Proxy Lover

By Neil Willis

Proxy Lover Author Neil Willis
This family computer crime catastrophe revolves around Jason Denson and his family, concerned that too many clients were being let down by his defence team,
However, one of his prime witnesses, his wife, is accidentally shot, with the other, a prostitute, mysteriously disappearing,
The targeted murderer colleague, is really working for the Finance Investigation bureau, examining computer fraud,

The police chase across international lines after a money laundering fraud, using a defunct computer ENDPROG programme

The family in chaos, and the ENDPROG programme providing yet another disastrous discovery toward the end. the family ends in disaster

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Willis
• Release date: Jul 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465919670

Neil Willis

Neil Willis continues his writing career, further to One Year On My Hundred and Songs From The Mansion House Garden, with The Men With No Names. Written as poetry and prose it allows him more expression to the reader. Ever opinionated, ever thought-provoking, he can seduce you into softness before spelling a harsh reality, but leaving you wanting a little bit more. The Men With No Names is to be read from first page to finish to get the full storylines passing through the book. These are four-fold: the life of the seated man, a brief touch-history of black people’s lives, the small town with a democracy hill for debating, and the world of peculiar people.

Book preview

Chapter One.

If only you could flick a switch, like a light control, enabling you to re evaluate the nuances of choices previously made, not life changing, not to become famous or rich, but just enough to allow you to take perhaps ten seconds instead of two, on a simple choice.

Choices that themselves aren’t world shattering, not the butterfly effect stuff, just small, simple decisions regarding everyday experiences. Decisions that, in turn, may eventually impact on others around. Jason found himself allowing these thoughts to meander around him several months later, months that had presented him with a number of evolving circumstances leading to this point, where, seated by his wife’s bedside, a whole new theatrical performance was arising before him.

A situation that had developed from nothing, or at least virtually little, that, in turn, was not only in the process of changing his life, but also all those distinctive and subtle tonal qualities that he now finds himself in.

It was, after all, only a number of weeks ago that this impression of uncertainty had slowly begun to emerge, quietly, from really, nothing at all, to change and eventually, almost disintegrate his world, on that morning, not so long ago.

Jason usually left home at around seven-thirty on Friday mornings, but this particular Friday he spent longer than usual sat in his car on the white gravel driveway. Staring for a while, peering over a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, down and across his immaculately maintained runway entrance, towards a cleanly cut and lined lawn before him, this grassed area, its self, edging gently forward, presented a smooth mature vista, before arriving within touching distance of a more established roadway, approximately 50 yards before him.

He’d not always lived like this, in a comfortable middle class house, generally situated away from any troublesome areas or complicated danger, but had originally come from a rather poor but hardworking family in England, an area, he sometimes dreamt about, but had only visited once since emigrating to the USA many years previously. His family wanted him to work away from the mining area he was brought up in, the whole family being engaged with, or being connected to the Derbyshire mining county in the centre of England.

Leaving school at 16, and starting work in the local, ‘by then’, nationalized, coal mines of that area, eventually finding himself working in the same colliery as his father for a year, he was however, at that time, also attending Saturday morning Art school, and decided when nearing 17, that he may be better suited studying the visual arts full time.

It was here, while at this school of art, that, each lunch time he joined a group of other art students to visit a nearby college for lunch, The small Art school simply didn’t have the facilities, so, as regular as clockwork, this discrete group walked between sites enabling him to meet his girlfriend Carol, who would eventually become his wife.

Later on changing to study Law, while living and working as a teacher in London, they eventually immigrated to the USA, initially as a placement opportunity with Becket and Becker’s, a substantial law firm, eventually finding himself employed as a junior litigator’s assistant working across a whole range of differing city case files.

He would often find himself spending time while traveling to work thinking through the number of scenarios he’d become engaged in with his fellow litigators, giving him a quiet period when his mind could range from one case to another back at the court offices. In this state, he could examine, inside himself, any developmental problems that came up regularly at his new work space. Things that were going well, and often some of those cases that had been on file in the companies archives for years, and, although he hadn’t been around while many of these cases had unfolded, they still played on his mind from time to time.

This period, alone in his warm cocoon cell of a car, had become so valuable and restful during these past months, highlighting numerous question and answers, allowing him to run over the many cases he had in his in-tray, while generally passing these across the area desk, Files that had required several staff ,and at times, different assisting attorneys.

This particular morning found himself staring through the windscreen for quite a while, perhaps four or five minutes, long enough to cause his wife Carol, to tap on the upstairs window while mouthing, Is there a problem? He waved with the back of his hand, ‘no problem’.

Jason is the type of driver who slowly and methodically prepares the vehicle before moving off. Seatbelt on, automatic in gear, mirror checked including its wing mirrors, rear-view mirror etc, while only then, often slipping on a pair of ‘driving’ gloves, which had been methodically placed on the front adjoining passenger seat, when he’d exited the car previously.

Regularly and carefully making a visual check of available space around the vehicle and of course, the exit and driveway. In turn, very slowly and cautiously maneuvering the large immaculate, although dated brown Lincoln, It’s five litre motor emanating a gentle purring ‘mumble’, while this metal galleon gracefully slipped along his white gravel roadway, so that only the power steering pump and an occasional steering ‘ hiss ‘, could be heard.

Many, many years previously, Jason had enjoyed a TV series, he remembers as, ‘Cannon’, where an overweight detective’s would be seen around his local investigative area driving a beautiful 1970’s two door Lincoln Continental, and, ever since, he’s always wanted to acquire one similar. His car contained a close quality, but still not quite that period vehicle he craved.

Halfway along this driveway he would slowly pass his three trees, one oak and two weeping willows. The one oak tree he’d carried from abroad as an acorn, slipped inside his coat pocket as an afterthought, on leaving behind the only country home he’d ever known, England.

Unfortunately this oak, being so slow-growing had only reached a height of about nine or ten feet, in turn being dwarfed by these two more languid species. The three reminded him particularly of visits to that part of his old country where the river Derwent stumbles through open fields, in turn, here and there appearing as one of those slow meandering waters that's both crystal clear and semi transparent at the same time, having progressed slowly through several of the nearby counties, until it reached these Derbyshire Dales, only then accelerating around an occasional low rock fall. Jason remembers those willows leaning gently towards the river banks, each one having at least one ‘fond’ stroking the water’s surface as if to delay it’s firm but stately progress. These willow trees were American, but exactly like those he remembers many years previously protecting the banks of that area, and particularly the river Derwent. This breadth of water had traveled throughout the whole county, changing at times from a closely knit speeding surge to this stage, where it simply meanders slowly through Derbyshire, the area that he knew so well.

Sometimes, though usually on a Sunday, the family might occasionally take weekend rides around the area, an important event for his parents’ generation, an event that was popular after decades of restricted travel and food rationing following the Second World War. It was there that he remembers that tranquil scene, with some trees nearly touching the slow-moving clear liquid, the surrounding silence only broken by an occasional, plop, of a leaping hungry fish.

All of these three trees were growing quite successfully now, the willow’s, already large specimen’s that hang their tissue branches nearly to floor level, not quite reaching the ground. The grass here was just as he visualized being at water level, much like those he remembers by that river Derwent.

The motor was never revved, but slowly and surely, he would squeeze it’s accelerator to take, this once top of the line vehicle majestically to the curb edge. Stopping, he looked both ways, lowered the electric windows, with a gentle, ‘hum ’, on both sides of the car, to listen again, even though the estate he lived on was fairly quiet and was essentially a closed circle. Now and then a neighbour would drive past at a suitably controlled 15 to 20 mph. such that, this time of the day, the whole vista presented a scene of formal structured organized suburban tranquility.

Occasionally Jason would look back and smile to himself, recalling how his good fortune had accumulated over the years, It was back then, that he met his to be wife, Carol during those lunch time visits, while she, in turn, was studying industrial management at the ‘Tech ’.

It had been during this period that they met resulting from their individual timetables crossing for one session only on Wednesday mornings, as insignificant as this seemed, this thought remained and transferred him back to the days at that local Art School in England, although decades of changes had revolved around their lives since, during their time together. Carol, his wife, had worked part time for the past eleven years, since the birth of their two children, John and Sara. She’d held a fulltime post at a local medical centre, which, due to their growing family was temporarily on hold, however as time passed, together they had gradually both wondered if she would ever eventually return, since the fulltime motherhood and wife role didn’t seem that bad and isolated as they both thought it would be after all. This outward calm and placid exterior belied Jason’s ‘more calculating’ side, perhaps because of his other activities and past experiences, his day to day structured clear and concise outward appearance were maintained, and if anything, embraced with a great degree of internal satisfaction.

It hadn’t always been his ambition to be a lawyer, after leaving school; he started work at the local coal mine as an apprentice electrician, followed by time as a student at the local school of art, situated some miles away, but close to the town where he was to meet his girlfriend, having had, at that time, an intention of being a designer, of some sort. consequently enjoying a tranquil period of visual arts study immensely, he’d spent nearly two years at Lesterfield College of Art studying ‘fine arts’, while becoming increasingly immersed in the idea of product design, rather than the more intangible visual arts generally. Pressure from home and many of his contempories soon brought Jason back to the reality of earning a sensible living. His father was an electrical engineer who had achieved that success through hard daytime work, supported by several days a week of evening study, or ‘night classes’ , during the second world war.

This environment, together with all the family being engineers of varying descriptions, seriously placed Jason onto a clearly articulated career pathway. His liberal arts background, together with the fact that he played drums for several local bands, enhanced his approach to a world of generalized understanding and, he feels, made him a better and more objective lawyer.

Pausing at the end of the drive, then with a smooth ‘flourish’, swept the humming vehicle onto the estate’s main road, and in silence, moved the gear to drive, only then turning to the CD player and pressing play for the ‘Eagles’, from the selector list available.

The remainder of his journey to work along ‘Cuba’, towards its main intersection was a short interlude, consequently enabling him to prepare for the day’s events ahead, and the car, for a more contemplative and comfortable journey. Traveling along I90 was usually uneventful, disturbed only by the occasional recognition of other commuters, greeting each other, when recognized with a wave, smile, or in turn lights flashing, Jason would similarly respond as his transient interstate ‘neighbours’ flashed past, usually at much greater speeds than himself.

The whole journey tended to take about fifty minutes, being regularly highlighted by his car computer, now adjusted to ‘UK English’, occasionally interrupting, in turn this accented voice speaking Satellite navigation smoothly announcing, ‘you have arrived at your destination’ as he pulled into 1256 state street, the office underground storage and car park below the sleek eight story offices of his employers, Becket and Becker’s, Here the road arrows led him slowly down the lighted slip ramp into their priority parking space, allocated for staff of sufficient standing.

Becket and Becker’s, was a midsized litigation and law company attached to the city lawyers department as a liaison and bridging support for prosecution and defense, working alongside the cities own district compliance department.

Jason, having worked in the same department for nearly seven years, and in turn having previously been employed by the district attorney’s office, and before that a , comfortable and happy period in the nearby state of Wisconsin’s local authority housing department, evaluating land registration cases and the legality of claims as well as tribunal disputes regarding land boundaries. He’d moved to that first real employment from Becket and Becker’s after his initial ‘placement’ from England was over, only to be invited back shortly afterwards.

These offices, built at the turn of the century, abounded with neo Georgian and classical features, including the period wrought iron stairwells, a sense of architectural historical association he particularly liked. He often walked up these stairs to the second floor, occasionally exiting through those doors from that staircase into that first or second level, simply to say, hello, to staff established within these differing work areas, The main office and records storage departments, here he probably knew more colleagues than in his own section on the floor above, the second level. That floor, his own, lit as it is with definitely a more prestigious array of up lighters that had been cast from life size models of 1930 Nouveau style art, ‘dancing ladies’, in turn ranged along the entrance corridor walls towards reception, an area staffed by two well established secretaries who’s knowledge of litigation issues is probably as sound as the lawyers and litigation clerks further inside.

It was Jason who’d previously suggested that the company obtained original paintings as well as faux up lighters for this entrance, consequently, since being accepted as the, ‘man to call on’, when issues of décor, taste or just plain good value are on hand. This aura was probably from fallout from his early days at art school, whatever the reason he’s popular and envied by some of his colleagues, and at times flattered by the female staff as, ‘unfortunately’, married.

His popularity and ‘artistic’ approach is directly opposite to what he outwardly appears, perhaps a contributing factor, and reason for his outstanding success here at Becker’s, which, according to colleagues, generally comes about because he has the knack of persuading others of his position through legal arguments and a clear sense of commitment. But also being able to relax, at times playing his favourites from radio or an IPod through speakers partly hidden within some of the centre’s legal scripts, these he’d mounted generously on various bookshelves.

Across the room would occasionally drift the ‘Eagles’, Simply Red and at times country music, Jason keeping quiet about this love of ‘Country and Western’, but reveling in the story telling it brings, however predictable, a sense of ‘humanity’ within it.

Unlike most of his colleagues, he had decorated the office himself, Beckets of course provided the workmen, but after that, his paintings, prints and white leather sofas, with cream floor covering were installed by himself, occasionally assisted by one of the female legals. This self decoration being everything the true city lawyer would simply not do, hence his badge and elevated position, well established within the group.

The office, positioned towards the end of this second floor provides a degree of privacy that allows Jason to work in a generally undisturbed environment. He’d always enjoyed a degree of solitude while knowing a number of colleagues had similar sized spaces within several yards. One of these, Dave Farrell, working from an adjoining room two doors further down from Jason’s own space, was going through a number of witness statement when Jason, who had by this time, moved slowly down the corridor between the two offices and quietly tapped on Dave’s door, but unusually for him, walked casually straight in.

The whole quiet temperance quality told him that Dave was delicately employed at this time, and so, being aware that Dave didn’t have a ‘customer’, obviously Jason would have respected that necessary privacy under those circumstances, but this time was different.

Beckets was a well established ‘firm’, and had encouraged a quiet formal approach to each other, with office protocol only being relaxed for well established colleagues. Morning J? Dave murmured in a steady measured tone, How’s tricks? Jason didn’t respond, but continued moving across the room while still being aware of the others territory. Mind if I sit down Dave? he articulated in a clear way, however Dave remained quiet, though still not responding immediately, Jason knew he was a sincere fellow and extremely polite, so waited for a further response.

Dave Farrell was a large man, now in his 40s, well respected by his work colleagues, usually having a larger than life jolly bouncy manner, nearly always being found wearing a dark suit but then often embellishing this with bright red braces or trouser supports giving him this jaunty, ‘I’m approachable’ air, to all around him.

Walking slowly across the office, Jason openly remarked, I'd like to discuss something with you? Dave Farrell waved his left hand towards the sofa, not looking up, and continuing to write on the yellow lined paper used as ‘folder notes’. The room was quiet and peaceful at this time of day, a relaxed environment that encouraged him to lean back on a tempting settee while waiting for Dave who was obviously in the middle of some calculation.

Speaking first, Jason opened the conversation, even though it was clear that Dave was in the middle of some complex piece of work or other, and had something on his mind.

Do you know Dave; we’ve now dealt with twenty seven aggravated murder one cases, over the last three and a half years together. The other said nothing, just nodding in agreement while pushing together his heavy jawed lips in a contemplative agreement. Eventually responding with an abrupt, OK-aaay, Dave slurred slowly, waiting for the next punch line, and? he said as if a whole generation of clients and customers had simply passed him by. Is there a point to that statement, Jason? developing a more interested and concerned expression.

He’d known Jason for a good many years previously, while he was on his placement, before they met as work colleagues; even so Dave Farrell hadn’t known exactly what his role at Beckers was in those days. Dave’s past professional experience of Jason was that he was clearly aware that he seldom made general statements without some motive, or at least leading up to some further topic of discussion, so he simply waited for what seemed ages before visually acknowledging him, at this point, he looked up from his screen and waited for an explanation of these, ‘off hand comments’.

We’ve worked on twenty seven cases with seventeen having been quite successful, resulting in ‘not guilty’ or substantially reduced sentences. These then obviously indicating some degree of doubt somewhere along the line, he paused, Leaving us with the ten guiltiest. With that Jason suspended his outpouring, sharply taking an intake of breath, while Dave looked back at his screen and typed for a further thirty seconds or so, then, looking up, for the first time eyed Jason straight in the face and paused, Again Jason continued, We both know at least three of these were probably innocent, but we simply didn’t have the ‘were with all’ to get together the right verdict.

Proceeding to move his hand across several items scattered across the spacious desk, Dave Farrell precisely picked up a pencil, holding it at the extreme end so that it hung down, like a drumstick, spinning the pencil in his fingers several times. He knew from past experience that Jason was about to launch into some mission, which, no doubt, would involve himself.

You see Dave, he lowered his voice as if he himself was over concerned or guilty of some secretly about to happen crime. I don’t know how we can continue to allow some of these people to become lifers, or go to the chair, when we know in our hearts, in some cases, that they’re really innocent. Dave slowly but surely placed his head in his hands then resting on one hand only, he again looked back towards the screen. Dave, we’ve got to do something even if it’s a cost to Becker’s, something now I’m afraid. Jason, now standing while still hovering near the sofa, so that from this elevated stance he simply towered over the desk, but continuing to look down at Dave’s computer as if resigned to a ‘no response’ attitude.

I can’t just sit back knowing that Jonathan Styles, Kevin Homan and Asif Hussein, were sent to the chair, I can see Asif’s wife and daughter now pleading for me to help, she knew, I knew, we all knew but we did nothing, or nothing that meant anything in the end. He was put down, based on eye witness evidence that was simply unreliable. Unreliable, unbelievable, Oh! You know what I mean. His voice, now a little shaky, and falling in pitch as well as volume, You know what I mean Dave.

Dave thought for a while, still seated, his face allowing his mouth to open slightly pressing firmly a strong tongue into his upper teeth, took a deep breath. Jason, it doesn’t happen that way, you know as well as I that we have enough checks and balances in the system to keep the end-run legal. Jason simply uttered end-run? Yes end-run Jason, even when we’ve had some doubt, there’s always something fishy or awkward that keeps us thinking, perhaps he did it or she did it. In my mind I’ve never come across a clear case of someone who’s not guilty that eventually ended up in the chair.

It’s the way it is, Jason, you know that, you can’t start worrying after we’ve played our part and done our bit in the process. Other lawyers go through the same procedure whether it’s with defense or prosecution, you know, and at times we all have some doubts, he paused before quietly continuing, concluding, but not many.

It’s the ‘not many’, that I’m concerned with, these people are trusting in us, as well as the system to make things right most of the time, they trust us to be concerned and they trust us to stand up and be counted at the end. I bet you’d think again if it happened to either of us.

Dave interrupted, "but it won’t, and if it did, if we somehow got mixed up in a murder or some other serious crime, the system would unravel the scene to get at the truth. Now you know that, Jason,

So let’s just get on with some of the other files we’ve both got piling up around here."

Jason stood up and walked to the window, this second floor level was near enough to the ground to allow a view of the passing daily business crowd, he liked that. Some of the more senior staff had offices as high as the 6th floor. A pleasant view, but in his eyes too detached from what was happening all around. He felt that from this level he could relate to ‘the people’, not just see them as cash cows.

Looking across at Dave, his friend for over several years, who, it appears, had worked his way to the top very quickly. Most staff work through a sequence of promotion or moving up every six or seven years, but Dave Farrell seems to have just arrived on the scene and been moved into private clients so soon. He had apparently followed the well worn pattern through hard work, study in evenings, university and a part time job at Radio Shack to pay the rent during the semester sessions. Dave was no fool and was certainly a man with a conscience, but like many around him, the clients were just that, clients who we work for, then move on when the jobs finished.

Jason wanted to look further, see what could be done and discuss in depth with Dave, some sort of way forward, Dave however believed that the value of a lawyer was his ability to abstract, be distanced and hopefully objective with regards the approach to whatever is being dealt with.

"

We have to deal with people’s lives and lifestyles that we seldom fully understand; we need to try to get behind them why we’re here in the pre trial discussions, often sat with police detectives and others who also see themselves as objective players in what is always a failure in some manner of somebody’s relationships. Someone will always be a loser. But we need to find the winners from those who have fingers pointed at them." His voice trailing away into a quiet soothing nothingness, then suddenly stopped.

Dave decided that the conversation was going nowhere, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, joined his hands at the finger tips in a steeple position, remaining quiet for a short while ,looking at the half full waste basket in the corner, partly hidden behind Jason. I’m not sure any more where we’re leading to, and more importantly he wasn’t sure he wanted to be involved at this stage with any additional work, as it sounded like Jason was about to suggest they get involved in something he wasn’t too happy with. You know Jason, you’ve got a point, but the nature of what we’re dealing with, we’ll never fully understand or know.

Deciding enough was enough, making this into an opportunity to leave the office. The whole discussion had been short, with himself and probably Dave Farrell understanding that it was somehow leading towards extra research and hence overtime working. Wanting to say more, but speaking into the air, just simply ended the conversation saying. We would do, if we could get better cross references and much sounder supporting evidence.

He stood up and turning to Dave, smiled rather pensively, gave a slight shrug of the shoulders and a quick (pretence), look at his watch, strode across the area, placed a coffee cup he had been holding since leaving his own office, on the table by the door and quietly left the room.

That was that, as far as Jason was concerned, he moved down the corridor to his secretary’s outer working area, picked up some scripts from her desk and went without speaking into his own office. Closing the door gently behind him he crossed the room towards a beautiful white glossed desk, pensively glancing at the vast range of law books arranged along two walls, then carefully lowering himself into his green swivel chair.

Turning to the waste paper basket behind him, he slowly pulled out several abandoned dark blue files, tatty and well worn with a variety of writing styles and scribbled annotations on the now barely visible once white label. Jamie Styles, another case, another trial, and another failure he thought, and here we are with a blue well fingered file in a waste tray, File closed. The original would be clearly registered and ferreted away in records, two floors below. This ‘blue’ file being all that is left of the day to day working document and record of the life and death of one individual.

Jason swiveled back towards his designer desk with the file swinging loosely in his hanging arm, he stared at the ceiling fan backwards and forwards, then to his hands contents then, finally left the document on his desk, placed a yellow ‘stick note’ on it for his shared secretary’s notification. ‘Place on file’, this was the only recourse he had. ‘ON FILE’, means that at some point this case will be reviewed. For Jamie Styles however, whatever was done would be too late.

He had a reasonable work load, the management team at Becket and Becker’s met on Monday mornings in the ‘Oval office’ to distribute this loading, discuss criteria and various referencing articles. These meetings were always relaxed and friendly affairs with the chambers leader, Dr Neil Wetherspoon, being both the patriarch, and with thirty eight years law experience, a well respected senior manager who takes the nine middle managers with him on most decisions, He makes a point of sharing around the Plum assignments between the staff, all knowing that eventually their turn will come.

Jason could, if he wished, play the game and have plenty of free time supposedly for research, he however decided to meet and talk with Dr Wetherspoon about his concerns. Leaning back in his green leather period office chair, he was able to consider all the consequences of asking the boss for time to ‘research’.

An interesting word research, he thought, a word that covers plenty of sins, consequently Neil will want a clear explanation, no ‘general research’ activity for him; it will involve time plans, evaluation timetables and summary accounts as well as calculations of the time used for this energy consuming, Research activity.

So what exactly was he thinking about? What did he want to do, he couldn’t just waltz into Dr Wetherspoon’s office with some wishy washy idea about clarifying evidence, No, that would lead to nowhere, he needed a clearly more specific direction and perhaps he should consider using his work load time for his own research this time.

Jason still needed permission to carry out work on the states time and cost, especially if the general aim wasn’t clearly specified, he could however investigate causal effects and any possible miss carriages of justice, if it is within the system that he is generally engaged in.

The chair had a low ‘squeak’ that normally became lost in conversation, today however, the office was silent, only the muffled outside traffic could be heard alongside an occasional lowered voice from the adjoining corridor. Having heard these sounds many times in the past; from time to time, he would attempt to listen to others, always, aware of the guilt yet curiosity he felt. Once he heard too much of a conversation with serious morality consequences and was determined never again would he concentrate enough on these emanating ‘voices’. This time they seemed far away and only every other word could be understood, nevertheless today he listened hard as though this outsider’s voyeurism would somehow help his dilemma. Was he to carry out the research legally or should he have his head of section involved and possibly over-rule the nature of his expectation. Knowing how the subject would be taken, he paused, fully aware that the statement thrown back at him would probably be that, There is always two sides and opinions to every story, politically the country was divided, the religions were divided and the government too, so his small part in the larger scheme would raise a number of issues, not least moral judgments. The chair squeaked one single gasp as he lifted himself quickly from the seat, spinning slightly back to the forward ‘set’ position, causing him to pause, look back at the chair and his desk once more.

I’ve got to make a rational decision and as such, he decided that what was needed was a less stressful environment, That’s it; I'm off to the coffee house, he uttered to no one in particular, striding purposely while crossing his deep cream pile carpet. Walked through the door, leaving it slightly open, this off hand statement was unusual for Jason who was, at this time, only concentrating on one thing at the moment, but on he went, down the corridor past the nineteen thirties dancing ladies up lighters, he had designed and imported from England. These aluminum and brass figures stood, three on each side, as life size figures, just one of the many arts projects he had initiated which, once again, built up his ‘man of the moment’ credentials. Passing the reception desk where Sachia, the newest employee was recently housed, she in turn paused from her typing, seeing the faraway look on his face as he draped a single finger and dragged this across the front of her desk as though checking the cleaning ladies last night’s efforts, she knew something was wrong and started to ask,

Mr Denson, can I help? Jason turned slightly with a wisp of a smile but made no distinct response that would help explain his situation. Sachia hesitated for a while waiting for him to move around the corner then quietly called Jason’s colleague, David Farrell, explaining that she was concerned but didn’t want to interfere. What exactly happened? Dave asked, since this