‘Didn’t know she had one. How old?’
‘Twenty-two – actress, good-looking.’
‘Old enough to look after herself then.’
‘Yeah, I thought that.’
‘So why is mummy so concerned?’
‘You tell me. Have a dig around on the family background when you get a minute. I’ve got a few more questions that I didn’t want to ask Harry in front of mummy – I’m going to give him a call.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can find out. You in the office tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come round about ten.’
Click, she rang off. Not one for long goodbyes is the Gold Digger.
My first meeting with the Gold Digger – I just call her Gold – was in Pakistan in 2011 when I was with the military in N14, a part of the SAS. We were shadowing the US Seals as they took out Bin Laden’s compound; our job was to intercept any Pakistan forces that might make for the area after the attack went in. They didn’t, but a malfunction on one of the SEAL’s Chinooks meant we picked up a few of them to lighten the payload. Gold was in the other shadow, an Israeli attack helicopter; at the time she was in a unit of Mossad’s FB13 elite unit as a commander. We crossed paths at the debriefing after the operation and went our separate ways; I served the allowed time in N14 and was seconded into MI6 on the Anti-Terrorism Squad, and she left FB13 and went back to Mossad before her time was up too. In all the elite fighting forces of the world, your time in service is limited; keeps the units refreshed and you from getting stale, and making a mistake that could kill you and others.
After three years behind the Taliban lines, sometimes hidden less than five yards from one of their armed patrols, I wasn’t too disappointed to be discarded and moved to MI6 – not too disappointed at all. A few years in MI6 and I got bored with shadowing Islamists and white supremacists and struck out with my own private investigator business. I reckoned that at forty-three if I didn’t do it now, I never would. Gold meanwhile had put military service behind her too and moved to London and taken up gold digging again – the ancient art of a young lady relieving an older man of their wealth, or at least some of it, by giving the mark the impression she is about to surrender herself to his every whim. She never does, of course, and the old fool showers her with gifts and money in the false hope that they will unlock the door. At thirty-four I suppose Gold comes under the category of MILF, although she’s not a mother – five eight and a tight slim figure belies her age. She reminds me of a young Jennifer Rush – younger readers, look JR up. ‘Power of Love’, one of the best ballads ever made.
Gold is very good at the gold digging scam, but made one mistake: she targeted one of my clients. I sussed it was a scam straight away, and when I set up a false meeting at the client’s luxury home in Berkshire I couldn’t believe who turned up. We clicked again and from then on she’s been my back-up, hovering in the background watching my back when I’m working. Some of my ‘jobs’ involve nasty characters to whom violence is pretty standard procedure, so having Gold around limits the danger.
I made the call to Harry Cohen after I got home and made a coffee – a proper coffee – and had suppressed my hunger with a hot pork and apple sauce sandwich bought from the deli opposite. Lovely.
Harry’s secretary answered.
‘I’ve got the test results back – it’s pink. Congratulations, now we’ll have to get married.’
‘Hold the line, Ben, I’ll put you through.’ Perhaps I’d played that line on her too many times. Harry’s phone rang twice before he picked it up.
‘Harry Cohen.’
‘Ben Nevis, got a minute?’
‘Yes, go on. What did you think of Marcia?’
‘Lovely lady, bad situation.’
‘Yes, I’m relying on you, Ben. Find the kid.’
Kid, she’s twenty-two. ‘Couple of questions, Harry, ones I didn’t really want ask her.’
‘Okay, fire away.’
‘Where’s the bill going?’
‘To me.’
And I bet he takes his twenty percent before passing it to Marcia Johnson.
‘Two grand a week or part of, plus expenses.’
‘Okay.’
‘Upfront.’
‘Don’t worry, Ben, she’s good for it.’
‘Upfront.’ Business is business, and in the unlikely event that I don’t find Janie, Marcia might not want to pay. Things don’t always work out to the client’s satisfaction, no matter how much time and effort you put in, and time and effort have to be paid for.
‘All right, I’ll transfer the first week to your bank account tomorrow. Next question?’
‘Where’s the husband?’
‘Whose, Marcia’s?’
‘Yes. Where’s her husband and Janie’s father? She never mentioned him.’
‘They split when Janie was three.
‘Why?’
There was a silence for a few seconds. ‘She kicked him out.’
‘Why?’
‘She was young and impressionable at the time, Ben, but not at the start of her career – already a name, and that sort of puts suitors off. You’ll be playing second fiddle from the start, so not many chaps had the balls to date her except him.’ Another pause. ‘His name was James Randall.’
I could see why he had paused. ‘THE James Randall?’
‘Yes, THE James Randall.’
‘He’s dead.’
***********************************
I clicked on my laptop and pulled up James Randall on Wikipedia. I wanted to refresh my memory.
James Randall, London organised crime gang boss 1946 -2020. Eldest son of the Randall Crime family from South London. Controlled the London area drug scene with an estimated ton of cocaine sold every week through a network of street dealers and club security people. Established import routes directly from Costa Rica through
