Dancing with the Devil

By Matthew Jones

A wealthy oligarch, a failing business and a man who sacrificed everything for one final shot at freedom.

When Danny accepts a job from wealthy Conrad Szekely to spy on his business partner, Jerry, he finds himself with a world of trouble. Within days of Danny’s arrival, the business is destroyed in a catastrophic fire, which also claims Jerry’s life.

Torn between conflicting interests, Danny starts to suspect that Jerry’s business had been anything but straightforward, and finds himself trapped in a spiral of treachery and lies, which rapidly begins to degenerate into a cat and mouse chase across the fens.

With former allies turning violently against him, Danny tries to solve the mystery that surrounds Jerry’s death. But can Danny find the answers when those answers themselves prove lethal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803139913

Matthew Jones

Matthew Jones is a writer and editor, with a particular interest in military, maritime and transport history. He lives in London.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue (2005)

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Prologue (2005)

It began with a ghost story.

Imagine the scene: a small boarding school in Lincolnshire, isolated and unfashionable, hidden from the world within a soggy mass of woodland. It was November, and the school was closing down for the half-term weekend. The weather was gloomy and still, the fens blanketed with a sullen mist that hung about the trees. By lunchtime on Friday most of the children had been taken home by their parents, and the few of us who remained were gathered on the terrace in anticipation of the days ahead. We were a disparate little crowd, just four of us in all, united only in the sense that our families had abandoned us to our own devices. All around us the playing fields were stricken with an unfamiliar silence, the drives carpeted with drifts of copper leaves. I remember little of the day; just a lasting sense of boredom. It was only later, as I headed towards the buildings in the twilight, that I realised something was amiss.

Ahead of me the old house was in darkness, its gables and chimneys etched against the sky. On the front steps Spazzy Hansen was handing out torches.

‘Come on, Robinson. Hurry up, boy – you’re last as usual.’

‘Sorry Spa—, Mr Hansen, sir. What’s going on, sir? Why are the lights out?’

‘It’s a power cut. The lines are down. Run along to the dining hall; your supper’s by the hatch.’

Inside, the mansion was full of shadows and flickering candles. The dining hall was almost empty, my friends clustered in an excited little knot beneath the dark and echoing roof. And later, once the tables were cleared, we gathered around the common-room fire to listen to an evening of ghost stories.

In spite of his limitations, Spazzy was a master of this genre, and on this particular occasion he exceeded even his usual high standards. As the minutes ticked by he told us of the phantom knights and the monkey’s paw, of the body-snatchers and that ghastly room in Berkeley Square in which no one had survived a single night; and all the while the coals burned lower and lower, until all we could see of the portraits on the walls were the pale, eerie faces floating in the glow of the embers. Perhaps it was the guttering of a candle, perhaps a deepening chill, but I suddenly became aware that the atmosphere had taken a distinctly unpleasant turn for the worse. And I wasn’t the only one to have noticed it. Beside me Katie’s fingers were digging into my palm, her face white with apprehension. Even Spazzy seemed to have sensed that something was amiss. He faltered mid-sentence, his words trailing awkwardly into silence.

And then suddenly, horror.

From above us, deep within the house, a scream tore through the night. We froze, eyes staring; then it came again, only louder and more terrifying this time; not a normal scream, but a panic-stricken howl of mortal terror. And then we were moving, clinging in Spazzy’s wake as he dashed out into the hall. Ahead of us, beyond the foot of the great staircase, another door came flying open – torches flashing, figures stumbling – Miss Reilly and Miss O’Sullivan rushing, horrified, from the staff room.

And still the screams were coming, from directly above us now – louder, nearer and more frightening than ever. And something else too – a hammering of footsteps – the sounds of someone blundering in panic along the maze of darkened corridors. And suddenly, there she was: the Matron, staggering into the torch beams like an aircraft in the searchlights, her shadow swooping, her arms flailing as she fled in desperation towards the staircase.

‘It’s her!’ she wailed. ‘The Brown Lady! The Brown Lady!’

Even now, years later, I can still feel that icy confusion which coursed through our veins. It was as if, for a moment, a curtain had been twitched aside to reveal a world of almost infinite evil. Because we all knew what the problem was; the expression on the teachers’ faces had left us in no doubt. The Brown Lady was a phantom, a hideous local legend that none of us were supposed to have known about, but which had inevitably managed to percolate through the official policy of silence. And if that policy had been flawed from the outset, now it was undoubtedly doomed. Not only did the school have a bona fide phantom, but that phantom had a bona fide location: the Brown Lady Corridor.

I remember it well, the Brown Lady Corridor: a long and gloomy passageway that tracked along the oldest part of the building. I remember each and every detail as if it was yesterday – the cracked linoleum, the crooked half-steps, the whanging fire doors at either end – because on the very few occasions that I’ve walked along it at night, it has been so unforgettably sinister that every millimetre has been burned into my memory.

And the death? I should tell you about the death. Because on that very same night, at that very same time, the wife of a visiting piano teacher was killed when her car was crushed beneath a train on an unmanned level crossing outside Sleaford. There was nothing nice about the Brown Lady, nothing quaint or reassuring. And if I thought I’d heard the last of her, I was very much mistaken.

One

(2019)

They called it The Curse of Friends Reunited, those bad things that happen to you when you stumble across the path of an old girlfriend. And in my case, I never saw it coming.

It was a glorious day in early summer, the sort of airy, dazzling day in which the world seems full of light. Awake since dawn, I had travelled to London in an attempt to persuade the owners of an abandoned chalk quarry to extend the permit for our paintball business, only to discover that the meeting had been cancelled without anyone bothering to tell me. It was a complete bloody pain in the arse; we couldn’t operate without access to disused land, and now these bastards had pulled the plug on us without giving it even a second thought. Worse still, it meant imminent unemployment, and not simply for me, but also for several of my friends. Frustrated and more than a little pissed off, I was weaving along the South Bank on my way to catch a train back to Chatham, when I dodged around a television crew only to realise that somebody had been calling out my name. Puzzled, I turned back. Behind me some Snowflakes were demonstrating in demand for a second European Referendum, and the news reporter, a tallish girl in a scarlet suit, was striding purposefully towards me.

‘…Danny?’ she asked. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ Then she smiled and thrust out her hand. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Katie Szekely – though I’m Katie Kendall now. We used to be at school together…’

And suddenly I could see that it was her – Katie Szekely – as large as life; the very first girl I’d ever cared for. In my memory she had always seemed a handsome creature, and it was obvious that this was still the case. She was willowy and elegant, with warm brown eyes and flawless skin, but her face had a pleasing quirkiness, which made her interesting rather than beautiful. It was her hair, I realised, which had caused my initial confusion. When last I’d seen her it had been an unruly ebony waterfall, yet now it was a pristine golden bob.

Bemused and intrigued, I watched as she disentangled herself from her colleagues, then we strolled across to a bench, and soon we were exchanging stories.

‘…But, my God,’ she gushed. ‘It’s been what? Fifteen years?’

I grinned as I did the calculation. I had left Sandwick Hall when I was twelve, and I was now twenty-five. ‘It’s been thirteen years,’ I said. ‘Thirteen years this September.’

Katie laughed as she squinted into the glare. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Is it really as long as that? And I mean, look at you, Danny; you’ve changed so much.’

I laughed in spite of myself. At a solid six-foot-two, I was certainly very different from the schoolboy she’d once known; so different, in fact, that I was surprised she’d even recognised me.

‘…But of course I recognised you, Danny I’d recognise you anywhere. You were always special to me. You saved my life, remember?’

And suddenly it came back to me: a sunny summer fortnight that I’d spent at her parents’ house in Hampstead. Larking around the swimming pool, Katie had attempted a backwards somersault, but mistimed it and smacked her head against the diving board, splitting her scalp and landing, unconscious, in the water. Acting without thinking, I had dived in and dragged her onto the side, only to discover that I had suddenly turned into a hero. But it was complete and utter bollocks: I had been in no danger whatsoever and had only done what others might just as easily have done.

‘…Oh, that,’ I grinned awkwardly. ‘That was nothing. But what about you, though? You’re married, I see.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ she said, and thrust out her hand, splaying her fingers to display the gleaming gold band of a wedding ring. ‘To Hamish. He’s a human rights lawyer; a QC in fact. We got married last year.’

‘Lucky Hamish.’

‘Lucky me.’

I found myself laughing along with her. In spite of everything, she seemed surprisingly unchanged. And yet it also felt oddly irrelevant. I’d been at Sandwick Hall for barely two years, and as much as we had once been soulmates, it was impossible to ignore the fact that our lives had diverged to such an extent that we now had almost nothing in common. So, there I would have left it, had Katie not pushed the matter further.

‘So, come on,’ she asked me, ‘what are you planning to do about this business of yours?’

I shrugged as I tried to make light of the situation. Currently we were exploring relocation opportunities with a view to expanding our operations; but I could tell from her expression that I wasn’t going to fool her. For some moments she frowned at me, then she turned away to gaze across the Thames.

‘What?’ I asked her.

‘Nothing.’ She sighed. ‘I’m thinking about when your dad died. How we didn’t do anything to help you.’

‘What could you do? It wasn’t your fault.’

‘But it wasn’t as if we even tried. We just…let you go. And I felt awful about it, especially after what you’d done for me.’

I smiled at her. ‘It doesn’t matter, Katie – Dad died of flu, that’s all. And if anyone was to blame, it was the Navy for cancelling my school fees. And anyway – I didn’t do too badly in the end.’

A smile flickered across her lips; then she hesitated for several seconds before taking a deep breath. ‘Listen, Danny,’ she ventured. ‘Please don’t be offended, and I don’t mean to interfere, but if you’re interested, I could maybe ask my father if he’d help?’

‘Christ, no,’ I said. ‘There’s no way I’m going to sponge off you.’

‘But you wouldn’t be. Not you. And actually, now I’ve thought of it, we’re having a party at the house next Saturday – a fundraising do for the People’s Vote campaign – and Dad’s always looking out for good people. It would be perfect: you could turn up and see what happened.’

‘Katie, I couldn’t.’

‘But of course you could. I’d love you to come, and so would everyone else. It’d be like rediscovering some long-lost treasure. And anyway, Alex Chisholm will be there; you must remember Alex.’

‘Yeah, Alex.’ I nodded. ‘The rugby god. Of course I remember Alex.’

‘And Becky, my baby sister.’

‘Yeah, Rebecca. I remember her too.

‘And also Mo.’

‘As in, the little Pakistani guy with the Scottish accent who was always getting into fights?’

‘Yes,’ Katie burst out laughing. ‘That’s him exactly; and he’s still the same. He’s a nutter, an absolute nutter.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I grinned. ‘Flash Alex and Little Mo – well, bugger me; I’d almost forgotten about them.’

‘So, you’ll come, then? Oh, come on, Danny; pleeease…’

And that’s how it began: that first innocent twisting of the key in Pandora’s Box. I hadn’t even started to lift the lid yet, but when I did, I would realise much too late that I couldn’t slam it shut again.

Two

The Szekely’s latest house, Tihany, was easy enough to find. It was a few miles south of Guildford in a kind of vastly bucolic suburbia, hidden from the road behind sun-dappled hedges and enormous wrought-iron gates. To all sides of me now lurked mansion after mansion, their gables and chimneys poking seductively through the trees. Numerous cars were parked along the verge, so I turned down a woodland track and pulled up beside a jungle of rhododendrons. I glanced at my watch; it was almost five o’clock. I had timed my arrival perfectly: late enough not to outstay my welcome, yet not so late as to render the journey pointless.

Ten minutes later I stepped out into the sunlight and halted in surprise. When Katie had suggested that her father was doing well for himself, she hadn’t been exaggerating. In front of me an emerald bowl had been opened amongst the woods, an idyll of lawns and terraces, which descended towards a willow-fringed lake. And there, overlooking it all, sat one of the most enviable houses that I had ever seen: a colossal, rambling Arts and Crafts affair with acres of half-timbering and tall, spiral chimneystacks of rosy-pink brick, so interlaced with greenery that it seemed to have grown almost organically from its setting. And wherever I looked there was evidence of unimaginable wealth: a swimming pool and tennis courts, glittering ranks of supercars and even a stable block for the staff. I hadn’t appreciated it earlier, but I also now realised that it was soon about to rain. Dark nimbus-clouds were gathering above the southern horizon, their summits glowing golden in the afternoon sun.

Bemused and intimidated, I wandered through the crowded marquees, more than a little disorientated by the opulence of the scene. It wasn’t simply that Mr Szekely’s wealth had increased; he had clearly gained in influence too. Several of his guests looked oddly familiar: celebrities and pundits with names that I couldn’t quite place, but whose faces featured regularly on the TV. Yet whatever had been Katie’s intention, the effect was so overwhelming that I was halfway to beating a retreat when a hand landed firmly on my shoulder.

‘Danny,’ cried a voice from behind me. ‘My God, it is you. Katie told me you’d be here.’

I turned, and there he was: Alex Chisholm, grinning from ear to ear; still the same azure eyes, the same razor cheekbones, the perfect teeth, the thick dark hair; a James Bond look-alike, licensed to lady-kill.

‘Alex,’ I said as we laughed and pumped hands. ‘My God, this place: it’s bloody amazing.’

‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Not bad, eh? Yours at a snip for fifteen million quid.’

‘Fifteen million? Shit. They must be loaded.’

‘You’re not kidding, mate. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. You should see his place in the BVI.’

‘Jesus,’ I gasped. ‘I thought he was just a wide boy.’

Alex grinned at my reaction. ‘Yeah, he still is; but he’s mainly into Fin-Tech now: cryptocurrencies and all that shit. As far as Conrad’s concerned, the web’s an absolute goldmine.’

‘Conrad?’

‘Mr Szekely. Katie’s dad, remember?’ Then he laughed and clapped me on the back. ‘Come on, mate. You’ve lots of catching up to do. It’s time I took you through to the inner sanctum.’

At which point my recollection becomes a little hazy. What with the shouts, cheers, handshakes and hugs, the next few hours seem to have merged into a single golden entity in which alcohol played an increasing part.

Sitting, half-cut, on a deckchair in the sun, it occurred to me that I’d managed to slip into the same role that I had adopted over a decade earlier: that of the slow and silent type who said little, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything interesting to say. And the funny thing was that nobody else seemed to have changed much either. Mo and Alex were simply grown-up versions of their former selves – although in Mo’s case this hadn’t amounted to many inches – and the older Szekelys still swanned above the fray with the effortless assurance of matinee idols. Mrs Szekely, in particular, was as striking as I’d remembered: the lovechild of some colonial administrator and a doubtless very attractive Burmese. It was only their daughters who seemed materially different, yet even this owed more to my newfound awareness of their not-inconsiderable charms, than it did to any substantive changes on their own part.

‘…Ahh,’ said a voice. ‘Young Robbins – the Hero of the Perilous Pool.’

I struggled to my feet. It was Uncle Laszlo, Mr Szekely’s best friend and another memory from my childhood: a shortish, plumpish man with a curiously shiny bald head. Then, as now, he had always seemed armoured by an unshatterable aura of self-satisfaction.

‘Hello Laszlo,’ I grinned. ‘How are you, sir?’

‘Adequate for the occasion, m’boy; adequate for the occasion. But Good God, man; that tie – ‘tis surely an army tie?’

I glanced down. It was indeed an army tie: a paintballing prop to add credence to the myth that I had once been a sergeant in the paratroopers. ‘Er, yes,’ I agreed. ‘It’s the First Royal Oxfam Regiment.’

‘Ahh,’ Laszlo beamed. ‘The good old First Royals, eh? Per ardua ad aspidistra, and all that.’

‘Not really, sir. That’s probably the RAF.’

‘It ought to be; it certainly ought to be. And suffice it to say that you’ve come as reinforcements?’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Politics, dammit. The European elections. You’ll be supporting us, of course?’

Well, er…’ I floundered, uncertain of the territory. ‘Would that be the Independent Group…possibly?’

‘The Tiggers?’ Laszlo bridled. ‘That wretched bunch of renegades and turncoats? Good God, no. It’s the Lib-Dems, man. The Lib Dems.’

‘Ah.’

‘So, we can count on you? You’ll be canvassing for us?’

‘Well, er—’

‘Excellent. Good show, m’boy. I knew we could count on you. I’ll get the leaflets across in the morning. Anyway—’ and he glanced at his watch, ‘must dash; places to go, people to see, lives to save…’

And he was gone.

Vaguely nonplussed, I collapsed back into my deckchair and turned towards Mo, who seemed to be surveying the world through the bottom of a beer glass.

‘Shit,’ I said. ‘He thinks I’m canvassing tomorrow.’

‘Aye,’ Mo nodded. ‘So ye are. He’s giving me a load of them too.’

‘And are you?’

‘Who, me? Canvassing for the Lib Dems?’ Mo snorted. ‘Shite, no. I cannae stand the sanctimonious wankers.’

Just then there was a crescendo of laughter and a posse of young women went gambolling down the steps towards the swimming pool only to be engulfed by a crowd of admirers. Most conspicuous amongst them, and the very obvious centre of attention, was an outrageously beautiful girl whom I took to be Rebecca, a fact which Mo confirmed in his usual style.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Totally fucking gorgeous.’

I glanced to where Rebecca was now frolicking with some of Alex’s friends in the shade of some fruit trees. For once, it was hard to disagree with Mo’s assessment. In one of those strange accidents of nature, all the finest physical qualities of the Szekelys seemed to have been concentrated into this single ravishing girl – a fact of which she was obviously fully aware.

‘…Mind,’ Mo added. ‘I wouldnae even think about it. They’d have your knackers for a necktie.’

‘Who’s that? Alex’s lawyer friends?’

‘Shite, no. The Boss Man. She’s a real Daddy’s Girl, if you know what I mean.’

At that moment I caught a sudden breeze of perfume, and Katie collapsed into the deckchair opposite me, a smile spreading widely across her face. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. ‘Has Mo been spiking the drinks again?’

‘Libel. Fucking libel.’

‘No, it isn’t, Mo. You’re a devious little bastard, and well you know it.’

Then another blast of scent, aftershave this time, and Alex sank into a neighbouring deckchair, twin pints of lager glistening in his hands. From far away came an ominous rumble of thunder.

‘Dan the Man,’ he grinned, pushing across a glass. ‘It’s like old times again – The Three Musketeers, remember? All for one and one for all…’

And then we were laughing as we clinked our glasses together. Because the funny thing was that it did indeed feel like the old times, but not necessarily in a good way. Even then, I’d been conscious of the social gulf between us, of their effortless confidence and casual wit. The truth was that my presence at Sandwick Hall had been an aberration, an unlikely bonus because my father, a marine engineer, had been posted to the naval base at Gibraltar. They had adopted me, partly out of kindness, but mainly, I suspected, because I had been large and good at rugby. Yet, glancing at Katie now, I wondered whether there might not have been more to it than that; whether Katie too had felt an outsider: half Hungarian, part Burmese; one of the very few non-British children in an overwhelmingly white British school. Alex had been our exception, of course; yet even he had been an outspoken Scot. But that wasn’t how I’d seen it at the time. Katie had been the pretty one, Alex the handsome one and Mo the quick-witted one. They’d been the cool crowd, the smartest and sassiest kids on the block, and I had felt privileged to be considered amongst their number.

‘…So, come on then, Danny,’ Katie demanded. ‘What nonsense has Laszlo been offering you?’

I grinned at her. ‘I think he wants me to campaign for the Lib Dems.’

‘In Chatham?’ Alex gawped in feigned surprise. ‘That isn’t a job, mate; it’s a kamikaze mission.’

‘Aye,’ Mo added. ‘Your task, should you choose tae fucking take it…’

But amidst the laughter I could see that Katie seemed disappointed, her eyes now wide and serious.

‘Really?’ she frowned. ‘Surely we ought to do better than that. Didn’t you tell me you’d done some engineering?’

I nodded. ‘At tech college. I got an HND. But, honestly, it was pretty basic. It’s not like I’m any good at it.’

‘But even so; that’s good, isn’t it? It’s better than nothing. And anyway, it’s better than these wretched commercial lawyers here. Maybe I should have another word with my dad…’

And so we carried on, joshing and making promises as the sky grew darker and the thunder rumbled steadily closer. At one point Katie’s husband appeared: an older man, I realised, but handsome and charming nonetheless; and almost before I knew it, I found myself alone once more, smooching around the buffet tables and chatting to unattached women. But this wasn’t any hardship posting. Ever since my mid-teens I had enjoyed a decent amount of success with the opposite sex, which explained how, some hours later, I was strolling through the twilight, arm in arm with a delectable redhead whose house was barely a mile away and whose parents were on holiday in New Zealand. We had almost reached the gates when, suddenly, we heard footsteps behind us.

‘Danny,’ Alex’s voice called out. ‘Stop, mate. Stop.’

Puzzled, I turned back to face him.

‘The Boss Man,’ he gasped. ‘The Boss Man wants to see you.’

‘Mr Szekely?’

‘That’s right. Conrad Szekely. I think he might have found you a job.’

Three

Mr Szekely’s study was a sort of homage to the last days of the British Raj, complete with bamboo chairs, sandalwood cabinets and an ornate carpet of such scale that it might have been plundered from the throne-room of a Mughal palace. Ornate brass work and carved elephants featured prominently. The end wall consisted largely of glass, and opened onto a private terrace from where a scent of roses came drifting on the sultry night air.

The man himself seemed in a generous and expansive mood. As he plied me with a brandy, I realised for the first time that he was exceptionally good-looking, and that it was from him, as much as their mother, that his daughters had inherited their beauty; indeed he might almost have been considered beautiful had it not been for his obvious stature and macho designer stubble.

‘…So, Danny,’ he said, as we settled into some chairs beneath the veranda, ‘Katie tells me you’re out of work at the moment; that you could use some employment for a while?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed.

‘And you’re keeping fit? You look in good shape.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m working out most days. I try to do maybe a dozen triathlons every year.’

‘But that’s good. I like a man who takes care of himself. And remind me – you haven’t been back to the fens since you left Sandwick Hall?’

‘Er, no,’ I said, frowning and wondering why on earth he had asked me this. ‘I haven’t been back. Not even once.’

He was about to say something further when, suddenly, the air was shaken by an immense peal of thunder. The lightning had struck so close to us that for an instant I had been able to glimpse across the entire expanse of the garden to the lake and the woods beyond. And then the rain began to fall, gradually at first, but getting heavier and heavier until the flagstones had all but vanished beneath an up-flung carpet of spray. For several seconds we sat motionless, mesmerised by the ferocity of the downpour, then Mr Szekely eased to his feet and ushered me back inside.

‘So, OK,’ he said, as he secured the French doors behind him. ‘I’ll give you the outlines of a job, and you can take it or leave it as you choose. Do we understand each other?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed. ‘I understand you.’

‘Very well, then. So, listen up. Fifteen years ago I acquired an interest in a small engineering business in the fens called Kingley Marine. It’s a fairly insignificant part of my portfolio, but it was one of my earliest acquisitions, so I feel a certain affection for it. Its owner, Jerry Kingley, was…well, you might call him my partner; and I have to admit that for a long time we had a profitable relationship; but recently things have become less satisfactory.’

‘OK.’

‘So, let me explain. Quite apart from the fact that the company hasn’t made a profit for over a year, there’s the small matter that Jerry Kingley is refusing to speak to me; he rarely answers my correspondence, and when he does, I get fobbed off with a load of old nonsense. Worse still, he has refused to give me access to his books, so, not to put it too bluntly, I haven’t a clue what’s going on.’

‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘I can see how that might be awkward.’

‘Well, exactly. Awkward isn’t the word for it. And to make matters worse, I used to get feedback from one of the engineers, but in the last month he has become – how can I put it? – indisposed, so now I am completely in the dark; and you can imagine that this doesn’t please me.’

‘Er, no.’

‘And the final straw is that Jerry Kingley has apparently been selling his properties, including, unbelievably, the freehold of Kingley Marine itself – admittedly to another of my associates – but that’s another story. And the fact is, I want to know what he’s up to, and I want to know where his money’s going.’

‘So, basically,’ I ventured, ‘you want me to spy on him?’

To my surprise Mr Szekely grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Quite right, Danny,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I want you to do. I want you to go there and find out why he’s behaving like this. He’s looking for a marine engineer, so I want you to offer him your services. He can pay you whatever he likes – I don’t care – but I will pay you for your loyalty, and I expect you to report back to me on a weekly basis. And if you come across something which you think I ought to know about, I want to hear of it before it’s even happened.’

‘But what if they won’t have me?’

He waved away the difficulty. ‘I shouldn’t worry about that. Some things I do have control over.’

‘Right. I mean, my skills are pretty basic, so I’m not exactly the most competent engineer.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I doubt you’ll be asked to do anything difficult. And if you are, you’ll just have to wing it. And besides, you’re young; they won’t expect you to know everything.’

I frowned as I considered the situation. It wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting.

‘And then, of course,’ Mr Szekely went on, ‘there’s the matter of money. Let’s say I give you fifteen-hundred a week plus expenses, until such time as the situation is resolved. Would that be acceptable?’

My jaw must have bounced off the floor. The offer was far larger than anything I’d been expecting; larger, indeed, than anything I’d ever been paid before. Yet the scale of his generosity seemed so excessive that it almost made me reject it. It was surely too good to be true; and already I could see a problem.

‘Why me?’ I asked.

Mr Szekely smiled. ‘Because of Katie; and what you did for us all those years ago. And, frankly, because you look as if you can take care of yourself – which it’s possible you might have to do.’

‘OK,’ I nodded. ‘So, I mean, please don’t get me wrong; but I’m assuming this is legal, isn’t it?’

Mr Szekely gazed at me enigmatically. ‘Yes, my friend,’ he said at last. ‘What I’m asking you to do is perfectly legal. However, the people you’ll be working for are – how shall I put it? – not entirely straightforward, and it’s possible they might be engaged in some unlawful activities. It’s up to you whether or not you take part in this – personally, I’d steer clear of it – and in fact, paradoxically, they might trust you more if they thought you were completely straight.’

‘Which I am, by the way.’

‘Of course you are, Danny. I wouldn’t suggest otherwise. And we’re probably only talking about petty crime here. But I think you can appreciate that this is a job which will require a little tact.’

I nodded and turned towards the French doors. The rain had slackened slightly, leaving the terrace