Coins Not Accepted

By Chris Quinton

"Bring me the contents of the security box from the bank, and make sure you're not followed." Miles Carter carries out his grandfather's instructions, and finds himself caught up in a dangerous tangle of family mysteries, and the unexpected return of Allan Warwick, his childhood friend. Add to that a parallel country and a plot to overthrow its government, both of which seem to involve his grandfather and Allan. Miles' life will be irrevocably changed, but only if he and Allan can stay together and survive the coup.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Quinton
• Release date: Jan 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005745554

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

Book preview

Coins Not Accepted

by

Chris Quinton

Copyright © 2017 / 2021 by Chris Quinton

First Publication: 2017

Second Publication: 2021

Cover Photo: Depositphotos

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission

from the Author, Chris Quinton.

Piracy is Theft

The royalties from the sale of my books helps to support my family and pay essential bills. If you like this story, please spread the word and tell others about it, but please don’t share it.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Contents

Dedication

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

About the Author

Bibliography

Dedication

To the Usual Suspects - thank you for your support, nags, kicks in the arse,

copious amounts of tea, beer, wine, and encouragement.

You make writing even more of a pleasure.

Chapter One

Saturday night, Premier League football matches on the huge flat screen TV in the main bar, and the Rising Sun was packed out. Even so, that didn’t provide an excuse for the stray elbow that jostled Miles Carter’s arm as he raised his glass. He glared at the stranger, who made no attempt to move away.

Sorry, the offender said quickly. It’s crowded in here. Can I, uh, buy you another? By way of apology? The man’s smile did little to chase away the lines of strain about his mouth, or the slight frown that put a crease between his brows. Even as he leaned closer into Miles’ personal space, he seemed uneasy, as if, Miles suddenly realised, he didn’t want to be there. I’m Gerry, by the way. Are you on your own?

This had to be the clumsiest attempt at a pickup Miles had ever experienced. Perhaps that was why his usually reliable gaydar hadn’t pinged. Gerry was good-looking in a clean-cut, wholesome kind of way, with neatly trimmed brown hair, soulful brown eyes, firm jawline and a generous mouth. He looked to be round about Miles’ age, late twenties, and gave the impression of being so fresh out of the closet he could have had coat hangers sticking out of his pockets.

Miles. He took pity on the newbie and held out his hand. I haven’t seen you in here before. Gerry hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking it. The contact was brief, and Gerry flushed as he released Miles’s hand with unflattering haste.

I’m new in town. He glanced around nervously. I, uh, heard this is a good place to meet other - people. His smile widened to a fixed grin. So how about that drink? Beer? Or something a little stronger?

Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass, Miles said. I’m off home. You can relax, by the way. The Sun is gay-friendly.

Oh. Okay. Next time? I plan on being a regular.

Sure, why not? Miles smiled and drained his glass. See you around, Gerry.

Tomorrow?

Yeah, I’ll be here.

He glanced back when he reached the door. Gerry still sat at the bar, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on his drink, as uncomfortable as a virgin in a brothel.

Poor sod, Miles thought as he strolled home through the tangle of back streets. His own coming out was years ago and had been a trauma-free non-revelation to his family, but he could sympathise with those who were only just coming to terms with their sexuality, and appreciated the courage it took. Regardless of the law of the land and fairly widespread acceptance, incidences of homophobia happened often enough to be an unwelcome feature in everyday life.

He didn’t think about the slightly odd encounter until after breakfast the next morning when his younger sister invaded his kitchen, appropriated the biscuit tin and its chocolate-coated contents, and demanded an update on his love life. Since that was Jenny’s usual opening gambit when she hadn’t seen him for a few days, he was tempted to ignore her. Then he recalled Gerry.

I could possibly have got lucky last night, he told her. Except he was so awkward I think he would have panicked and made a run for it if I’d gone along with his pickup line.

Aww! Poor lamb, she cooed. You should have taken pity on him, BB. BB, big brother. The nickname always warmed him and now proved no exception.

On who? her twin brother demanded, but didn’t wait for an answer. Have you seen the weather forecast? Rob continued, helping himself to biscuits as well. It’s set fair. How about we go out on the boat?

Good idea! and Miles forgot all about the newbie who had failed to set off his gaydar.

A day spent on the old Dufour Classic 32 yacht with the twins left Miles windswept, sunburned and dishevelled. He kicked off his sandals and collapsed in his armchair, as exhausted as if he was three times his twenty-seven years. Jennifer and Robert, considerably younger, looked equally tired as they flopped onto his couch. The small dinghy that came along with the Amaryllis Jones had a good turn of speed, and the twins had managed to regain the waterskiing skills grown rusty by their time away at Reading University. Summer holidays never dragged for any of them.

Technically the Amaryllis belonged to their father, but he had long since relinquished her to Miles on the grounds that he was too busy for anything other than an odd few hours of fishing when the weather cooperated. She was one of the reasons why Miles had taken his ground floor apartment in Great Yarmouth, a few streets away from her mooring in one of the small marinas on the Yare River.

The other reasons were the proximity of both the secondary school where he taught English Literature and Language, and one of the men in the photo on his mantelshelf. That relationship had faded amicably from heat to friendship over the last few months, so Miles hadn’t felt the need to literally cut him out of the picture or his life.

I need a drink, Rob mumbled and nudged his sister. Go on, woman, serve your purpose and fetch us men—ouch! Jenny’s response was immediate. He rubbed his shin and lurched to his feet, urged on by her determined assault with a cushion. He hobbled dramatically into the kitchen, and soon the aroma of fresh percolating coffee drifted out.

Biscuits, Jenny said and bounded after him to rifle the cupboards for more grazing fodder.

Chuckling, Miles took out his phone and checked his emails. His amusement faded a little when he saw his grandfather’s name halfway down his Inbox. He opened the message, and straightened in his chair.

I have sent you a letter and two keys. Take all precautions to make sure you are not being watched, and do not trust strangers. Follow the instructions and email me when you have them. Bring the items to me, but secretly. Leave your car at the Blue Bowl Inn in West Harptree and walk to the house via the footpaths and bridleways. Make sure no one sees you, and keep out of sight of the road. Come in by the back door. I will explain all later.

Miles hadn’t seen his namesake in the flesh for twelve years, not since the monumental dispute between his parents and Miles Westerman. They’d left Westerley Court and East Harptree for the Norfolk coast the same day, and rented an apartment until they bought a house in the village of Hemsby. His mother had been adamant that the rift remain, and nothing he or his father said over the years persuaded her to soften her resolve.

Like father, like daughter, his father had muttered, stubborn as Army mules, but the family remained estranged. She had been equally resolute in refusing to say what the issues were, and the echo of Cecelia Carter’s normally soft-spoken voice cut into his memory. There is nothing he can do or say that will change my mind. He is paranoid and delusional and I will not have my children involved in his madness. I don’t care how rich he is, Miles Westerman is certifiably insane.

An old guilt twinged Miles’ conscience. Ever since they’d left Somerset, he had maintained a clandestine contact with the old man, who’d advised him to keep it that way even after Miles moved into his own place in Great Yarmouth. His grandfather also turned down every suggestion that they meet.

They kept in touch by email and phonecalls, talking about nothing much in particular, just the Harptree gossip and news, keeping Miles up to date with the village goings-on. Miles Senior studiously avoided all mention of what had caused the rift with Cecelia, and had shown no sign of paranoia or delusions that Miles could recall. Until now.

Is that from Gramps? Jenny said over his shoulder, and he startled, quickly putting the phone back in his pocket. It was! Unless there’s another MJ Westerman in the UK. She perched on the arm of his chair and tried to wrestle her hand into his pocket. You sneaky bugger. You never said you were in touch with Gramps! Has he told you what kicked off the family feud? The mystery had been a perennial tease at the back of their minds for years. She and her brother had been eight when the split happened and while her memories of that time were few and vague, her curiosity was boundless.

No, he hasn’t. Not yet, at any rate.

I hate family quarrels, she grumbled, especially when I don’t know what the hell caused it. From what I remember of Gramps, he seemed like a really nice old codger, just sad some of the time. Okay, he could be a bit weird occasionally, but who isn’t?

Speak for yourself, her twin responded, cackling. He plunked a loaded tray onto the coffee table between couch and armchair, then dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor and leaned back against the couch.

Takes one to know one, she chanted in direct contradiction of her twenty years. So how long has this been going on, BB?

A little while, and now he wants me to visit him. He smiled and hugged her. I’m as curious as you.

In that case, Rob said, helping himself to a large handful of Hobnobs from the biscuit tin, we should go with you. Two pairs of intense blue eyes stared at him, cajoling and challenging according to each twin’s nature.

No, he said mildly. I don’t know why, but he’s insisting on secrecy. This might be Gramps’ paranoia, but I’ll go along with it and make sure he’s okay, and try to persuade him to see a doctor if he isn’t.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Jenny sighed.

It didn’t bother me at the time, she said quietly, but now, the more I think about it, the more it doesn’t seem like Mum. It sounds as if he’s been suffering from Alzheimer’s, or something similar, so why did she just take off with us at a moment’s notice instead of helping him? I mean, it was shouting one minute, and we were packed and out of the door the next. She’s always been such a caring person…

Yes, Rob said. So was he. I don’t remember him that well, but I know he loved us all.

Jenny nodded. Exactly. So why didn’t she stick around and make sure he got all the professional help he needed?

Damn it, her twin growled. We should have been asking these questions ages ago!

Yes, like what happened to Gramma? We never knew her, and all I can remember is being told she went away years before we were born. I always assumed they meant she walked out on Gramps before Mum married Dad, but maybe he had something to do with her disappearance and Mum found out and that’s why we left and I don’t like what I’m thinking.

You have an evil, overly suspicious mind, Miles told her gently. Don’t fret. I’ll go and find some answers, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?

Okay, they replied in unison.

After a brief discussion, to which Miles didn’t have much input, the twins stayed overnight. Their reasoning was simple and hard to counteract. Their parents had spent years keeping the three of them in the dark about their grandfather, and Jenny in particular knew she wouldn’t be able to remain silent on the matter. Too many questions demanded answers, but first they needed to gather as much solid information as possible.

Following their usual squabble and coin toss, Jenny took over the only guest room, and Rob the couch. Miles didn’t mind. They were great company, in the never-a-dull-moment kind of way, and they had a lot of catching up to do. It wasn’t until he’d gone to bed that evening that Miles remembered he’d vaguely considered dropping in at the Rising Sun to see if Gerry was there. Not for a pickup, but to perhaps help make a newbie feel more accepted, more comfortable in his skin.

Monday was grey and intermittently wet, Tuesday the same. They stayed indoors for the most part and waited for the post to arrive. On the few occasions Miles braved the wind and rain to buy food from the nearest supermarket, he caught a couple of glimpses of a vaguely familiar face, once behind the wheel of a pale blue Nissan. Gerry was also on shopping trips, but he didn’t seem to notice Miles, and Miles did nothing to attract his attention. He had enough to think about, without having to perhaps deal with another clumsy pick-up attempt.

The postal service being what it was, the plain padded envelope didn’t arrive until Thursday morning. Miles had hoped to keep the twins out of it, but they had resisted all suggestions that they go home, and were lurking in the kitchen when the postman shoved the envelope through Miles’ letterbox. Nor did he get a chance to hide the thing. Jenny saw the postmark, and loomed over him until he opened it.

Inside were several folded sheets of paper, an electronic card with the logo of Hoares Bank, and two small keys. Miles unfolded the first page and recognised his grandfather’s old-fashioned calligraphy, ‘The safe deposit box is held in the vaults of Hoares Bank on Fleet Street’, he read aloud. "‘The entry card, pin number and keys are here, along with my letter of authorisation. Bring the contents to me. You’ll need a backpack for them, and clothes for a short stay, and you must use extreme caution at all times. Please trust me in this. Send me an email as soon as you are on your way west.’ He’s signed it, ‘Your loving Gramps’."

Oookay, Jenny said doubtfully. The mystery deepens. What do we do now?

"We do nothing, Miles said. I go to London."

We go, Rob insisted. Nowhere does the old man say, ‘Come alone and tell no one’.

Abruptly the need to know something, anything, killed Miles’ admittedly token opposition.

All right. But you’re not coming with me to the village. Let’s go and see if we can get some answers from the bank, no matter how daft they sound.

Jenny produced her iPhone. I’ll check train times, she announced.

Let’s go now, Rob said, impatient as always. You can carry on checking in the car.

They hurried out of the back door to the parking bays for the apartments, and for once no one argued about who rode in the front with Miles. The twins dived into his black Ford Mondeo, and he pulled out into the street.

Five minutes into the ten-minute drive to the train station, Miles noticed a light blue Nissan positioned one car behind him. Coincidence, or…? A shiver ran up the back of his neck.

What the hell? he muttered. Added to his grandfather’s insistence on secrecy, Gerry’s continual appearances now took on a suspicious aspect.

What? the twins asked in unison.

Either Gramps’ paranoia is hereditary, or we’re being followed. I’m pretty damn sure that’s Gerry behind us in the blue car. One way to be sure, Miles added. He drove past the station and made a sharp right at the next junction. The Nissan followed suit.

Oh, fuck, Rob whispered. Is this what Gramps was afraid of? What the hell is going on?

Hopefully we’ll learn more in London. Change of plan. I doubt he knows the area as well as we do, so let’s see if I can lose him. Just to make sure he stays lost, I’ll make for Newbury Park and we can catch the tube in.

It took fifteen minutes for the Nissan to disappear from the line of cars behind them. As soon as he was sure Gerry wasn’t going to reappear, Miles drove to the outskirts of London, and left the Mondeo parked at the tube station. They rode to Temple via Mile End, and a short walk brought them to the bank.

It took the combined power of the letter of introduction, the electronic card, pin number, and keys to the safe deposit box, plus Miles’ driving licence, to grant them entrance to one of the small viewing rooms behind the massive door of the vault. The manager brought in the large box, and set it on the table with a solid thunk that widened Jenny’s eyes. Then he left them alone, shutting the door behind him.

Bloody hell, Rob said. What’s in it? Lead ingots?

Feels like it. Miles slid one of the keys into the lock and turned it.

The first thing he saw as he raised the lid was a long white envelope. On it was written, ‘Upon my death, this is to be opened only by Miles Westerman Carter. If he should be deceased, this is to be incinerated unread, along with my corpse, and the contents of the box given to his heirs without conditions.’

Bloody hell, Rob said again. If it wasn’t for your fan in the blue car, I’d think the old guy read too many mystery novels.

Open it! Jenny insisted. Quickly, BB. I’m dying here.

No, Miles said. He isn’t dead. If he wanted me to read it, he’d have said so in his letter. He examined the envelope. It had been sealed with a thick blob of scarlet wax, and the imprint of an heraldic beast had been pressed into it. Immediately he recalled his grandfather’s ring, an oval of russet carnelian, set in reddish gold.

The hell with that. Gramps is acting a little bit psycho, and so is this Gerry of yours. In my book that cancels out normal privacy. Rob snatched the envelope from Miles’ hands, ripped it open and took out the letter. Do you read it or shall I?

Give it to me, he snapped, and retrieved the folded sheets.

What does it say? Rob demanded.

Give me a chance, brat, he replied. Okay, now shut up, both of you. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. ‘Dear Miles—‘

If it starts with, ‘if you’re reading this, then I’m dead,’ I think I’ll scream, Jenny interrupted.

"Shut. Up. ‘Dear Miles, I wish I could have had the opportunity to tell you everything in person, sitting in the comfort of my study sharing some excellent whisky. But Time moves at her own pace and we cannot control her. If you recall, the meaning of