4 #3
Would his own father, Robert, have managed to escape somehow from the vast housing estate where he and Glen and all the other Bannister children had been born?
He doubted it. He’d almost certainly have got a job at the local factory, and married a local girl and had a brood of unruly kids just like everyone else they knew, and would have thought themselves lucky to have enough to pay the council’s rent.
And when he, Jonas, had duly come along, it would have been off to the local no-hoper of a comprehensive; no smart grammar school and a decent education for him, no chance to make good social contacts that would set him up for the rest of his life.
And who knew what would have happened to him after that?
One thing was for sure – he wouldn’t be sitting in this smart office in Gloucester, with a home in the Cotswolds and a discontented wife and ungrateful offspring to keep happy.
His spiralling thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the buzz of the intercom and his PA’s voice. ‘Mr Gorman is here for you, sir.’
Glad of the distraction, Jonas told her to send him in and then leaned back into his chair as his chief of security came into the room.
Ian Gorman was a former soldier who looked as if he still felt vaguely uncomfortable out of uniform, even if he was wearing an expensive suit.
But he was no Neanderthal and, after leaving the army in his early forties, had done several IT courses with a vague idea of setting up his own private security business.
Luckily, a mutual friend of theirs had introduced them to each other, and Jonas had never regretted talking the man out of becoming self-employed by offering him his current position within the company.
Competent, loyal, canny and (when necessary) not too scrupulous about his methods, Ian was a decided asset, and one that definitely earned his keep.
Which was more than could be said for Jonas’ firstborn son, who came into the office whenever he felt like it and seemed to think that entertaining potential business clients with expensive lunches and showing them a good time in town was all that was required of him.
‘Hello, Ian – I have something I want you to do for me,’ Jonas greeted him, with forced cheerfulness. ‘On the QT, mind.’
His security chief raised one dark eyebrow. He was not a particularly big man, but he was wiry and fit. His brown hair was slightly receding, his features were unremarkable, and he could pass in any crowd without anyone paying him the least attention whatsoever. Which had sometimes come in handy.
Jonas’ company, like a lot in the ‘green’ industry, had had its fair share of environmental protesters who didn’t believe that Bannister BioSolutions were doing enough to help save the planet, so someone who could infiltrate their groups and cause mayhem and disruption when necessary was essential.
‘Trouble, sir?’ Ian asked now.
‘No, no, it’s nothing really, but I do want to nip something in the bud before it becomes a problem. There’s a woman called Lyssa Moore – she claims to be a writer of biographies and such. I want you to do a deep background check on her. See if she’s legit.’
It was always possible that this initial approach from Miss Moore might not be as straightforward as it seemed and, before he met with her, Jonas wanted to know exactly who – and what – he was dealing with.
‘All right. Anything else?’
Jonas hesitated for a moment and then sighed and shook his head. ‘No, not just yet,’ he said. There was no point in borrowing trouble after all, he told himself. ‘But be as fast as you can and report back to me tomorrow. Some further action might be called for down the line.’
Ian nodded, showing no curiosity, and left as silently as he’d come.
Jonas watched him leave before swivelling his chair back around and staring out blankly across the cityscape.
He was probably worrying needlessly, but he was a man who liked to prepare for the worst, just in case. And he doubted that this Moore woman had just decided to write a biography about his uncle and his wild-child lover for no good reason. Someone must have commissioned it.
And it certainly wouldn’t have been anyone in his family. Which meant it had to be someone in hers. Amelia Montrose.
He’d been aware of who she was when he was growing up, of course, and seen various photographs of her, and during his teenage years he might even have had a crush on her. His dead uncle’s lost love. All very romantic and all that rot, but he’d quickly grown out of it.
It had been years now since he’d thought about her, or the Lucky Cuckoos.
But obviously someone was thinking about them now – and he had a good idea who. The question was – why? Why now?
The intercom buzzed again. ‘Sir, your wife is on line one,’ his PA informed him.
With a small grunt, Jonas leaned forward to depress the lit-up switch and forced a smile into his voice. ‘Sweetheart, I was just thinking about you. How would you like to come into town, and we’ll eat at that new place you mentioned the other day?’