For The Love Of Money by Brian Doswell (best free e reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Brian Doswell
Book online «For The Love Of Money by Brian Doswell (best free e reader .TXT) đ». Author Brian Doswell
Sir William Williams, Chairman of Williams Fine Homes plc, usually called into the club on Mondays to sign off the weekendâs scorecards in his capacity of Club Captain. Most serious golfers would also say that Sir Billy, as he preferred to be called within the confines of the golf club, was also quite fond of paying his respects to the various ladies in the club bar, and what better time to do that than a Monday.
Harry had a handicap of seven which was good enough to keep him on the list for club competitions without being a threat to any of the serious scratch golfers. He had met and shaken hands with Captain, Sir Billy on many occasions but knew very well that he was never likely to get onto the great manâs list of amigos. Today, Harry had a different plan.
Harry installed himself in the club bar, two stools along from the unofficially reserved âCaptains Stoolâ. He ordered a large whisky and soda and commandeered a fresh bowl of cachou nuts. Sam, the barman, stopped to chat occasionally between pouring spritzers and fruit juices for the waitress who scuttled between lunch tables piled with lettuce leaves and rye bread crackers. Harry bided his time until Sir Billy appeared from his office and then struck up a conversation with Sam in a voice which he judged loud enough to be heard by anyone passing by.
â . . . . . . So it seems Iâm sitting on twenty-seven acres of prime building land which I didnât know were there. Well I sort of knew, but Iâd totally forgotten about. According to Three Trees, the Council are desperate to go along with this new government directive on affordable housing, so youâd better get used to seeing me in here a bit more often.â
Sam looked at Harry and Harry winked at him in what he hoped was a conspiratorial fashion. Sam continued to polish the glass in his hand with a tea towel emblazoned with the club crest.
Sir Billy ordered a gin and tonic and coughed politely. âI couldnât help over hearing about your conversation with Three Trees. Arthur Evans is an old friend of mine. If he says the Council are after your land he will be damned right.â
Harry had no idea who Arthur Evans might be, but his ploy had worked well enough. Sir Billy was undoubtedly on the hook.
âAh, good morning Captain, or is it afternoon already?â
âAfternoon, I say, never drink in the mornings, clouds the mind.â
âGood afternoon it is then.â
Sam served Sir Billyâs drink on a club coaster, taking care to ensure that the club emblem was the right way up. Sir Billy lifted his glass,
âCheers, first today.â
âAnd your good health.â Harry lifted his glass in response and waited for the next question that he knew would come sooner or later, especially as Sir Billy stayed at his side rather than drifting off towards the ladies in the restaurant area.
âWhat do you plan to do with this little treasure of yours?â
âEarly days Captain. I need some extra industrial storage units first but my architect seems to think I need gold plated palaces guessing by the price heâs quoting me. The fool thinks theyâre worth ÂŁ2.6 million.â Harry sensed that the bait had been successfully cast on the waters.
â2.6 Million, Eh! Have you spoken to my office, Iâm sure they will beat that price, gold plated or not.â Sir Billy produced a business card, âCall that number and Iâll personally see you get all the help you need.â
âYouâre very kind; I will most certainly do that very thing.â
âBetter yet, why donât I get my architect to call on you and work something out? Tomorrow morning be OK with you?â
âThat would be fine. Make it after ten would you.â
âCertainly Henry.â Sir Billy was never good at names.
âItâs Harry, Captain, Harry Joyce.â Harry deliberately fumbled for the business card that he had slipped into his pocket in anticipation.
âHarry, of course, Harry. Nice to catch up with you.â Sir Billy strode off to find a lady to smile on leaving Harry quietly chuckling into his whisky.
§§§§§
By eleven the following morning, Harry sat back in his chair, clutching his all-day tea mug with both hands like a kiddieâs comfort blanket. On his desk lay a pile of Williams Fine Homes brochures depicting everything from industrial units to five bedroom executive dwellings in âneo-everythingâ style. On top of the pile was a Williams Fine Homes quotation for four industrial units. The total price to include all planning permission and project management costs, ÂŁ1,500,000. A second sheet of paper, stapled to the quote, offered a rental agreement for 150,000 cubic yards of secure storage space in Rickmansworth at Williams Fine Homes depot, at a peppercorn rent of ÂŁ1,000 per annum until the building project was completed.
âSandra, will you call Andersons and tell that girl I want to see her on Friday, not before. Then fix a lunchtime beer with Roy Jones at Three Trees, soon as he can make it. Oh! And one other thing, call that Julian bloke with the long hair and tell him not to bother.â
Sandra smiled to herself; her sort of Harry was back in the chair. Sheâd keep the computer to herself in future.
INDIAN SUMMER
Did you know that an Indian Summer is an old American term? George Padworth held court, leaning casually on the balustrade of his terrace overlooking the broad expanse of stripped lawns behind his elaborate 1900âs, Arts and Crafts house in Sunningdale. George enjoyed entertaining and his annual end-of-season garden parties were legendary for his generous hospitality. He continued without pausing, clearly not expecting an answer to his question.
âIt comes from the same derivation as Indian Giver. You know the idea, someone who gives you a gift that they take back or use to advantage. So, there you have it; an Indian Giver is a false giver and an Indian Summer is a false summer.â
Those assembled, nodded their heads, accustomed to receiving Georgeâs titbits of information from the seemingly bottomless pit of trivia that he carried round in his head. As Chairman of Wilkinsonâs Investment Corporation, George was accustomed to those assembled hanging on his every word.
âWhere on earth do you find these things?â Lucy McAllister smiled up at George with a look that could easily, and quite correctly, have been interpreted as pandering to her husbandâs new boss. âWhy donât you show me the rest of your garden?â
The little group parted to allow George, with Lucy on his arm, to lead off towards the central stone steps leading from the terrace down onto the lawn.
âDonât get lost out there.â Andrew McAllister called after his wife, his expression deliberately intended to give her tacit approval to flatter George as much as she wished. Both Andrew and Lucy were well aware that George had rescued them after the collapse of Coulter Brothers. He turned to Sue Padworth,
âIâm sure George will bring her back safely.â
Sue had been married to George for nearly twenty-five years. They had met at university and never parted. Those who knew her well also knew that when she and George joined Wilkinsonâs as junior traders, she had been the more successful of the two. However, since having the children, she had given up city life, especially the crack-of-dawn commuting into the city, without regret. George had risen through the firm, high and fast enough to give them a comfortable life style and, in any case, Sue vastly preferred her charity work, pottering in the garden and playing golf.
Sue took a firm hold on Andrewâs arm. âYou mustnât mind George, heâs harmless really.â
âOh, I guess Iâve known him long enough to trust him, most of the time.â They both laughed in the familiar way that old friends do. Andrew and George had known each other for more than ten years and had met socially on many occasions. The difference now was that this was the first time they had worked for the same firm, Georgeâs firm.
âAndrew,â Sue drew him away from the party, âdoes Lucy play golf?â
âShe used to be quite good but she hasnât played recently. Why do you ask?â
âIâm playing in a ladies match at Northolt next week. Sunningdale will win of course, but Iâd like to take Lucy along. I want to get to know her better now that you are both on board. It would be nice to make up a Wilkinsonâs Ladies Team for next season.â
A waitress in crisp white blouse and straight black skirt, offered a tray of bubbling champagne glasses and Andrew swapped both his and Sueâs for full ones.
âIâm sure that Lucy would be up for it if she can find time for the lessons. Iâll ask her to call you about Northolt and perhaps you could talk her into the team idea for next year.â
Sue lifted her face towards Andrew and placed a kiss on his cheek. âDo what you can Andrew, I have a feeling we will be seeing more of each other in the near future.â
Before he could reply, she turned and walked towards the nearest group of guests, bursting in on their conversation with the easy, confident manner of an accomplished hostess.
Andrew lifted a finger to the moist spot his cheek where Sueâs lips had been. It was common enough among his friends for women to kiss each other on the cheek. Normally he would not have given it another thought, except this kiss rested a little too long and pressed a little too hard. He would have thought nothing of an âair kissâ but this was somehow different. His eyes followed the slim curves of Sueâs back as she walked away from him. She could be five or ten years older than him, of course, she would be Georgeâs age, but she was a good looking lady and her kiss had flattered his ego.
He drained his glass and stole a replacement from the waitress before wandering down onto the lawn where a group of familiar faces were attempting to play croquet. Andrew stopped next to a young woman dressed in a flowery print dress with a neckline that plunged much further than it should have.
âYouâre Chrissie arenât you? Iâm Andrew McAllister.â He held out his hand to her. âIâve seen you in the office but weâve not met.â
âObviously, but Iâve heard all about you.â
âYouâre in Futures arenât you? George told me that you pulled off a bit of a coup on the oil prices last month. Youâre his rising star, you know.â
Chrissie realised that he was not going to go away. âOh, I thought that was you. Rising star I mean. No one even knew we needed a Head of European Desk until you arrived. However, welcome to Wilkinsonâs and a quick tip for you, George does not like shop talk at home.â
âOops, sorry Chrissie. Is it OK to call you Chrissie? I donât know any other name.â Andrew chose not to inform Chrissie that he and George went back a few years. He was more interested in how the firm had viewed his sudden appointment.
âChrissie is fine. Thatâs my husband James, playing the yellow ball.â Chrissie pointed to a tall suntanned man wielding his mallet like a woodmanâs axe.
âSo what else should I know about George?â Andrew tried a leading question while trying desperately not to drool into her cleavage.
Chrissie sensed that she might have overstepped the mark as it dawned on her that she was about to dish the
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