The Charity

By Gerry Leaper

"the day i met gordon jackson it was dislike at first sight."

after two traumatic years accountant david gilbert eagerly anticipates starting his new job with a high profile national charity giving him a new challenge and a fresh start.
his new found optimism plummets when he is met with hostility and antagonism from embittered ceo gordon jackson who has a secret agenda.
from day one he faces an aura of mystery and suspicion throughout the organisation.
the charity is rocked by two suspicious deaths and publicly humiliated when a highly complimentary report is found to be rigged.
after surviving a hit and run attempt on his life gilbert uncovers evidence of corruption, fraud, and murder.
helped by lawyer barbara galbraith he must find a way to expose the criminals so that he can hang on to his new life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerry Leaper
• Release date: Nov 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301893904

Book preview

At least the crappy motel room was clean. I flaked out on the bed and tried to sleep but managed only to doze.

Awoke in a cold sweat; drifted off again but kept seeing dark cellars, dead bodies, and a dirty fat man shouting Murderer, Murderer.

Dawn broke; five am, still an hour too soon for me to ring in. The duty controller wouldn't be surprised if I called between six and seven, but not earlier. After a shower and a strong black coffee, it was an okay time to give him a bell.

Where are you? We've been looking for you since last night? I could sense his tension. The boss wants to speak to you urgently.

Put me through. I snapped.

Why was that bastard in the office at this god-awful hour? The familiar irritating voice invaded my ears. Like the man on duty, he sounded stressed out.

His next words shot through me like a bullet.

Did he mean one of his daughters? What had it got to do with me?

No, not his family, an ERU girl.

Couldn’t be, it was too soon. How? Must be some mistake.

His voice cut through my thoughts.

Where the devil have you got to? We need you here.

I don't understand. I'm on my way back. It'll take a couple of hours but what the fuck's happened? Who’s dead?

Reaction set in, and shivers wracked my body. This was too soon. Why so quick? I took a deep breath. Don't lose the plot. I had no choice but to return to the office.

I heard his voice but wasn’t listening. "What did you say?’

Pull yourself together man. I can't give you any more information. We've not been told who is dead, but the police are arriving shortly. Where are you? We need you back as soon as.

"Yeah yeah, so you said. It'll take me a couple of hours. Hold off until I get there. Which cop is coming round?

What a bloody stupid question. All I know is that someone found the body of an emergency response girl last night, and the police won't say who, or even give the details of how she died. You must get here as soon as possible; we'll try to stall them until you arrive.

I slammed the phone down. Beads of cold sweat dripped from my forehead on to the cheap laminated table.

**********

CHAPTER ONE

DAVID GILBERT - 15th APRIL 2007

The day I met Gordon Jackson it was dislike at first sight.

I've often asked myself why? Was it the pugnacious thrust of his short, sturdy body? Or maybe the humourless smile that reached no closer to the eyes than his gingery Zapata moustache.

No, without a doubt it was those cold calculating eyes.

His persona made a mockery of the word ‘charity’.

What's more, the dislike appeared mutual.

On this day of all days, the familiar nagging at the pit of my stomach returned. Somewhere between dread and foreboding which I believed had gone forever. Today was the day I planned to start looking forwards rather than back over the last two traumatic years.

Not a great start, exacerbated by Gordon Jackson being the acting chief executive of The Illustrious Fellowship of St Ignatius, known to most people as The Charity.

In short, he was my boss.

He ignored my proffered hand. So you've joined us then? No one told me. I suppose I'd better welcome you aboard. Expect I'll catch up with you later. There's plenty for you to do, I'll leave some files on your desk.

He turned and stalked off.

Alan Griffith's smile gave no hint of embarrassment.

He's always like that, don't take any notice.

Easy to say, but difficult to accept.

Come along. I'll introduce you to the rest of the team.

Two weeks ago I arrived at Griffith's office for the job interview feeling like an adolescent teetering in the first steps of a career. In the event my fears were ill founded. Alan proved to be a charming, although rather pedantic, middle-aged man at the peak of his career as managing partner of one of the city's major accounting firms. His reign as chair of The Charity's management board was ending and he wanted to appoint the new accountant before handing over.

My successor is likely to be James Watson, a lawyer. You know how well lawyers understand accounting matters?

A smile creased his rubicund face.

This organisation is unique. On the one hand we are a long established national charity, and on the other, our new role as a government contractor, operating emergency response units.

How come such a radical change?

We are renowned for managing hospices and giving assistance to the needy, but our considerable experience and long association with the N.F.A.S - National Fire & Ambulance Service helped as did some good friends in high places.

He grinned and tapped his finger along the side of his nose. We need more than a conventional accountant. The new contract is the catalyst for change not welcomed by everyone. The Charity must adapt from being a rambling amateur organisation to become an efficient multi-departmental operation. This is beyond the comfort level and ability of certain staff that see their jobs threatened. We have now entered the age of the professional. Well, do you want the job?

The suddenness of the offer took me aback but no in-depth thought was required. I needed work, and this appeared to be an interesting challenge.

With a start I returned to the present.

We entered the boardroom, which had an appropriate aura for an old established, traditional organisation. The room long, narrow, and wood panelled, with windows set high in the wall allowed in only a modicum of light and a glimpse of the grey concrete slabs of the multi storey building next door. A rectangular polished oak table dominated, and purple upholstered chairs sat regally around it. At the head, almost like a throne, was a decorative but uncomfortable looking chairman's chair. A large oil painting of a red robed bewigged gentleman, complexion matching his robe, glowered down from the wall. He was Willoughby Wilberforce, Sir Willoughby Wilberforce - the founding father of the Illustrious Fellowship of St Ignatius.

Group photographs adorned the other walls. To the left were faded black and white prints of severe looking gentlemen each one appearing dipped in starch, leading to the more recent, less formal poses. The colours becoming more realistic as the years passed. A ruby red carpet covered the floor, its pile so luxurious as to lose a dropped coin forever.

Around the boardroom table sat a disparate bunch of people. My future colleagues, although I knew that, under the reorganisation, not everyone would hold on to their jobs. I followed the traditional ritual of ‘hello’ and ‘pleased to meet you’ as Alan introduced my new associates.

All the time implanted in my mind's eye was the hostile face of Gordon Jackson, acting CEO and Emergency Response Director.

After the swift and forgettable round of hand shaking, Allan virtually shooed everyone away.

Thank you lady and gentlemen, I'll not keep you from your busy schedules. You all will get to know David better over the coming days – or I should say, years.

Their surprise at this peremptory dismissal and sense of confusion implied they had no prior notice of my arrival.

Alan’s attention focussed on me. I'll take you on a quick tour and then leave you to it.

That's fine with me. I was dying to resume an interrupted career.

He led the way to Stores Manager Bill Gregan's untidy and overcrowded territory. I foresaw problems in this direction. We did not linger long and walked down the long corridor passing the Chief Executive's Office, still bearing the title - Manager.

Alan pointed to the gold lettering, That's the old title. We've yet to acquire a Chief Executive. Remember, I told you the incoming Chairperson will attend to that? Although whoever is the next Chairman, I fancy James Watson will influence the appointment. He and I do not always see eye to eye.

He shrugged but did not elaborate.

Ah yes Mr Jackson. You may not agree but his bark is worse than his bite. Between you and me, he had a nasty surprise when told not to apply for the CEO position. Quite sad really.

Alan didn't sound sad. This is in the strictest confidence you understand?

I nodded. 'Is that the reason for his hostility?'

I wouldn't say hostile.

He saw my sceptical expression, shrugged and muttered, My fault perhaps, although I didn't see the necessity of consulting him.

As acting CEO, he may have disagreed. Then I wondered if my unthinking comment had gone too far.

Maybe, maybe, he snapped. But I did. Ah, this office is yours, first we'll go into your domain.

We passed my door and stood outside the general office.

At present there are only three office girls, but as the re-organisation gathers momentum and all administrative work is centralised, the numbers will increase. We have a competent senior clerk in Chris Holton. I think she would make a good office manager, but that decision is up to you. You have already met Kathie our blonde bombshell receptionist. The third is Gladys, who goes back aeons. Who needs a computer when she's around? He smiled.

We entered a large, sparsely occupied, outdated room. Modern when compared with the boardroom but not by much. Chris Holton, a pleasant looking girl in her late twenties had an engaging smile and appeared pleased to meet me, maybe relieved. Likewise, the other two smiled a welcome. Kathie a teenager whose bubbly personality did not match the staid surroundings and Gladys a cadaverous middle-aged spinster would have been better suited to a knitting circle.

After showing me to my office Alan left, making it clear I was on my own. He denied any detailed knowledge of the administrative procedures.

My firm doesn't even audit the accounts. Remind me later to introduce you to the auditor - Ralph Sturdy - Sturdy by name and sturdy by nature. Okay, I'll be in touch.

True to his word, Gordon Jackson had left half a dozen files on my desk. They contained rudimentary income and expenditure statements. A scribbled note stapled to the top copy informed me the reports were required at each monthly management board meeting. The next meeting in two week's time.

I collapsed into my chair and sat staring at a blank wall. Why had the excitement of starting a new job worn off so soon?

Then I took a deep breath and told myself to stop being such a wimp. This was my chance, my challenge, and no Gordon Jackson, or anyone else was going to take it away from me.

My world started to disintegrate on 15th April 2005 two years ago to the exact day, on the same day as a press announcement, which out of curiosity I read only a few days ago. To be fair, had I seen it, I don't think it would have registered as anything but yet another desperate measure by what was becoming a desperate government.

GOVT SHOCK WITH MAJOR HEALTH REFORMS

EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAMS ARE ON THE WAY!

NATIONAL CHARITY BEATS THEM ALL

The big winner in the health reforms announced by Health Minister Dora Briant is the quaintly named Illustrious Fellowship of St Ignatius which has been given the responsibility for setting up the new E.R.Us – Emergency Response Units. These rescue/paramedic squads will act as First Response Teams when accident or national emergency threaten lives and property

I never read those headlines at the time because 15th April 2005 was a memorable for all the wrong reasons. Kate, my wife and lover for over thirty years, mother of our children, lost her two-year fight against cancer in the same gentle and quiet way as she had lived. Thanks to the pharmaceutical industry, she died without pain, but never said goodbye.

I drove home that evening reflecting on the day. It should have been my genesis, but something still gnawed uncomfortably in my gut. Although I continually told myself that this was my day, my challenge, and nothing was going to stand in the way.

**********

CHAPTER TWO

GORDON JACKSON – 15th APRIL 2007

After returning from the stores, I saw Alan Griffiths and another guy standing outside my office door. They stopped talking and turned to face me.

Ah, Gordon just the man. May I introduce our new Financial Controller, David Gilbert. David, this is Gordon Jackson, Emergency Services Manager, soon to be Director of Emergency Services.

I stared at Griffiths. The bastard, not a bloody word until now.

Swallowing hard, I muttered a greeting, and told him I'd drop a few files on his desk. Then I left, feeling bloody furious, although not surprised.

Aged anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five the new guy was older than I expected. I assumed Griffiths would put in one of his whiz kids, a twenty-five year old graduate with thirty-five years experience. Pity, because I'm sure I could've handled one of them. His greying light-brownish hair and worn-out appearance, and half-rimmed specs hanging from his neck on a chain made him seem more of a harmless geek than a whiz kid.

Snooty old Griffiths the chartered accountant is no fool and he'd not employ an idiot. Maybe he’d set-up this guy to spy on me. I wouldn't put anything past him.

Perhaps The Charity needs an older sort of guy. For my part I wanted someone who was flexible. I don't want anyone nosing into my activities. I need loyal, adaptable people working with me, who see things my way, without interfering too much. When the previous number cruncher started poking around, I took the necessary action.

I decided to make some enquiries into Mr David Gilbert. New brooms tend to be keen so I'd box a bit clever. I wonder what Mr Chartered Accountant Griffiths told him about me?

As I needed coffee I went to the Emergency Response Rest Room. Up to now I'd had it good. I could even hack Griffiths as Chairman, because he didn't poke his nose in my affairs. Things slid downhill the day Mr James Watson joined the management board. He's nothing but a bloody nosey parker and a sodding busybody. He and I are oil and water.

My only consolation was that he'd find it hard to penetrate my own little kingdom. I had things sewn up tight, but a new accountant might try digging deeper.

During my twenty years with The Charity, I’ve sweated my guts out trying to get the brownie-points I deserved. No one gave me credit for putting the ER teams together. You have to be tough in this game and accept casualties, and I'm not intending to be one myself, although I've done my share of sorting people out.

I deserve some recognition and reward. God knows I'd struggled in the early years on a pittance, and now the re-organisation was my opportunity to get to the top and run the show.

My photography arrangement with Jake Bodine was paying off, and becoming a nice little earner, more than the sideline which started a year or two ago. We satisfy a demand for a certain type of picture.

The Charity helps me without knowing it by providing supplies, the odd bit of camera equipment, and some of the models. In return I use my photography skills for publicity shots.

It's not difficult to walk a tightrope provided you keep your nerve, but what the hell. You make your own chances in this life. I believe I'm good enough to stay in control. I may allow James clever-dick Watson to win the odd battle, but I'm going to win the war.

I have supporters who value my management skills. For example, I've had a long and mutually rewarding relationship with board member Ron James the builder. I assist him to get all The Charity's construction work. To be fair The Charity always obtains ‘competitive’ quotes for the jobs, although I ‘help’ Ron to be the winner. He did okay out of the extensions contract, thanks to me. In return I expect him to use his board position to reciprocate. We might not like each other, but we need each other, Ron and I.

First I thought the re-organisation would improve my personal situation.

After hearing of the Government's so called health reforms about two years ago which included the new emergency response set-up, I put out a few feelers, made a personal plan and started to execute it.

It was quite easy to nudge Manager, or Chief Executive, George Wood into early retirement. Unfortunately he died from a heart attack shortly after. The worry lost him both his job and his life. Poor, stupid, old George.

The useless prick of an accountant was next to go. He’d started sniffing around things which didn't concern him, like checking invoices and receipts. Simple enough to slide the knife in wiggle it about and he'd gone.

Despite the inconvenience of those two departures, it reduced the opposition. I was left in sole charge also having to deal with the paperwork. The Charity had a damn good reputation and our suppliers understood if an odd glitch occurred. I even received messages of sympathy over having to multi-task.

The first indication of trouble came after I'd started thinking about finding a suitable replacement for the accountant. I wanted someone to be my man. Not too bright but flexible and co-operative.

Jake's figure man, Howie, knew a lot about pliable number crunchers. I considered asking his advice, but before getting round to doing that, the management board agreed to Griffiths' proposal that he have sole responsibility for finding a new accountant.

Afterwards I rang and told him I had drafted out an advertisement, and recommended looking for a replacement as soon as possible.

We? No Gordon, not we – me. You have more than enough on your plate. Our requirement is for a particular type, someone who can handle all the changes. No point in you getting involved so don't worry I will keep you in the picture.

He's going to work for me, I can't accept that, and I insist on …

I hit a brick wall. Normally quite reasonable, this time Griffiths was not giving way.

Sorry Gordon, the accountant will be appointed by the board, through me, in the absence of a Chief Executive, no more argument.

But I'm – I'm.

Yes, you're acting General Manager, until we get a new Chief Executive.

The bastard rang off leaving the strongest hint yet of competition for the top job.

When I asked Ron about the CEO and accountant appointments he shrugged his shoulders, I thought it pointless arguing with him, he's the obvious man to handle it. James had already mentioned having someone in mind well suited as CEO, but don't forget you're the man doing the job.

Who was that?

Who was what?

The ‘someone’ Watson's got for the job?

He didn't say.

Fucking committees, they'd got together and excluded me from any discussion. I expected more loyalty from Ron. They were all as bad as each other. After Griffiths stood down James Watson would be around for the next few years.

I found out later that Watson did not intend to even become Chairman. Freddie Rice's tarty, but tasty wife would have that job. Freddie, now Lord Rice, a local boy who'd done well started off shagging, and then marrying his secretary who become Lady Rice. She cared less about charity and business than the Pope did about sex. A looker though, she reminded me of a hooker trying to become a lady.

A couple of days ago she rang me.

Gordon how nice to hear you. May I pop in to see you later this morning, if it's not too inconvenient?

Despite her status and saccharine tones I still fancy Glenda. Fortyish and ripe. Freddie now in his sixties was stinking rich and The Charity's major benefactor. Several years ago he'd turned his dull family business into an ultra successful software company. Glenda, no doubt with her own agenda, used all her charms to become another of his permanent possessions. Once he may have been attached to her, but I reckon only below the waist. Nowadays he looks as if he couldn't manage it without scientific aid.

The Rice Family Trust, operating under the clever-dick title of The Cereal Trust, has contributed hundreds of thousands to The Charity over the last twenty-five years. His name and reputation has influenced other trusts to donate to The Charity, accounting for a healthy annual tax-free income. Our considerable charitable activities depend upon such revenue. The regular public appeals were chicken-feed compared with that arising from batty old Freddie Rice and his mates. His influence helped us to get this new Government contract.

For sure Government money interested me.

She arrived at my office two days ago looking a picture, she sure knew how to dress to impress, and she impressed a horny old professional like me. I can't make my mind up if she's a bright woman playing stupid, or just being herself, but on balance I'm thinking she's no dumb blonde, calculating yes, dumb no. Her qualifications awarded from the University of Life.

Some people call me cynical. I think I'm a realist.

Lady Rice had the breathless quality of Marilyn and used her attributes in whatever way to get what she wanted. Nothing sexual today, but sometimes I wonder - and hope…

In tow was James Watson. He's a crafty legal bastard whose tactic is to be a hidden puppeteer insinuating his policies to his subjects, at his most dangerous when his voice sinks to a purr. The quiet hatchet man, or the whispering assassin. His calculating mind providing the scheming and cunning our Chairperson-elect lacks. She needs him. He uses her - at the present.

Ventriloquist and the dummy.

Hello Gordon, she breathed, Delighted to see you again, how's your wife?

My reply should have been – Sober I hope, or Out of the country, however I gave the stock answer. Fine thanks Glenda, and Sir Freddie, is he fit and well?

Tokyo – Japan. He sounded fit and well when I spoke to him yesterday. The poor darling is working too hard.

I nodded and smiled in false sympathy. Did she think I didn't know where fucking Tokyo was?

Good Morning James, are you busy and thriving? Not that I cared, merely demonstrating I can conform if necessary.

Those cold fish eyes gave nothing away, As always. Just as I am sure you are Gordon. Let us get down to business. We, Lady Rice and I, want to have words with you about the future management of The Charity. Over to you Glenda.

She hesitated, looking surprised. Gordon, we must clarify our thoughts regarding our management structure. Then she paused and glanced at Watson, Perhaps James will take it from here?

Ping-pong, the knife was slowly sliding in but who was going to thrust it home? The odds favoured Watson.

He wore the usual icy meaningless smile, The fact is Gordon, the incoming elected board concur that as we are entering a re-organisational phase we need specialists to manage the new divisions, and a leader possessing significant skills to oversee these radical changes. Therefore, we all agree the new CEO will come from outside the organisation. So we suggest you don't pursue your application in that direction.

He had inserted the knife deeply and accurately and he emphasized the phrase ‘the elected board’ to ensure I understood it did not include me.

So you mean I'm not capable of managing The Charity? Don't forget at present I'm running all operations including finance.

Glenda put on her sincere face, And we have full confidence in you Gordon, but need you to concentrate on our ER department and to provide back-up to the chief executive. You will be second only to him and promoted to ER Director and we assure you that your abilities are much appreciated an… she tailed off.

James Watson stared straight at me.

Whispering death.

Don't take this the wrong way. Much depends on your leadership skills in ensuring the Emergency Response Division operates at peak efficiency. It is at the forefront of a unique new venture, and will receive full focus from not only the public but also those responsible for finding the money from the public coffers. The CEO's function is to co-ordinate all activities and set up new projects. Gordon, you excel at the sharp end, using resources, spending money. We also need leadership to ensure growth, raise finance and…

You mean you don't trust me with money?

They glanced at each other. James shrugged.

You misunderstand us. It's not that at all, we believe you are better suited to the operational direction of our emergency services.

He stood and walked to the door followed by Glenda. I hope you understand. You are an intelligent man, I think, on reflection, you will realise where your strengths lay, and lend your strong support to the chief executive. You have the full confidence and backing of the board and rest assured you will not lose out in the financial stakes.

They left. James's mouth twitched into what passed for a smile, whilst Glenda’s carried a hint of speculation as she hesitated by the door.

Or maybe my imagination worked overtime.

So now I know where I stand. No doubt who ran things; that cold arrogant bastard the whispering assassin was the power behind the chair.

I can't blame Lady Glenda for not making me CEO. Neither did I intend appealing to the board when Watson ran the show. Now I had to make sure the new CEO wouldn't get the opportunity of penetrating my empire. I had to protect my interests, and capitalise on what I already had.

I glanced at my watch; almost time for my meeting with Jake. Then I remembered I'd told the new number-cruncher what's his name – Gilbey, Gibbert or whatever I'd leave something for him to get his teeth into, so I dug out the finance files I'd struggled over during the past few months. As an afterthought, I ripped out several sheets. Stuff him; let the bastard learn the hard way. I had my own retirement pension scheme to look after.

My phone rang. Bugger, Cherry calling again.

**********

CHAPTER THREE

STUART MITCHELL - 10th APRIL 2007

Six am, on a cold dark morning I woke from a dreamless sleep with a smile on my face. Charlotte - Charly slept on. Her body clock started much later than mine did. She too had a smile on her face - maybe her dreams always had a happy outcome, something about which we never spoke.

Military discipline being hard to shake off I leaped out of bed, climbed into the old tracksuit, and put on battered Nikes. Pausing only to splash cold water over my face and a quick scrub with the toothbrush, I set off for my normal early morning jog.

After twenty-five years of Army life, living through defence cuts and manoeuvring between the political Right, Left, Centre-Right, and Centre-Left, I’d had enough. No more challenges. I'd flown helicopters, driven humvees and fired big guns. Starting in Vietnam, I had served in most of the world’s trouble spots. My future seemed to be a desk and lots of paperwork. If lucky, my prize would be a posting to Army Headquarters. There at least I would rub shoulders with top brass. If unlucky, I could be banished to some rural backwater miles from anywhere.

This would not suit Charly at all. Nor me.

Today everything could change, because soon I had to face decisions as to whether I remained an army officer or became a civilian. I had seen colleagues, eager to leave, rushing into marketing, or private security positions, and then leading a life of regrets, finishing up disillusioned and bitter. Others had regretted becoming Golf Club Secretary/Managers.

I intended to do better and today anticipated confirmation of achieving my goal.

Jogging the streets of my hometown I reflected on what Charly and I wanted. Her desire for permanence, with no more globetrotting, did not conflict with mine. However, my ambition was for my rightful position in the hierarchy, whether as soldier or civilian. I did not intend to waste my quarter of a century of military service where I learned all about commanding a body of men and women.

Yesterday's chance encounter with James Watson had the potential to impact on my future, and turn ambition into reality. We met whilst in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. Both had taken a few steps in opposite directions, and turned as mutual recognition jogged our memory cells. A dangerous move on a busy street, but he followed me across, so we met at the side of the road he had left seconds before.

He greeted me. Young Stuart Mitchell, why, it must be five years since… He subsided, remembering the event that last brought us together, my father's funeral, and continued hastily, "What are you up to these days, still soldiering?'

James and Dad had been colleagues and friends in the legal practice which bore my surname, Bellis & Mitchell.

Yes, but I'm considering leaving. Time to settle and put down a few roots.

Anything in mind?

Nothing specific.

He paused for a few seconds, I may be able to help. Are you free tomorrow afternoon, at two?

Yes I think so, why?

I can't explain now, must dash. Come into my office at two o'clock and all will be revealed.

Before I confirmed or denied he had anticipated a gap in the traffic, and strode across the road, this time reaching the other side unhindered.

Run completed, I showered and took a cup of coffee to the still drowsy Charly. I looked forward with anticipation to the meeting with James later in the day.

Military training made it almost mandatory for me to be early for all appointments, so at three minutes before fourteen hundred