The Hairdressers' Cut

By Mike O'Sullivan

Early on in their holiday, Lauren checks out a local hairdressing salon in Georgetown which is advertising a vacancy and as a result is offered a part-time job by the attractive owner Stephen Forbes who is from Leeds. She is immediately offered a competing business proposition by Forbes rival, James Poole, who believes his wife is romantically involved with Forbes. James Poole is a multi- millionaire financier, one of the British tax exiles on the island with friends in the UK Government and the City of London. He offers Lauren the opportunity to set up and manage a new hairdressing salon to put Forbes out of business.

While Poole is putting this proposition to Lauren over dinner in his hotel restaurant, Forbes is murdered at Poole’s beach house. Forbes is stabbed in the neck with a pair of hairdresser’s scissors apparently while visiting Poole’s wife Cindy, a former beauty queen and herself an ex hairdresser from the US. Cindy Poole disappears. Chief inspector Worcester who heads up a new specialised police investigations service based in Hereford is sent to Grand Cayman to help out the local colonial police.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Sullivan
• Release date: Jun 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310413889

Mike O'Sullivan

Mike is an Irish novelist and poet, married and living in Herefordshire England. He was born in Dublin and spent his school years in Cork. In primary school Mike needed to get by the eagle-eyed headmaster who looked hard at his long essays designed to hide the words he could not spell. This carried on further up the line when at UCD the Professor of English likened Mike to another who could not spell, George Bernard Shaw. But Mike made the connection, he did not have to be a genius at spelling.He moved to London in his twenties and has worked in a wide range of industries – music and cosmetics, in oil exploration, mining, insurance, catering, City Finance and Management Consultancy. Mike uses that experience in his novels. When he first arrived in London Mike fell in with a group of three other Irishmen debating the philosophical process of making a million or finding a job that was more like pleasure. Mike found the job, but it would take too long to explain his philosophy here. Mike says that in a sense he had a plan for life and so far it has been working out.His novels often start with an individual battling the system but without a plan of how he or she will cope. Mike believes that social systems and institutions are usually rigid when it comes to change or quick decisions and therefore the individual can become trapped. It takes effort, some courage and guile to walk out into the wider world of individual thinking. He shows that an individual can focus enough to even the odds and come out on top. He often uses humour and comedic situations to make his point leaving the reader to consider the underlying philosophy if they wish. A key element of Mike’s writing is the Irish skill of fast paced conversation as Mike’s overall aim is to entertain his readers.

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The Hairdressers’ Cut

By

Mike O’Sullivan

Copyright © 2013 by Mike O’Sullivan

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

This is a work of fiction based upon an actual event. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

The right of Mike O’Sullivan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and any subsequent amendments thereto.

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Chapter 1

June 24 near Hereford, England

‘Trouble,’ Inspector Brian Kirby wheezed through tightened lips as he looked at the number of the caller on his mobile. Chief Inspector Jack Worcester was driving them through the orchards of Herefordshire along infuriating bends with changing speed limits to get to central Hereford. It was a blindingly hot sunny morning. The air conditioning had not yet fully kicked in. They had deposited their jackets on the back seat to try to loosen up.

Jack Worcester headed up an experimental special police unit answerable direct to the Chief Constable of Herefordshire and the Home Secretary. The Chief Constable made life frustrating for the Chief Inspector by insisting on meeting in edgy places to confirm orders. Both detectives undid the second button on their open neck short sleeved shirts in response to the irritation of having to drive slower with the traffic. They wore jeans. So they were in the coolest gear for the day. Inspector Kirby listened while taking a peek at the Chief Inspector.

‘Message received,’ he answered and turned to pass on the message.

‘Sir, the Chief Constable wants to see you at the Dark Horse right away.’

The Chief Inspector swore under his breath and hung a sharp left into a lane of mothers delivering their children to school. They didn’t seem worried about their children being mown down until Chief Inspector Worcester pressed the siren and flashing headlights to see them scatter amongst the most awkwardly parked cars the policemen had seen in a while.

‘Take all their numbers down Kirby,’ he roared in frustration as he sped on.

Kirby took another quick look at his boss. A flicker of concern crossed his brow. He was thirty and the Chief was fifty.

‘Would you say Sir that I might end up like you at fifty?’

‘You’re kidding yourself if you think you’ll reach fifty in this job Inspector.’

‘Not a great recommendation is it Sir?’

‘Take on the philosophy of the other members of the unit Inspector, who are only in it for the excitement and the social justice, and you’ll get more out of life than you ever thought.’

‘Is that police career advice Sir?’

‘I’m not a policeman Inspector just a poor poet.’

‘I suppose in real terms Sir you are only three down from the Prime Minister.’

‘I hate thinking in real terms Inspector.’

Chief Inspector Worcester turned another corner dowsing the siren and switching off the flashing lights to slow down approaching the pub which was on an awkward corner between two roads and a lane. He was just in time to miss a Range Rover full of children driven by a woman who was screaming at the kids climbing up on the seats. She was zigzagging the pot holes on the way out of the pub car park and not looking for oncoming traffic, the reason the Chief Inspector found it necessary to jam on the brakes, press the horn and do a bit of screaming himself.

‘These people shouldn’t be allowed children,’ the Chief Inspector’s voice showing exasperation born of insight into what might happen next. He took a deep breath to quieten down as he slipped his Audi in beside the navy blue Jaguar of Newbelands the Chief Constable.

Newbelands waited patiently as Chief Inspector Worcester moved between the cars. The Chief Inspector deposited himself in the front passenger seat, the stink of cigar smoke determined to upset his stomach and breakfast. He looked uncomfortable. The Chief Constable who was dressed in a light grey suit was usually avoided by other officers because he had surrounded himself with an air of shadowy belligerence born of having the SAS on his patch. Even though it was his day off he was wearing a tie.

‘Last time Sir we met in the Dark Horse was the day everyone thought the PM had been kidnapped. So I believe I must be prepared to put my frail body on the line again.’

‘No one else to turn to Worcester,’ Newbelands assured him as he opened his door to throw out the remainder of his cigar. ‘It was the main reason your unit was created. And I’m very pleased it was. Your unit is one of the few with the authority to cross borders. You can get into other peoples minds faster than anyone else and mix as though you were born into anything you investigate. I just wouldn’t know how to start. And I would be lost with this case.’

The Chief Inspector nervously stirred in his seat worried by all the praise. Praise was usually dangerous. There was before battle praise and after battle praise. To get people to do battle they had to be told they were better than the other side, even if the other side outnumbered them and had better equipment. After battle praise turned to words like ‘gallant’ to describe canon fodder committing suicide. Praise was therefore associated with death in the line of duty.

The Chief Constable continued. ‘The body of a Leeds hairdresser has been found in a house owned by James Poole the tax dodging industrialist and financier in Georgetown Grand Cayman. It would appear that his wife was having an affair with the victim. At the time of the murder Poole was having supper with a hairdresser from Ross on Wye. She might be the key to solving this case.’

‘Poole is the main suspect?’ the Chief Inspector asked.

‘Right assumption Worcester,’ the Chief Constable was looking at Worcester as though he expected the next question.

‘Given the nature of my unit Sir I believe there might be an inference that we protect the tax dodging industrialist. I suppose the Home Secretary went to school with Poole. Is that what the Home Secretary had in mind?’ the Chief Inspector thought his boss looked like he knew the answer to that one.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ Newbelands seemed to be on the level for once. Chief Inspector Worcester’s raised eyebrow showed that this thought unsettled him.

‘I’m alone?’ the Chief Inspector put to his boss.

‘I feel the Home Secretary and his advisers don’t know whether Poole was involved in the murder and therefore don’t know whether they want you to succeed. They are for once undecided. As far as I am concerned it’s up to you how you handle it. You’ve been in worse positions. You will need to go to Grand Cayman to sort it out. The police there are asking for help. I believe they feel embarrassed about questioning one of the men who in effect pays their wages.’

‘So it’s edgy Sir.’

‘Oh! I have one thing up my sleeve. There is use of a yacht and there’s no rule that says you can’t have a crew from Hereford.’

‘Well I never. You’re on my side Sir.’

The Chief Constable let the sarcasm go.

‘You may need the most unlikely friends in this Worcester. The yacht may give you some independence. It will not be expected. It’s skipper is a daredevil and is anticipating adventure. Inspector Kirby has experience of sailing. The islands are a smugglers paradise. One more yacht won’t be noticed and it might give you an edge. It is good to have friends.’

‘They wouldn’t thank me considering the main suspect.’

‘You’re known as a man who sorts out the clammiest corners of intrigue. You seem to have a head for it. Poole will of course find this out too, if he doesn’t already know. Be warned. But you’ll have friends who are up to the task.’

Chief Inspector Worcester opened the door of the Chief Constable’s Jaguar and stepped out into the fresh air dulled a bit by the remaining exhaust fumes of the now long gone Range Rover. But he turned back, put his head through the open passenger door and mentioned ‘Poole has been known to use bribes.’

‘Well keep an eye on your bank balance Chief Inspector,’ Newbelands had reverted to his old self having relaxed for far too long.

Chief Inspector Worcester returned to his Audi.

‘I worked out Sir,’ said Inspector Kirby assessing the discussion between the two senior officers ‘that the shorter the time you spent with Newbelands the more dangerous the job. And you were in his car for about half the time of the last discussion when the PM’s life was in danger.’

‘Well Kirby if you think this place is warm, where we are to go will be closer to Hell. We’re heading for the Caribbean.’

‘It’s a while since I’ve seen a beach of bikinis Sir. Hell is just thinking about it.’

‘We must make plans Kirby.’

June 24 Georgetown, Grand Cayman

Lauren Canning sat up in a padded wicker chair to look out from an apartment on the tenth floor of the Royal Caribbean Hotel, Georgetown, Grand Cayman on the harbour of still water and awakening sailors in their yachts. Caribbean holidays were new to her, as was the adventure. The four star hotel was painted like the blue sky it was under. Lauren had never lived more than two stories up before Cayman. There was something magical about being so high up with so much space to relax in. The water in the harbour was a beautiful turquoise. She was breakfasting with her two friends Zoe and Claire who shared the apartment with her. They were all in their early twenties and from Ross on Wye in Herefordshire. A town clock struck eight o’clock as she finished a round of toast and stretched out for her glass of pineapple juice. They had pulled down the royal blue balcony canopy to eat out of the sun. They were in their uniform bikinis. The shade allowed them to eat without squinting at each other. Deep padding on the wicker chairs made life on their balcony touch luxury. The table was laid out like a set out of a glossy travel magazine though quite unpretentiously. An ice bucket held a large bottle of sparkling mineral water. Glass jugs of different juices put colour about and drift of Puerto Rican coffee rose above the scents of toast and fruit.

‘I can’t understand it,’ Lauren seemed a bit perplexed ‘why me?’

Claire who had also been looking over the balcony at the yachts out in the harbour turned around to take up the challenge of trying to answer. She was a hotel receptionist who swam everyday to keep in shape. She was the leanest and oldest by two years, the smoothest and the most experienced of the three of them. ‘Last night when we discussed this Lauren we were all a bit past it. I think we went through too much Bacardi. The ideas we made out were too mixed up for you. But why you got two job offers in a few days is probably only too easy to explain. You ventured out on your own. You unknowingly advertised yourself as available, ‘woman for hire,’ and you got what you deserved, offers. You are, out of the three of us, the most practical. You therefore got what I believe are practical offers by two men who might have shown more of an interest in you because of your looks. And you are wondering, if you are that good looking, why the entire male population of Ross on Wye hasn’t been chasing you. But these men are unfamiliar to you too. They are older and richer than we are used to. There’s not a lot of anything else going on here. Most tourists have come as couples and the island isn’t as glamorous as the Bahamas. So it is only by adventure that you have made the discovery you have. You are telling us that you are uncertain about both the jobs and the men, though I believe you could make up your mind without our input. But we are all friends and we intend to hang in there with you. We will tease out a solution won’t we Zoe?’ Claire turned around again from following the passage of a boat that had just left the nearest jetty.

Zoe was taller, a little broader and blonde. She being a travel agent was used to foreign environments. So she had expectations from a holiday that the others hadn’t. She was a bit disappointed about where she had landed them so far. But she felt bound to sacrifice a little to sort out her friend’s immediate predicament, if that was what it was. ‘Well look at the facts Lauren. You are five feet six, nice body, blue eyes, a bit of a risk taker and lovely with it. At the very least you would be a distraction to these two men.’

Claire interrupted. ‘I was thinking about you this morning Lauren and your men. It couldn’t have happened to Zoe or me. It happened to you because you are the hairdresser. I’m not sure what you were offered exactly by both men. That has yet to come out. Therefore to get to grips with it I think you should tell us plainly what it was that Stephen Forbes and James Poole offered you, starting with Stephen Forbes.’

Lauren put down her glass of juice to answer. ‘I only stood outside Forbes Hairdressers for a moment, no longer, to look at the advertisement in the window for a hairdresser when he ran out to ask me if I wanted a job. How often does that happen I ask you? After a brief conversation he told me he was a hairdresser short and I said I might be interested but that I was just on holidays. He asked me if I would first go in the next day and he’d see if I would be OK for his salon. Well you know that I went in and had the trial because we talked about it long enough. Then he confirmed the offer but I only agreed initially to work for a few hours a day. At first the story was that his main stylist was sick. But then he said she had left permanently. He offered me huge money. And well I thought I wouldn’t miss a few hours off the beach. That’s how it started. Then he tried as he said ‘to put a package together’ to tempt me to go full-time and to stay on after my holiday.’

‘But he was after your body,’ Zoe reminded her.

Lauren looked a little sheepish. ‘Well I know I said he was and I still think it. But he was genuinely offering me a job too. I think I could have managed to place a big enough barrier between us to carry on working there. But there was always the chance that he would overstep it. Because of the money it would have been a risk I was considering.’ She refilled her glass with juice and reached over for more toast.

‘And James Poole,’ Claire prompted her. ‘Exactly what did he offer you over your intimate supper?’ Claire reached towards the bottle of Bacardi, held it in her hand for a moment and put it down again. Instead she opted for the orange juice.

‘Well if Stephen Forbes offered me four times my Ross wages….’

‘Phew!’ Claire exclaimed ‘I didn’t know it was that much.’

‘….James Poole offered me Heaven. I say that but in reality I am not sure what he offered me. He has a funny way of talking in riddles while not coming out straight with anything. But the gist of it was that he didn’t like Stephen because he was under the impression that Stephen was having an affair with his wife. He wanted to put Stephen out of business. He planned to do this by setting me up in a salon opposite Forbes Hairdressers. I know he was serious. Even though I couldn’t follow the figures, he said he’d make me a fortune. Apparently there was a lot of money to pay out for the land and the building. He said there was a good chance that bribes would be involved to site the salon so close to another one. But it could be done. I don’t know how I was to make the fortune. He told me he’d talk with me again about it. I know he was serious.’

Zoe interrupted. ‘You got the impression that both men fancied you. How did that fit in with the offers?’