The Club

By Anthony Hulse

Journalist Mark Clancy links a series of murders of colleagues and noted celebrities to the Glamour Club, a gentleman’s establishment in London. Along with colleague Donna Sharkey, they discover the club is a feeder for a mysterious dwelling in Belgravia. Shunned and dissuaded by a number of corrupt and disbelieving officials, the couple decide to infiltrate The Club. They learn of something so incredible and frightening, including a plot to assassinate the future Prime Minister. A story of murder, corruption, perversion, and greed. From the seedy clubs of Soho, to the worldwide playgrounds of the wealthy, this book will captivate you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291973259

Book preview

The Club

The Club

Anthony Hulse

Copyright@Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-97325-9

Cover design: Ola-Ola @ iStock.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Prologue

Los Angeles.

Jennifer Blake grimaced after she completed her seventeenth lap of her pool. She held onto the steps and breathed heavily in the knowledge her exertions would no doubt prove meaningful.

Renowned movie director, Richard Franklin promised Jennifer the leading role in his latest blockbuster, but only if she could shed twelve pounds. All of these torturous sessions in the pool and the gymnasium would surely be rewarded with an Oscar, her second such award.

Through her blurred goggles, she spotted someone waving at her from the other end of the pool. Wilson, she muttered, expecting her personal trainer had returned. She kicked against the pool wall and decided to impress her trainer with one more lap.

On reaching the end of the pool, she held onto the wall, struggled for breath, and spit out the repulsive water. She pulled up her goggles and focused on the man. The stranger had a wry smirk on his face, and in his hands, he held a spear gun.

Who are you? she spluttered. How did you get in here?

The man remained unresponsive. He aimed the weapon at the midriff of the actress.

Jennifer kicked back off the wall, performing the backstroke as she attempted to put distance between her and the stranger.

The man squeezed the trigger and the spear found its target, piercing Jennifer’s heart. The pool turned a shade of crimson as she struggled to stay afloat. Before blacking out, she held the killer’s gaze and watched him tear a piece of paper in two. The remnants fluttered aimlessly towards the blemished water, before settling beside the corpse of the actress.

Chapter One

London.

Taxi driver, Felix Fanshawe drove slowly towards the terminal at   Heathrow Airport. Another dull, wet, spring day could not dampen his enthusiasm. His proposed passenger would surely make up for his miserable predicament.

His fare, Melissa Gilmour, an American Oscar winning actress, was well known for her generous tips. After her limousine broke down at the airport, she ordered her chauffeur to phone for a taxi, such was her urgency.

Melissa Gilmour, even though beautiful and talented, was going through a crisis. Although only forty-three years old, less and less major acting roles were offered to her; most of which she would have walked into during her halcyon days.

Felix parked outside the VIP lounge and turned off his motor. He watched the eager mechanics working on the crippled limousine. The lounge door opened and Melissa, clad in a fur coat and matching hat, strode towards the waiting taxicab. The eager reporters, when they noticed her presence made after her.

The actress hurriedly clambered into the rear of the cab. Okay, drive.

Where to, Miss Gilmour?

Belgravia, darling.

Felix checked his mirror. Over the years, she had retained her beauty; a little refined perhaps, but still beautiful. Her expensive perfume lingered, the aroma most pleasing to Felix’s nostrils.    

The actress noticed her driver was surveying her. Tell me, what’s your name.

Felix, Miss Gilmour.

Like the cat, eh?

Yeah, like the cat.

Melissa applied her lipstick. Tell me, Felix, have you seen any of my movies? she drawled in a Californian accent.

Sure I have, Miss Gimour. I’m one of you biggest fans, he lied, in an effort to enhance his gratuity.

She narrowed her feline-like eyes. Really? What’s your favourite movie?

Felix hesitated before he answered. Mmm, that must be The Forbidden. In truth, it was the only one of her movies he could recall.

The actress smiled and displayed her perfect, gleaming, capped teeth. That’s mine too.

Felix regarded her in his mirror. You don’t say. You certainly deserved your Oscar for your role, Miss Gilmour.

Call me Melissa… Tell me, Felix, are you married?

Hell, no. What I mean is, I just haven’t met the right girl yet.

The flirting actress removed her fur hat and preened her red hair. Come on, a handsome young man like you. I bet you’ve broken many a heart in your time.

The rain lashed down and Felix turned on the window wipers. Mmm, I’ve had my moments I guess.

Felix was thirty years old, going on nineteen. He resented the fact he had entered another era. As his attire suggested, he remained young at heart. He wore a red vest, blue denim jeans, and white trainers. On his head he donned a baseball cap, which he wore back to front, his black curly hair protruding from beneath it. True, his dark looks and muscular body attracted many admirers, but he cherished his freedom and deemed himself too young to settle down.

Once more, Felix eyed the actress through his mirror, only this time, she smiled seductively. Was she really flirting with him? He grinned and imagined himself as a gigolo. He stroked his designer stubble and watched as Melissa lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke.

There, Felix. Take a left around here.

He drove past the magnificent buildings in Belgravia, until ordered to stop outside a gothic, Victorian structure.  

The actress stubbed out her cigarette and eyed up the impressive establishment.

Wow! Do you live here? asked Felix.

Heavens, no. This is a club; a select club where I like to visit on my trips to London.

Felix probed. So, what sort of a club is it, Melissa?

It’s just a club… Okay, darling. How much do I owe you?

Before he could answer, she moaned. Oh, shit! I seem to have forgotten to change my money at the airport. How bloody stupid of me. Listen, Felix, is there any chance you could meet me this evening and I’ll pay you?

Felix’s heartbeat accelerated. Was this a devious plot to trick him into her bed? Of course. Where would you like me to meet you?

Do you know the Carlton Hotel in Knightsbridge?

Yes.

Good. Pick me up there at say, eight ‘o’clock. I’ll then pay you in full. Is that okay with you?

Of course. I’ll be there.

Melissa left the cab and ran through the rain towards the club. She pressed the button and addressed the intercom.

Felix watched her admitted into the premises. He smiled contently. I bet I’ll be paid in full, he muttered to himself. This could be your lucky day, Felix, my man. This could be your lucky day.

Chapter Two

The eager reporters gathered around the television in the premises of the Daily Comet when the tragic news reached them. They watched intently as the TV announcer spoke.

The body of Jennifer Blake, the thirty-six year old actress was found in her swimming pool in Los Angeles yesterday afternoon. She had been murdered, and Los Angeles police are to make a statement later today. Jennifer Blake was best remembered for her role as Elizabeth Parker in The Romantic Stranger, for which she won an Oscar. Her husband, Michael was filming on location at the time and is said to be understandably distraught. Other news… The Prime…

The television switched off.

Shit, I was in love with Jennifer Blake, moaned a ginger-headed reporter.

Mark Clancy, a tall, bespectacled journalist who had worked for the Daily Comet for twelve years, responded. You’re in love with every pretty girl you meet, Denis.

I cannot help it. I’m just a sex magnet.

Clancy laughed and gave his colleague the middle finger. Yeah, yeah,

A middle-aged, grey-haired man joined them. Bill McFadden, the editor of the Daily Comet addressed Clancy. How’s the Jimmy Watson story coming along?

Clancy shrugged. It isn’t, Bill. We have no evidence he took a bribe.

The editor sighed. He took a bloody bribe, all right. I could have prevented some of those goals. Gordon Banks, he certainly isn’t.

We must be careful, insisted Clancy. Watson’s threatening to take us to court if I run the story.

The editor proceeded to feed his coins into the drinks machine. Mark, when’s the last time you had a holiday?

I don’t remember. Anyway, I don’t need a holiday.

McFadden eyed up his coffee and grimaced. You look all in. Take a bloody week off, and that’s an order.

The protesting journalist responded. Chasing those celebrities around is what’s knackering me, Bill.

Celebrities are what you know best. Take the holiday, Mark.

But…

Take the fucking holiday, and that’s final.

Clancy, at the age of thirty-two secretly searched for another job. Chasing celebrities around no longer appealed to him. After twelve years, his ambition was to be a crime reporter, but his editor repeatedly snubbed his request, stating he was the best show-biz journalist around. Clancy craved for a murder or a topical crime, just to liven up his mundane life. He had already decided he would use his time off to search for another job; somebody who would appreciate his talent. He sometimes felt like a rat, digging up the dirt on the stars and reporting their illicit love affairs. Clancy genuinely felt sorry for the majority of them, but he had a living to make.

Well respected by his colleagues, Clancy’s rugged features and his honed physique rendered him popular with the female staff. He had a sort of boyish charm about him, his hazel brown eyes and wavy hair seemingly attracting the women.   

Clancy lived in a flat in Paddington, after his ex-wife, Tanya took his house and moved in her lanky boyfriend. He had taken the tube to his flat, and now strode along Edgeware Road, ignoring the intense rain. He would shower and shave, before calling at his local for much needed alcohol refreshment. Then he would head for town, hopefully getting laid in the process. Yes, it had been so long since he had relaxed. Far too long.

******

As Clancy entered the lounge of his local watering hole, The Greyhound, a dense cloud of smoke enveloped him. He made his way to the bar and exchanged greetings with the usual crowd. The thirsty reporter had opted to call at his local first, and then to move on to Piccadilly Circus, or even Soho.

The stout, bald proprietor greeted his customer. Evening, Mark. The usual?

The usual, Sam. Say, why don’t you liven this place up? It’s beginning to resemble a morgue in here.

The punters like it quiet, besides, if it’s karaoke or strippers you’re after, try Soho.

Mark cleaned the rain from his spectacles. It’s not karaoke I’m looking for tonight, if you get my meaning.

The landlord leant on his bar, his mouth crammed full of salted peanuts. You should never have let Tanya go. She was a real treasure, was that one.

Have I ever told you, Sam to mind your own bloody business? Anyway, pour me another pint, my good man.

******

Clancy glanced at his wristwatch. It was ten ‘o’clock and he still had not pulled. The girls who were interested were riddled with some disease, or just downright ugly. He pondered. If he could not pull in Soho, then he would never pull. All of the best women were taken, and the only attention he now received was from an obese girl in an outrageous mini skirt.

Clancy saw his old friend Felix enter the premises. He clambered down from his stool, thankful he had an excuse to escape the advances of his admirer. The journalist approached Felix, noticing he dressed in a smart suit, and not his usual drinking attire.

Felix, why the long face, mate?

Oh, hi, Mark. I’m absolutely pissed off, I can tell you.

So it seems. What’s with the whistle and flute? Vest at the laundry?

Ha, ha. You wouldn’t’t believe me if I told you, Mark.

Try me. And thanks by the way. You’ve just save me from a fate worse than death. Mark seemed pleased to see the plump nymphomaniac retreat to the far end of the bar.

Beer, mate? asked the taxi driver.

Why not?

Felix returned from the bar with a very large whisky for himself. He swallowed it in one gulp. Guess who I had in my cab this afternoon?

The tipsy reporter shrugged. George Bush? Bin Laden?

No, Melissa Gilmore.

Clancy seemed impressed. Piss off. You really had Melissa Gilmore in your cab?

It’s true, and that’s not all. Felix checked around him to ensure they were out of earshot. I had a date with her.

Clancy spluttered and spit out his beer, spraying Felix in the process."

Shit, moaned Felix. Watch the new suit, will you.

Felix, you’ve told some porkies in your time, but this one tops them all.

The cab driver prodded his friend in the chest. It’s true, I tell you. I picked her up from Heathrow today and drove her to some posh club in Belgravia. Apparently, she had no English currency on her, so she arranged to meet me tonight at the Carlton.

Clancy interrupted. And let me guess; she never turned up.

Felix contemplated returning to the bar. The cow. I spent all of that money on this whistle and flute, and she stands me up.

Clancy could not help but smile. Felix, she was only going to pay you the cab fare she owed. I hardly think that counts as a date.

"No. You didn’t see the way she looked at me. She was hot for it.

The reporter could see his friend was serious. Piss off, mate. Melissa Gilmore could have the pick of the hunks in Hollywood, but she tried to get into your y-fronts.

Felix loosened his tie. I realise how this must sound, but it’s true.

How old is she anyway? asked Clancy. She must be kicking fifty.

No, she’s not that old. Anyway, Mark, I wouldn’t kick her out of my bed.

That’s because you’d never get the chance.

Felix was adamant. Take the piss and say what you have to, but I know she was hot for me.

Clancy stepped out of view of his female admirer, who searched the bar for him. How much did she owe you?

Twenty-five sovs, and a tip.

Clancy shrugged. Write it off as a bad experience, mate.

Like shit I will. That fare will come out of my wages. She won’t get away with this. I’ll call at that posh club and ask for her.

Which posh club is this then? quizzed Clancy.

I’ve already told you. Some snotty club in Belgravia.

You’re probably wasting your time, Felix.

We’ll see.

Clancy pondered. So, why don’t you try the Carlton?

I’ve already tried there. I waited an hour for her, and when she didn’t show, I sneaked past the porter. The receptionist insists she wasn’t staying there.

He would say that, wouldn’t he? Anyway, Felix, good luck, but I wouldn’t count on it.

Clancy swallowed the remainder of his drink and decided to go home. He gave up any hope of meeting someone desirable for the evening. 

Chapter Three

Journalist, Denis Mullins sat at the bar in the popular lap-dancing venue, The Glamour Club. He strained his eyes through the smoke, attempting to keep vigilance on a man who pawed the naked breast of a willing, young dancer. The middle-aged man with grey-slicked hair placed a twenty-pound note inside the girl’s garter and beckoned her to sit on his lap.

A raven-haired temptress approached Mullins, but he quickly dismissed her with a polite smile. The girl did not object, probably surmising the customer to be one of those freaks that liked to watch. As long as he purchased drinks, then he was welcome to continue his surveillance. Normally, Mullins would have welcomed the attention of the semi-naked beauty, but tonight he was working. With Mark Clancy on holiday, Mullins was assigned to take over his duties. 

The man he surveyed now fondled the breasts of the girl perched on his knee. Apparently, the club’s policy forbids punters from touching the girls, but Charles Delaney was not just any customer. He was the Transport Minister for the Conservative party.

Clancy had trailed the minister for weeks, after a tip off he frequented with prostitutes. Delaney, popular in the public eye, came across as a homely, family man, but appearances in this instance were deceptive.

Mullins ordered another gin and tonic, content in the knowledge he could list his alcohol intake as expenses. He focused on Delaney, who was now joined by another distinguished-looking man. Another topless dancer joined him when he settled down on the sofa next to his companion.    

Mullins felt he knew this man, but uncertain where from. The newcomer opened his wallet and offered the girl some cash. The soft music suited the erotic surroundings, as the dancers now rubbed themselves teasingly against their poles.

Are you new to this club, then?

Mullins turned towards the thin barman. Yes, it’s my first time here.

The barman nodded. You must be someone special to be allowed in here. This is a very select club.

It is, isn’t it?

The barman continued his probing. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re different to the usual clientele we normally get.

Mullins frowned. You mean I’m not flashing the cash, or dripping with jewellery?

No, sir, that’s not what…

I’m a friend of the owner, interrupted Mullins.

You know Mr Calvert?

Yes, we go back a long time. Mullins, like every other journalist he knew, had no scruples, and lying came natural to him. In truth, one of the doormen owed him a favour and allowed him in; after a generous gratuity of course.

Mullins motioned towards the companion of Charles Delaney. Tell me; that gentleman over there with the cigar. Where have I seen him before?

The barman seemed happy with the company. Oh, you mean Mr Hitchcock? He’s a regular. He’s been coming here for years. Likes to spread the reddies, if you know what I mean.

Hitchcock, mused Mullins.

Yes, James Hitchcock, the High Court judge.

Mullins nodded. Of course, I remember him now.

The prying reporter ordered another gin and tonic, but swallowed it swiftly, as he watched the two eminent men head towards the exit with the girls in tow. Mullins paced after them, and waited whilst they collected their overcoats and scarves. He followed them outside, where a limousine waited for the four revellers. The chauffeur opened the doors for them and Mullins made a dash through the driving rain towards his car. He waited until the limousine pulled away, before he followed at a respectable distance.

The limousine passed several Embassies when it turned into Belgravia, before it finally came to a standstill outside an impressive gothic building. The two couples abandoned the limousine and strode towards the building, the giggling of the girls audible over the relentless rainfall. Delaney spoke into an intercom, and within seconds, they were allowed into the premises.

Mullins waited until the limousine pulled away, before he left his vehicle and headed towards the building. There appeared to be no name on the door, just the number 13a. The reporter noticed a closed circuit camera focused on him and decided to press the button of the intercom. I wish to enter the premises, please.

I’m sorry, sir, but this is a private club, came the reply.

I wish to join your club.

I’m afraid that will not be possible, sir. We have a rather exclusive and large waiting list.

Mullins persisted. What about those two girls you just admitted? I’m sure they’re not members.

Two girls, sir? I believe you’re mistaken.

Bullshit. They were with Charles Delaney and James Hitchcock. Ring any bells, mate?

I’m sorry, sir, but you’re very much mistaken.

The impatient journalist stared at the camera. Once more, he pressed the intercom button. What is the name of this club?

Good evening, sir. The intercom went dead.

Mullins jotted down the number of the building in his notebook. He backed away, looked the mysterious premises up and down, before he conceded and drove away.

Chapter Four

The audience laughed hysterically as the young comedian strutted up and down the stage. At the age of twenty-four, Steve Wagner was the most popular act on the comedy circuit, and tonight he played at the Civic Theatre. His future seemed bright indeed, after he signed up for his own television show, and had invites to several prime chat shows.

Wagner told his final gag of the evening, drenched in perspiration. Thank you and God bless, he said, as the audience applauded loudly and gave him a standing ovation. After reaching the wing of the stage, he returned and bowed, complying with his devotee’s requests for an encore.

He eventually reached the sanctuary of his dressing room and faced his agent. That’s fucking it! I’ll never play at this place again. Haven’t they heard of air-conditioning? It was like a fucking sauna out there.

The camp agent applauded. They loved you, Steve, darling. You were sensational.

The comedian slumped into a chair. I need a drink, Jason. Whisky will be fine.

You’re drinking too much, responded the agent. How about a beer instead?

Fetch me a bottle of fucking whisky and stop treating me like a child.

Jason conceded. I’ll be five minutes.

The young comedian studied his lean, handsome face in the mirror, before he slouched back and covered it with a cold flannel. He heard the opening of the door. That was quick… Be a darling and pour me a large one, will you?

There was no immediate response, which prompted the comic to lower the flannel. He felt the intruding hands reach over his shoulders, and sensed something cold against his bare throat. The cheese-cutter sliced into his windpipe, and his attacker exerted pressure. Wagner, unable to react, felt the warm blood trickle between his fingers.

The assailant pulled even harder, as if attempting to sever his victim’s head. Wagner felt his mouth fill up with blood, and kicked out wildly, but to no avail. His killer released him, and the comic slumped forward, a deluge of blood escaping from his gaping wound.

The assassin removed a piece of paper from his pocket, ripped it in two, and watched as it fluttered like a dying butterfly to the ground. Steve Wagner’s young life terminated, and he had told his last joke.

******

Clancy relaxed in his local watering hole and watched his beloved Chelsea beating West Ham by a solitary goal. He finished off his third pint of beer, when an announcement interrupted the football.

Steve Wagner, the talented comedian was brutally murdered tonight, after his performance at the Civic Theatre in London. No more details are available at this time. There will be a special announcement after this programme has ended… Now, back to the football.

Shit, moaned Clancy. He had interviewed the likeable