David Rhodes - Finding Mr Goldman

First published in Great Britain in 2015

Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge

36 Causton Street

London SW1P 4ST

www.spckpublishing.co.uk

Copyright David Rhodes 2015

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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780281073320

eBook ISBN 9780281073337

Typeset and eBook by Graphicraft Limited, Hong Kong

To Rosie

Contents

Had he known the hour of his death, Harry Goldman might have arranged his day rather differently. He might have made one or two phone calls to say goodbye to friends. And several more to make peace with his enemies.

If it had been in his nature, he might have said a grateful farewell to Johnson, his long-suffering butler, and perhaps given a small leaving gift to each of the staff at the big house.

On such a beautiful morning, he might have taken a stroll through the gardens with their neat gravel paths that were raked each day. He might even have admired the roses, which happened to be particularly fine that year.

But he did none of those things. Instead he went to church, which was most unusual considering it was a Thursday and Goldman detested religion. It was ironic, people said later, in view of the events about to unfold.

The day began with breakfast on the terrace: black coffee served in an elegant silver pot and slices of toast. The Financial Times had been placed carefully on a side table within easy reach, together with a printout of the nights Far East trading figures.

Goldman sipped his coffee and glanced thoughtfully at the financial reports. The Hang Seng Index was higher. Commodities were doing better than expected. It was all very satisfactory.

Is he still there? he said without looking up.

Im afraid so, said Johnson with a quiet dignity, as though commenting on a matter of private grief.

Well, sort the bastard out, snapped Goldman. And do it properly this time. Its his last chance. Make sure he knows that.

Johnson bowed and withdrew silently.

Goldman brushed a crumb from his dark grey Savile Row suit and adjusted his blue silk tie, his plump fingers hesitating for a moment on the soft fabric. For some reason he never felt entirely comfortable in his expensive clothes. It was as though they belonged to someone else.

The butler walked slowly and deliberately down the long gravel drive. The morning sun was warm on his grey hair. It was going to be another hot day hot enough for a storm. Youre going to get it today, sonny boy, he muttered to himself. Youre really going to get it.

In the distance, across the lawns, he saw a security guard with a Dobermann on a leash patrolling the perimeter wall. The guard glanced towards the butler but gave no sign of greeting or recognition. The dog and its handler made Johnson uneasy.

As he neared the wrought-iron gates he took a small control pad from his pocket and pressed a button. The gates swung silently open. Stepping into the lane, Johnson confronted a tramp sitting with his back against one of the large stone gateposts. Beside him was a stick cut from a tree branch.

The tramp looked up, shading his eyes against the bright sunlight. Good morning, he said cheerily. How are you today?

The butler ignored the question. Are you going to push off? he demanded. This is your last chance.

I dont think so, said the tramp with an amiable smile.

Then youre going to get a good hiding, said Johnson irritably. He grabbed the stick and began to beat him about the head and shoulders. The tramp rolled over in the grass trying to dodge the blows.

Eventually the butler threw the stick down and stood back, wheezing from the exertion. The boss says he wants you gone, he said. And so do I. Why cant you stop this nonsense? You make the place look untidy, coming here every day like this.

Ill go, said the tramp, rubbing his head where the last blows had landed, but not until Ive seen him. Ive told you, theres something important he needs to know. The way things are going, your boss is heading for trouble.

You know nothing about his affairs, the butler said, and what he does is absolutely no concern of yours. Hell see you in hell before he lets you across his doorstep, so get that into your thick head and go away. Then we can all have some peace. He paused. Who are you, anyway?

Sheppard, said the tramp. And according to people like your boss, Im just a nobody.

Well, listen, Sheppard, heres a fiver just take it and get lost. For my sake, he added, a note of desperation in his voice.

Sorry, Johnson, but its not as straightforward as that. And your fivers not the money Im interested in. Though I do appreciate the gesture. The tramp got to his feet and picked up the stick. You can tell him Im going.

And youre not coming back?

What do you think?

I think youre a young fool. One day something serious is going to happen if you carry on making him angry like this.

Whats he going to do have me arrested?

The boss doesnt need the police. Hes got his own way of dealing with people like you. Unpleasant ways. So, unless you can run faster than a Dobermann, youd better go away and stay away.

You know, I almost think you care about me, said the tramp with a smile. Maybe youre not such a bad guy after all.

The butler glanced anxiously at the security camera on the gatepost and stepped closer to Sheppard. Listen, he said in a low voice. The boss has cameras everywhere, so I had to make it look as though I was hitting you good and hard, or Id be in trouble myself. That mans got a mean temper, believe me. Thats why Im telling you to go away. Its for your own good. How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-five? Ive got a son your age. Youve got your life in front of you. Do yourself a favour; go and get a job or something. I tell you, the boss is the wrong person to mess with.

And there was me thinking you didnt hit me so hard because youre an old man and past it, said Sheppard.

Old? snapped the butler. Come back here tomorrow and youll find out how hard I can hit. Listen, Im being serious, the boss is bad news for people like you.

Johnson, believe me, I do take it seriously but whether Ill be back tomorrow or not remains to be seen.

As he spoke, a small red car crunched softly down the drive and out into the lane. In it were two young women with heavy make-up. They were dressed as though they had been to a party. A wild party.

Looks as though your boss was having a good time last night. He certainly likes his creature comforts, said Sheppard as he glimpsed a low-cut dress and bare flesh through the open car window.

Dont even go there, muttered Johnson.

No, perhaps not, said the tramp with a grin. Anyway, you take care of yourself. He walked off down the lane, limping slightly as he went.

The butler stood watching until he was out of sight. Suddenly his phone rang.

Are you going to be all day? said a rasping voice. Get back here. I need the car.

Johnson sighed wearily. He was not sure which car Mr Goldman wanted today. Maybe the Bentley again?