
‘We assume it won’t take long for the cartel to regroup and install a new financial team after which they’ll recall the funds,’ said Jake Mahoney.
‘And we’ll be in a position to follow the audit trail,’ said Trevor.
‘In the meantime, Amelia will update Interpol, the FBI, and the IRS in the U.S. as to your position,’ said Mark.
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ asked Marcus.
‘Tomorrow we’ll talk you through our plans for Marcus Morgan and your student bank account,’ said Trevor.
‘I’m expected back in Birmingham today.’
‘We’ve informed your employer that the training seminar covers a weekend,’ said Trevor. ‘You’re booked into the Kensington Club for two nights.’
‘Am I safe?’ asked Marcus.
‘Not until your profile is regenerated. For the moment, Amelia and security will stay with you 24/7,’ said Trevor. ‘In the intervening period, we’ll confiscate your mobile and ask you not to make contact with anyone.’
