The Wishing Well

By Roger Conlon

The book is a fictional account of a group of three British dissidents who try to uncover the truth about the dark corporate secrets of British companies. They are confronted by the security services, organised crime, and the government in their brave efforts to ascertain the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504946018

Roger Conlon

Roger Conlon published an autobiography in 2012 and since then he has produced a crime thriller partly based on true events and a collection of short stories. He is interested in challenging fiction that presents a unique window into Victorian Scotland.

Book preview

© 2015 Roger Conlon. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/07/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4600-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4599-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4601-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Trading Places

Chapter 2: The Deal

Chapter 3: Making Tracks

Chapter 4: Absolution

CHAPTER ONE

Trading Places

James Appleton finished his paperwork and signed off his computer. It was Friday, 10 November 2023. He looked around his smart and luxurious office as the bright orange reflection from the London skyline cast a wonderful glow over the wallpaper and the Samuel Peploe painting The Coffee Pot, which he had been given as a prize for his fabulous returns on derivatives as an employee of Lifespan PLC. The top executives, who were enjoying huge bonuses, were due to meet for a celebration in an expensive restaurant in the city. The week was over, but success was as inevitable and delightful as the malt whisky they were about to enjoy. A text message appeared on his phone, and the words left him with a chase in pursuit of the venue.

James, we are meeting before the meal at the Scotch Malt Whisky Society in Greville Street at five o’clock exactly. Don’t be late.

Andrew Preston was a colleague from the Farringdon office of the same company. He was lucky as he only needed to walk past Farringdon station, and his beloved place of escape was five minutes away from his work. James had to take the tube journey from Whitechapel and was desperate for a drink to relieve the stress of having to meet targets that were challenging and difficult. James thought about the file he kept on his computer about the merits of insider trading and decided that the dangers of such a practice were too great. Maybe, after a few Speyside malts, he could find his judgment acted as a distortion due to the unfortunate influence of the ‘water of life’.

The tube journey was uneventful, and the usual mixture of buskers and rough sleepers were present at the channels between each station. A few protesters were waving banners about the Davidson government’s attempt to privatize the tube. The Labour government had won a landslide majority in May 2020 over the Wallace coalition of 2010 to 2020, whose austerity policies had alienated the electorate as their inevitable consequence was the exacerbation of poverty. James thought it was rather ironic that a government elected on a promise to reverse coalition cuts was now trying to fully privatize a cherished London institution.

The protest banner was a direct message of anger and bewilderment:

The tube is for the people of London, not the greedy, overpaid executive director, who has no aim except cutting key services.

Greville Street, a sleepy corner of Farringdon, with smart diamond companies and fashionable restaurants, was a popular meeting place for city workers and local traders. James enjoyed the Whisky Society room. It served a purpose as a tiny pocket of calm and relaxation in a tumultuous financial world. It was akin to walking into a private living room. James rang the doorbell and signed his name in the guestbook for members. A continual chatter of lively banter could be heard from every corner of the room. Andrew approached James and offered to buy him a malt called Tomintoul, his preferred whisky.

‘We have to talk about our proposal. Have you given the insider trading idea serious consideration?’ James was in no mood for idle chatter.

Andrew replied, ‘The dangers and risks are colossal. Our career and reputation are on the line. We’re both successful traders. There’s no hiding place. Even leaving the country is not an option.’

James had a clear plan and was not to be perturbed by Andrew’s reticence.

‘I have learned from a company financial analyst that first quarter earnings for the new year will be fifty percent above the expected figure. These earnings will not be declared for a few days. We know that the company’s profits are higher than even the most optimistic prediction of six months ago.’

‘We buy and sell at an opportune moment?’ Andrew suggested.

‘You seem less sceptical. Brian Baker and Ian Kelly each separately own ten percent of the shares, so they are both capable of dealing in insider trading. We cannot do so as we own less of the company portfolio. We both have expertise in trading, so we will arrange for them to both buy the shares. We buy one hundred thousand shares at the close of business tomorrow because we know the share price will rise. We are a party to information that is not available to the public, which we can use to our advantage. That’s how we will all make a fortune. When the price rises to an acceptable level, we sell and pocket the money immediately.’

‘How will it be split? You hate Baker and Kelly to the core. They beat you to pulp when you were at school together.’

‘Andrew, this is business. We divide the profit four ways, an even split. I will put past events to the side while we become rich.’

‘James, correct me if I am wrong, but the definition of insider trading is clear. We have access to non-public information about the company, and we buy or sell shares on the basis that the public do not possess the facts so are at a disadvantage in terms of a commercial decision.’

‘Spot on, Andrew. It is a crime, but we will not get caught. We hide under the protection of our chief executive and his deputy. We buy the shares, but the buyer will be our two esteemed leaders.’

‘Very clever, James. Where will we hide the money?’

‘Leave that small matter to me. I have a plan.’

Andrew finished his malt and stared vacantly through the glass. This was a decision which could have calamitous consequences for him if everything went wrong.

‘I’m leaving you just now, James. I need time to dwell on this matter. I will miss the company meal later as I have a headache and would prefer to go home and rest.’ He drank the rest of his malt and left the premises.

James stayed for a short time in the society room. He thought carefully about the enormity of their decision. There was still tension in the air, and an eerie atmosphere of silent resistance was all that remained of their encounter. He paid the bill and thanked the barman for the excellent service they had received. He then walked towards Farringdon railway station and considered his dilemma. He recalled his father’s words of childhood wisdom when he admitted finding money in the street that he wanted to spend, even though the money had been lost by a city dweller. His formative years had been a combination of joy and dismay at the fringes of his parents’ contradictory parenting skills.

His father had served in the Falklands campaign, and was injured on board HMS Sheffield when it was attacked by Argentine aircraft. James and his sister, Nina, were brought up in a two-bedroom flat in Plymouth, and were accustomed to their father being away at sea for long periods, though their mother was a caring and devoted person. Their father was subject to violent mood swings that were a manifestation of an irrational rage. He objected to James keeping the money that someone had been very unlucky or careless enough to lose.

‘You will take that money you found back to the police station, James. You must learn the difference between right and wrong.’

Judy, James’s mother, defended her son and offered a sensible summary of the situation. Her husband, Mark, needed the voice of reason as the war had affected his balance of mind.

‘He could pay the money back from his weekly allowance. I will collect it and then send it back to the police station once the full amount is realized. James’s pocket money will be used to return the funds.’

‘I don’t agree. The police may question why we held on to the money for so long.’

Mark picked up a sherry glass, drank the contents, and decided to throw the glass against the living room wall. James and Nina gazed at their mum in astonishment. The splinters of glass crashed off the wall and knocked a picture of their father’s fateful ship of misfortune to the ground. The sound of the stricken image seemed like an echo of the pain and agony endured by those on board the ship during that fateful day.

‘Andrew, this is not like you to behave so badly. This pent-up fury is completely unacceptable. Taking it out on the kids will not help. You must go back to your counsellor.’

‘All the doctor does is talk and I say nothing. I’m away to the pub to see my mates. At least they will understand.’

‘Alcohol never solves anything, Mark. When you wake up in the morning your problem will still be there.’

James never saw his father again, and his disappearance left him with a lasting mistrust of adults. As he sat on the tube on the short journey back to King’s Cross station, he imagined what his father’s life might be now in terms of the quality of his experience. Would he become one of those young ex-servicemen begging in the street, with no home, role, or identity to speak of? He may have just disappeared into the lower strata of society, a lonely man living on the edge of oblivion. His father’s drinking was possibly an indication of penury. Unless he obtained alternative employment, he would become a hopeless drifter. His own mother was embarrassed.

‘I am not even going to report your father as a missing person, kids. He has abandoned us. If we tell the police, they’ll just make terrible suggestions that he’s just another partner who has deserted the nest.’

James still felt haunted by those words of exasperation. Had his mother simply resigned herself to being another statistic, a mother left by an abusive partner? I want my dad back, he said to himself amidst mutterings of discontent. However, Dad was gone now and so was the hope of ever getting him back.

James turned to the back page of the London Evening Standard. A grin as wide as the Thames lit up his face at the unusual headline; Fox causes mayhem at Stamford Bridge.

A manic fox nearly saved Chelsea from defeat as the ball took a deflection off the errant creature into the Arsenal net. At 2–1 down, Chelsea might have saved a priceless point, only for the referee to disallow the goal. A fox is not paid £150,000 a week to score its own goal. Some Londoners have a license to shoot the pests, but last night they provided entertainment to the public. Chelsea still needed a point to win the premier league.

The despondent Chelsea fan sitting opposite James did not appreciate the grin and commented with a wry smile, ‘We were robbed by a fox.’

Still amused at the humorous headline, James got off the train and walked the short road to his apartment in King’s Cross, prepared for the inevitable gloom of his wife’s moods. James was tall and handsome, and the strained pallor of his face suggested a tiredness that was visible in the lines across his forehead. His success had come at a price.

He was born on 7 May 1995. He moved effortlessly from school to a first-class degree in economics at Bristol University and then rose rapidly up the career ladder at Lifespan PLC, a finance company whose results had brought praise and criticism in equal measure. He met his wife, Laura, who owned a cupcake making business, at a conference of European investment partners in Paris.

‘You are late again, James. I haven’t made a meal yet. Shall I phone for a pizza takeaway?’

‘Yes, Laura. Sorry for the delay. I was discussing business with a colleague at the Whisky Society.’

‘A malt and networking, they seem to go hand in hand.’

‘It’s a good place to relax, an environment where you don’t have to make instant decisions.’

Laura appeared tense and edgy to James. She had to endure a difficult time as a child as her father had left home when she was five years old and her mother remarried a man who had a strained relationship with her. The experience changed her personality as she became moody and aggressive. Her mother struggled to cope financially with her father’s absence, and Laura missed out on many good experiences such as holidays by the seaside. She also experienced the tension accompanied by a controlling and dominant stepfather, who directed emotional abuse at her mother. She overcame these odds, passed her school examinations, and received a good degree in business studies at the London School of Economics. She had lovely brunette hair and glowing blue eyes. Her physique was petite whilst her personality was full of bright and bubbly moments. There was, however, sadness in her eyes, as if the reflection of her soul in the mirror revealed one of those adult exchanges which only end in bitter recrimination.

‘I have something to tell you, James.’

‘It is not bad news, Laura?

‘No, I have decided to expand the business and am going to open another outlet in Glasgow. Initially, I will be managing the shop, but later I will employ a manager to operate a profitable operation. I also have a dream of another enterprise on the Isle of Skye.’

‘You are not leaving me, Laura?’

‘Don’t be silly. I will return at the weekends as often as I am able to.’

‘Your business is a huge success. Why don’t we go out and celebrate? How about an Indian meal? I recommend Gandhi’s on Gray’s Inn Road.’

‘Will you miss me, James?’

‘What do you think? I will be lost.’

‘That will be right! Don’t just live off the takeaway menu.’

They arrived at the restaurant, with its usual eclectic mix of men whose level of male hormone, testosterone, is often moderately raised and couples relaxing after a busy schedule. The art décor, including an erotic Indian princess riding on an elephant with her lover, and a picture of Lady Diana Spencer at the Taj Mahal, her drawn, pale features set in repose, offered an exceptional cultural vibrancy to the lively music of Alisha Chinai.

‘I always have my usual vegetable madras and basmati rice with nan.’

‘James, why the switch to vegetarian food? You used to eat meat without hesitation.’

‘The meat scare of 2013 put me off meat for a while. They were using horsemeat. I stopped eating it out of fear.’

‘Laura, I have two complimentary tickets for a corporate conference in Edinburgh. The conference title is Rewarding Small Business Success. You could take your friend, Shirley.’

‘Thank you, James. A free gift from your company.’

‘They are cutting back on corporate expenses, so you will have to travel off your own purse. The company will, however, pay for your accommodation for two nights at the hotel on Belford Road.’

‘Is that the hotel opposite the art gallery?’

‘Correct, Laura. Currently, there is an exhibition about the work of John Everett Millais. His famous painting The Sound of Many Waters will be on display.’

‘Maybe after the business is over we can walk to the gallery and have a cup of coffee, James.’

‘The cabinet minister for Trade and Industry, Alexander Shaw, will be present, so I’m going to arrange for him to be introduced to you.’

‘Surprise, surprise, James! I thought you were a Conservative at heart. Meeting with the enemy is not your style.’

‘It’s business, darling. Politics goes out of the window. He may offer to buy shares in your company or promote small businesses through a reduction in taxation at the next budget.’

‘At any price, what will he want from me?’

‘He’s a happily married man with two grown-up children, so he will not sacrifice everything for a night with you.’

‘James, remember Chris Hume, a Liberal Democrat member of parliament? In 2013, he lost his career and reputation due to an unfortunate incident.’

‘Alexander is different, Laura. He has integrity and decency.’

‘It will be a nice weekend, James, thanks.’

They finished their curry, asked for the bill, and paid their usual generous tip.

‘I’m a bit worried about delving into politics. It’s a murky and dangerous underworld, James.’

‘You won’t be privy to sensitive information,’ James said.

‘Remember the fate of Kevin Kelty in 2003? He possessed information which could have destroyed the case for going to war in Iraq. He was found dead in the woods around Harrowdown Hill, and the verdict was suicide. It appeared to be a cover-up,’ Laura said.

‘You are kidding me. How do you know?’ James asked.

‘A man ordered one hundred cakes from my shop and asked for them to be sent to the Prime Minister at Downing Street. A message was hidden inside the tray,’ Laura replied.

‘You were privy to the message?’ James asked.

‘He told me never to tell anyone.’

They left the restaurant and returned to their flat, both silent and morose at the news. James realized he had information he could use in his insider dealing plan.

Should he tell Andrew Preston? Could he manipulate a cabinet secretary with the passing of information in return for his corrupt return from the transaction? What could the government do with the facts, as Tony Blair had been out of government since 2007?

***

Laura’s trip to Edinburgh for the conference about the promotion of small business in the commanding heights of the economy was full of incident and drama. She took the shuttle from Heathrow the night before the commencement of the event. The violent turbulence on the plane accounted for much of the excitement, and many of the passengers were upset as their coffee and lunch were scattered across the floor. Laura nearly fell out of her seat, but a kind gentleman who said he worked for the Sunday Times pulled her back from the floor. He had short, dark hair that was neatly combed, and he smelt of a nice aftershave called Brut. Handsome and well-presented, close to muscular in appearance, flirtation with this lovely man offered pleasure as a guarantee. Instead, the confabulation took a serious twist.

‘My name is Roger Ambrose, and I’m a journalist. Let me show you my business card. I hope to write a full exclusive soon on the subject of insider trading.’

‘It’s nice to meet you. My name is Laura Appleton, and my husband, James, works for a finance company in London called Lifespan Assurance PLC.’

‘In a few weeks, I will have names, and my paper will expose these crooks.’

‘Why are you telling me all of this? Why me? Why now?’

‘You are dangerously close to some people who are about to make the wrong decisions.’

‘How did you recognize me?

‘I visited your shop in London last week. The cupcakes are delicious.’

‘I can assure you my husband is not involved in some shady deal.’

‘Tell me about Donald Brunt, the former radical activist from Scotland.’

‘If you bother me anymore, I’ll make a complaint to your editor.’

‘I’ll give you a ticket for seat F16 in the main stand for the match between Arsenal and Wolves at the Emirates Stadium on Saturday. Donald Brunt will be sitting next to you in seat F15. Five minutes before the end of the game, he will pass an envelope to you which will reveal the true identity of the men who killed Kevin Kelty in 2003. You must pass this to Alexander Shaw at the conference. He’s a bent minister who will betray his colleagues for money.’

‘In asking me to do this, you are not a journalist, but a spy or a traitor.’

‘There will be a serious consequence if you refuse to comply.’

The plane landed safely, and Laura ignored the man and didn’t even make eye contact. She collected her luggage and the ‘journalist’ didn’t try to harass her any further.

***

Laura’s mind moved flutteringly from one image to another, a series of flashbacks to her childhood days of carefree fun and adventure. She loved her skipping rope, with its curious twists and turns, and the falls that caused bumps and bruises. Her mother castigated her for being so clumsy. One sunny August afternoon, she called to Laura from the kitchen window, her blue and red apron in celebration of the Queen’s 2012 Diamond Jubilee arching furiously in the cool breeze and light which caught the ripening tomato plants near the spot where Laura had fallen.

‘You will be filthy, Laura. Get up! What on earth are you playing at? Go inside and change!’

‘Mum, you know I enjoy skipping. I’m sorry.’

Laura made a hasty move to the house, went upstairs to her room, and fell onto the bed in tears of anguish. Parents are always taking out their fury and loading it onto their offspring, thought Laura. Even at the age of fifteen, she noticed everything that was going on between her parents, and it was unfair. Her brother, Francis, got away with murder, even when he forgot to do his homework. The tension between Mum and Dad was obvious the previous evening as Laura’s sleep had been disturbed by the constant shouting through the adjoining room, and it was frightening for her to be exposed to such verbal abuse.

‘It’s your entire fault, Patricia. You spent all that money on furniture and frivolous gifts for friends and family. Now our savings are nearly exhausted!’

Patricia was equal to Robert’s vitriolic ranting.

‘You promised to take the kids out to the beach last Saturday. You let them down. Let’s not argue about money. You’re hardly a saint. How much money did you spend in the pub last night?’

‘Get lost! I’m entitled to some relaxation time with my friends. I work hard, and I was late back last Saturday due to work commitments.’

‘Liar! Spending time with that fancy woman of yours! You cannot stay here much longer.’

Robert’s face turned into a contorted rage of denial and disbelief at his wife’s accusations. He picked up Patricia’s first published book, How to Survive a Marriage on the Rocks, and threw it in her direction, deliberately missing her and crashing it against the ceiling. The noise woke Laura up from her restful sleep.

‘You blame me for everything that has gone wrong. You are pious and exempt from criticism,’ Robert said.

‘You’re never here, and the children miss your company. Don’t push me away, Robert.’

‘You wrote that bloody book as some sort of salvation and therapy because you thought our marriage was in a perilous state,’ Robert said.

‘From where I’m standing, the responsibility for the outcome lies with you, not me,’ Patricia said.

‘I’m off to the pub.’ Robert grabbed his jacket and gave Patricia a dismissive glance of hatred as he departed.

‘If you are seeing that woman Gemma again, don’t bother coming back.’

***

Laura’s dream in the hotel bedroom in Edinburgh was disturbed by the ear-splitting shatter of the pneumatic drill on the road beneath the window. Her nasty recollection of her father’s temper outburst left her shaken by the confusion of the actual event. When do dreams ever reflect the truth? Or do they just hinder our recovery by a reawakening of a conflict or an event best forgotten? She looked out of the window towards Douglas Gardens. The narrow bank of hilly grass cast a pale shadow over the shallow waters and over the ducks and swans sheltering by the edge of the stream. What was her next step? She feared being held hostage to fortune by a journalist in disguise so decided to take immediate action. She called the Sunday Times newspaper and asked to speak to the editor, who made it clear that no person called Roger Ambrose existed on their staff list. Could this man have been an undercover police officer investigating fraud? Did a significant danger exist from this man? Possibly James would be able to help her. She dared not to even think he would take such a gamble through a criminal act.

‘James, I was threatened by a man on the plane who pretended to be a journalist. He claimed he could expose insider trading within your company.’

‘Laura, why are you phoning me? I’m in the middle of an important meeting.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll give my apologies and explain that there are important family matters in hand.’

‘James, are you aware of any speculation within the business?’

‘Don’t believe any of this nonsense. It sounds like a coincidence that the person in question sat next to you on the plane.’

‘The Edinburgh conference has been interesting. I’m going to arrange to meet my old school friend, Shirley. We are meeting for a drink at the Scotch Malt Whisky Society on Queen Street. It’s the Edinburgh equivalent