The external features of the Reeton Gentlemen’s Club, located in a popular area of London, belies the opulence within. The facade, built of Portland stone in the 1800’s, is functional rather than fashionable. Visitors reach the entrance by a flight of stairs and having negotiated the porter’s office a further flight of stairs gives access to the central atrium naturally lit by a glass roof. This was Philip Granger’s second visit to the club. Having suffered the embarrassment of a porter loaning him a tie on his first visit, he ensured he was suitably dressed in a jacket, a shirt with a buttoned collar and tie, for his appointment with Sir Richard Smythe. It would be another year before the club would admit women members; Granger speculated how many years it would be before the club rules were changed and men could undo the button on their collars.
The porter said Sir Richard was in the smoking room located at the top of another flight of stairs from the atrium. Philip Granger pondered how many smoking members of the club had actually expired before reaching the room as he paused to catch his breath before entering.
Sir Richard was the only one in the room. He was sitting in a wing-backed chair, a small table at his side on which was two glasses and a decanter of golden liquid.
“Help yourself to a drink,” Sir Richard gestured towards the glasses, “how is our little venture progressing?”
For Granger it was anything but a little venture, he stood to make a lot of money. There were risks, he knew that, “no gain without pain”, he told himself, but why was Sir Richard prepared to take those risks if he regarded it as a “little venture”. He stood to lose not only his position in the government, his reputation, but also possible imprisonment. When he had raised these possibilities to Sir Richard he had only replied, “don’t worry, the government decides what’s right and wrong, and I am the government.” “The arrogance of the man”, Granger had thought and this overconfidence made him nervous, more nervous than he was already.
Sir Richard told him not to bring any business papers, not only were they not allowed in certain areas of the club, he insisted they document as little as possible, “we don’t want any paper trail coming back to us.” It was apparent to Granger that if things were to go wrong he would be on his own, no help from Sir Richard’s quarter, and wondered if the lack of documentation was part of Sir Richard’s contingency plans to implicate him should it be necessary.
The latest government initiative was the “Right to Buy” a scheme where council tenants had the option to purchase the council houses in which they lived. Some saw it as a boost to home ownership, whilst others regarded it another attack by Prime Minister Thatcher on the social fabric of Britain. The spotlight now would be on continuing to provide low cost housing and Sir Richard had felt the timing was right for their “little venture”.
“How is Waterson coming on?” Sir Richard enquired, “Is he still onboard?”
Granger reminded him that the initial idea and approach had come from A.J. Waterson and he was as committed as ever to their “little venture”.
“I was concerned he might become aware that things have moved in, what shall we say, a certain way, a way he might not entirely agree with,” Sir Richard continued. “We need to remind him there is no turning back now, we have come too far. What do we really know about the man? I seem to recall some bad press some years ago about his dealings with a local authority?”
“I’m sure that’s behind him,” Granger replied, trying to reassure Sir Richard, “I only hear good things these days.”
“Still no harm in checking him out, be on the safe side. Why don’t you have some people dig around a bit, see if there any skeletons in his cupboard that might come out and bite us?”
Granger had this strange image of a skeleton chasing and biting him, but recovered to reply, “I’m already ahead of you on that one. I spoke to a detective agency I use from time to time. Strange thing was they already knew of Waterson, apparently he is one of their clients, used them for years. He’s been keeping tabs on someone.”
“What, his wife cheating on him, that sort of thing?”
“No he’s been divorced for years. They’ve been keeping tabs on a man, don’t know too much about it, the agency wouldn’t say, client confidentiality.”
“Confidential my arse,” Sir Richard blurted becoming agitated, “you find out who this other man is. I don’t like the smell of this, this mystery man could be a danger to us. Find him and eliminate the danger.”
“What, you mean?”
“No of course not, we’re not the bloody mafia. Buy him off, or get him involved in some way so if he makes trouble he’ll be in trouble himself.”
Granger took a sip of his drink. A brandy, a very good brandy, “how much is this a bottle?” he thought looking around the room. Sir Richard’s cigar smoke, the brandy and the increasingly tense conversation made him feel light headed. He wanted to open a window for some fresh air and undo his tie, both of which he felt would land him in the tower, never to be seen again.
“How long do we have?” he asked Sir Richard.
“It’s only a matter of weeks. We need to get the money out of Waterson. It’s not enough obviously, but it will oil a few wheels, pay off a few people. We cannot be seen to be using our money; we need him as the frontman. The issue is, the finance, there are tax benefits. We cannot have the government, or anyone associated with the government, involved in a scheme that avoids tax. It would be political suicide.”
Sir Richard drained his glass and rose from his chair, “I’m meeting someone in the bar, I’ll walk with you down the stairs.”
“What’s in it for Waterson?” Granger asked as they were about to part.
“Not exactly sure,” Sir Richard puzzled, “he’s on the make somehow, mark my words.”
The porter said Sir Richard was in the smoking room located at the top of another flight of stairs from the atrium. Philip Granger pondered how many smoking members of the club had actually expired before reaching the room as he paused to catch his breath before entering.
Sir Richard was the only one in the room. He was sitting in a wing-backed chair, a small table at his side on which was two glasses and a decanter of golden liquid.
“Help yourself to a drink,” Sir Richard gestured towards the glasses, “how is our little venture progressing?”
For Granger it was anything but a little venture, he stood to make a lot of money. There were risks, he knew that, “no gain without pain”, he told himself, but why was Sir Richard prepared to take those risks if he regarded it as a “little venture”. He stood to lose not only his position in the government, his reputation, but also possible imprisonment. When he had raised these possibilities to Sir Richard he had only replied, “don’t worry, the government decides what’s right and wrong, and I am the government.” “The arrogance of the man”, Granger had thought and this overconfidence made him nervous, more nervous than he was already.
Sir Richard told him not to bring any business papers, not only were they not allowed in certain areas of the club, he insisted they document as little as possible, “we don’t want any paper trail coming back to us.” It was apparent to Granger that if things were to go wrong he would be on his own, no help from Sir Richard’s quarter, and wondered if the lack of documentation was part of Sir Richard’s contingency plans to implicate him should it be necessary.
The latest government initiative was the “Right to Buy” a scheme where council tenants had the option to purchase the council houses in which they lived. Some saw it as a boost to home ownership, whilst others regarded it another attack by Prime Minister Thatcher on the social fabric of Britain. The spotlight now would be on continuing to provide low cost housing and Sir Richard had felt the timing was right for their “little venture”.
“How is Waterson coming on?” Sir Richard enquired, “Is he still onboard?”
Granger reminded him that the initial idea and approach had come from A.J. Waterson and he was as committed as ever to their “little venture”.
“I was concerned he might become aware that things have moved in, what shall we say, a certain way, a way he might not entirely agree with,” Sir Richard continued. “We need to remind him there is no turning back now, we have come too far. What do we really know about the man? I seem to recall some bad press some years ago about his dealings with a local authority?”
“I’m sure that’s behind him,” Granger replied, trying to reassure Sir Richard, “I only hear good things these days.”
“Still no harm in checking him out, be on the safe side. Why don’t you have some people dig around a bit, see if there any skeletons in his cupboard that might come out and bite us?”
Granger had this strange image of a skeleton chasing and biting him, but recovered to reply, “I’m already ahead of you on that one. I spoke to a detective agency I use from time to time. Strange thing was they already knew of Waterson, apparently he is one of their clients, used them for years. He’s been keeping tabs on someone.”
“What, his wife cheating on him, that sort of thing?”
“No he’s been divorced for years. They’ve been keeping tabs on a man, don’t know too much about it, the agency wouldn’t say, client confidentiality.”
“Confidential my arse,” Sir Richard blurted becoming agitated, “you find out who this other man is. I don’t like the smell of this, this mystery man could be a danger to us. Find him and eliminate the danger.”
“What, you mean?”
“No of course not, we’re not the bloody mafia. Buy him off, or get him involved in some way so if he makes trouble he’ll be in trouble himself.”
Granger took a sip of his drink. A brandy, a very good brandy, “how much is this a bottle?” he thought looking around the room. Sir Richard’s cigar smoke, the brandy and the increasingly tense conversation made him feel light headed. He wanted to open a window for some fresh air and undo his tie, both of which he felt would land him in the tower, never to be seen again.
“How long do we have?” he asked Sir Richard.
“It’s only a matter of weeks. We need to get the money out of Waterson. It’s not enough obviously, but it will oil a few wheels, pay off a few people. We cannot be seen to be using our money; we need him as the frontman. The issue is, the finance, there are tax benefits. We cannot have the government, or anyone associated with the government, involved in a scheme that avoids tax. It would be political suicide.”
Sir Richard drained his glass and rose from his chair, “I’m meeting someone in the bar, I’ll walk with you down the stairs.”
“What’s in it for Waterson?” Granger asked as they were about to part.
“Not exactly sure,” Sir Richard puzzled, “he’s on the make somehow, mark my words.”