The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (2 page)

Rear Admiral (Retired) Sir Benbow Harrington picked one of the letters from the small stack in his in-tray and slit open the envelope with a silver letter-opener. He removed a single sheet of lined paper and unfolded it. The writer had written in block capitals in pencil.

The Admiral threw the letter directly into the leather wastepaper basket beautifully embossed with a naval coat-of-arms.

‘Bloody illiterate,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What the hell this country is coming to I don’t know.’ The Admiral, being a religious man, was not given to using strong language, but on occasion the common parlance of the mariners entered into his vocabulary.

The next three or four letters he opened were of the same standard of English as Eric’s epistle and gave him a variety of designations, ranging from that of a royal personage to the Mayor of an English provincial town. As he reasoned that the Captain of a World Cruise would have to have a reasonable social awareness, as well as being proficient in English and with a working knowledge of other languages, they too were discarded.

With a heart that grew increasingly despondent he applied the opener to the final letter from the in-tray. At first sight this appeared promising. It was neatly typed on quarto paper and bore the address:

At Sea. From the cabin of Captain Peché Sparda.

Sir,

It is with respect that I write to you Admiral Sir. My name is Sparda and for many years I have been Captain of the Ferry travelling the most dangerous currents of the world. This is Sir, between the Italian mainland and Sicily. Many fine ladies and gentlemen have
travelled on my ship Sir and have been entertained by my Cousin Pedro who knows many old Sicilian songs.

I was born in Catania Sir but lived many year in England in the fine town of Deptford when I was Captain of a ship on the great river Sir. My spoken English is good Sir but my written English not good and so my sister Rosetta, who is cooking for the Sisters of the Star of the Thames in Deptford, is writing this letter for me. My good wife Lilian is an English lady Sir and now lives with me in Sicily with little visits to England. My relatives care for her very much Sir and they also care for my little ship. Sorry Sir but my ship has now been taken by government and I do not know why. My cousins will help me Sir. Now I need new job and so I like to work with you Admiral. The sea is my blood Sir.

Please write to me at the Convent in Deptford where my sister Rosetta will give me your kind reply.

With many salutes Sir,

Captain Peché Sparda

Benbow read this letter through several times and the more he read it the more convinced he became that he ought to see this man. Captain Sparda seemed to be experienced - had, he assumed, a Master’s Ticket - and possessed some written and spoken English. There and then he picked up the candlestick telephone that adorned his desk and instructed Harry Parkhurst to arrange an interview without delay.

It was exactly two o’clock when Admiral Harrington pulled into the car park of the Vacation Inn at Southend. The building itself was unimpressive, having been built of pre-fabricated units bolted together and faced with a yellowish brick. Harry Parkhurst had reserved a room in this establishment in order to interview Captain Sparda and also another candidate who had come forward to be interviewed for the position of Cruise Director. Enzo Bigatoni hailed from Southern Italy but had lived in the United Kingdom for many years, working as a Bingo caller at various holiday camps. He was friendly with Captain Sparda and on occasions had spent several days on the Messina ferry meeting and greeting passengers. Captain Sparda assured the Admiral that there was no better person in the whole of the Cruise industry to fill the vacant position on board the
Handshake
. Apart from his skill at number calling, he had a phenomenal memory for faces. Apparently he never forgot a face (even though he could never remember where he had previously seen that face, nor the name of its owner). The Admiral thought this to be an excellent quality as he believed that passengers loved to be remembered, even if their name was not immediately identified. That could easily be checked by a quick glance at the passenger list.

Harry was waiting in the tiny entrance hall to greet the Admiral.

‘I thought we would interview at this hotel,’ he said half-apologetically. ‘It’s a bit on the downmarket side but it does mean we can interview our candidates without being spotted by our rivals who have agents in all the large hotels in Southend. We can’t afford to lose such promising candidates to Canard Cruises or the Silver Salver Line. They are always on the lookout, and I know for a fact would snap up the two men we are seeing this afternoon.’

The Admiral nodded in agreement and they both approached a glass screen behind which sat a blonde teenager busily occupied with staring at herself in a small hand mirror. Harry rapped smartly on the glass. The girl made not a movement. He rapped again and this time bellowed in stentorian tones: ‘Admiral Harrington and Mr Harry Parkhurst who have reserved a suite for the afternoon.’

This time the girl stirred. ‘Navy, eh? We’ve had enough trouble with the Navy here. Last time they wrecked three bathrooms and scared the life out of our cleaning lady. No Navy here, shipmates.’

The Admiral took a step backwards in surprise at this unexpected outburst.

‘Madam,’ said Harry with all the dignity he could muster, ‘this gentleman is an Admiral and is not to be confused with the common rank and file who appear to have caused you such distress. If you check your reservations you will note that Mr Harry
Parkhurst has reserved a suite for the purpose of interviewing candidates for a most important role in shipping.’

The girl tossed her head. ‘Huh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can guess what
that
is. Well, let me tell you this is a respectable establishment, and if there is the slightest sign of trouble, our security officer will be onto the case immediately.’

With that, she pushed a key under the glass and resumed her staring.

Harry and the Admiral ascended the bare concrete stairway and navigated their way along a narrow corridor until they arrived at the reserved ‘suite.’ Harry inserted the key in the lock and entered the room. It was pitch dark and there was a distinct odour of stale beer and cigarettes. He flung back the curtains and light flooded into the room. Outside there was an uninterrupted view of a flat roof and an oversized air-conditioning unit. Two single beds took up the main part of the ‘suite’ together with a single upright chair and a dressing-table. The Admiral frowned.

‘Not much of a suite, Harry,’ he said. ‘This will hardly convey the impression of a first-rate Cruise Line, will it?’

‘No problem, Admiral,’ said Harry confidently. ‘Once I explain the security situation they will understand.’

He had hardly finished speaking when the Bakelite telephone by the side of one of the beds began to ring. Harry picked it up.

‘Mr Pankhurst?’ queried a female voice on the line.

‘Parkhurst!’ bellowed Harry, angry at the misreading of his name.

‘Oh sorry,’ replied the caller. ‘I didn’t want the prison, I wanted Mr Pankhurst at the Vacation Inn!’

Harry let out an expletive. ‘I don’t know who you are, but this is Mr Harry Parkhurst and this is the Vacation Inn suite number 11201.’

‘Oh, good afternoon, Mr Parkhurst. This is Lilian Sparda, wife of Captain Sparda. He asked me to phone you as his new Sat Nav took him in the wrong direction and both he and Mr Bigatoni may be rather late.’

This news did not amuse Harry in the slightest. ‘Where in goodness are they?’ he shouted down the phone.

‘Well,’ said the messenger who, had she been in close proximity to Harry, would have been in real danger of being shot, ‘they are circulating the M25 for the second time and are now held up because the road has been closed. They hope to be with you as soon as they can.’

At this juncture Harry became speechless and slammed the phone down with such force that a leg on the small table collapsed, sending the cheap bedside light crashing to the floor along with the telephone receiver. Immediately there was a sharp rap on the door, which burst open revealing a very large black individual dressed from head to toe in a blue military-style uniform and sporting a long baton.

‘I thought as much,’ he shouted. ‘Tracy on the desk warned me about you two Naval types. Out. Out now. Pronto.
Out
.’

It was useless to try and explain. The Admiral picked up his small leather case from the bed and Harry slung his knapsack over his back. The two men were rudely shoved along the corridor and down the concrete stairs back into the reception area.

‘Credit Card,’ barked the guard.

Harry produced a Visa card, which was promptly snatched by Tracy, who glowered at them from behind the safety of the glass.

‘That’ll be one hundred pounds for damage,’ she said ‘and you do
not
get your deposit back. Sign here and good afternoon.’

Harry duly signed and the two shipping magnates stepped outside into a fine drizzle and plodded towards their respective cars.

‘I’ll meet you at the first service station we come to,’ said the Admiral, ‘so that we can decide what to do now.’

‘No problem,’ said Harry, having resumed his customary cheerfulness. ‘I’ll phone Peché and call the interview off for today. We will have to meet him and Enzo at some other place and at a later date. Leave it to me, Admiral. All will be well, let me assure you.’

‘Right you are, Harry,’ said the weary sailor. ‘Another time. I’ll leave the interviewing to you, and if you think they are up to
the job, hire them right away.’

With that, the Admiral climbed into his car and set off for Frinton and the relative peace of the Essex coast.

For the first time in his life Albert Hardcastle had been invited to meet the manager of his local bank for lunch. Earlier in the week he had received notice that the sum of six million, six hundred and sixty six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds and six pence. would be deposited in the Grimsby North branch of the Yorkshire Prudent Bank. Albert had refused all publicity and turned down offers of help from lottery officials.

‘I know how to spend my own brass,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want some toffee-nosed adviser from London poking around in my affairs.’

His wife agreed with him completely and the money was duly dispatched to the joint current account of Mr and Mrs Albert Hardcastle.

On the morning of the lunch Alice took what she now called ‘The Lottery Suit’ from the wardrobe and gave it a quick once-over with the iron. It was rather worn, having seen many years of service since Albert had bought it in a sale from the Grimsby branch of Messrs Burtons, but both he, and his wife, reckoned that it had plenty of wear left in it yet.

‘No sense in throwing money away on new clothes when there is a perfectly good woollen suit in the wardrobe,’ said Alice, echoing the thrift that had been with her for years. ‘It’s good for another ten years at least!’

Although Grimsby was in Lincolnshire it was permeated with the values that made Yorkshire great, and thrift was not the least of them.

Promptly at midday Albert adjusted the golden watch-chain that adorned his waistcoat and then slipped on his greatcoat and football scarf.

‘By gum, Albert,’ said Alice. ‘Folks won’t half stare when they see you walking out like that on a weekday.’

Albert said nothing but, with a nod, stepped into the street and headed in the direction of the Prudent Bank. En route he wondered if he ought to call in and announce his good fortune to the stockroom girls who had presented him with the winning ticket. He was still puzzled as to what to do about this. At some point they were bound to ask him how he had fared. On the other hand, if he kept quiet they might assume nothing at all had happened - unless of course they had taken a note of the numbers, which he very much doubted. He decided he would walk on the pavement opposite the Co-op to reduce his chances of meeting anyone and thus facing awkward questions.

As luck would have it, just as he was passing on the opposite side looking resolutely ahead, he heard someone call out his
name.

‘Albert, you old bugger, are you not calling in to see us?’

Of all people it had to be Jason Smith who had taken Albert’s former position as guardian of the trolleys and baskets.

‘Do you know,’ Albert had said in his final briefing before leaving, ‘do you know that each time a trolley goes missing, that costs the Co-op at least two hundred quid. That’s a lot of divi.’ Jason had since reflected on this wisdom. It
was
a lot of money - and in his time he must have seen at least eight hundred quids’ worth semi-submerged in a nearby waterway. Albert decided that if he called in the shop this morning the subject of the tickets would be bound to come up and Alice would be furious if he gave the slightest hint that he might have won.

‘Sorry, Jason,’ he shouted, ‘another time! I’m almost late as it is.’ He plodded on.

On arrival at the portals of the Prudent Bank, Albert stopped for a moment and gazed at the solid stone pillars on each side of the doorway. Many was the time when, as a young married man, he had crossed this threshold with a deep sense of foreboding to face an irate clerk urging him to ‘take more care with your outgoings’. In later life he hardly visited, but on the infrequent occasions when he did, despite the fact that his account was a safe sanctuary for moths, the clerk was all sweetness and light and urged him to borrow as much as he could carry - and more besides.

Albert stepped inside and before he could utter a word, Darren Worthington, the head clerk, was by his side offering to help him off with his coat.

‘We saw you approaching on the security cameras,’ said Darren, tugging at the Yorkshire twill. ‘We’re all terribly excited you’re visiting us today.’

Darren Worthington had recently relocated to Grimsby from a branch somewhere in Surrey and Arthur thought it was typical of a nancy boy Southerner to get excited about nowt.

‘Mr Havergill is expecting you and has asked me to show you immediately into his office,’ crooned Darren, totally captivated by the occasion. He pressed several numbers on a side door which swung open, revealing a short corridor along which they both walked. Before them was another door, this time adorned with a sign which read
Mr Bernard Havergill JP. Manager
. Worthington gently tapped on the door and was greeted with a deafening ‘Come in!’ Albert was ushered into the room and the head clerk discreetly disappeared. There, behind a desk totally clear of any documents or writing implements, but containing one half-empty glass, sat a florid-faced man with ginger hair. He was perspiring profusely, even though the outside temperature was equivalent to that in the Arctic.

‘Ah, Mr Hardcastle. What a delight it is to see you. I don’t think we have had the pleasure. My name is Havergill and I am the Manager of this establishment and of several other branches
in the Grimsby region. I know you have been a customer of ours for years, and it is always my very great pleasure to make the acquaintance of our long-standing and faithful account-holders. You are most welcome. Please take a seat and let me get you a drink. Gin and tonic? Whisky?’ Mr Havergill replenished the glass on his desk from a crystal dispenser and went to get Albert a glass.

‘Hold on,’ said Albert. ‘I usually drink Brown Ale.’

‘Brown Ale,’ repeated Havergill. ‘Brown Ale … Is that what they drink up here?’ He took another gulp of his gin and pressed a button situated underneath the desk. ‘Bring in a Brown Ale for our esteemed friend Mr Hardcastle!’ he bellowed, seemingly at no one in particular.

From somewhere in the room a loudspeaker crackled into life.

‘Certainly, Mr Havergill, sir. I think we may have to go to the Co-op to get one.’

‘Bring several,’ boomed the Manager, ‘and while you are at it, bring another bottle of Gordon’s. The last one seems to have evaporated.’

Albert had seen some topers in his time, but sitting before him was surely one of Grimsby’s best. Several minutes passed before there was a tap on the door and Darren Worthington staggered in with a crate of Brown Ale and a litre of Gordon’s Gin.

‘Well done, Washington,’ slurred the Manager. ‘Pour Mr
Albert an ale and take one yourself and then clear off.’

Darren poured the ale as requested, and ignoring the generous offer of the Manager to help himself, he quickly left the room.

‘Well,’ said Mr Havergill. ‘This is all very homely, isn’t it?’

He slurped more gin and went to open another bottle of tonic water. ‘All very homely isn’t it’?

Albert reflected that it was like no home he had ever known, and despite the generosity of the Manager the atmosphere did not seem to be either relaxed or homely. However, he held his tongue.

‘Well, well, well,’ uttered Havergill. ‘Well, well, well.’

Albert was at a loss as to what to say, since he had no idea what Mr Havergill was referring to.

‘Well, well, well. It is, isn’t it?’

By now the gin was beginning to take over the Manager’s ability to speak and reason clearly. For no apparent reason he pressed the button on his desk again, and within a moment Worthington appeared. Havergill fixed him with a glassy stare.

‘Warburton,’ he began. ‘You know what I like about you?’

Darren Worthington said nothing but bowed his head slightly.

‘Nothing!’ the Manager exclaimed. ‘Absolutely nothing. Get out.’

Darren disappeared immediately and Albert took a sip of his
Brown Ale.

‘I think we ought to get down to business,’ he said, conscious of the fact that time was slipping by and soon all luncheon establishments in the immediate area would be closing. ‘I understand the lottery folk have paid money into my account and I would like to know exactly how much and what interest I will be getting if I leave it with the bank?’

Mr Havergill took another swig at his gin and once again replenished his glass. He slouched in his chair and appeared to have considerable difficulty in not slipping to the floor.

‘Account?’ he muttered. ‘Account? By all accounts you have an account. We have accounts in banks, you know, old boy. Accounts. Oh yes, by George. Accounts.’

‘Well,’ said Albert, now beginning to lose patience. ‘I’m talking about my account, Mr Havergill. I would like to see MY account.’

Havergill rolled his eyes, closed one and fixed Albert with a glassy stare.

‘You can’t see my account, old boy. Private. Secret, you know.’ Here he touched the side of his nose with his forefinger and shook his head.

‘I want to see MY account, Mr Havergill. MY account, not yours’. Albert was now running out of patience and not a little apprehensive. The prospect of lunch seemed to be receding by the minute, and as for his account - he seemed to be making no
progress whatsoever.

‘Call Withington, old boy,’ mumbled Havergill. ‘Withington is just like Jeeves. He knows everything. Withington?’ he bawled. ‘Wallington, where the hell are you when needed?
Wiverington
.’

Once again the door opened and Darren reappeared.

Mr Havergill turned in his chair, and this time missed his balance and fell under the desk. Both Albert and Darren rushed across the room and helped him back. When he was seated, he shook himself rather like a dog emerging from a pond. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

‘Mr Jeeves,’ he began. ‘Mr Hardacre wants to see his account.’ With that, he placed his head between his arms on the desk and began to snore loudly.

‘I really must apologise to you, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Darren, clearly disturbed by the events of the last hour. ‘I was hoping Mr Havergill would break the news to you himself. It is rather alarming, I must admit. I’m afraid The Manager seems to have lost your account. There is no record whatsoever of you ever having an account with this bank, and no record at all of any money being received from the National Lottery.’

Albert dropped his half-empty glass of Brown Ale onto the beige carpet.

‘My God!’ he uttered. ‘That’s terrible. No record whatsoever?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sir.’ We were searching the computer records all night long, and first thing this morning we contacted the Lottery to see if they could throw any light on the problem. All they know is that the money was paid in here two days ago and that it has gone out of their Lottery account.’

Albert collapsed into the nearest chair and stared at the expanding brown stain on the carpet.

‘No record,’ he muttered. ‘No record?’

‘Please try not to upset yourself, Mr Hardcastle. I’m sure that once Mr Havergill is feeling himself again, all will be well.’

‘What about Head Office?’ asked Albert. ‘What do
they
say about all this?

‘Well, the truth is that they don’t know at the moment.’

Darren paused as Mr Havergill gave a low groan, followed by an exceptionally loud snort. He continued: ‘Mr Havergill was hoping that something might turn up before he was obliged to let them know. As soon as he is well again, he will start another search. Of that I’m certain.’

Albert got to his feet. ‘That’s it then. I’d better be off.’

Darren helped him on with his coat and handed him his scarf before opening the door. Albert followed him down the corridor and back into the customer area. As he made his way to the exit, the counter clerk gave him a wan smile.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hardcastle.’

Albert nodded and stepped into the street. A light snow was
falling and with a heavy heart and feeling somewhat hungry he set course for home.

As he approached his former workplace, to his surprise he noted that the blinds were drawn across the windows and the main entrance appeared to be closed. He stopped for a moment, fumbled inside his coat and consulted his pocket watch - 2.45. He couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t a public holiday. No Royal Personage had died, as far as he knew. Why was the Co-op not open for business? As he stood by the entrance he could hear sounds of laughter inside and he was sure that he heard one of the girls from the stockroom shouting, ‘Good old Jason.’ He was just about to resume his journey when the door was flung open, and who should appear but Jason himself.

‘Albert, come on in and join the party. No work today, nor ever again for that matter!’ exclaimed Jason, somewhat flushed in the face. Increasingly puzzled, Albert crossed the familiar threshold and the door was firmly secured behind him. Littered around the floor were several empty bottles which had once contained the Co-op’s finest champagne. A large iced cake from the display cabinet had been attacked and it seemed as though all the pork pies had gone from the provision counter. A glass was thrust into his hand and was immediately filled from a freshly opened bottle of champagne.

‘An amazing story,’ gurgled Jason as he gulped the sparkling beverage, like water. ‘I only wish Heather was here to celebrate
with us instead of being with her ailing mother in the Outer Hebrides.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, Jason?’ asked an increasingly mystified Albert. ‘What is going on?’

‘Well,’ said the jovial trolley-keeper, ‘each week my wife buys a couple of lottery tickets. She checks the numbers and I don’t pay much attention, for we never win. Today I went home for lunch as usual and there was the mail with our joint account statement from the Prudent Bank - and guess what? I looked at it and saw that we had been credited with six million, six hundred and sixty six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds and six pence. Six million quid! Heather must have checked the tickets, got in touch with the Lottery folks - and bingo. There is the lovely cash in our account. That’s why I am treating everyone, see? Drink up, lad. There’s more where that came from.’

Albert could literally feel the colour drain from his cheeks.

So that explained it, he said to himself. That drunken old fool of a Bank Manager had credited Jason and Heather Smith with his legitimate winnings. The situation would have to be put right, but there was bound to be trouble.