Repercussions

By Sam Boyd

A letter from the Caribbean Island of Puerto Rico stirs up memories Lord Jack Turner is trying hard to forget. The information it contains could drag him deeper into depression and self-destruction? Only time will tell if he can survive the guilt. Jack seeks help from a woman he believes to be honest, reliable and discreet. She is the most respected person he knows. The truth is her image is an illusion. Her past hides a secret that pits him against criminals in the London underworld and extreme danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Boyd
• Release date: Nov 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463848364

Sam Boyd

Writing has always been Sam's ambition. He has spent most of his life in consulting, helping others achieve their dreams. He now lives in Thailand with his beautiful partner, and they spend their time travelling and fulfilling their dreams. Sam, through his work, has been to many countries. He writes about people he has met and the lives they live or would like to live. He has seen firsthand the underworld of some of the major cities of the world and witnessed the hardship and poverty that exists in some countries. Many of the events he writes about have happened in real life. He uses these experiences as background to his stories. Visit Sam on his website; samboyd author.com. He would appreciate knowing how you liked his book so please leave him a review on line.

Book preview

REPERCUSSIONS

SAM BOYD

A JACK TURNER NOVEL

BOOK TWO

PUBLISHING INFORMATION

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real-life actions or events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses. You can contact the author at [e-mail].

Names: Sam Boyd

Title: REPERCUSSIONS

Description: A Jack Turner Novel

Copyright © 2017 by Sam Boyd.

All rights reserved.

Jack Turner books are best read in order. If you would like to purchase the other books in the series then go to;

www.samboydauthor.com

This book is dedicated to Sam, Jake, and Kiera.

Thank you for your love.

and

to my beautiful partner, Pitsinee.

Every day you bring joy into my life

Thank you, babe,

I love you

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Epilogue

Acknowlwdgements

About the Author

Other books by the Author

CHAPTER

ONE

The death of Anne hangs over me like a huge black cloud. I can’t find a way to move on. Everything about me and around me is in a state of morbid paralysis. I can’t eat, or think, or sleep. I lie on the bed fully clothed, staring at a blank white spot on the ceiling. I’m in a deep hole from which there seems to be no escape. I’ve been like this for almost three months. People close to me trying to be helpful, but not understanding what I am going through.

You need to return to work, find something else to occupy your mind and it will help you to move on, Was the advice of many. If only it were that simple. I was in no fit state to be near anyone. Anger and resentment were boiling, just below the surface, like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt. I was afraid of what I might do.

Reluctantly, under constant pressure, I took their advice and returned to the House of Lords. I cannot believe what I’m seeing. My desk resembles a bomb site, letters scattered and heaped like blast-blown debris. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn the place had been broken into and ransacked. Under a pile of papers, I find the telephone and call the typing pool. My secretary Elizabeth answered.

Good morning, Lord Turner, it’s good to have you back, she said cheerily.

Her words of welcome that were meant to cheer me up were only adding fuel to my anger.

It may be good for you, I snapped, but for me, it’s like walking into a war zone. The state of my office and desk is a disgrace. What the hell have you been doing while I’ve been away?

Other than a distant electronic hum on the line, there was silence. No defence offered, no explanation given. Elizabeth’s silence increased the temperature taking my temper to a higher level. I was losing control.

I suggest you get yourself down here I shouted, and sort out this mess before I have you fired for incompetence. Call yourself a secretary; you should be ashamed of yourself.

I slammed the phone down, my hands shaking with emotion and anger. The fire inside me increasing in temperature by the second. My whole body is feeling like a volcano about to erupt and explode, spitting lava, burning and inflicting pain on anyone within range. I needed to calm down and regain control of my emotions before I had a heart attack.

Before Anne’s death, I never raised my voice, let alone lost my temper. Now, my feelings were so raw I was worried at what I might do to anyone who angered me. I started to put the correspondence in date received order. The truth was, I didn’t want to be doing this, and I didn’t want to be at the House of Lords. Physically and mentally, I was in no fit state to be near anyone. I was depressed, hating everybody, but most of all, hating myself.

A single, sharp, loud knock on the door, brought me back to the present. I was about to shout ‘go away’ when I remembered it might be Elizabeth responding to my earlier demand. The door swung sharply open and in strode Lord Metcalfe without waiting to be invited. I despised this man at the best of times. The temperature of my internal volcano rose a few more degrees.

Metcalfe is the chief whip of the Labour Party. His job to make sure that members obey the party line when a vote in the House looks like it might be close.

We need you on the floor today, Turner; the Tories Tax reformation bill looks like it might be too-close-to-call. We need to make sure it’s defeated. So be there and vote against it. He instructed.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heels and left as rudely as he had entered. I had not liked Metcalfe from the first day we met. In my opinion, he was a self-centred, arrogant bully who never said please or thank you. His manner was, do as I say and get on with it. His attitude displaying his long-held belief that he was gentry, upper class, better than the rest of us, and I, for one, should feel fortunate he was speaking to me. It wasn’t only him who was like this. Many of the old well-heeled aristocratic families believed they were above the rest of us. It was their unshakable belief that they ran the country. These were hereditary peers, who come into the House of Lords, because of birth, tradition and status. When one of their privileged ranks dies, the eldest child automatically replaces them in the Lord’s. Talent, education, ability to do the job is not relevant. Family connections, tradition and historic connections going back to the eleventh century are all that matter.

Thankfully these times are changing, and new rules slowly being introduced to rectify this disgraceful anomaly.

There was nothing polite about Metcalfe when dealing with people he felt were beneath him. Not a courteous, ‘sorry to disturb you’ or even a ‘good morning’, or ‘welcome back’, or, sorry to hear the bad news about your friends the Winstanley’s. None of the many other things he could have said as a way of introduction. Nothing he said to resemble good manners or respect. Metcalfe issued instructions like an officer on the parade ground, to be obeyed without question or prevarication. To add insult to injury he didn’t wait for a reply; he’d said all needed to say, so turned his back and left. It was as well he did because I was about to tell him to, Fuck off.

With thoughts about what I would like to do, and say to Metcalfe, running through my head, I returned to the dishevelled pile of letters. Typically, no matter how many letters were on the desk, didn’t affect me. Why should it? I was generally late, responding to many of them. Answering letters that were out of date received order wasn’t going to make a bit of difference. But in my current mental state, this was another notch up the volcanic eruption scale. The office door swung open, and Elizabeth stormed in, her face red with rage and eyes as black as thunder.

I don’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner, Lord Turner, she said. This is not like you. What on earth is wrong?

My anger was out of control, and I was in no mood to listen.

I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought about her secretarial skills and the disgraceful mess, I’d found on my return.

Day after day all you’ve done is dump mail in a heap on my desk. The correspondence is disorganised and needs sorting into date received order. You know very well I like the oldest on top and the most recent at the bottom. Surely you were not trained this way? I shouted in a voice trembling with fury.Look at the state of the desk. It looks like a bomb has hit it. Would you leave your house in this state? No. It’s just laziness. You’ve had nothing to do while I’ve been away except sit gossiping and talking nonsense with the rest of the women in that office. You are all the same in this place; nothing better to do than spend the day in idle chatter and rumormongering.

The release valve had given way under pressure, and steam was coming out of my ears. Vitriol is dripping from my mouth, gaining speed and toxicity the more I said. The ferocity of my temper caused momentary blindness to the effect my shouting was having on her. As the fog slowly cleared, I saw Elizabeth was close to tears. Poor Elizabeth, she had never heard me raise my voice before, let alone shout at her like this.

By nature, Elizabeth is a timid woman. In her late fifties, with short grey hair and a pallor that looks closer to the dead than the living. She’d been allocated to me from the typing pool when I first entered the Lords and didn’t deserve to be treated in this way. I was ashamed. I was not angry at her. I was mad with myself and taking it out on whoever was nearest. I was mortified. I was treating Elizabeth with the same disrespect I detested in Metcalfe and his aristocratic cronies. It wasn’t only hypercritical of me but downright dishonest.

What is more, it was against everything I believed in and had been brought up to believe. No one deserves to be abused in this way. It was unforgivable.

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I said quietly, You are right. I shouldn’t be treating you or in anyone in this way. Go back to your office. I’m not fit to be near just now. I’m quite capable of sorting the letters myself, and I will call you if I need help.

Elizabeth didn’t reply or need a second invitation to leave. She was too upset and showed her contempt for me, walking in silence towards the door.

She stopped, halfway there, turned and handed me a letter she had kept, to give me personally.

This came for you two weeks ago; I thought you would want to deal with it immediately.

I thanked her and took hold of the letter with the envelope attached. I was feeling terrible and needed to show remorse and regain Elizabeth’s goodwill. I couldn’t think of anything to do or say. Putting the letter down on top of the filing cabinet near the door, I stepped in front of her and placed my hands on the tops of her arms.

This is not who or what I am, I said as gentle and remorsefully as I could. "Recent events have left me emotionally drained. I beg forgiveness and ask you to give me a little latitude and time?

Releasing Elizabeth, I turned to open the door hoping for a positive reply. Elizabeth didn’t say a word. She went out and without looking back, hurried away. I quietly closed the door behind her. Cursing under my breath at what I had done, I returned to the heap of letters. I sorted them into date order before quickly turning them all over, so the oldest date was on top. That wasn’t too successful either, as a few letters fell out as I flipped them over. Another catastrophe in my mind and swore out loud as it happened, something I would never have done in the past.

The last three months had been a roller coaster ride. Up one minute and down the next. The up’s, not very high, but the lows deep and depressing. If I only realised it, I needed the impartiality of my day job. Sitting in the House of Lords, and dealing with problems from which I am detached, would help me recover. But, with my mood swings and current state of mind, I was having trouble dealing with the most straightforward task. In my current mental state, nothing was clear-cut. My emotions were all over the place, and anything out of the ordinary became a huge problem, a disastrous inconvenience and detrimental to my wellbeing.

When Anne was alive, I’d been able to control my feelings and put issues into mental compartments and attach an excuse that made sense of it for the time being. The trouble with this was that none of the problems ever got resolved. They had sat there and multiplied over the years. I thought her life would be much better with Rupert than with me. The fact that I’d loved her for thirty years and never loved or looked at anyone else in that time was not significant. I’d done the right thing. I’d been loyal, faithful and trustworthy. It’s what Anne had expected of me. It was after she died when the truth, reality and futility of all those wasted years hit me. The lie I’d lived with my wife Pat, haunted me. But mostly, what was driving me to the edge of despair and desolation was the question, what happens now? What would I do, how could I exist, where was my future?

Anne was gone. I would never see or speak to her again. I was alone with no one left in my life, no one to love or to be loved. It left me with a feeling of complete desolation. Every day that had gone by since her death had etched this feeling deep into my soul. I didn’t even know if I could love again, let alone find someone to care for me. I needed so much for this not to be so, but in my depressive state, I had lost confidence. Rage became my way of dealing with my problems. The phone rang and made me jump. It was my mobile. I glanced at the screen and saw the call was from Sam, my godson.

What do you want? I snapped, not meaning to, but I couldn’t shake this constant feeling of hating the world.

To see if you are okay, Sam replied calmly, You have been in a mood like this for the past few weeks and to be honest Jake and I are worried about you.

During my three months away, from the House of Lords, I’d stayed in Worcestershire, comforting my twin godsons, Sam, and Jake Winstanley. Their parents, Sir Rupert, Lady Anne and grandmother, Lady Margaret, had perished in the fire that destroyed Pennington Hall, their family home. The death of Anne the cause of my current fragile mental state.

Sam and Jake were up at Cambridge University, in their second year at Kings College. They were following the same path and tradition as their father, grandfather and generations of Winstanley’s before them. It was a convention going back almost a hundred and fifty years. At nineteen years old, they were now the sole heirs to the Pennington Hall estate and majority shareholders in the family-owned, international trading company. I was their guardian, Anne made sure of that. Sam was right; I had been like this for some weeks. I’d wondered more than once recently if I was heading for a nervous breakdown. It seemed everywhere I turned there were problems and no one but me to resolve them. The locks on all those small compartments in my mind had sprung open at the same time. Rupert and Anne’s death had done that and left me with questions I was incapable of answering. I had no one to talk to who would understand. That made me think they had never given a second thought to how I would feel. I even imagined them saying ‘here are our two boys, you are their godfather, sort all the problems out’. Of course, this was nonsense, but the imagination weaves strange and sinister thoughts when bitterness, resentment, jealousy, and desolation are all competing to bring you down.

I seem to be apologising to everyone this morning, you will have to forgive me, Sam, but I need some space. I’m okay, just a little stressed out. Give me a few days to settle in here and call me back. Tell Jake not to worry I said, not believing a word of what I’d told him.

Okay, Uncle Jack if you are sure you are all right, he replied. The twins always called me Uncle Jack even though technically I was not a relative.

I’m sure, and thank you for calling and your concern I replied and put the phone down.

Leaning back in my chair, I looked at up the ceiling. What was happening to me? I was not behaving rationally. I knew it but didn’t know how to get out of this downward spiral into depression. First Metcalfe, then Elizabeth and now Sam, within the space of an hour, I had managed to take my pent-up anger out on three people. Two of which certainly did not deserve such treatment. I began to think that maybe I needed to seek professional help.

CHAPTER

TWO

Rubbing my eyes and face with the fingertips of both hands, I massaged my head to shake off the constant feeling of tiredness. It had been with me for weeks and was getting me down. Slowly, as my mind and vision cleared, I remembered the letter Elizabeth had given me and where I’d left it on top of the cabinet. What was it I wondered that caused her to single this letter out to hand it to me personally? Elizabeth opened all my mail, date-stamped the letters and left them on my desk. Typically, I never see the envelopes, but this time, she had reattached it with a paper clip. The change of routine in itself was intriguing, so I examined it first. It was a plain white A4 with my name handwritten above the House of Lord's address. The handwriting was in beautiful, a copperplate script in black ink. An American postage stamp in the top right corner caught my eye. Turning the envelope over, I read the return address.

1134 Calle Universidad, Rio Piedras, San Juan Puerto Rico 00631, United States of America

The smaller handwriting on the sealed flap was in the same black script as the front. The envelope intrigued me. I tried to recall if I knew the address as there was no name attached to it. As far as I could remember, I didn’t know anyone from Puerto Rico. The only thing I knew for sure was, I’d been to the island once, for a day, on board a huge ocean liner, cruising the Caribbean. Ten islands in fourteen days on a luxurious floating hotel. It had been with my wife, Pat, on our last holiday together before an aggressive strain of cancer claimed her life. The address brought back memories of her and that cruise. A feeling of guilt surged through my body as I’d not thought about her in recent months. I married Pat, who was fourteen years older than me, for companionship, rather than out of a deep sense of love. We had been happy and cared for each other in our way. How could I truly love anyone else, when Anne Winstanley forever had my heart? Pat had enjoyed the cruise, and the letter reminded me of how much she had delighted in visiting Puerto Rico and in particular discovering the old parts of the capital San Juan. She’d tired herself out walking the narrow, cobbled streets and exploring the ancient fortress that overlooks the natural harbour at the entrance to the port. I removed the paper clip and envelope and began to read the letter.

Dear Lord Turner,

Please forgive me for contacting you in this way, the contents I imagine will come as a complete surprise. My name is Rosetta Ramirez, although everyone calls me Rose. I live on the island of Puerto Rico in a district of the capital City San Juan called Rio Piedras. I am single and have never been married. I had to look after my mother who ten years ago was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and needed constant care, especially in the last few years of her life. My mother passed away two months ago, and since then, I have been trying to unravel my mysterious background.

I am an only child and do not know who my father was. Whenever I asked my mother all she would say was that he came from England and that he had always provided for us. As far as I know, my mother never worked, yet we owned our home and were never short of money. I was educated at a private school and have a degree in English from the University of Puerto Rico. I am telling you this as background to what I have discovered since my mother passed away.

Shortly after her death, I received a letter from a Mr Valdez, an attorney at Valdez & Jorge in San Juan, asking me to make an appointment to see him as he had information that would be of interest to me. Having made the appointment, I was going through my mother’s possessions, deciding what to keep and what to throw away and came across a vanity case that I had never seen before. It was hidden at the back of her closet.

The case contained an assortment of jewellery, diamond rings, earrings, and two single stone diamond pendants. There were other stones, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, watches and bracelets that I had never seen before scattered in the top tray of the case. I recently had the contents valued by a reputable dealer in San Juan, and they are high-quality, valuable stones. Underneath the tray, in the bottom of the box was a bundle of envelopes all addressed to my mother with letters signed only with a ‘W.’ The letters all have the same heading, Chairman’s Office, Winstanley Group. There are no dates on any of them, so I am not able to say when they were written as the postmarks showing only the amount paid.

As the letters are personal, I will not go into detail. Suffice to say they are very tender. A few days after this discovery, I went to meet Mr Valdez at his office. It seems his firm acted for my mother. Another surprise, I didn’t think she knew an attorney let alone have one. I was beginning to wonder if I knew my mother at all. Mr Valdez asked me if I knew who my father was, or who the Winstanley Group were or about a trust fund set up in my name. I was shocked as I knew absolutely nothing about any of these things. That is, except for those letters to my mother. I decided not to tell Mr Valdes what I had found and said what he was disclosing was news to me. He went on to say that before I was born a trust fund financed the purchase of our house, covered all the running expenses and provided my mother with a monthly income. The trust written by lawyers in London acting for the Winstanley Group had a clause stipulating that on my mother’s death, the fund became mine. There are no preconditions or restrictions on what I can do with the money. Mr Valdez informed me that the transfer value as of the night before our meeting was 7,647,156 US dollars. I was speechless. He asked me what I wanted to do with the money, but I have no idea, other than to let the current investment arrangements remain. Mr Valdez went on to explain that the Winstanley Group have shipping interests in San Juan but no offices here. He produced a newspaper cutting reporting the death of Sir Rupert Winstanley, his wife, and his mother, in a fire that destroyed their home, Pennington Hall. It also mentioned they had twin sons, Sam and Jake and that you Lord Turner were helping the family through this terrible crisis.

From the information I have gathered, I think Sir Rupert Winstanley could be ‘W’ and be my father. Let me say immediately; I am not looking for anything other than finding out who my father is, and if I have any close relations. It would be exciting for me to know that I have twin half-brothers. My mother was an only child, and as far as I know, I have no living relatives. It would be beyond my wildest dreams to find out I have a family after all.

I hope you can help me unravel this mystery.

Yours faithfully,

Rose Ramirez

I couldn’t believe what I was reading and went over the letter, a few times again, trying to make sense of it all. Wherever I looked, there were problems that Rupert had left behind. In my current state of mind, I didn’t think it was ever going to come to an end. The rest of my life would be spent chasing answers to the problems Rupert had left. A voice in my head was telling me I was never going to find peace. What I needed, was someone to help me resolve the issues that surround me, to hold my hand, ease my mind and comfort me. I desperately craved to be loved but had lost all confidence that would ever happen again. In my mind, I believe we have one chance to find the pure love of our life. I’d had that chance and presented it to Rupert. Ever since then, I’ve had this overwhelming dread that everything was against me. Everywhere I look, there are problems, and I am incapable of resolving any of them. Rupert stole the only woman I ever loved, along with my self-esteem and self-confidence. Everything I was brought up to believe ripped from me and with it my reason for being. No dammit, it was worse than that. I had not put up any resistance; I had given Rupert all these things, he hadn’t taken or stolen them. But he had abused my benevolence and generosity by having a life-long affair with Sandra Johnstone. Now this, an illegitimate child. He had gotten everything and left me nothing but problems. More of them than I could handle. The only redeeming fact to me was that Anne hadn’t learned about this child before that fateful night. I wondered if Rupert knew that Rose’s mother hadn’t much longer to live. Had he found out that