GoodBye Morality
John Eidemak
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Goodbye Morality
______________________
John Eidemak
GOODBYE MORALITY
by John Eidemak
Copyright John Eidemak 2014
The right of John Eidemak to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1998.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or any similar event is purely coincidental.
By the same author:
SINCERE DECEIT
GEMMA’S GAME (To be published August 2014)
To Vibeke
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE – May The Changing Wind Be Gentle
PART TWO – Restless Ambition, Never At An End
PART THREE – Don’t Tread On Our Dreams
PART FOUR – Sea Of Trouble
PART FIVE – Peace Called Solitude
PART SIX – Fate, A Rat In The Night
PART SEVEN – Secrets Are Edged Tools
PART EIGHT – Nemesis
EPILOGUE
THE CAST, THE COMPANIES, THE INSTITUTIONS
PROLOGUE
_________________________
Palma de Mallorca, Tuesday, 8th September 1987
She did not even dare consider the consequences of not recognizing him.
It was a simple enough task, but her future and that of her husband depended on her carrying it out.
She had carefully placed the small photo into the exact middle of page 250 in her paperback copy of Anita Brookner’s ‘A Misalliance’.
She looked at it again. Taken in an anonymous suburban street, it showed a tall, slim man wearing a single‑breasted grey suit and gold‑rimmed glasses which gave him a serious air. He looked to be in his forties. She had studied every detail so often, she felt she knew him.
Now she had positioned herself so that she could see everyone coming out of the customs area into the arrival hall. On the chair to her right she had placed a light blue scarf, and her handbag was on the left‑hand chair, so that it was impossible for anyone to sit next to her and catch a glimpse of the photograph. Her reading glasses were in her handbag but she managed without them, not wanting to put them on every time she looked at the photo. She hoped that anyone noticing her would think she was waiting for someone to join her. The way she was clenching her hands was the only sign of mounting tension.
She had dressed to look presentable but anonymous; deciding, after several changes, on a white pleated skirt and sleeveless jacket. A single strand of cultured pearls with matching earrings added to the classic understated look she wanted to create. Plain white shoes emphasised her slim, tanned legs. Her long blonde hair, hanging loose, framed an oval face free from make up save for pale lipstick and mascara. Large eyes of a clear cornflower, blue, held a hint of sadness.
From the screen in front of her she learned that the flight from London was due.
Tourists began spilling through the doors. She saw from their baggage slips that they had flown in on the plane she was awaiting and concentrated intently.
After fifteen minutes she could feel sweat begin to trickle down her back. Perhaps she had missed him? He should have been through by now....
Then she saw him.
She was in no doubt. He was wearing the same grey suit as in the photograph; carried a small suitcase and a large briefcase.
She picked up the scarf and handbag when he’d passed by and walked twenty yards behind him.
Then he turned round.
It was as if he had suddenly been reminded of something. He looked towards her for a moment, then turned away and continued walking quickly towards the swing doors leading to the taxi rank. Once outside, he approached the first free cab in line.
She followed at a discreet distance. She could see the large powerful Suzuki on the other side of the road; its rider, wearing a black helmet and leathers, leaning against it. She waved the scarf discreetly after the departing taxi, then tied it round her head. The headlights on the motorbike flashed for a second in acknowledgement. When the man’s taxi left the rank, the bike followed it.
The watching women went limp with relief. She had not messed up. She, Ann Dockett, had done exactly what was expected of her. She did not have to be involved any more. That he had turned round after passing her she regarded as a coincidence, it could not possibly be related to her. She was sure she had never seen him before.
Slowly, Ann walked to the airport car park. Her hands were trembling as she unlocked her car and sat in the driving seat waiting for her heart to stop racing. Finally she wiped her hands and face with a moist tissue, turned on the ignition and drove out on the motorway towards the centre of Palma. She arrived at Cala Vinas Bay about an hour later.
* * *
Ann Dockett could still be surprised, even after four months, by her own spacious top‑ floor apartment. It had an L‑shaped living room, two bedrooms, compact kitchen, white marble bathroom. The furniture was all white too, giving an impression of light and spaciousness. From the elegant balcony stretching the length of the apartment she had a clear view of the bay and secluded beach, the open sea and, to the left, the impressive Cala Vinas Hotel.
She had made the right decision by coming to Mallorca. In a completely new environment, away from Virginia Water, she might stand a better chance of coming to terms with what had happened. Still, she felt lonely and missed having someone close to her.
Elizabeth and Andrew had visited her for one week. Her daughter and son‑in‑law were the only people she could talk to frankly, except those involved in her work. And before she’d told Elizabeth they could come and stay, Ann had asked Sam O’Sullivan if the visit was a good idea. He’d told her he would check, but that it should not create any problems.
Elizabeth had asked endless questions about her mother’s finances, how she coped with her new life, her many trips to London. But Ann had told her nothing other than that the move to Mallorca was Paul’s express wish, and she herself had no regrets about having done it. In reality she still had no clear idea why she was paid £250 a week, given the use of this apartment, a car and as many visits to Paul as she wanted, for just eight or ten days’ work a month.
Now she opened the doors to the balcony and felt damp heat flood into the air‑conditioned room. Studying the deserted bay, Ann felt sad and lonely. Looking at the scene below her she sat down, wishing Paul could be here to share it with her.
* * *
Four days later, early in the morning, the door bell rang.
‘Hello, Ann.’ Sam O’Sullivan gave her his customary twinkling smile. He was wearing his black leathers, holding the visored black helmet under his arm.
‘Everything went well Tuesday. Thanks, you’re a star.’
‘Come in, Sam. For a second I thought something was wrong. You usually phone me with instructions.’
‘I won’t stay,’ he said, bending down casually to pick up the post and the local English language newspaper. ‘But everything’s fine,’ he added as he handed her the letters. ‘You are needed to do an urgent trip to London.’ Without waiting for a reply he continued, ‘Here’s the air ticket and some money. Take this envelope to the address in London, have a day off, visit your h
usband and daughter. Come back Sunday. I understand you’re going on the yacht Monday?’
‘Yes, I’m looking forward to that. I could make us some coffee?’
‘Sorry, have to get on. Have a good weekend. I’ll see myself out.’
Ann did not notice that he had taken the local newspaper with him. In the lift he glanced at the front‑page story:
ENGLISH POLICE OFFICER DROWNED
IN SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
DID YOU SEE HIM?
Underneath, in his chain store grey suit and gold‑rimmed glasses, was a photograph of the man from the airport.
With Sam gone, Ann was left in her empty flat for the umpteenth time trying not to think how different life would be if her husband were here. At least she was going to see him tomorrow. Why didn’t she feel more pleased at the thought?
If she’d been asked not so long ago, Ann would have said her life was boringly mundane.
Then, suddenly, it was as if a trap door had fallen open beneath her feet and she was precipitated into an uncertain world, plummeting between poverty and wealth, sex and power, fear and unimaginable rewards.
* * *
Ann arrived at Ford Open Prison in a taxi.
She handed in the visiting order and went into the waiting room overlooking the road and the parking lot. It was Sunday, a few minutes to 2 o’clock. Many expensively dressed and well‑groomed women were waiting, some with children. The women’s eyes never met and they hardly talked. Ann thought what a contrast it made to the long queue outside Brixton Prison, where despite the rain and cold most of the women had worn short skirts and high‑heeled shoes and chatted endlessly among themselves as they waited to visit their men.
As soon as she entered the visiting room Paul came eagerly towards her. He had put on more weight, she noted automatically, and the silver that had discreetly peppered his hair now streaked it liberally. But the light in his grey eyes as he took in every detail of her appearance was still the same. He was pleased to see her, proud of her trim figure in the designer dress. Ann was, as ever, a credit to him.
‘Lovely to see you, darling. Come on, let’s sit over here.’
He ushered her over to a low table with four comfortable chairs set around it.
‘You look great,’ he said, eyes fixed on her face. ‘You’ve got a real tan by now. How’s everything working out? I haven’t had a letter from you in ten days. If you hadn’t come this weekend, I would have asked to phone you.
Ann gave what she hoped was a carefree laugh. ‘Everything’s fine, Paul. Honestly.’
He studied her closely. ‘If there’s anything worrying you about this situation, for God’s sake tell me,’ he murmured in a low voice, squeezing her hand painfully tight. ‘I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.’
Gently she disengaged her hand. ‘I’m fine, Paul, honestly. I just wish you were there with me – I miss you so much that sometimes it hurts.’
She meant every word. He was her husband and being separated like this was hard for her. And yet, now that they were together, it was not easy for her to keep the conversation going. They lived in such different worlds these days. Paul talked inconsequentially for a while of his job as entertainment orderly, he’d taken up cricket, had just been elected chairman of the Gavel Club where the better educated among the prisoners met every Friday evening and made ten‑minute speeches.
‘Paul,’ she suddenly interrupted him, ‘there are two men sitting behind you who keep staring at us. One was thickset and short, and his hair thinning on top. The other was tall and thin and very straight‑backed looking like an Army officer.
‘Go and get us a cup of coffee and on the way have a look at them. Maybe it’s nothing to worry about and I’m just being paranoid.’
But when the men smiled broadly at her after Paul had left, and the podgy small one man fluttered his fingers at her in oddly affected wave, she knew she was not.
‘Just two of the chaps,’ Paul said when he got back. ‘They’re no problem, honestly. Friends in fact.’ But she noted that the smile he directed at them over his shoulder was ingratiating rather than warm.
Ann drank her coffee, glad of the distraction. These days their visits always ended the same way – in exhausted silence. When Paul and she had lived together in Virginia Water there had always been so much for them to talk about: his progress at the bank, the properties she was handling in her part‑time job at a local estate agent’s, their daughter Elizabeth, improvements to the house, their flat in Spain... But those were the days when Paul was a respected bank manager of the BCCI bank’s large branch in Regent Street, close to Oxford Street, a prominent Rotarian and stalwart of the local golf club. Those were the days when he was free to go wherever he wished, not confined to living in a converted Air Force building and walking endlessly round a prison cricket green.
These days only she was free to go when the officer shouted ‘visit’s over’. They would hug and kiss, just like the forty other couples in the room, and then, wistfully, he would stand and watch her leave before making for the door at the back of the room. She always tried to go with a last smile for him over her shoulder. He needed her to stay in control, depended on her calm and strength to bolster his.
Waiting for the taxi to take her to the station, she felt confused. She knew that she had slightly over‑acted the role of dutiful wife. Oh, she still loved Paul, but since the day just a year ago when they had come to take him away, she no longer felt she knew him. It seemed to her that one day she was Mrs Ann Dockett, bank manager’s wife and pillar of the local community, and the next she was a different woman, living alone and precariously in a foreign country, not quite able to believe that the world she had once thought so predictable and safe was now barred to her forever.
PART ONE
MAY THE CHANGING WIND
BE GENTLE
CHAPTER ONE
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It was 5.30 in the morning of the 11th of October 1985 when the peace of Paul and Ann Dockett’s home in prim and proper Virginia Water was rudely shattered by the shrill ringing of the door bell, followed by a hammering on the front door, the French doors to the lounge and the kitchen simultaneously.
Ann looked at the clock in disbelief. Her first thought was that there had been an accident, possibly involving their daughter. She raced to the front door before Paul even reached the top of the stairs. A man in an impeccable Burberry raincoat pushed past her. Three others followed, one of whom flashed a warrant card and an official‑looking document.
‘I have here a warrant to search this house.’ He looked up at Paul, who had stopped halfway down the stairs. ‘Paul Dockett? I’m Detective Inspector Frank Robinson, Fraud Squad, Metropolitan Police.’
Paul’s face drained of colour. For a moment it seemed he would run back upstairs, but he obviously thought better of it and came down slowly to stand beside his wife and briefly put his arm around her.
‘Do you understand?’ The policeman sounded impatient.
‘Yes,’ Paul answered mechanically.
Seeing the woman’s bewilderment as she shivered beneath her flimsy housecoat, Inspector Robinson said more kindly, ‘Perhaps we could have a cup of tea? The search is going to take several hours, but we will go about it as considerately as possible.’
Methodically the police started to comb the living room. They delved into every drawer, dumping those contents which might possibly be of interest into clear plastic evidence bags. Paul’s briefcase was similarly emptied into a bag. Books were held upside down and shaken to see if anything fell out. Pictures were taken down, carpets rolled up and floorboards tested for hiding places. Cushions were flung from chairs which were then turned upside down and searched. When they’d finished, they started on the dining room and kitchen. By then the living room looked as if it had been vandalised.
Seeing his wife’s bewilderment turn to shock and distress at this violation of
her home, Paul felt such shame he stood rooted to the spot. When she stretched out her hand to him, instead of reassuring her, he looked grimly ahead, his own hands clenched on his sides.
The police officers had now reached the bathroom. Paul felt as if he were going to vomit.
‘Boss!’ came a voice from upstairs.
Robinson walked into the hall. ‘Found anything?’
‘Come and have a look at this...’
Inspector Robinson disappeared upstairs but swiftly returned. The apologetic expression had faded from his face as he looked at them hard.
‘I’ll have to ask you both to accompany us to Holborn police station. Your names are on a foreign joint bank account which I have reason to believe contains money fraudulently obtained from the BCCI bank in Regent Street.’
When he started to read them their rights, black spots danced at the edges of Ann’s vision.
Half an hour later she and Paul were placed in separate cars and driven to Holborn for questioning. Robinson was astute enough to recognise from the outset that Ann’s shock and confusion were genuine and swiftly released her on police bail, indicating that it was unlikely that any further action would be taken against her.
Paul answered all the questions put to him, fully and frankly. It was no surprise to him when he was the same evening formally charged with defrauding his employers of £7 million, and at a hearing later the next day in Bow Street Magistrate Court, refused bail and remanded to Brixton prison.
Ann was allowed to visit him there, and despite his own debilitating depression at the situation he found himself in, Paul’s heart twisted with self pity and remorse as he saw the timid way she came into the visiting room. She could barely raise her eyes and take in the details of the squalid visiting area. It was thick with cigarette smoke and closely packed with other prisoners on remand and their laughing, joking or sobbing visitors and the vigilant warders.
‘Just tell me one thing, Paul,’ Ann said when she had sat down opposite him at a scratched and grubby table. ‘And please respect me enough not to lie.’
‘What is it?’ He forced himself to look her straight in the eye.
‘I can only cope with this if I know the truth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Are you guilty?’
He opened his mouth, hesitated. Then he lifted his chin and said in a calm, low voice, ‘Yes, I am.’
* * *
For Paul Dockett, Nemesis arrived in the short, dapper, constantly smiling form of a man called Aaron Nicholstein. Coming into the bank, to open a deposit account, he was referred direct to the manager as the sum he wished to place with them was a substantial one.
