Original source URL: http://tomlinsonvmi6.blogspot.com/2006/09/golden-chain-chapter-1.html FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 2006 The Golden Chain - Chapter 1 Here's the first chapter of the novel I was writing, which according to the police is in potentially breach of the Official Secrets Act. I've written to the police and Treasury Solicitor and told them that I am not going to answer their letters until they either charge me, or drop their investigation and return my belongings. And if they are going to charge me, then they should also charge Stella Rimington for the same offence. Chapter 1 The bags had been sitting in the corner of the backroom gathering dust for nearly three months. One smart lockable suitcase, too big for cabin luggage, and a black leather grip she had bought in Paris. She never went anywhere without the grip. The shoulder strap had been repaired at the heel bar down the road at least three times to Delaney¹s knowledge, but still she would insist. ³I know it¹s old and knocked about, but the leather is good and it¹s the perfect size,² she had told him. ³I know exactly where everything is in that bag, so you¹re wasting your time², she had countered when he offered to replace it. ³Besides which, it doesn¹t have a stupid logo.² That was the clincher. Derry was not one for logos. Nor was she to be dislodged once she had made up her mind. A product of the Architect¹s Association at UCL, she had dazzled as a postgrad with a thesis on vernacular buildings within the Ottoman Empire. Her eye missed nothing. They had made countless trips to Turkey, Syria, Jordan and Lebanon, to out of the way dusty towns, guidebook in one hand, camera in the other. Once, in the late eighties, they had got as far as Baghdad and spent an afternoon in the Shawaka House, a truly sublime residence close to the fish market in the Jadiriyah district, built in the eighteenth century and owned by an old Ottoman family. The visit had been fixed up by a friend at the nearby British Embassy. Delaney remembered the inner courtyard with its fountain, the balcony on the first floor and a cool evening breeze coming off the Tigris as it raced towards the Gulf. They had joked about making an offer for the house. How times had changed. Delaney wondered if it was still standing. Now, yet again, he contemplated opening the bags. He had dealt with everything else. The funeral had been a nightmare. He¹d written to her relatives and friends, planned and attended the memorial service, cleared her clothes dealt with every aspect of the bureaucracy of death. All that was left of her was in these two rude containers. Stephen Delaney had not returned to work since her death. A senior partner in a City bank, his colleagues had made no fuss. ³Take you time, you¹ll know when it¹s right to come back,² Jonathan Lyddiat, the chairman had reassured him. Distinctly old school, Lyddiat was proud for it to be known that the bank looked after its own. Discreetly, someone had told him that his annual bonus was safe. Not that it mattered that much to Delaney. He had made enough during his fifteen years in the City never to have to work again. As he sat there in the first floor back bedroom of the tall London townhouse he felt the emotions well up inside him. It would be easy to put this off again for another day. ŒWhat¹s the point?¹ he argued to himself. ŒWhere is this taking me?¹ But today was different. For the first time since he had received the terrible news of her death in Dubai, Delaney felt strong. The anger and the grief had sublimated and been replaced by a quiet determination to get to the bottom of Derry¹s death. He pulled over the suitcase. She always used the numbers 472 on combination locks and sure enough, the mechanism clicked and the two halves jumped apart under the pressure of the contents. Once again, he felt his stomach heave. It was the smell. It was her, a heady odour cocktail of clothes and perfumes. He stopped for a moment to steady himself before opening the case flat on the floor. When Fitzgerald, the fellow from the Foreign Office, had come round to deliver the bags, he had told Delaney that they had already been gone through. ³I¹m sorry, Mr Delaney, but in a situation like this, we had to check everything. The Dubai authorities had seized it all anyway. A few things were taken away, as I am sure you will understand.² Slowly he unbuckled the straps holding the bulging contents firmly into the two halves. His hands trembled as he carefully lifted out the contents one by one and placed them in a pile by his side a couple of smart trouser suits, (her preferred outfit when she was travelling in the Middle East), ditto shirts and slips. There was the long blue Chinese silk coat with a vicar¹s collar that he remembered buying for her, in Istanbul of all places. He almost smiled to himself. She said it would never fit when she first saw it, but it was perfect. Suddenly he was back there, in the Sublime Porte. They had stayed at the Yeshil Ev - the Green House, an old Ottoman family home that had been turned into a hotel close by his favourite building in the world, Aya Sophia. Someone had once described the great church-mosque as a giant squatting frog and that appealed to him. The Yeshil Ev¹s garden was beautiful, set in high walls around a large fountain. They had sat there planning their routes around the city, taking green tea and Turkish biscuits from superior china off spotless tablecloths. It was the essence of her that had swept his consciousness out of the room and then, just as quickly, back in again. He realised it himself, almost with a start. He pushed the large case out of the way and reached over to the black grip. Its sturdy zip was locked to a steel ring with yet another combination lock. Click! Click! Click! 4 7 2. The lock sprang open and he unzipped the bag. Inside, there was a jumble of bits and pieces electrical adapters, a torch, three packets of chewing gum (her only vice), a couple of, sunglasses, a make-up bag, a sachet of babywipes, a scarf and a folded desert hat. Once again he smelled her. This time his eyes begin to fill. He let the tears flow and they stopped after a while. Tucked into one corner of the grip was a familiar face. Mr Brando! Her bloody dolly! (OK, so she had a couple of vices). When she was away she would tease him, telling him at the end of their long distance conversations she was off to spend the night with Mr Brando. In fact, Mr Brando was a knitted sheep. He looked more worn than ever. Some of his stitches were coming undone and had been resewn with white cotton. He picked up the threadbare comforter and made to place it to one side. He would keep it, he thought. But there was something not quite right. Mr Brando didn¹t feel right. He was far too heavy. Delaney began to pull at the loose threads when he felt something slip through his fingers. It was a little blue leather bag. Inside was a heavy gold chain and an expensive-looking business card, its owner¹s name boldly embossed, in English on one side, Arabic on the other: Dr Omar Haznawi CEO Gulfport Builders Group Dubai, London, New York. On the back of the card, in a neat hand, was a short handwritten message: ŒDearest Derry, I hope you find this amusing, Omar¹. Delaney didn¹t take it in at first. He was about to put the little bag to one side when suddenly he was hit with the force of a tidal wave. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. What was some businessman doing giving his wife an expensive piece of jewellery? Nothing was making sense. After nearly 20 years together he couldn¹t believe that now, when there was nothing he could do about it, he had discovered an infidelity. Still reeling from the shock, Delaney made his way downstairs, the little leather bag and its contents in his hand. He sat down at the kitchen table and once again emptied it in front of him. His hands trembling, he held the chain up in front of him. It was a necklace, the gold shimmering in red and yellow. This was no ordinary piece and had clearly come from the gold souk in Dubai, where it must have cost thousands. But it was hopeless trying to understand. The shockwaves of the find were still pulsating through his body and every time he tried to reason it out, his mind began to race. He desperately tried to put his thoughts in order. It had been three months, almost to the day, since he had received a call at work from someone in the Foreign Office. Derry, his wife of 17 years and an architect with an international clientele, had been killed in Dubai. She had gone to pitch for a contract fitting out the top two floors of a massive and prestigious new tower block in the oil state. The brief had been very specific modern, but distinctly Arab. There had been some uncertainty over whether or not the client would accept a female architect, but Derry¹s good Arabic, her reputation and, of course, her charm, had won the day. ³It¹s going to be a couple of weeks, I¹m afraid,² she had told him before she left. Delaney had not been concerned. With no children to worry about, they both lived on the move - he was always too and fro to New York; most of her clients were Arabs, either in the Middle East or in their London and Spanish pied-a-terres. Ten days later he had received the call from the Foreign Office. Derry had died in a car accident. She had been in a hire car, alone, and had driven off the corniche into a wall at one in the morning. It was as simple as that. Her injuries were not extensive, just a simple bump to the head. But it had been enough to kill her immediately. The body had been brought back to England, the necessary arrangements made. Delaney had been surprised at the funeral by the presence of a small group of men and women. He recognised none of them. Well dressed, they paid their respects and left just as anonymously as they had arrived. A week after the funeral he had had the visit from Fitzgerald, who brought the luggage with him. That was the second point at which Delaney¹s world began to fold in on itself. ³Look, I know this is going to come as a bit of a shock,² Fitzgerald had told him, ³but Derry sometimes did a bit of work for the government. On the side, so to speak.² Delaney didn¹t immediately take in what Fitzgerald was saying. He knew that businessmen were often approached for a friendly word by all sorts of government officials. He too had had the odd approach from suits at the Bank of England or the Department of Trade, asking him if he knew anything about so-and-so. He usually helped if he could, but it was always a bit awkward. Client confidentiality was his bread and butter. Fitzgerald clocked his indifference, but persisted. ³In fact, she was working for us on this trip to Dubai.² This time he caught Delaney¹s attention. ³What do you mean she was working for you? Who the fuck are you?² ³Well, it¹s a bit difficult to explain in detail. The Foreign Office likes to keep up with developments abroad, particularly when it comes to business opportunities. We asked her to check out a few details about one of her clients. Nothing too drastic, just the usual stuff, you know, associates, that kind of thing. In fact, I have been asked to tell you that Derry has been put up for an honour a CBE in fact. Would you be willing to accept it on her behalf?² ³Is that why she died? Is that what you have come here to tell me?² Delaney felt his blood begin to boil. ³God no!² replied Fitzgerald. ³We have carried out the most extensive forensic tests. The car has been checked over. Blood tests, you know, all that kind of thing. All we can surmise at the moment is that she fell asleep at the wheel, drifted across the road and hit a wall. The Dubai authorities have classed it as an accident.² At the time, Delaney just couldn¹t take it all in. His wife had never mentioned working for the Foreign Office. What was the connection? How long had this been going on? He told Fitzgerald he would get back to him, but today, three months later, he¹d done nothing about it. Now he¹d found this chain and the card. What did they mean? What was the ³joke²? A thousand thought raced through his mind. Did Omar Haznawi have anything to do with her death? Did he really know his wife? Her death had been hard enough. It had shattered his world. He kept on seeing her face in people in the street. He couldn¹t get used to being alone. Every time his mobile rang he checked to see if it was her name on the display. He had withdrawn from his circle of friends. Sure, they still called, anxious to know if everything was alright. Did he want to come to a dinner party? A weekend away in the country? He said no to all of them. First things first. He was going to get to the bottom of what had happened to Derry. -- -------------------------------------------------------- Escaping the Matrix website http://escapingthematrix.org/ cyberjournal website http://cyberjournal.org subscribe cyberjournal list mailto:•••@••.••• Posting archives http://cyberjournal.org/show_archives/ Blogs: cyberjournal forum http://cyberjournal-rkm.blogspot.com/ Achieving real democracy http://harmonization.blogspot.com/ for readers of ETM http://matrixreaders.blogspot.com/ Community Empowerment http://empowermentinitiatives.blogspot.com/ Blogger made easy http://quaylargo.com/help/ezblogger.html
