Once Upon A Thatcher Time

By Stephen Taylor

The year is 1970. Off the Normandy coast a fisherman is killed on board his own small fishing boat. But this is no fishing accident; this is murder, a petty squabble between criminals, this is the grubby world of smuggling and drug running.
Twenty Two years later Nick Beverley inherits, on his 25th birthday, shares in a company founded by his uncle, the dead fisherman, and his murderous partner. But in that time the company has prospered, it is respectable, a multi-million pound trading organisation. It has taken advantage of the Thatcherite principles of greed, unrestricted free market economics, the elimination of bureaucratic economic planning. The murderer himself is at the heart of government; in an ironic twist he is now President of the Board of Trade.
Nick goes to work for the company, he assimilates all those Thatcherite principles; he is a willing convert. But this is now just post Thatcher Britain, the busted flush of those principles is becoming apparent, the cost to the country becoming clearer, the fact that the ordinary people were not sharing in the illusionary prosperity.
Then fate raises an eyebrow. The company mounts a hostile bid for a haulage company based in Normandy. In France Nick uncovers the company's murky past, bit by bit he puts the pieces together. The company he has dedicated his future to, is founded on criminality, drug money. He meets a remarkable French girl, the daughter of his late uncle's widow. Through her he starts to challenge everything that the company stands for - and he doesn't like the conclusions that he comes to.
A thriller, a story of high finance, a story of intrigue, and a story of love and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Taylor
• Release date: Apr 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301441921

Stephen Taylor

Stephen Taylor is the author of the pet care advice book "Your Cat Won't Do That!: Observations and Advice for Cat Companions from a Longtime Cat-Sitter." Stephen has also written a number of articles and essays published in venues. Several of Stephen's cat stories have been included in the highly popular anthologies produced by "Chicken Soup for the Soul." He is also the author of the sports blog “The Disgruntled Fan Report.” Originally from Philadelphia, PA, Stephen grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area before moving to the Oregon coast. Among other ventures, Stephen spent a decade as a professional cat-sitter in addition to serving as a cat care volunteer at a Bay Area animal shelter, where he helped prepare hundreds of cats for adoption. Today, Stephen spends his days in his Oregon home working as a graphic artist, writing on various topics, and pondering all things feline.

Book preview

ONCE UPON A THATCHER TIME

BY

STEPHEN TAYLOR

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Copyright Stephen Taylor 2013

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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portions thereof, in any form.

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All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Discover other titles by Stephen Taylor at Smashwords.com:

No Quarter Asked No Quarter Given - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/124253

A Canopy of Stars - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/122376

Ripples and Shadows - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/222633

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Published BY Stephen Taylor at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashbooks .com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter10

Chapter11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Chapter14

Chapter15

Chapter16

Chapter17

Chapter18

Chapter19

Chapter20

Chapter21

Chapter22

Chapter23

Chapter24

Chapter25

Chapter26

Chapter27

Chapter28

Chapter29

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DEDICATION.

For my daughter Helen and for my partner Sian with much love. An added thanks to Sian for helping me by reading the manuscript and making helpful suggestions.

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ONCE UPON A THATCHER TIME.

CHAPTER 1.

July 1970

Ted Petersen’s eyes scanned the horizon, alert, pale piercing blue, darting from side to side, imagining that every glint of light on the dark eternal sea was the object of his search. His strong hands fidgeted, his fingers drummed against the wheel, he was at the helm of his small fishing boat, waiting at anchor ten miles from the Normandy coast. It was 3.00 a.m. - he was nervous. He looked into the night, cloudless; the sea mirror calm, the bright moonlight illuminated the little vessel as it rolled gently on the listless sea, the silence punctuated only by the perpetual creaking of the boat’s old timbers. It was not a sound that he heard; he had become immune to these noises by his years at sea.

A robust man and by nature an active one, he spread the large fingers of his powerful hands to imitate the comb that he did not possess sweeping his long blond hair backwards away from his forehead. The wind was usually his ally in this process, but tonight his friend was missing. He ran those strong hands down the side of his face through his long, bushy sideburns and then over his chin, heavy with bristles. He was a North Country Englishman, as were several generations of his family before him, but his looks and the distinctive spelling of his surname were a throw back to his Scandinavian roots. His Viking appearance was unmistakable and deceived those who would guess his origin; likewise his weathered face, chiselled by the salty winds made him look older that he truly was.

He found the waiting difficult. He liked to be active; he had no time for the cerebral gymnastics of a crossword. He loved the adrenalin fuelled excitement in what he was doing, but he hated the rendezvous, the demanding anxiety of just waiting. Quite simply, he felt vulnerable, unable to do anything to control his own destiny. Nevertheless he continued to wait, continued to worry and continued to scan the open sea.

His boat was one of the two loves in his life, and his wife was never sure whether his love for the boat was stronger than his love for her. The skipper and his boat have a supremely powerful and intimate relationship, forged in adversity, against the common enemy - the sea. She was 21 metres long and 6 metres in breadth, and although she had been his mistress for only a few years, he knew every centimetre of her wooden construction, perhaps more than he knew every centimetre of his wife’s naked body. He knew every gauge, every calibration. He knew every spot of rust, every pulley. He knew the rigging and the displacement, and every power ratio. He knew what speed he could get out of her in calm seas and what speed he could achieve at each angle of pitch when the wind began to blow, and the sea began to roll. He did not hear her creaking, but any sound that she emitted that was not part of her groaning repertoire resounded in his consciousness, as if some alarm bell had sounded. His wife was more jealous of his boat than any other woman.

‘Any sign of them, my friend,’ the voice came from behind him. The accent was heavy, rich provincial Normandy pronunciation. The man was also sturdily built although his frame divulged Gallic origins. He was shorter than Ted Petersen, thick brown hair, a darker complexion. He also displayed the marks of the sea on his weathered face, adding years to his perceived age.

‘Why’re you speaking in English, Henri,’ said Ted?

‘Because we are meeting an Englishman, it seemed the thing to do,’ he gestured his head in an inquisitive manner as he spoke.

‘I think you had better leave the talking to me, when they arrive,’ said Ted, ‘I don’t think your English is up to it.’

‘But of course.’ He reverted back to his native tongue, ‘you do the talking, and I will make the coffee.’

He thrust forward a large mug of strong black coffee and Ted took it, drinking deeply from its dark murky depths. ‘Ugh!’ He said, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way you frogs drink your coffee.’

Henri took no offence at this overtly racist comment because Ted was his friend.

‘You need to be strong when fishing,’ said Henri, ‘the sea will take advantage of a weakness. Strong men need strong coffee.’

Ted took another sip from the mug, his face contorted as he swallowed.

‘Jesus!’ he said irreverently, ‘this would sap the strength of Samson,’ he continued, mixing his biblical references.

The Frenchman laughed robustly and then repeated his question.

‘Can you see them yet?’

‘No, not yet,’ he paused, spat out a ‘FUCK; they’re late.’

Ted was uneasy about what he was doing. He was not averse to a little smuggling; he had done it all his life. In fact, getting a few goods past the harbourmaster or the Customs was all part of the game to him, all part of his way of living. But somehow this was different.

‘We’re getting greedy’, he said, pausing for a response that did not come. ‘We’re making ourselves a target, the authorities; they’ll come after us you know, you mark my words.’

There was still no reply.

‘No one’s interested in a little harmless smuggling, but,’ he was trying to convince himself he was not doing anything wrong, ‘but if we get too greedy they’ll…’

‘But it is too late to talk like this, my friend,’ interrupted Henri his voice low, matter-of-fact, still staring out at the open sea. ‘That is why we are here, at this hour, instead of being at home in bed romping with our wives. We wanted bigger money, so we take bigger risks. It is the night, it makes you nervous.’ He paused for a while before going on, ‘in the morning you will feel different.’

‘Maybe’, there was no conviction in Ted voice.

‘But you want that new boat, don’t you?’ said Henri.

‘You know I do, but sometimes – sometimes, I wonder if it’s all worth it. Maybe I should stick with this old girl - I love her really.’ He patted the wheel affectionately before continuing. ‘She’s getting old though, built in 1954. She hasn’t got the power ratio to switch her to trawl nets - 150 horse power just isn’t enough, and the weight of the catch from these seine nets is useless compared with the trawls; and she needs all her power to hit 8 knots, and then she gobbles fuel if we have to maintain it in rough seas - she a wasteful old girl, all right.’ There was still tenderness in his voice despite listing the boats’ faults.

A silence fell over the two men as they drank their coffees, but their eyes continued to search. The wheelhouse was positioned towards the stern, and directly above the engine room, but forward of the crew’s quarters, with the mast and the rigging towards the bow, so that the two men looked out over the deck and the winches, beneath which were the fish holds. The views all around were good, almost unencumbered, and the clear night meant that he could see almost endlessly as if he were a falcon hovering search of prey.

‘I can see them,’ said Henri, in a raised voice, ‘to port,’ but Ted Petersen was ahead of him.

‘Yep, they’re about two miles away.’

The two men watched impatiently as the second vessel drew nearer and nearer until it pulled alongside. The face of another man was suddenly illuminated so that he was unmistakable. The light on the boat was, by necessity, kept low, but there was no mistaking its owner, George Osbaldeston; he hailed them in a friendly voice but did not get the warmest of welcomes.

‘YOU’RE FUCKING LATE!’ Ted yelled across, releasing all his pent up frustrations.

‘Only a few minutes,’ the man twitched a smile, ‘relax everything’s fine.’

He boarded the first vessel and the three men went inside the wheel room. George Osbaldeston was slightly older than his two companions, thirty-two, whereas Ted was twenty-seven and Henri, twenty-eight. He was not a man that was striking in any physical way. He was five feet ten inches tall and of medium build. His hair was worn long in the fashion of the day, with sideburns that were greying in advance of the rest of his light brown hair. There was a presence about him, however; one of those men whose personality so dominated others that they are always perceived to be taller than they actually are. But he was on Ted’s territory now; he was the skipper and not a man to be dominated on board his own boat.

The three men formed an unlikely alliance; two men from traditional provincial working class fishing backgrounds. They were separated by nationality, but they had more in common than they had with the third man who was a well-educated middle class Englishman from the Home Counties. On the face of it, the only thing that they had in common was the pursuit of money.

‘What have you brought this time,’ said Ted, ‘cigarettes, spirits?’

‘Yeah,’ said Osbaldeston, ‘and some antique furniture.’

‘And do we leave it the same place?’ said Ted.

‘Yeah, same routine,’ said Osbaldeston, ‘Dickie will be there to meet you, 2.00 a.m. the day after tomorrow. The merchandise should be with the customer in London the following morning.’

Customer! That rich, thought Ted, but then realised that he was just as dishonest as Osbaldeston.

‘We’d better get started shifting the stuff,’ he said instead, ‘I want to be long gone by the time the sun comes up.’

‘That‘s OK,’ said Osbaldeston, his words business-like, ‘I’ve brought along some help.’

Ted fixed him with a piercing stare, like a guided missile homing in on its target. A rage began to well up within him. It was not something he could control, the pressure mounted remorselessly, unchecked until it exploded into a life of its own.

‘What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing, you stupid bastard!’ the words cascaded from his mouth like a torrent. ‘That’s no part of our fucking deal; it’s supposed to be just the four of us, nobody else. Are you trying to get us fucking banged-up?’

‘Calm yourself,’ said Osbaldeston, ‘there’s a lot of merchandise and I needed help. Anyway I’ll meet the expenses out of my share.’

But Ted was in no mood to be placated, ‘FUCKING MERCHANDISE! His voice rose to a pitch, ‘we’re fucking smuggling, not fucking retailing,’ he ranted.

‘I know, I know, but I’ve got some good news for you.’ Osbaldeston changed the subject, a blatant piece of deflection, ‘I’ve brought your cut of the last trip, £5000 each. That’s £1000 cash now, and £4000 has gone into the business.’

Ted’s rage was temporarily side-tracked. Osbaldeston took the opportunity to pursue this line. ‘I’ve just had the first business accounts drawn up; we’ve now got net assets of over £60,000.’

Ted Petersen calmed down, tried to take in what George Osbaldeston was saying. £5000 each, he reasoned must have meant that the last trip had yielded a profit of over £20,000: but there was no way a small shipment of tobacco and booze could have been so profitable. Osbaldeston continued, but he began to realise that something was wrong, he was being duped.

‘You know our agreement,’ said Osbaldeston, ‘all the money we’ve put into the business has been used to buy real estate. With a little help from Council grants, Dickie has renovated them. We’re the four shareholder/directors of the company and to all intents and purposes we’re entirely clean. The business is totally respectable,’ his voice rose to emphasize the point.

Henri broke the short silence that followed. ‘What do you mean by assets of £60, 000,’ he said, ‘surely we have not put that much money in.’

‘No, you’re right,’ said Osbaldeston, ‘but with accumulated profits and capital growth over the last twelve months, that’s what the company is worth now.’

Henri struggled with the English phrases, but even in his native tongue financial matters were not something that he was accustomed to. He was a working fisherman who drew his wages every week, and he left the worry of controlling the finances to his captain, because, that was not what he was paid to do.

‘You mean that we are each worth £15000,’ he said tentatively, but there was satisfaction in his tone.

‘Well yes, but it’s all tied up in property,’ said Osbaldeston.

‘Then things are just fucking dandy, aren’t they.’ There was heavy sarcasm in Ted’s voice.

He was in no mood to be deceived any more. He knew how difficult it was to run a small business, how difficult it was to earn profits, and how much return could be expected from each trip. It was his day-to-day livelihood, and money was hard to come by. He knew how easy it was for him to be out of pocket on a fishing trip, a scarcity on the grounds, a loss of fishing gear. There could be mechanical failure, severe weather or simply low prices at the fish markets even when they had fish to sell.

‘What are we actually smuggling, George,’ he said, his voice low, guttural, ‘you don’t make 20,000 quid from evading duty on small consignments of booze and fags.’

There was an awkward silence; George Osbaldeston considered whether he could continue his deception. He did not consider himself a cheat, he was not trying to swindle his partners, but it was true he was deceiving them. He was now confronted with his own betrayal, and he had to account for it. He sucked at his lip, then finally spoke.

‘It takes too long, Ted,’ he said, his voice conciliatory, ‘it would take years to build up enough capital your way. We’re missing so many opportunities to invest because we haven’t got any capital behind us. He paused and then quietly said, ‘there’s a lot of money in drugs, Ted.’

Ted let out a piercing exclamation. ‘JESUS CHRIST! - These other guys are fucking villains aren’t they? They’re here to protect their fucking investment, not to help us unload.’

Osbaldeston nodded, then shrugged his shoulders, ‘well what did you expect, Ted.’

But Ted did not expect to be duped, and his rage continued, his torrent of verbal abuse piecing the unusually quite night. Osbaldeston and Henri attempted to placate him, but he would have none of it.

On board the other vessel, the heated exchanges were heard by three other men. They could not readily decipher what was being said, but it was clear that a confrontation was taking place, and they knew what they were being paid for. The leader of the men drew a pistol from a concealed holster under his arm and nodded to his companions in the direction of the other boat. They responded without speaking and the three of them boarded the first vessel. The leader put his hand, still holding the pistol in the side pocket of his jacket and then moved to the cabin door.

‘THAT’S ENOUGH!’ he shouted while at the same time kicking the door hard so that it banged open against the cabin housing, the noise of the impact sounding out like a bull whip cracking in anger. It revealed his presence, framed in the doorway, the light from the cabin illuminating his ruthless face.

A powerfully built man, if not a particularly tall one, stern of face without any trace of warmth, reinforced by the even harsher tone in his voice. He spoke in English with a distinct London accent, h-dropping, F's for th. He wanted to make an immediate impact on the situation, he succeeded emphatically. Ted and Osbaldeston stopped suddenly and turned around to look at the man in the doorway. Henri’s eyes followed theirs, just in time to see the other two men appear and stand behind the first. For a second calm fell over the scene, but this was short lived, broken dramatically when Ted let out another tirade of abuse.

‘Get off my fucking boat! - get off my fucking boat before I throw you off!’

A nervous smile twitched in the corner of the first man’s mouth. This was what he was paid for, and this is what he did well. He was excited by the prospect of trouble.

‘Look son,’ he said in a guttural, menacingly loud voice, ‘you do what I tell ya, and nobody will get urt - all right?’

He was unprepared for Ted’s reaction, however. He was used to people doing exactly what he told them to do. He was used to being in control. Ted would have probably been no different in normal circumstances and capitulated to the man’s aggression, but what the man had overlooked was territory. This was Ted’s boat, and he was the captain of it. He also was used to being obeyed, being in control, he was not going to relinquish dominance easily. He lunged at the villain, shouting, repeating what he had said, ‘GET OFF MY FUCKING BOAT!’

He took the man by the lapels of his crumpled jacket and drew him towards him pulling downwards at the same time so that the man’s face was below his, revealing a large area of porcelain white eyeball, cross-crossed with red spidery veins as the man looked back up at him.

‘CAN YOU NOT FUCKING HEAR ME?’ Ted yelled again, but at that moment the air was pierced by the cracking sound of a gunshot.

Again a hush fell over the scene, but this time no sounds followed to disturb it. All the eyes present turned to look at Ted Petersen; the silence continued, deafening, punctuated only by the beating of thumping hearts. Ted’s face contorted both with pain and the enormity of the realisation that overtook him. He sank slowly to his knees still clutching the other man’s lapels, pulling his adversary forwards, so he was bent over him. The man was still standing, but his body was distorted, resembling a praying mantis standing over its quarry, ready to devour ravenously. He grabbed at Ted’s hands, with a tense and forceful jerk yanked them free of his lapels. Ted’s hands, although no longer gripping remained rigid, configured like the talons of an eagle. As he broke free, he fell forward onto his knees, then shrivelled into a tight ball. His friend Henri rushed to him, but whatever he said Ted Petersen did not hear him.

He rolled backwards onto his heels painfully, so that he could look up, but his body remained withered, unable to straighten up, unable to stand. His eyes were wide open and staring, disbelieving, bringing a fearful look to his face as if the devil himself was before him. His piercing look burned deep into Henri’s consciousness, a vision that was to stay with him the rest of his life. That stare said many things to him, incredulity, alarm, panic, fear, distress - but most of all, betrayal. It said help me - but Henri could not.

A pool of blood began to smear the planking around his twisted frame. He looked down at his hands that were gripped to his stomach where the bullet had entered. They were vermillion, as was his heavy sweater. He began to fall backwards off his heels, but Henri, supported him. His looked back up at his friend for several terrible minutes, but to Henri it seemed like a time without end. Then the loss of blood began to take effect. His vision began to blur, he felt a coldness welling up and purveying every fibre of his being. He began to tremble, to shiver uncontrollably.

‘I’m cold,’ he said almost inaudible so that only Henri heard him. His eyes closed, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. He never woke again.

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CHAPTER 2.

(22 YEARS LATER)

The 22nd June was my birthday, my 25th birthday. But there was something more, there was anticipation, something out of the ordinary; I had an appointment with a local solicitor. I was upbeat, I was expecting good news, but somehow it felt unreal as if I were the hero of a novel who reads in a local newspaper that he should call a firm of solicitors where he would learn something to his advantage. I smiled to myself at the thought; it was a fancy, not reality. I already knew what it was about - I was an heir, it was all straightforward. I was a beneficiary under a trust set up by my late uncle, and now I was about to receive my inheritance.

I had taken the day off from my job as an Insurance Assessor, taken the opportunity to have a lie in; I had slept restfully but dreamed of a sports car; gleaming red, the wind in my hair as I raced along a coast road. I rose just after 10 a.m., showered, dressed and then sat down to my breakfast; I checked my watch: 10.30. My appointment was for 11.45, I calculated that if he left at 11.00 it would give me ample time to drive the short distance from my city centre flat to the solicitor’s office. I could, therefore, relax for half an hour over breakfast and read the newspaper. I turned to the back page to read the sports news, but my mind was now full of anticipation, I wondered if the legacy would be enough to buy that sports car. I had seen one second-hand, but it was still expensive; I wanted it desperately.

I gave up on the newspaper unable to concentrate on it, retrieved my briefcase from behind the front door where I had left it the night before. I took out a thin folder marked, -‘‘PERSONAL/FINANCIAL’’. I had worked for the Insurance Company for nearly seven years now, joining them straight from school after sitting my A levels, and they had taught me the need to keep a tight control of correspondence, and for it to be easily accessible - I had learned how to be methodical, professional. I poured myself another cup of coffee, opened the file and began to read its contents.

It began with a brief letter from the solicitor dated six weeks before. It was headed, -‘MESSRS FOWLER AND FOWLER, LAND OF GREEN GINGER, HULL.’ Again there was something unreal, this time that address - it had strangeness to it, an oddity; as I read on I thought that it added an air of surrealism to the day. I wondered if I might wake up at any moment to realise that it had all been a dream. But the letter was real enough and explained in two short paragraphs what it was all about.

Dear Nicholas,

The Estate of Edward Petersen Deceased.

I understand that you will shortly attain the age of 25 on the 22nd June, at which time you will inherit the legacy left to you by your late uncle. I am currently arranging for the change in the registration of the shareholding at present held in trust for you so that the transfer can be made on your birthday.

May I suggest that you call to see me at 11.45 a.m. on the 22nd June so that the necessary documents can be signed and given to you? If this date is not suitable will you please telephone my secretary to arrange a mutually convenient appointment?

Yours faithfully

James Fowler

Anxious not to look foolish in front of the solicitor, I wrote back confirming the appointment, but also requesting a copy of the Probate and Will. I thought that this would give an impression of professionalism although I was not sure why I needed to, but it would stand me in good stead when the interview took place.

The Will had duly been produced, this was the final item in the thin folder. It was odd reading it, words that came from my late uncle, a man that I didn‘t know, had met only as an infant child. Now, for the first time, this man, my benefactor seemed like a real person to me, something that I had never felt before. When I had been a child, mother had spoken many times to me about her brother. He had always seemed such a heroic figure to a small boy, but a distant one. Uncle Ted had been a fisherman working out of Hull on the North Sea trawlers, but his mother, my gran had said he was something of a rough diamond. He had always been popular, but throughout his early life, if there had been mischief to find then he would find it - or so gran had said. As he grew up the mischief got worse, and it was an enormous relief to all the family when he went to sea. Generations of his forebears were trawler men and the general view was that the hard life at sea would be good for him.

As I read on, the contents of the probate seemed to bring Uncle Ted closer to me, although, in reality I could not even remember meeting him. Death had come to my uncle 22 years ago; I had been only a small child at the time.

The probate read:

IN THE HIGH COURT OF JUSTICE - THE PRINCIPLE PROBATE REGISTRY.

BE IT KNOWN THAT: EDWARD PETERSEN OF 55 Rue De La Capelle, Fécamp, died on or since the 20th August at some place unknown. ENGLISH BUT DOMICILED IN FRANCE.

AND BE IT FURTHER KNOWN that at the date hereunder written the last will and testament of the said deceased was proved and registered in the Principle Probate Registry of the High Court of Justice and Administration of all the estate which by law devolves to and vests in the personal representative of the said deceased was granted to HAROLD FOWLER of the Land of Green Ginger, Hull, Solicitor.

I had been told all about Uncle Ted; the sea and he had been made for each other. He was an independent man, outgoing and adventurous, yet he was also an intensely private man with emotions that ran deep; the deep sea was a metaphor for his personality. Mum had always said that you never knew what was in her brother’s mind, or what he was likely to get up to. His death had come as a great shock, but she was not entirely surprised; she had said many times that his wanderlust would get him into trouble. I know there is no harder life than that of a trawler man. Working in Arctic waters, death at sea is part of the way of life in fishing communities. At the age of 23, Uncle Ted had left the Hull trawler fleet, but not fishing. He had been on one of his roving’s, this time through France, and he had met a French girl, Collette, and after the proverbial whirlwind romance had married her. True to form it turned out that Collette was the daughter of a fisherman, and his new father-in-law worked his own boat, fishing in-shore out of Fécamp, a fishing port on the coast of Normandy.

Mum told me that the two men had got on like a house on fire, the common bond of the sea being stronger than the division of nationality. He had initially gone to work for his father-in-law, but had quickly been made a partner in the business. Ted never actually saw it as a business; it was much more than that to him. The robust way of life suited his character, and he felt at ease with other fishermen. He was soon to become the dominant partner in the fishing business, his French father-in-law being happy to acquiesce having no sons of his own. He was at an age when his friends were passing the reins on to their sons, and he was relieved that his daughter had not married totally outside the fishing community. By his middle twenties, Uncle Ted apparently had everything he wanted, a beautiful wife, a job that he loved to do and the freedom of being his own boss. He was much envied by mum and the rest of his family. He was the first in the family to own his own boat

He had been a frequent visitor home, every week or so, despite living in France, and true to his generous nature he would arrive bearing various gifts; usually French food, passing on to his family the culinary delights that his wife was introducing him to. Savouries and sweets, that were unknown to my provincial working class family, were consumed with apprehension and delight in equal proportions; a visit from Uncle Ted was always hugely popular.

He and his wife wanted a family desperately, but they had still been a young couple, and this was not seen a serious problem - there was plenty of time. But of course there wasn’t, and tragedy struck as it so often does with fishermen. He had gone out with his boat one day and neither he nor his boat was ever seen again. The only clue to the disaster being the boat’s lifebuoy which was washed ashore some weeks later; the irony was that he was used to sailing in perilous Arctic waters, in hazardous conditions, but he had been lost a few miles from home in relatively calm waters. The sea had taken another life and created another widow. It had been expected that his widow would take all his effects and assets, and it had come as something of a surprise when some months later, my mother had received a letter from the solicitors advising that I had been left some shares in a private company, to be paid to me on my 25 the birthday.

I took another sip of coffee, shaking off my contemplation, turned the page and began to read the Will.

THIS IS THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT of me EDWARD PETERSEN OF LE PETIT MAISON, 55 RUE DE LA CAPELLE, FÉCAMP, REPUBLIC OF FRANCE.

(1) I hereby revoke all former wills and testament dispositions made by me.

(2) I appoint HAROLD FOWLER, solicitor, of the Land of Green Ginger, Kingston upon Hull (hereinafter called my trustee) to be my Executor and Trustee of this my Will.

(3) I declare that the meaning of the concept of domicile has been carefully explained by my solicitor Harold Fowler, and that I have for several years been domiciled in the Republic of France.

(4) I further declare that this my Will has been executed by me for the purpose of dealing with, and disposing of all the real and personal estate belonging to me situate or arising in England and Wales and Scotland and the provisions here are not intended to and do not extend to any other real or personal estate which may belong to me at my death.

(5) I give all my chattels as defined in S.55 of the Administration of Estates Act 1925 to my wife Collette Petersen absolutely free of duty.

(6) My Trustees shall stand possessed of the residue, upon trust to pay the income arising to my nephew Nicholas Beverley until he attains the age of 25. Thereafter, on attaining the age of 25 my trustees shall pay the residue to the said Nicholas Beverley absolutely.

In witness thereof, I have hereunto set my hand to the Will, on the first day of March,

Edward Petersen

I smiled inwardly amused by the antiquated language, but I understood what it was all about, I felt confident I could discuss the matter clearly with the solicitor. I had never received any income from the trust, so I made a note to ask about it at the interview by highlighting item 5 of the Will as a reminder. The will was the last page in the file, and I returned it carefully to my briefcase. I looked at my watch - it was a minute after 11.00 o’clock, so I went to the coat rack by the door and took down my suit jacket. As I slipped the button into the button-hole I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror; I liked what I saw. Six feet one inch tall, I was an impressive man I thought, well groomed, brown hair and stone grey eyes. I keep myself fit by running regularly; represented my branch of the Insurance Company in the cross country at their national sports day, I even ran in the London marathon. My passion, however, is rugby league, playing loose forward, a position to which I bring both pace and mobility, despite a lack of genuine weight for the position in my 13-stone frame. But today I felt I looked the part; I turned to the left and then to the right admiring myself - M’mmm, I was ready.

I was aware that I had an imposing presence and that I was perceived as a big man. In the mirror, I adjusted the red and black tie that I had decided on, but flicked open the button of my dark blue suit deciding that unbuttoned was better after all. Finally, I shot my cuffs, surveyed myself one last time. Patting my side pocket, I heard my car keys rattle; I opened the front door and stepped outside, briefcase in hand. A whole new life was about to begin, but, I was not yet aware of it.

*

CHAPTER 3.

My two bedroom apartment was in a modern complex overlooking the Albert Dock near the city centre of Hull. The complex was a conversion from an original dock warehouse building, exactly what I wanted, it was both contemporary and attractive, and on the edge of the town centre; it tuned in with the life style I wanted, my first independence since leaving home. I guess I saw myself as an eligible bachelor. I crossed the courtyard to where my car was parked, a black Mondeo company car, and unlocked the door. I stood for a moment, looked at the morning; it was such a splendid day I considered walking; my spirits were so high, matched by the weather, but then I looked at my watch, decided that I shouldn’t be late.

The drive across town was short, but I was irritated by the city’s one way system, which initially took me in the opposite direction. I then had trouble parking, but eventually found a meter some one hundred yards from the solicitor’s office. Looking at my watch again I realised that it was still only 11.20 a.m., I had some minutes to kill, so I strolled up