The Lord of Billionaires' Row

By Matthew K. Spencer

A page-turning thriller with a human side, The Lord of Billionaires' Row shows how powerful criminal gangs (in this case in both China and the United Kingdom) can be at risk from the fallout from even a single murder and explores the brutal lengths they will go to to try and stop this happening. The criminal gangs are "The Firm" in London and "The Faction" in China. The Chinese Communist Party essentially being an umbrella organisation for any sociopath who wants to control others, The Faction is embedded within the CCP but does not yet have full control of Party and country: something which it plans to change! The two gangs work together to achieve both mutual goals and separate ones, leading to extreme tension in the long run.

Initially, the story is seen through the eyes of Malcolm Oats, a London gangster's son who doesn't even want to start going bent and Charles Ren, a Chengdu businessman who gives Chinese people an alternative to insanely risky "property-based investment products" and who also practices meditation and formal exercise in public parks (which is very dangerous in Communist China). Intertwining conspiracies unfold and unravel in Britain, China and, in passing, Italy.

Malcolm's father, Ron, who wants to go straight but is too integral to the business of The Firm to be allowed to do so, is commissioned to steal numerous priceless Chinese artworks from museums and collections in Britain, to be used to enhance the prestige and therefore the power of The Faction in China. Ron tries to make it bearable to do a job he really isn't keen on, by being highly creative about how he undertakes the necessary robberies. This ultimately makes The Faction's contact man in London desperately paranoid about Ron -and therefore The Firm- being dangerously clever and too difficult to control, leading him to set in motion a chain of events which threatens the governments of both Britain and China.

Malcolm, meanwhile, gets entangled, (by squatting in the wrong millionaire's mansion in Virginia Water: one that belonged to Charles Ren) with a Chinese commando team in Britain to steal technological secrets connected with offshore energy resources, so that The Faction's rivals in China, those still loyal to the President and General Secretary, can improve their own prestige and strengthen their political position enough to be able to act against The Faction. He is aided by Ruth Parker, a zoologist with, as it turns out, and iron will and nerves of steel. She doesn't intend to fall in love with a 17 year old youth: Malcolm knows this, but chooses to play the long game on his older brother's kindly advice.

Democracy in Britain is threatened by all this, but in China, is there just a gleam of light inherent in the fact that the two most powerful anti-democratic forces are at each other's throats?

The E-book and paperback both conclude with a free sample chapter from the author's forthcoming novel: "The Farshoreman".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew K. Spencer
• Release date: Feb 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463850565

Matthew K. Spencer

Matthew Spencer is a British electronics engineer. Almost entirely self-educated, he attended Fearnhill School (in Letchworth) and Mander College in the nineteen-seventies and eighties. Recently, he has worked to help develop equipment for monitoring noise pollution in the marine environment, which to some extent mirrors work done on monitoring and analysing noise in industrial and domestic situations on land in the nineteen-eighties. He suspects that in the developed world, noise pollution is currently affecting marine life more severely than chemical pollution, not least because it is more problematic for regulators and researchers to measure and understand. Occasional great leaps in human understanding are generally facilitated by the development of a new form of measuring instrument. Always worth a try when the human race gets stuck somewhere.The author has also designed an electronic ignition system especially for classic racing motorcycles.Other written work includes a screenplay, "Crushed Fennel", some hard Science Fiction (the Forest series) and "The Farshoreman", which is published on Smashwords and associates from the 22nd of December 2022

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The Lord of Billionaires' Row

A Novel by Matthew K. Spencer

Smashwords Edition, text revised June 27th 2019.

This novel, The Lord of Billionaires' Row, including the Blueprint Dragon" cover image, is Copyright (c) Matthew K. Spencer 2018 & 2019. All rights reserved.

Matthew K. Spencer hereby asserts and gives notice of his right under s.77 of the (United Kingdom) Copyright Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this novel The Lord of Billionaires' Row and the creator of the Blueprint Dragon cover image.

This book is available in a print edition at some online retailers.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The free extract at the end of this ebook from the forthcoming novel The Farshoreman is Copyright (c) Matthew K. Spencer 2019.

The quote (in Chapter 38) from Colin Lunt's Exhumation Prayer is his copyright and appears by his kind permission. A link to the complete prayer is included on the Author's Comments page, along with other useful links.

Smashwords Edition License:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be 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 your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Title, Copyright and License

Prologue, The Property Market

Chapter 1, The Enclave

Chapter 2, The Iceberg House

Chapter 3, Chongzhou City

Chapter 4, The Vole Catcher

Chapter 5, The Hidden Room

Chapter 6, Turning Over a New Leaf

Chapter 7, Hawala

Chapter 8, Money

Chapter 9, Camera Traps

Chapter 10, Jade

Chapter 11, Safe House

Chapter 12, Labour Gang

Chapter 13, A View of Hyde Park

Chapter 14, The Bowl

Chapter 15, The Van

Chapter 16, Thames House

Chapter 17, The Heating Man

Chapter 18, Liquidate Every Asset

Chapter 19, More Excitement

Chapter 20, Pies

Chapter 21, Shrews

Chapter 22, A Tale of Two Tea Sets

Chapter 23, Blackmail

Chapter 24, The Committee

Chapter 25, Rats

Chapter 26, The Menu

Chapter 27, Burmese Hero

Chapter 28, Choirs

Chapter 29, DNA

Chapter 30, French Windows

Chapter 31, Execution

Chapter 32, Intervention

Chapter 33, Revelations

Chapter 34, The Fields and the Beasts

Chapter 35, When the Stars Begin to Fall

Chapter 36, Breaking the Chains

Chapter 37, Homecoming

Chapter 38, Arresting Sequence

Chapter 39, The Civil War

Chapter 40, A Border Incident

Chapter 41, The Battles of Chengdu City and Zhejiang Province

Chapter 42, Counsel of Peace

Epilogue, Friday Afternoon

Author's Comments

Extract From The Farshoreman, Ambitions

Prologue, The Property Market

Saskia believed that her client wasn't using his real name, but this wasn't illegal in England unless it was done in order to commit a crime, and it was routinely done for professional reasons, so she wasn't really suspicious. At least, not about that. In any case, any actual purchase that Alan Grimsby decided on today, would be made through a holding company whose address was a solicitor's office in Dagenham, and she had checked it out as well as she could. One day, she thought, her office PC might be able to connect directly to a computer at Companies House without it taking several days and costing money to really check. Meanwhile, she'd phoned the solicitors, who were in Yellow Pages, and asked about the company and they told her that theirs was indeed the registered address and that one of their partners was Company Secretary. The receptionist assured her that they had about three dozen such companies using the partnership as a registered address and that sometimes a partner would assume a directorship to handle the formalities. It was just as common to find a firm of accountants doing the same thing for a long list of limited companies. The Managing Director was somebody called Clive Grimsby so it could be a brother or even father of Alan Grimsby: a fair-haired white man in his late twenties, who dressed very smartly but loomed a bit large at the shoulders and had big hands, as if he were a boxer as much as a businessman. That might be it: perhaps he didn't want to be known in business circles by whatever name he fought under?

She met Mr Grimsby outside the first house on his list, in Bishop's Park Road. He had a notebook and made neat little notes, but not copious ones, so he was mainly relying on his memory. Perhaps, if he was a boxer, he was a very successful one who hadn't taken too many hard punches to the head? He seemed to reach some sort of conclusion about the house, and then suggested that they travel together to the next one, in Langthorne Street, in his black BMW.

Strictly speaking, she should have insisted on leading him there in convoy in her own red Fiesta, but it seemed so silly to clog up the streets with two cars when they only needed one. Besides, she didn't suspect him of planning any funny business, of that kind, anyway. Saskia didn't really know what she suspected him of. Perhaps he hadn't actually done anything! She relaxed a bit and directed him to Langthorne Street. He sounded as if he came from North London, even though his firm's solicitor was in South Essex, and although he knew some roads in Fulham, he didn't know all the side-streets and was pleased to learn a short cut. Always useful in London! he said and she agreed.

In Langthorne Street and Whitting Street the same conclusion-reaching process was followed, but he didn't say what the decisions were. She had two different houses for sale in Berry Hill and he reacted in the same way to both. He reached a swift conclusion about Danehurst Street, too, and she began to wonder if she might even finish the viewings in time for a late lunch. Horder Road was not far away. This one took a little longer. He looked up at the front eaves and frowned a bit, before turning his attention to the base of the front wall. He walked slowly along the wall, staring at the base. He found a crack and ran his finger along it, still frowning. Um? he murmured and wrote something in his notebook. Shall we go back inside? And I'll tell you my thoughts.

Saskia unlocked the front door for him and he went upstairs, taking a second look at the top of one of the master bedroom walls and at a crack in the ceiling. Okay, have you got your copy of my list on that clipboard? Yes, Mr Grimsby. Just for a second, he looked a bit blank at the sound of his own name.

First things first, this house. I can take dilapidated properties that need new roof and floors, or ones that simply need redecoration, modern wiring and re-plumbing, things like that. But, although this one doesn't immediately look as if it needs its foundations underpinning, I think it will, well within the time frame I am looking at for holding the property before I re-sell it. I am thinking quite long term. They say 'don't worry about any crack you can't get your finger in' but most men don't have such large fingers as me and I'm a bit doubtful! There's a barely perceptible bend in the wall, to match the crack, so it will need one-inch iron rods right through the property and the brickwork completely repointing, as well as the considerable cost of underpinning. If I was a small developer doing one house at a time, I'd be able to give it the work and love it needs, but I am under a bit of pressure to build up a portfolio and I can't afford to waste too much time on a single property. Cheer up, love: I shall come to the others next! He grinned.

Danehurst Street looks fine to me and I am willing to pay the asking price. 28 Berry Hill: I'll pay the asking price on that one, too. But the vendor of number 40 is asking too much: fifteen grand more than the vendor of number 28! I'll make an offer in that case: knock ten grand off their asking price and I'll let them have the benefit of the doubt over the outstanding five grand. Sounds fair? Er, yes, Mr Grimsby.

"Whitting Street is structurally sound but some of the plaster needs replacing rather than just a straightforward wallpaper and paint job. I think the gutter leaked and they had it fixed, but just papered over the resulting problems with the plaster. The whole rest of the house needs wallpaper and paint: nothing I can leave as is. Given the shortage of good craftsmen in London at the moment, it might take me several months to get that one ready for tenants, so tell the vendor I'm offering six grand less than they are asking, to allow for the rent I won't get while I'm shelling out on the refurbishment.

Langthorne Street: you are hinting that someone else likes the look of that one. Tell you what, inform the vendor that I'll match his asking, plus the six grand I want knocked off Whitting Street on top. I hate to let somebody else take an opportunity I might have had!

Saskia was writing furiously and he waited for her to catch up. Ready? She nodded. Bishop's Park Road. Strictly speaking, it's the same sort of story as Whitting Street and yet the asking price is substantially higher, even allowing for the increased accommodation. However, the location is very good indeed and I think the value of that one will rise faster than Whitting Street over the next couple of decades -and it will be at least that long before I will need to sell it on. Therefore, inform the vendor that I am offering ten grand on top of his asking price to secure that one, as it is the best long-term prospect on the list.

Saskia couldn't help herself, she started laughing. This was ridiculous: the man was trying to buy houses in batches as if he was, well, at a livestock auction buying sheep or something you needed a flock of. Not even the Arabs go out in their lunch hour and buy half a dozen houses in one go! she managed to get out. Mr Grimsby's whole demeanour suddenly changed. You're laughing at me as if I were some kind of village idiot! he shouted.

***

A powerfully-built, smartly-dressed businessman walked briskly down Horder Road and then the next street, till he saw a phone box and took a phonecard from his jacket pocket as he approached. Then he retraced his steps to a house in Horder Road with a For Sale sign outside, where a black BMW was parked. Taking several individual keys with plastic tags from his trouser pocket, he found the right one and let himself in, leaving the front door on the latch so others could get in. Thirty minutes later, a uniformed police inspector appeared, entered through the unlocked front door and went upstairs.

Twenty minutes after that, a white Transit van, marked with the name of a pest-control contractor from Tottenham, drew up behind the BMW and three men in white anti-contamination suits got out. They all had greying hair and were in their late fifties to early sixties. They went to the back of the van and removed some obvious fumigation equipment and a roll of heavy-duty black polythene. Laying these things on the pavement for a moment, they pulled their hoods over their heads and put on respirator masks, before picking up their various burdens and going inside, one of them saying German wasps, watch out! to a passer-by, who crossed the road, just in case.

Taking the stuff upstairs, the three men entered the master bedroom and stopped, dumbfounded at the sight of the uniformed inspector standing next to the businessman, both of them looking at the body of a young mixed-race woman lying on the carpet in an otherwise unfurnished room. There was a stiletto stuck into the side of her head, just behind the ear, blade buried almost to the hilt. There was a bit of blood, but nothing they hadn't prepared for when they got the call to come to this address. It was the sodding policeman in uniform that was the surprise -and a dead young woman, connected with their boss, who was in a completely empty house, rather than one that was, well, done up like a tart's boudoir.

It's alright: he's on the payroll said the businessman hastily, to forestall any superfluous attempt to forcibly unarrest him. He's here to help. If you say so, Des' said one of the men. I'm Alan Grimsby today, Bas', and I do say so. She's not a tart, quite a decent sort of girl, actually, but she laughed at me for trying to buy a lot of property in one go: she must have thought I was being ridiculous, I suppose, but I don't like being laughed at and I lost my temper. Bas' and his mates left unspoken the thought that this was far from being the first time that this had happened. First time it had been an estate agent, though, and not some kind of cheating tart or worse, and they were beginning to feel far from comfortable.

This is Inspector Roy Craft. He's going to have you all listed as his confidential informants, so that if anyone else from the police asks you about this, you can ask them to refer to him and he'll sort it out. That shouldn't happen, though, except for a routine inquiry if anyone reports seeing your clearly-marked van, which is hardly suspicious. I hope it really is confidential, 'Alan', because we don't really fancy being known as grasses said Bas', clearly and firmly. "I know, but you will be protected, this way. You know the drill: chop her up and bury the bits well-apart from each other in a forest, with the head, hands and feet extra-deep because they won't be mistaken for old animal bones. No wrapping when the bits go into the ground, it might stop the flesh rotting. Those are her keys, handbag and clipboard: I have handled them so they will need to be wiped, but I didn't touch the paper bits so it'll be alright.

And I want the knife melted and not just lost. I've got a legitimate explanation if absolutely necessary for the keys and clipboard, and I only handled the handbag with the back of my hand under the strap so there shouldn't be any prints. But nothing says 'murder' quite like a bloody stiletto. I shall be taking your advice and carrying a Kitchen Devil in future!

Bas' pulled himself together. Yes, Mr Grimsby. We'll take care of her. Best you two don't know which forest we're going to use, or any of the other details. We have access to a blacksmith's, so we can melt the knife if that's required. If you're really worried, you can come and watch that bit if it'll set your mind at rest. That's a Ford key, where's her car?

Bishop's Park Road; it's the red Fiesta.

Been there some time now?

Getting on for three hours.

"Good: if we slip her things back in her car without being seen, the police, present company excepted, will have a completely false timeline and they will be looking in the wrong vicinity at least, if not the wrong general area. Depends how wide they cast the net. Mr Craft, sir. Do you have any indirect influence over how far that will be?"

Yes, Mr Houghton. Bas' didn't appreciate the policeman already knowing his full name, though that couldn't be helped, now. Normal practice would be to conduct a fingertip search around the car and a visual search and door to door inquiries over a manageable surrounding area first, and then expand it a bit with extra manpower if nothing useful turns up. I'll advise the murder squad Senior Investigating Officer to do a wider search and door to door than normal at first, and then expand it to just short of this location. After that, we'll have already done all we can, won't we? -and we'll just have to try something else.

Bas' thought that gamekeepers made very effective poachers, but outwardly kept calm and made sure that, as the professional in his particular field, he was in control, no matter how much he feared Desmond Chase and his new policeman crony.

Right then. Off you go, Mr Craft: straight down the street to your car, don't be seen to look at our van or the BMW, or that'll make a connection in someone's mind. Mr Grimsby, give it seven minutes, not five and not ten, and then you go too. We'll do all that's necessary after you're safely clear. If people see things happen at precise five or ten minute intervals it might register on their minds as contrived. Inspector Craft was already heading down the stairs, obediently, thank God.

When 'Alan Grimsby' had driven off in the BMW, the two hitherto silent men in anti-contamination suits confronted Bas'. "We can't just chop her up like meat and scatter her like the others. She was decent! He's started killing just anyone who crosses his path, not only crooks and toerags. If I'd been luckier in life, I might have had a daughter who looked like that. Sod this, sod Desmond!"

"It's alright, we're not going to scatter her. Where did he get that stiletto from? Because we're going to need another one just like it -and then one fine day we'll bury everyone, each in the manner that he or she deserves."

~~~

Return to Top

Chapter 1, The Enclave

Dawn of a Monday morning in The Bishop's Avenue came relatively quietly. Traffic flowed freely over the avenue on the A1: this never really ceased, even on Christmas morning, but there was hardly any traffic on the avenue itself. Some unspeakable enthusiasts might try and get an early round in on Highgate Golf Course, but they were never this early and the fairways were still sprinkled with rabbits and voles. Jackdaws sat on chimneys and said caew! to each other, but even they seemed muted. There was not even a milk float, because too few of the houses in the avenue were occupied to provide a living for a milkman. As the sun rose a little above the horizon there was a brief flurry of security vans checking that no accident had befallen the less-derelict unoccupied houses in the night, then it went quiet again. In the master bedroom of an Edwardian mansion backing onto the golf course, a body in a sleeping bag stirred.

Lying awake, but cocooned, Malcolm listened to the small and widely-separated sounds of the avenue getting ready to face a new day. Satisfied that the security vans were finished with, for now, he emerged from the sleeping bag and went to light a small smokeless charcoal fire with barbecue briquets in the master bedroom's large fireplace, so he could brew tea and heat some water for washing and shaving with. He heard a creaking sound, as if someone was on the stairs, but when he nervously went and looked there was no-one there and he put the noise down to the building's age and uncared-for state. He had turned the water on in the kitchen, where the cold came directly from the mains, but he had left the antique header tanks feeding the several bathrooms dry. He hadn't cared to experiment with the elderly roundpin-plug wiring and in any case the main switchgear had been sealed in the off position. Malcolm never fiddled with electricity or gas company seals. Nor did he fancy leaving a light on to excite a passing security guard's curiosity. Indeed, Malcolm's whole approach to squatting was unfashionable as he avoided the almost obligatory legal confrontation with the property owner and agents in favour of the simple philosophy that people objected least when they didn't know.

He had enough milk left in his plastic two pint bottle for cornflakes as well as tea and ate his breakfast looking out of the master bedroom window through a gap in the back garden's imposing treeline at the early activity on the golf course. Then he washed and shaved, though he was too young for very much beard to grow in twenty-four hours. He tidied his breakfast things up and, taking a sudden decision, rolled and packed his sleeping bag and air mattress. Autumn was nearly here, winter would follow and he wanted a more modern house that would be warm without roaring coal fires in every downstairs room. There was surprisingly little evidence of dry rot in the mansion, but there were ample signs of mildew in the big rooms downstairs; they hadn't been aired out by having fires in the grate for a long time. There were numerous other empty houses on The Bishop's Avenue, but the ones that were more lightly-patrolled by security guards tended to be the same age as this one and in much the same condition. He would have to look further afield, sadly further away from the sixth form college and the facilities it provided. There was another creaking noise, which somehow goaded Malcolm to make a trip outside to where his transport was parked to stow his bedding. He was returning to the house when he heard more creaking and stopped.

There was a loud snap and dust came out of a grille from the basement. Malcolm began to back away warily. He hadn't really explored the basement, because the electricity and gas services were in a sort of closet near the front door. He had no idea what had been going on down there, but clearly something was amiss. A tile slithered down the roof and launched itself into the air, to thud into the overgrown lawn uncomfortably close to Malcolm's foot. He needed to be further away. He turned and ran.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Malcolm saw a crack running from basement level to the eaves. He ran faster.

The peace of The Bishops Avenue was torn asunder by a cross between a roar and a low musical note, as thousands of bricks and tiles accelerated downwards and halted with a smash in an accumulating pile of debris, which reached outwards as half and whole bricks bounded across the overgrown back lawn and the sometimes-strimmed front lawns. The heap of debris writhed with motion below a rapidly expanding cloud of dust, topped with a dozen startled jackdaws protesting the sudden loss of their favourite perching place. There was a pause as the gable walls teetered, then pivoted inwards with a shattering crash. The racket gradually died away as the debris stopped moving, but the swirling dust cloud continued to envelope the mansion's gardens and spread itself across the avenue. A puttering noise started somewhere within the dust cloud and then a heavily-laden moped and rider startlingly emerged and accelerated North to disappear under the A1, trailing dust as they went. The jackdaws stopped circling in confusion and by mutual agreement flew South down the avenue to settle on the Toprak Mansion. Caew! they all agreed.

A distant sound of sirens gradually drew near and then stopped, as two fire engines arrived. In the absence of obvious fire, firemen in breathing masks began to spray water onto the debris field to try and control the dust. Police cars appeared and policemen deployed road closed signs either side of the incident, because the lingering dust made it unsafe for vehicles to pass. National Grid vans arrived, bringing engineers to find and shut off any gas or electricity supply. They had to dig a hole in the pavement to stop the electricity. An estate agent was traced and brought to the scene, though he was largely impotent in the face of an investment turned into a pile of wreckage and a cloud of dust. The borough engineer arrived in another van and started to work out what statutory notices the estate agent and the building owner could be served with.

Once the dust cloud had settled into light-coloured fallout on the ground and surrounding trees, council workmen appeared and removed broken bricks from the roadway and pavements, before a sweeper lorry cleaned the road surface. With the agreement of the borough engineer, the road closed signs were removed.

***

Mrs Gloria Oats picked up the last of the newspaper sheets she'd laid on the hallway floor from the front door to the downstairs cloakroom and shower, and put it in a plastic rubbish bag without spilling any of the dust. Whilst she was grateful for any visitation from her younger son, Malcolm had been in a right state when he rang the bell. The one clean item that he'd bought with him was a replacement air filter for his moped in a cardboard box, presumably purchased en-route from whatever the disaster had been. It might not have been the most logical of priorities, but it was perhaps understandable as dust seemed to be a dominant factor in what had happened.

She decided to do him a cooked late breakfast, even though he'd mumbled something about cornflakes and being alright for food. Hot food inside him might make him more sensible, she thought: he was probably still in shock. She had some sausages meant for her husband's tea: she would think of something else for Ron; he wasn't very fussy. There was a coughing fit from the shower, which went on long enough to be worrying. If she called an ambulance they'd probably slap an oxygen mask on him, but there was probably a reason why he'd come here and not gone straight to hospital. She popped upstairs to find some of Malcolm's clothes: he'd taken few with him when he left.

She found some jeans, a soft lumberjack shirt and a pullover, plus underpants and socks. That would do for now. While she was upstairs she used the master bedroom phone extension to call her older son, George, and drop a hint that he should call by at some point in the morning. She didn't say Malcolm's name over the phone and she hadn't said his name out loud in the house when he'd come to the door. You didn't know who was listening. She didn't make any move to tell her husband, because during the working day he was almost always within earshot of somebody from The Firm and The Firm was the reason why she couldn't have her son at home. She took the clothes downstairs and left them just outside the cloakroom door, before going on through to the kitchen and getting busy. There was a radio in the kitchen and she turned that on, tuning into Thames Radio. They were playing the Carpenters Top of the World and it cheered her up.

Thames Radio wasn't usually big on news but when the song finished there was a bulletin: one of the big houses on The Bishop's Avenue had collapsed without warning, leaving nothing but a pile of bricks, timber and tiles. Gloria's hand flew to her mouth: Oh, Malcolm! There was an ill-tempered attempt at an interview with an estate agent, who came close to openly threatening the reporter. The estate agent angrily maintained that there was no story. A house falls down on the most expensive road in the country and it's not a story!

There was a cough, an embarrassed one this time, from the doorway and Malcolm stood there a bit awkwardly, wearing the clothes she'd found for him. Rid of the dust, Malcolm was revealed as a slim, hatchet faced youth with soft brown eyes. If the hair had been dry, it would have been light brown. He took after Gloria's father rather than Ron. She pointed to the kitchen table and switched the kettle on. She gave him some sheets of kitchen towel to blow his nose with, because his nose was clogged with gritty snot. He seemed to find it a bit easier to breathe once he'd finished. Hooray! He was going to live! Malcolm accepted a mug of tea eagerly.

He was finishing a plate of sausages, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread -and another mug of tea- when the front doorbell rang. Gloria went to let George in and was presented with a bunch of flowers. Hello, Mum he said, warmly. The flowers were evidence of George's presence of mind: to anybody watching, his arrival wouldn't seem like any sort of emergency because he'd had time to think of and buy flowers. He followed her to the kitchen and clasped Malcolm's shoulder without addressing any spoken comment to him. There was a bond between Gloria's sons that mightn't be expected because they were so far apart in age and looks: Malcolm was seventeen, while burly, round faced, balding George was nearly thirty. Now George did resemble Ron!

Ron had been away for a long time after The Firm had got him to nursemaid a gang of would-be armed robbers, who'd been loose-tongued, amongst other faults. He'd gone along to look after The Firm's interests and ensure that there was only necessary violence. The Flying Squad had been waiting for them and Ron had meekly surrendered rather than get shot. The prosecution had construed his role as ringleader, which he couldn't credibly deny without explaining how The Firm had licensed the robbery, which was unthinkable. He'd been away, but he'd kept quiet and The Firm owed him, which it sometimes forgot. Malcolm was the family's fresh start.

After George had finished a mug of tea, keeping up a nattering conversation with Gloria as if Malcolm wasn't there, he went and picked up the air filter. Malcolm gave his mother a hug by way of silent thank you for the food and followed George outside. The moped was behind the garage, out of sight of the road. George disappeared into the garage for a few moments and emerged, a pleased smile on his face, with his old motorcycling toolbox. This was placed a bit clear of the moped for now and George disappeared into the garage again, to return with an old industrial vacuum cleaner which plugged into a properly circuit-breakered outdoor mains socket by the garage back door. The brakes were vacuumed clean, as was Malcolm's helmet.

It was reasonably safe to converse outdoors. "If you let water get to a helmet lining that's covered in plaster, cement and brick dust, it's going to stick, set hard and stop being a crash helmet. You don't really want to wash the brakes, but that much crud isn't good. You alright letting your hair dry in the air like that? Yes, I don't really like hair driers: they make my scalp itch. The rubbish bag that their mother had used for the dusty newspaper was by the kitchen door and George emptied the vacuum cleaner into it. I'll dispose of all that later. Now, we can use the garden hose on the rest of the moped and give the fairing a wax, if there's some black wax in the garage. Were you really living in The Bishop's Avenue, where that house collapsed?"

Yes, I was. For several weeks actually. But this morning there were funny creaking sounds and I decided it was time to move on anyway, ready for the colder weather. Then, when I was ferrying my stuff out to the moped, something in the basement suddenly snapped and the whole building came apart. I think a couple of the chimney stacks fell into the basement and pulled the walls down after them. Some of my stuff is in the rubble, but I shouldn't think anyone's going to take any notice. The way that some of those buildings are just left makes me think that it could be years before anyone actually clears the rubble, and then they'll just be interested in getting the site clear.

"Yes, you're probably right there. Well, my actual reason for asking is that there's a bloke belongs to the same snooker club as me, who runs a property management company for various estate agents out in Virginia Water. They all recommend his outfit to people and companies that buy houses there or have them built. Now the usual pain in the arse when you're doing that kind of thing, is all the sets of keys you've got to have and keeping track of them as you give them to staff to check and clean the houses, making sure you get them all back at the end of the day, not mixing them up. With fifty or more houses on your books it's a lot of bother. But one day he claimed to have solved that one."

Oh yes? Malcolm was all ears. Well, none of the houses concerned is more than a few years old and they are all very high specification, so they mostly have electronic access control anyway, and the ones that don't soon get it fitted on the recommendation of the property management company. You'd think that would replace fifty or more sets of keys with fifty RFID cards, but he was cleverer than that. Rather than issuing a card from each locking system, he got each system to recognise the same card and store its ID in memory. Then he repeated the exercise for as many teams of cleaners that he runs. He's created a raft of master keys for the whole of Virginia Water, that can be copied from a distance? Exactly!

They paused in their cleaning of the moped to laugh out loud.

Anyway, I didn't do anything about it immediately: I gave him time to forget that he'd boasted about his cleverness. But I remembered the smartphone app you showed me when you cloned your entrance card to the college. One day, when he took his jacket off while he was playing a few frames, I tried that app out on his jacket and it worked from three feet away. Didn't have to touch it at all, but I had to scroll past his contactless bank cards volunteering themselves to be copied! Then, your collection of computer stuff is still in your old room here, and I eventually managed to programme the borrowed ID from my smartphone onto a couple of your blank RFID cards from that packet of twenty that you had. I had to look some basic instructions up on the internet to get it right, but it was pretty simple really. Malcolm was impressed with George's new found computer literacy.

So, if you're got the bottle to squat on The Bishop's Avenue, you should have no trouble finding somewhere really decent to kip in Virginia Water. Should be safer, as the doors will lock behind you; with the older mansions you're effectively looking for a door that doesn't lock and there almost always is. Someone else could find the same open door and follow you in. Most of these new houses have multi-storey 'iceberg' basements and that means the power and other services are left on all the time even if they're not occupied, to run ventilation and pumps to keep the groundwater at bay. It's a bit like Formula One cars always being connected to a power source between races. Should be an improvement on what you're used to! The programmed cards are unmarked and back in the packet of blank ones in your old bedroom. You can find out which is which with your smartphone so I didn't label them. I felt it would be better, if there was ever a search here, if they looked just like all the other blank cards.

George. The word 'thanks' seems woefully inadequate, but thanks! George was almost embarrassed. If the houses were occupied and full of treasure, those cards would be worth a lot more than their weight in gold and I'm sure I could find somebody keen to buy them. As it is, they're of value to someone who doesn't want to steal anything and wants to leave no trace of his visit. That's you. And because they are clones of the property maintenance boss's card, no-one's going to get sacked if someone sits down with an access computer one day in the future and finds lots of unexplained accesses in the logs.

George deftly changed the air filter and put the used one in the rubbish bag of dusty evidence to be properly disposed of. Their father had owned a black Mercedes in the not too distant past and there was still a tin of black car wax on a shelf in the garage, which they applied to the moped's fairing and other black surfaces to pleasing effect. Malcolm was already planning how he could use a carefully-crafted query on the local authority's council tax database to identify which houses in Virginia Water were the subject of council tax rebates, indicating that they were officially unoccupied. From feeling numb with shock and not knowing where to turn, he was once again confident and ready for adventure.

***

Ron and Gloria walked hand in hand through the garden. She'd cooked him a chicken, carrot and sweetcorn noodle stew for his tea, using frozen chicken breast. She was glad that she'd invented something nice that he liked. I'm so sorry that Malcolm couldn't stay and see you, but I never know when somebody from The Firm is going to invite themselves to come with you and I know that they're not supposed to know that we're still on speaking terms with Malcolm. You did the right thing, love. Malcolm's much better off without The Firm.

The tendency of senior members of The Firm to invite themselves in had rankled with Gloria for years. All the time Ron had been away, they'd kept visiting her and offering to be helpful, in a way that meant they knew all her business. For the eighteen years that he'd been back, they'd kept doing it too.

Malcolm looked a wreck when he turned up, but he cleaned himself up and I gave him some hot food and he felt a bit better. George came and helped him sort his moped out so that he could rely on it, and George obviously helped him sort out where he was going to stay, but they didn't tell me where that was and I didn't ask. The Firm doesn't think very much of George. They underestimate him.

They certainly do. He's ever so good at sorting things out for people. Thing is, he's kind and they wouldn't really know about that! Ron rumbled his agreement. It's Malcolm they're after, I'm afraid. They think he fits one of their pet schemes, but it wouldn't be good for him even if he was never arrested for it, which I think quite unlikely to be honest. They don't like anyone actually saying 'no' so it's better for him not to cross their path.

~~~

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Chapter 2, The Iceberg House

Dusk was falling by the time Malcolm entered Virginia Water on the B389 from Chertsey. A moped was legally limited to routes avoiding the M4 and M25; he'd had to wend his way through, rather than around, London and his legs, back and backside all ached from too long in the saddle. He passed the town centre to his right and kept on the B389. The big new houses in Virginia Water all tended to be built on the site of a pre-existing smaller house in a large garden, of which there were still quite a lot strung out along this road, nestling in the trees of mature gardens as if it were a wood. There were frequent signs of occupation where the plots still contained smaller older houses. He'd also ruled out trying any property on the gated Wentworth estate itself until he had more experience with the area.

He had studied the map and Google Streetview scenes on the internet and was looking for a big house more or less on its own amidst trees. There were several of these of course, but that was it, just like the Streetview image: a big two storey house on the surface, four more storeys below ground. A few lights on downstairs to make it look occupied, which he knew it wasn't. He wouldn't have touched such a house in Inner London, because those were all done by hollowing out the ground underneath an existing house and he was newly allergic to things that might fall down. But here the old house had been taken down completely and a new one built from scratch, widely separated from any other structure. He rode past the entrance and parked his moped by the corner of the walled formal garden in the surrounding woodland. Screened from the road by bushes, it should be safe enough. With his immediate needs in his backpack, Malcolm walked back to the entrance, which had a side gate for people as well as a big electronically-operated gate for vehicles. He didn't want to open the big gate even if his cloned cards would do the job. He presented a card to a small plastic box fixed to the wall next to the side gate and got a click as it unlocked. So far, so good. He slipped quickly inside and pushed the gate shut again. There was another click. His boots scrunched on gravel as he approached the house. He felt cramp in his legs and knew that he probably wouldn't be able to run away at all fast if the need arose, so it had better not arise. He hobbled up to the imposing front door.

There was a CCTV camera, but it probably just fed a PC