Sharknose: Lena's Friends, #5

By Chris Graham

There is nothing unusual about finding a dead body in a crashed aircraft – unless it turns out that the body was already dead when the aircraft even took off.

 

That is just one of the mysteries that must be solved by Lena and her friends. There are strange goings on at a West Country hotel involving beautiful women, illicit sex, shady business dealings, classic cars, light aircraft … and that dead body.

 

Book 5 of the "Lena's Friends" series  takes us into the murky world of rare car parts, the people who deal in them and what the extremes they are prepared to go to in order to get their hands on them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Cubitt
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224812868

Book preview

Other Titles by Chris Graham

The Lena’s Friends Series

Transactions (Lena’s Friends Book 1)

Souvenirs (Lena’s Friends Book 2)

Coincidences (Lena’s Friends Book 3)

Retributions (Lena’s Friends Book 4)

Poetry

A Walk On The Mild Side

1- Business and Pleasure

Bristol Airport - England.

"Sex, the young man thought to himself as he saw her, Pure unadulterated sex. He watched her for a moment, No... there was something else there too... Class... Yes, that’s what it was... She was classy... very classy." The woman in green may have been older than him by a few years, but it was undeniable.

The returning student managed to drag his eyes away, muttering under his breath, as he bent to pick up his rucksack.

Yeah... I would... like... I definitely would. He smiled to himself as he stood back up, then after a nod from the man on the desk, he put his passport away and walked out of the baggage hall to where he could see his own teenage girlfriend waiting for him, waving her hand excitedly. He’d better get a move on.

He knew that her father would be waiting in the car and he always complained that they charged him a quid to even pull into the pick-up and drop off area, here at the terminal. It used to be free for the first twenty minutes.

He kissed the girl, her soft young body against his felt good, as they embraced briefly before walking towards the exit. The woman passenger at arrivals had been banished to the deeper reaches of his fertile young imagination.

Lena Fox reached forward, her beautifully cut emerald green dress showing her exquisite figure to its best advantage without riding up, stretching its seams, or forming unattractive crease lines across its soft silk material. The ability to raise a man’s blood pressure without being blatant about it came completely naturally to her. This striking looking redhead, who was in fact in her early thirties but could easily pass as younger, was certainly able to turn heads as she bent over to retrieve her case from the baggage carousel at Bristol’s International Airport.

Her travelling companion chided her, reminding her that in the absence of a porter it was his job to carry the luggage, but as she pointed out to him with a grin, his own bag was just coming through and he’d better grab it quickly, or he’d have to chase after it.

He put an arm around her and squeezed gently as they walked across arrivals to the ‘nothing to declare’ channel, recently vacated by Lena’s young admirer. The man was revelling in the looks of barely disguised envy that he was getting from the other male passengers. He knew it wasn’t his expensively tailored lightweight Italian summer suit that had attracted their attention.

Whether they thought that she was his wife, his girlfriend, or his secretary mattered little. There was no clear indication of their relationship. The fact that she was evidently close to this older man she accompanied, yet it was obvious that she wasn’t his daughter, would be more than enough to generate envy in any red blooded heterosexual male.

Just being seen with a woman like her was enough do any man’s credibility, and undoubtedly his ego, no end of good.

Once clear of Customs, they walked over to the coffee stand and ordered overpriced lattes. The drinks bore little resemblance to the morning coffees that they’d been drinking in Italy over the past few days.

The young barista’s friendly reaction to the woman’s smile, rather than the more usual sullen teenage scowl in response to the attitudes of most customers, said a lot about how passengers normally tended to treat the airport’s catering staff.

Sitting at a table drinking coffee and dunking croissants, they idly watched the other arrivals passing through.

The man took his phone from his jacket pocket to call his driver. Their flight had arrived a little early so he was prepared for a wait, but Gareth had anticipated the likelihood and had already been parked up, reading his newspaper in a lay-by on the nearby A38.

He simply needed to drive into the airport and pull up at the short term parking area outside the arrivals building, before coming inside to carry any bags that his employer and his companion might have.

Stuart Dalrymple’s chauffeur ignored the porters as he welcomed his boss back into the country. He picked up the couple’s bags himself and led Stuart and Lena through the milling passengers and out of the terminal to the waiting car. Placing the cases on the pavement, he opened the doors of the Bentley to let his passengers board, before loading the luggage into the car’s boot and taking his place in the driver’s seat.

Lena shivered involuntarily in the bright morning sunshine, which to her felt chilly after the warmth of Sicily. Nevertheless, she was pleased to be back in the UK, and her bank account would certainly benefit from her trip away.

She normally enjoyed these engagements with the wealthy Scotsman immensely. They’d been client and escort for some while now and despite the fact that he paid her extremely well for her company on these business trips, they had become good friends.

Apart from the obvious sexual aspects, he felt that her looks, elegance, and physical presence added considerably to the effectiveness of the various informal business dinners and social functions he attended on these visits to Italy.

Lena’s fluent Italian helped somewhat, especially as her understanding of the language went beyond mere vocabulary. She had often picked up on the finer nuances of spoken Italian over the dinner table or while sipping Champagne with the rich and influential and on several occasions had been able to subtly steer Stuart in the right direction. Occasionally she’d been required to act as a translator, despite Stuart’s proficiency in the language, as his broad Scottish brogue sometimes caused confusion.

As far as most of the people he met on these occasions were aware, she was his wife, or at least his ‘significant other’ as they say. It was an assumption that he was more than happy to cultivate.

Italians, in particular, like to do business with a man who has a glamorous wife at his side and Lena was undoubtedly glamorous. None of them would ever believe that she was, in truth, Dalrymple’s high class and very expensive hired whore. The arrangement between them suited both their purposes admirably.

These trips away with him were usually very busy, with her needing to be ‘on duty’ for literally twenty four hours a day, but they were a lot of fun and she enjoyed his company.

However on this particular Italian trip, she’d found herself feeling a little uneasy on more than one occasion.

There had been an undercurrent to some of the meetings that she hadn’t felt too comfortable with. Her understanding of the psyche of the Italian man had picked up barely perceptible warning signs at some of the encounters where she’d been present.

She was pretty sure that Dalrymple had noticed it too, but some of the numbers that had been hinted at had kept him interested in carrying on with whatever the deal was.

Lena had got the distinct impression that her companion was sailing far closer to the wind than he would normally risk doing.

By making good use of the fact that the Italians hadn’t been fully aware of just how good her understanding of their language was, she became pretty certain that there was something that was possibly illegal going on.

Unusually, she’d been carefully sidelined on some of these occasions, taken aside by the wives and the other women, as if to keep some of the men’s more delicate negotiations very definitely private. These women, though, had let little things slip. They’d seemed almost proud of some of the activities of their men. It had been as if they found the whole idea of these quite openly corrupt characters glamorous and exciting.

The fact that some of the meetings had been in Sicily, and earlier on in the trip in the Calabria region, had also bothered her a little. She knew that there were some powerful, and very dangerous, criminal organisations based in these two places. If something illegal was going on, even without the direct involvement of organised crime, then these people would want a share in it. In fact they’d want their share even if it was completely above board, as long as there was money to be made somewhere along the line.

She’d been relieved when Stuart had said that they’d be returning to Bristol a day earlier than was planned because he had a meeting arranged in the city.

The chauffeur dropped Dalrymple outside a fairly nondescript modern office building in Bristol that belonged to a law firm. The name on the glass door identified them as ‘Woodward, Russell, Hunter and Partners’. Lena watched him run up the steps and into the foyer, before being driven off to her apartment in the nearby city of Bath.

Gareth carried her bag into the building. She made the man a coffee and chatted with him about nothing in particular to kill time. She wasn’t entirely sure how much Stuart’s new driver knew about the nature of her relationship with his boss, but his side of the conversation revealed nothing at all. Either he was being diplomatic, or he thought they were merely friends.

When he left to go back to Bristol to collect Dalrymple, she called a local cab company to take her back to her cottage in a rural village a few miles outside the city. The Bath apartment, with its overtly opulent looking, but somewhat film set like décor, was mainly a working premises.

Her own partner described its polished wood, velvet drapes, and mood lighting, as being like a ‘tart’s boudoir’, which of course was exactly what it was.

She liked to keep her working life separate from her private life as far as her clients were concerned, though she had no problems with her close friends knowing what she did for a living.

It was certainly no problem to her partner Tony, as he liked to visit working girls in massage parlours himself for meaningless recreational sex. It was something of a hobby of his, a little like the way that other men played golf at other courses for a change, except that most wives and girlfriends had no objections to these other courses, but they might have a very different opinion about their man sleeping with other women, even if it was just for the fun of it.

Naturally, for Lena and Tony, this didn’t present a problem as they’d first met in a massage parlour some years ago, so they were well aware of each other’s involvement in both sides of the sex industry.

They’d later become friends after discovering other passions that they shared and had only become a couple a while after that, though most of their friends had thought of them in that way for some time before they’d accepted the fact themselves. This may very likely have been the reason why this unusually harmonious relationship had worked so well for so long. To most people who knew them, it seemed as if they were the perfect couple and were destined to stay together for ever.

* * *

The office of Woodward, Russell, Hunter, and Partners.

There was a smile on his face as Stuart Dalrymple stood up to leave. The Scotsman shook Selwyn Woodward’s hand warmly, then began to move towards the office door.

I’ll call you later wi’ the details then, Selwyn... or at least wi’ any other details ah get... and ye’ll check out some of your contacts... OK?

The other man nodded enthusiastically, Yes, Stuart... I certainly will. He smiled at Dalrymple, I can already think of one possible candidate, and I know he’s got the money... some of it’s unrecorded too, undeclared, and able to be spent unnoticed by any nosy parkers... after all, it’s hardly the kind of purchase you can shout about in the pub, is it?

Stuart chuckled, No... I guess no’... OK then, I’ll be away now, he glanced out of the window, looking down to the street below. He could see the Bentley pulling into the kerb. M’car’s just arrived, so that’s pretty good timing... I’ll call you soon... maybe in a couple o’ days or so... I’ll probably need to have the old man flown over to speak to you himself, it’ll be safer to meet over here.

The other man opened the door for his visitor and walked down to the entrance with him. They shook hands once more, before Dalrymple went out to the waiting car. His chauffeur was already opening the car’s rear door for him.

Thank you, Gareth... To the town house, please, he sat in the back and took out his phone to make a call.

As a traffic warden came hurrying along the street with a gleam in his eye and his ticket book in his hand, the Bentley glided off smoothly to merge into the steady stream of lunchtime city traffic.

The other man, lawyer Selwyn Woodward, looked thoughtful as he went back to his office. If he could broker this deal successfully, then even if his percentage rate was relatively low, he still stood to make an awful lot of money out of not too much work. It was also in a field that he was interested in anyway. Who said that you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure?

He looked at his watch, and decided to continue with this personal business from the comfort of his own home. It was better if the calls weren’t made through the office switchboard. He locked his desk, took his coat from the hook, and left the room.

* * *

Bath.

A pretty brunette came out of a large and elegant regency house in one of Bath’s more exclusive streets. After checking for traffic, she hurried across the road to a waiting minicab.

Sorry to have kept you waiting, driver... he wanted to sort out another booking. The driver was from a company that the agency had used for several years, and he was perfectly aware that these girls that he picked up on account were escorts.

The girl got into the back of the car. As it pulled away from the kerb, she took out her mobile phone to check for any messages. Seeing that there had been a missed call from the agency, she called the number back.

Hello... Janet? Hi, it’s Melissa... you called me, but I was with a client... Yeah? No it was OK. She listened to the agent for a brief moment, then nodded, Yeah... when is it? Oh yeah, that’s fine... no problem... Yes, I’ve been there before, are they going to provide transport? only it’s quite a way, isn’t it? Good... Yeah... I know they usually sort something out... OK then, I’ll put it in my diary... thanks... Bye then.

She smiled to herself. These overnight jobs, at an upmarket hotel and conference venue over near Shaftesbury, though not the most lucrative, were usually good fun with well off and well mannered men who knew how to treat a girl properly.

They were still reasonably good earners, and were occasionally followed by second bookings that the hotel had arranged with other guests. They even provided the visiting girls with meals and a room if an overnight bed was required, as it was quite a journey away for those who came from the Bristol area. That in itself had its advantages. Being so far from home meant that a girl was less likely to bump into a family friend or a relative.

This week was beginning to look like it was going to be a very good one. She already had another extremely well paid booking, lined up for tonight, with one of her friend Lena’s semi regular clients. Lena had been unable to accept the booking herself because she’d expected to still have been away accompanying her client on his business trip.

Mel was unaware that Lena had returned early, but it wouldn’t make any difference now she’d already been assigned the job. She’d spend the day tomorrow relaxing and doing a little shopping in Bristol once she’d said goodbye to her client, then she’d call into the home in the city that she shared with her parents before being picked up and taken to the exclusive hotel over on the Wilts/Dorset border.

Her family thought she worked for a hospitality company and was frequently moving from hotel to hotel, both locally, in the UK, and occasionally abroad as a requirement of her job. This explained the erratic working patterns, and in fact wasn’t too far from the truth.

* * *

Selwyn Woodward’s home.

As he was taking the call, the lawyer leaned back in his chair. His foot rested lightly on the coffee table.

And just how many zeros is that then? Tell me again? He was grinning as he shook his head on hearing the answer, No... really? and is that in Sterling, Euros, or Dollars? He looked surprised. Y’know... I could believe it if they still used Lire, he quipped, before becoming serious again. OK then... I’ll call him... It’s got to be worth a try if you think he’s the right man too... Yes... yes of course... Right... I’ll call you back afterwards... sure.

He hung up, then dialled the number he’d got written down in front of him. It seemed to take an age for it to connect and give him a ringing tone. He waited patiently for a response, but none came. He hung up, and dialled a second number he’d been given. He could hear it ringing.

* * *

William Willingham’s living room.

It had been a busy day, but at least the weekend was approaching fast. The wealthy businessman relaxed. He only had one meeting to deal with on Saturday, and that fitted in nicely with a bit of private business at another event he was looking forward to attending in the same locality.

He swirled the glass around, held it up to the light to look at the colour, sniffed it, then took another sip of the wine. A look of sheer unadulterated pleasure washed over his face. Even he wouldn’t normally spend the kind of money that this wine commanded for a bottle himself, but if a grateful client wanted to give him Lafitte, even if it was from what might be considered only an average year, then he most definitely wasn’t about to turn it down. It was certainly a wonderful wine.

His musings were interrupted by a ringing phone. He picked up the handset. He didn’t recognise the caller ID, but this number wasn’t on any listings apart from the Telephone Preference Register. It was likely that whoever it was that was calling knew him personally and they were simply using a different phone.

Hello? he still didn’t answer with his name. Just in case someone had got hold of his private number.

His demeanour seemed to suddenly change as he sat up straight in the chair, his attention had been well and truly caught.

A what? A one five six? Genuine? Are you kosher... or is this some kind of an elaborate wind up? He paused to think for a moment, Anyway... where did you get this number, my friend? It’s not in any directory. He listened, as the caller gave his credentials, Oh? Right... Yes I remember you now... British Racing Green, wasn’t it? I wish I still had my old one. The man paused, listening for a moment, Yes... they are now... maybe I’ll get myself another one... OK then... but this one five six?, are you really sure that it’s what they say it is? Yes, of course I’m interested, but how much is he looking for?

He listened, then his eyebrows raised, his eyes opened wide with surprise and his lower lip dropped, making him look gormless for a brief moment, until he regained his composure. Shit!... Bloody hell, I expected it to be a lot... but... Well... I’m a wealthy man, but even to me that’s an awful lot of money... are you sure? He was shaking his head slowly in disbelief as his question was answered, but when the caller suggested someone else he might try offering it to instead, the man quickly stopped him. No... no... please... don’t do that... I guess I just hadn’t really thought about it, that’s all.

He didn’t want to let this opportunity go, no matter how much it cost him. It was, after all, only money. Undeclared money at that.

However a one five six, no, ‘the’ one five six, the only one five six if indeed it actually existed outside of many fantasists’ wildest dreams, was an entirely different matter. It wasn’t the kind of offer that came along very often, and he wasn’t about to turn it down.

* * *

Woodward’s home.

The lawyer hung up on the call and relaxed in his favourite leather chair with a satisfied smile on his face. He picked up the phone again, and dialled a number, before lighting a small celebratory cigar while he waited to be connected.

Hello Stuart? He’s interested... Yes... No, he didn’t even baulk too much at the sort of price range we were talking about. Even the somewhat higher price that Woodward had actually suggested to the prospective buyer had been accepted, though initially it had been with a sharp intake of breath. Selwyn listened, as Dalrymple spoke, then answered him, Yes, Stuart... Friday’s perfect, my friend... if you think that you can get him here by then... Oh, he is? Great... I love it when a plan comes together. The other man groaned. Selwyn acceded, OK... OK... Yes... I know that was cheesy. He chuckled to himself, Anyway... Who’s punchline was that anyway? No... I can’t remember, either... OK then, stay in touch... I’ll let you know how it goes on Friday... Yes... Cheers then, Bye for now. He hung up, and poured himself a generous measure of Laphroaig as a little reward to himself for a job well done. Or at least, for the beginning of a job well done.

Sitting back in his chair, he smiled to himself, as he sipped at the pungently peaty Islay malt, savouring its acquired taste as he let the warm iodine rich flavour roll over his tongue. He drew on his cigar, letting the heavy aromatic smoke spill out from between his parted lips and tumble away in lazy spirals. Sometimes, life could be good. Sometimes it could be very good indeed.

He might have to rearrange his busy schedule a little, but that would be no real hardship when he took into account the potential earnings from the deal he was hoping to broker.

2 - Friday’s Problems

Cranborne Chase.

The Italian parked the hire car and walked quickly towards the hotel’s side door. He glanced at his watch and smiled. His short excursion hadn’t taken him long at all.

The detailed information that he’d been able to glean from the garrulous barman at lunchtime had proved to be invaluable, and extremely accurate.

The old man would probably still be resting anyway. He’d be sleeping off his evening meal, and wouldn’t have expected his return for a little while. Besides, their meeting with the English lawyer wasn’t due for another half an hour.

Simply telling him, I need to clear my head, I think I’ll take a stroll as it’s such a nice evening, had been more than enough explanation for his disappearance. He’d heard similar from the old man himself on many occasions in the past, though he knew that nowadays, he’d got into the habit of taking a nap after dinner. If he hadn’t chosen to go for a lay down in the room, then it was likely that he’d have nodded off in the chair where he sat. His after dinner brandy would have seen to that. Old age brought some strange new ways to a man.

Across the gardens, he could see a dark Mercedes turning between the floodlit ornamental pillars, into the gateway from the lane. He slipped quickly into the building, just in case it was the man they would be meeting later. His appearance outside could be easily explained by his ‘little stroll’ ruse, but if he didn’t have to lie, then so much the better.

Once inside the hotel, he stopped at a decorative mirror that hung on the wall to check his appearance. As he was straightening his tie, he noticed a smudge of something on the back of his hand. He took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped it away before finally checking and tidying his hair in the mirror, then walking off towards the back staircase.

Using the stairs instead of the lift would avoid him having to go into the foyer where he would be seen by the receptionist, and maybe by the occupants of the arriving Mercedes.

It would save any explanations, however innocent, from being necessary. If nothing at all was said, then no one could be accused of telling a lie.

Had he been aware of what was taking place elsewhere in the hotel, he may have allowed himself to have second thoughts about carrying out the instructions he’d been so emphatically given.

However, the menacing looking man who had approached him had made it very clear that it wasn’t only his patriotic duty to do exactly as he was told, but that a failure to carry out the relatively simple task could also prove to be extremely harmful to his wellbeing.

He’d been told in no uncertain terms about the kinds of sanctions that would be applied by the man’s employer, should the man see that he’d failed. Hints about that employer’s location and the types of businesses that he had interests in left him in no doubt that he was the sort of man to make sure that those threats were very real.

His own experiences of such men, and those of other people he’d known who’d crossed them, had led him to take the man in the bar’s threats very seriously indeed.

* * *

The manager’s office, Shaston Vale Hotel.

Melissa Henson came bursting into the office. She was sobbing uncontrollably as she brushed aside the late running sales rep who was just shaking John Townsend’s hand before leaving the room. She had a look of horror on her normally very pretty face.

Hey!... Mel... Melissa... What’s up? What’s the rush? Are you OK? Townsend closed the door behind the departing man in the cheap business suit, then ushered the girl to a chair. Of all the girls that the agency sent over to the hotel, Melissa Henson stood out. She was bright and friendly, and probably the least likely to be identified as a tart, with her natural good looks and innate style. He liked her a lot.

He could see that she’d dressed herself in a hurry and that she was upset, frightened even. C’mon now... Sit down... Drink? He smiled at her, Brandy? He didn’t wait for an answer, but simply took a bottle of Remy and a glass from the cupboard. What’s happened, love? Tell me... Has a guest attacked you or something? The girl wiped her streaming eyes with her bare hand, sniffed, then took a tissue from the box on the desk and blew her nose noisily.

He’s dead, Mr. Townsend... Dead. she blew her nose again, I tried CPR... Hazel’s carrying on with it now, she was in the next room... but she’s a nurse... and she says it looks like a massive heart attack... What are we gonna do? He’s dead She started to sob loudly again. Townsend poured himself a glass of the cognac as well.

Whoah there!... slow down... Who’s dead? A guest? a punter, I assume... right? She nodded as he continued, Has an ambulance been called? Has anyone dialled 999 yet? She shook her head.

No... Mr. Townsend... We didn’t know what we should do... We were worried that it might come out about the ‘extra’ services you were offering here... Hazel was pretty sure that there was nothing anyone could do for the man. The girl took the drink from him and swallowed it in one go, gasping as it hit her throat before continuing, It would look a bit obvious, wouldn’t it, when they found him naked on the bed wearing nothing more than a condom, a pair of black stockings with a suspender belt, a basque, and a face full of women’s make up. She looked at him, worried that they might have done the wrong thing, Townsend nodded, suppressing the urge to smile at the picture she’d painted so vividly of the dead man.

Yes, Melissa, dear... You’re right. It might have raised a few comments. He went to take a mouthful of his brandy, then changed his mind. And Hazel was sure about it?

Yes, Mr. Townsend... Hazel was certain that he was dead for good... if you know what I mean? but she’s keeping on trying anyway. She watched his face for some kind of reaction.

That’s OK, my dear. You did the right thing... both of you. Come on, you’d better take me to the room. He put his drink down, untouched, then stood up and walked to the door. Mel went to follow him but he held up a hand, Hang on... You’d better do your blouse up properly first... the buttons... they’re out of line. It looks like you dressed in a hurry.

She blushed, Sorry... I suppose did. She unbuttoned them before re-fastening them in the correct holes.

He smiled, "We wouldn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea... seeing you leaving my office like that... would we? She smiled back at him, shaking her head a little sheepishly.

No... We wouldn’t... I’m sorry Mr. Townsend. He smiled at her again, almost in a fatherly kind of way. He could see that it was only her lips that were smiling, rather than her tear streaked eyes. He handed her a tissue.

Here... You’d better wipe away that smudged mascara, too.

While the girl made herself a little more presentable, he picked up the phone and pressed one of the keys.

Security? Dave? Yeah, we’ve got a problem... er, hang on, he turned to the girl, What room number was it, Mel? She told him, he relayed it to Dave Jenkins, his security manager, then briefly outlined the problem before replacing the receiver.

He felt relieved that Sharon, his personal secretary, hadn’t been here today as she’d have been likely to have stayed late, as he had done. Instead, she’d been holding the fort at the Bristol office of his successful property company. She’d been his loyal right hand for several years now, but only came over to the hotel on the odd day when needed. She was completely unaware of the nature of some of the services offered to selected guests.

Townsend and Melissa left the room and hurried off down the corridor, the girl’s stiletto heeled platform shoes click clacking on the expensive marble floor.

* * *

In a hotel room.

Shaking the man’s hand, Woodward tucked the envelope safely into his inside pocket before opening the door. As he stood in the open doorway, he turned back to the elderly Italian. He patted his jacket, where he could feel the bulk of the envelope.

Thank you, Signor Benelli. I’ll get this over to our prospective buyer tomorrow morning. He’ll look it over and get back to me. But I’m certain that he’s interested, and once he’s seen this little lot, he’ll be beating a path to our doors. He could see a look of uncertainty in the old man’s eyes. He glanced backwards to his son, seated in the room, so Woodward qualified his comment, That’s talking metaphorically, of course... That’s what I’m here for, after all... To maintain your complete anonymity... right? Benelli relaxed visibly, and smiled.

I’m sorry, Signor Woodward... I am just not familiare... er... used to this kind of thing... But when I speak with the Scottish gentleman... Well... So much of money, for what once was just... What is it you call it? scrap?

Selwyn Woodward nodded, That’s right, Signor Benelli... Scrap. He smiled at the old man, Some scrap... eh? They shook hands again. Selwyn nodded to the younger man in the room, Goodnight, gentlemen, then stepped back.

The old man closed the door behind Woodward. The lawyer smiled to himself, turned on his heel and went downstairs to the manager’s office.

* * *

Another room at the same hotel.

Hazel stopped pumping at the man’s chest before bending over to blow into his mouth to inflate his lungs. She could see the dusting of white powder above his red lipstick coated top lip. Putting her mouth to his, she could feel the cocaine making her own lip tingle as she pinched his nostrils between finger and thumb to seal the airway.

After a couple of good breaths, she resumed her pumping of the dead man’s heart but she knew deep down that it was a futile gesture on her part.

She glanced up as she heard the door open, to see Dave Jenkins entering the room followed closely by her friend Melissa and hotel manager, John Townsend. She continued her pumping. The others could discuss the situation and make the decisions. She was staying out of it, as far as she possibly could. He’d been Mel’s client. It would be her DNA that would be found on the more intimate areas of his body.

As she glanced at her patient’s face, she could swear that those cold expressionless eyes, half covered by the blue eye shadowed lids and mascara dressed lashes, were staring up at her.

In her day job, she was accustomed to seeing dead bodies, especially on the geriatric wards. However, when she’d signed up with the escort agency, she hadn’t expected to see them in the course of her part time work as well.

Glancing up at her audience, she shook her head slowly then gently stroked the dead man’s eyelids closed. She wiped a faint smudge of the blue makeup from her fingertips onto the bed sheet then sighed resignedly.

At least, if the police were called, she might be able to bluff her way out of it. Wearing, as she was, her own genuine nurse’s uniform by the request of her client. She’d only been here at the hotel this early because she’d been sharing the chauffeur driven car that had been sent to pick Melissa up, on its way over here from Bristol with another man.

Her own client had booked his appointment with ‘nurse Hazel’ for later this evening, with an overnight stay requested. It would pay well, and at least she knew she’d get a very good breakfast here after a hopefully long lie in.

Her client might have booked her for the night, but experience had taught her that most men turned over and slept like babies after the exertions of the kind of sex that she felt duty bound to provide.

These clients paid a premium price for her time. The least she could do was to give them a premium service. To Hazel’s way of thinking, the only kind of sex that was worth having was good sex, and she liked to think that it was always extremely good sex that she provided her clients with. She’d never had anyone make a complaint about her services yet, and she intended it to remain that way for as long as she slept with men, whether it was for business purposes, or for her own pleasure.

She had always enjoyed sex, ever since losing her virginity, to an equally inexperienced but reasonably talented schoolboy boyfriend in the art room store cupboard at her mixed comprehensive. She was planning to enjoy it for a long time yet.

* * *

The Masters family home in a South Gloucestershire village.

Walking around the trailer that was hitched to the family’s old Jaguar, Marjorie Masters checked the tie downs that secured her Serval Neptune race car.

Once