The Alex King Series by A BATEMAN (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📕

Secretary? Your career finished this morning. Your liberty was finished the moment you walked in here.”

King smiled. “Are you sure about that?”

“My assistant will be here in a moment. I will tell her to call security.”

“And the police,” King said. “And the Inland Revenue, or whatever they’re called this month. HMRC, I think. And the Prime Minister, I should imagine.” King eased back the chair further, rested his right foot on the desk. “And the newspapers, TV news. Hell, get her to call everybody.”

The door opened, and Hollandrake’s PA froze. She had stopped so suddenly in her tracks that the coffee splashed over the lip and onto the floor, catching the file and papers with a wash of cappuccino.

She looked at King, then turned to her boss. “Sir?”

“Alex King, I’m with MI5. I believe the Home Secretary wants you to make some calls on his behalf,” he paused, looked at Hollandrake. “Security first, wasn’t it Hugo? And then I suggested the police…”

“It’s alright, Dawn,” Hollandrake said quietly. “Mister King will be leaving soon. Of his own accord. You can break for lunch early, if you like?”

The woman nodded. She handed the Home Secretary his half-cup of coffee.

“Dawn?” King smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d love a cup of tea. White and one, thank you.” He was pleasant, unassuming with her. She nodded, and King watched her leave. “So, caught with your fingers in the cookie jar, Home Secretary.”

“What?” Hollandrake said incredulously. “You’re a mad man. What sort of allegation is that?”

“Goliath. GeoSpec. Investments in shell companies owned by the late Sir Ian Snell, your wife’s name as company secretary to multiple shell companies,” King paused. “Does she know about any of that?”

Hollandrake made it to the chair reserved for his guests before he crumpled. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, before looking back at King.

“No,” he said quietly.

“From what I’ve been informed, you’ve defrauded the tax man enough to get double digits in prison. Your wife also.”

“She’s not involved!”

“So you say,” King said. “But these things are so difficult to prove. It’s a complex old web you’ve weaved. And I understand why. The more complexity in a scheme, then the harder it is to follow to the source. But conversely, when you get tangled up in the threads, it’s difficult to get away from. Your wife, for instance. I haven’t done much research, to be fair. But I imagine she’s twin-set and pearls. Rides horses, enjoys the hunt ball, sips the odd Pimm’s at a regatta or two in the season,” he smiled. “Not the sort cut-out to bunk up with a tattooed fourteen-stone lesbian with an eye on a new bitch.”

“I said she’s not involved!”

“But you are?” snapped King. He looked past Hollandrake as the door opened and his PA walked in with a cup in her hand. King took his foot off the desk and smiled. “Thanks for that,” he said. He stood up and accepted the cup. “I think that will be all until after lunch, thanks.” He glanced at Hollandrake. “Is that right, Home Secretary?”

Hollandrake nodded, but he did not catch the woman’s eye. “Yes, thank you, Dawn.”

King waited for the door to close behind her. He took a sip of his tea. “Not a bad cuppa,” he said. “A pleasant young woman.”

“Indeed,” Hollandrake commented absently.

“Are you sleeping with her?”

“No!”

“But you are sleeping with Amanda Cunningham?”

“No!”

“But you were,” King said. “We’ve seen the letters. The handwriting has been confirmed by a specialist,” King lied. He was taking a chance now, reaching out on a limb, but he felt sure it was true and the handwriting expert would look at them soon. Caroline had forwarded them to him, and in turn he had sent them on to Neil Ramsay. Amherst had confirmed that Sir Hugo had often signed off on internal documents, he was certain enough and had forwarded them on to the documentation department where they were trying to contact a graphologist.

“A long time ago,” Hollandrake admitted. “She got back in contact. She’s in financial trouble, needed a door or two opened for her. It wasn’t something I wanted brought out into the open. I was on her university select committee as an adviser and donor. A patron. She was so vibrant, so beautiful…”

“Does your wife know?”

“No.”

“I believe your daughter is at university now.”

“So?”

“Important time for her,” King said. “Wouldn’t be easy for her with a huge story like this unravelling.”

“Are you bribing me?” Hollandrake smirked. “Is that it? Money?”

“Your DNA was in Amanda’s flat,” King lied again. He was on a roll. “The bathroom. All sorts in there. Toothbrush, razor, the taps, towels. You rekindled the affair.”

“How much do you want?”

“You don’t deny being there recently?”

Hollandrake shrugged. “What’s the point?”

King relaxed. His bluff had paid off. He looked at Hollandrake as he sipped some more tea. He put the cup down on the blotter in front of him. “We’ll kick off with the affair,” King said. “Leak what we have. A sordid affair with a student in an institution where you were patron. Rekindled all these years later. Or perhaps it was ongoing? Anyway, right now the DNA is the clincher. A lost report that will turn up on the desk of a major newspaper. Let the press have some fun with it. And then the tax fraud. Both in the minimal and fraudulent amount of tax paid and the over-inflated figure of VAT claimed. We’ll let the tax man get the ball rolling on that one.”

“How much do you want?”

“What are you offering?”

“Who else knows?”

King smiled. “Just me.” He took out the Glock pistol, rested it on the desk, the muzzle covering Hollandrake’s chest. “Sorry, force of habit. You ask who else knows, I say just me, you take