White Gold (4 page)

‘Someone is buying and, moreover, stockpiling the world’s gold supply. In the current climate and demand for oil, gas and uranium, the sale and purchase of this valuable commodity is overlooked by analysts again and again. We must ask ourselves, why? Why is this not being highlighted, pursued, or investigated? Here, today, we seek to rectify this.’

Extract from lecture series by Doctor Peter Edgewater, Oxford, England

Oxford, England

Peter closed his eyes and tilted his head back, stretching his neck muscles, glad to be home. He felt he could smell the history of the building surrounding him while, in the next room, he could hear the audience finding their seats, the soft clink of wine glasses as they greeted colleagues, calling to each other, laughter.

‘It never loses it, you know.’ The voice broke his reverie.

‘What?’ He opened his eyes, and looked around for the source of the interruption.

‘Sorry – didn’t mean to startle you.’ A man leaned against one of the pillars, smiling. ‘I meant the atmosphere of the place – it’s always here.’ He walked towards Peter and held out his hand. ‘Charles Moore.’

Peter shook it, then looked around him once more. ‘You’re right.’

‘I take it you were a student here?’ Charles enquired. He took his glasses off and began to polish them.

‘Yes. Although it seems a lifetime ago these days – you?’

‘Cambridge I’m afraid,’ Charles smiled apologetically, put his glasses back on and wandered over to the archway which led to the lecture theatre and peered through.

‘Are you planning on talking to this lot today?’

Peter nodded, joining him. ‘Yes. I’ve just completed a small lecture tour around Europe and the college asked me if I’d like to take part in the inaugural New Year lecture series before the university term begins. It seemed a fitting way to finish my tour.’

Charles turned to him. ‘Has the lecture tour been well received?’

‘Not bad. I enjoy the conversations afterwards actually – travelling can be a bit monotonous. I got the opportunity to talk with quite a few people about my research. You know, compare facts and the like. Always good to know what other academics think – and some of the students. It helps to gauge what reaction the published article will have.’

Charles’ face visibly hardened. ‘Published article?’

Peter nodded enthusiastically, not noticing the man’s changed demeanour. ‘Yes – the feedback from the lecture tour has been so good, I’m discussing publication of the research and lecture notes with a few people, the press included.’

A figure appeared in the entrance to the lecture hall. ‘Doctor Edgewater? You’re up next.’

Peter nodded. ‘I’ll be right there.’ He turned and offered his hand to Charles. ‘Nice to meet you – I’d better go.’

Charles shook Peter’s hand and stepped back. ‘Good luck with the article, Doctor Edgewater. I’m sure it’ll be a fascinating read.’

Charles watched Peter enter the lecture hall, then turned and walked down the hallway to the exit. As he left the building and walked down Parks Road, he pulled a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a sequence of numbers.

Brisbane, Australia

The city lights cast an orange glow over the river, as ferries and high-powered catamarans carried the last of the late-night diners home. A faint breeze moved through the humid air while the occasional frustrated car horn or siren broke the enveloping silence across the business district.

On the eleventh floor of the skyscraper, Morris Delaney opened the door to his office and ushered in his guest.

Stephen Pallisder was a tall, broad man. A self-made millionaire, the chairman of a large national rail organisation, he had few friends, but had many politicians on his payroll and enormous influence nationally. He also had a reputation for a short temper and an unforgiving fury. Overweight, the product of too much fine wine and dining and very little exercise, he eased himself into one of four leather armchairs, sighed, loosened his tie and put his feet up on the low coffee table in front of him.

‘Jesus, Morris, when did it become so fucking fashionable to be a tree-hugger?’

‘Blame Al Gore – I do,’ said Delaney, ‘I even had one of Helen’s nieces lecturing me at the weekend about clean coal technology being the equivalent of a low-tar cigarette.’

Pallisder laughed.  ‘I hope you wrote her out of your will first thing on Monday.’

Delaney grinned. ‘Well, her university fund just mysteriously stopped being paid. Not that I ever understood what she hoped to achieve with a degree in bloody drawing. Surely it can’t be that hard.’

Delaney pushed a brochure across the table to Pallisder.

‘There you have it. With my new mine coming on line and your railway commissioned last month, the shareholders will be happy and we’ll blow away the competition at the conference.  I expect we’ll have quite a few offers for new investment by next week.’

Pallisder nodded as he looked at the glossy presentation promoting the joint venture between the two men.  ‘Good work. I’ll have my marketing team send you some up-to-date material for that promotional film too – we sent a film crew up there last week to do some aerial shots from a helicopter, you know, the sweeping camera angles over a fully loaded coal train – good for the Australian economy, the usual messages.’

Walking over to a mahogany cabinet, Delaney picked up two crystal tumblers and a decanter. ‘Drink?’

‘Make it a large one. Apparently the traffic’s backed up all the way to the Bribie exit so there’s no point leaving town for another hour. Lucy will kill me for being late again,’ said Pallisder.

Delaney carried the drinks over and sat in the opposite armchair. He chuckled. ‘I do believe you’re officially under her thumb.’ He handed a glass to the other man and raised his in a toast. ‘To plans going well.’

Stephen raised his glass in salute and took a large sip. ‘Is my investment safe?’

Delaney nodded. ‘Just checking on that academic pain in the ass, Peter Edgewater, over in the UK – remember I said he was doing that lecture tour and starting to point the finger our way?’

Pallisder nodded and gestured for Delaney to continue.

‘I’ve got someone having a word with him today. The previous warning we gave him didn’t work so we’re putting the pressure on.’

‘Perhaps I could get your man to do some work for me.’

‘How many coal trains were stopped this week?’

Pallisder glowered. ‘Three. If I could tell the drivers to run the fuckers over, I would, but the press probably wouldn’t report it sympathetically.’

Delaney laughed ruefully. ‘True. I’ll let you know when he’s back here.’

Pallisder lowered his feet, leaned forward, and picked up the brochure from the table in front of him.  ‘Who’s going to be at this conference?’

‘The usual suspects. I’ve spoken to our marketing team at length and they’re fully aware of what we expect from them. A good, concise counter-offensive against those idiots.’ He nodded over his shoulder in the general direction of the protestors outside.  ‘We’ll hit them hard with our protestors campaigning
against
emissions trading – the usual message, it’s a stealth tax, jobs will be lost, clean coal technology is a better alternative, blah, blah, blah.’

Pallisder leaned back and looked hard at Delaney. ‘I had a phone call from another Federal minister yesterday. I’ve agreed to maintain my campaign contributions to him on the understanding he continues to lobby for the coal industry here in Australia.’

Delaney nodded. ‘That’s good. Most of them don’t understand the science of it all anyway – as long as we keep lining their pockets, they’ll do as they’re told.’

Pallisder laughed. ‘Yeah – heaven forbid they lose the vote and have to get a real job.’

Delaney looked up as the phone on his desk began to ring. Standing up, he glanced at Pallisder. ‘Excuse me.’

Pallisder shrugged and gestured to Delaney to take the call. The men had few secrets between them – both had built up their empires over the years through hard graft, hard-fought deals and a close relationship between a mining empire which spanned Australia, the UK and Eastern Europe, and a railroad organisation which owned and leased half the routes in Australia, with financial interests in Europe and South Africa.

Delaney walked over to the desk and picked up the phone. He put his hand over the receiver, and said to Pallisder. ‘It’s Charles.’

Pallisder nodded, got up and wandered over to the decanter to top up his glass.

Delaney turned back to the phone. ‘I trust it went well?’ He fell silent and listened to Charles’s report, then hissed as he leaned against the desk. ‘I want it sorted now. Call me when it’s done, not before. I have to present at the conference next week and I want this sorted out by the time I leave.’

As he slammed the phone down, Delaney looked around the office at the framed photographs with himself, prime ministers, international dignitaries, soccer players and rock stars. No way was he letting anyone take this away from him. Not now.

‘Problem?’ asked Pallisder, as he eased himself back into his armchair.

Delaney sat on the edge of his desk. ‘No, not really. Just protecting your investment.’

Pallisder chuckled. ‘Good man.’

Oxford, England

Aaron Hughes was already in trouble. An hour late, with his mobile phone battery dead, he cycled back home as fast as he could. His mum would kill him. An hour ago, she’d have received the message from the school to say he’d dodged the extra classes she insisted on sending him to during the holidays while she worked. Now the weak winter sun was already beginning to set.

He couldn’t help it – the new computer game had been released on Monday and Jack Mills had managed to persuade his parents to buy him a copy straight away as an early birthday present. Within four hours, the two boys had reached level six before Aaron had realised what the time was and left his friend’s house.

He turned onto Saint Cross Road, cycled past the college buildings and debated the shortcut through the fields and over the River Cherwell. Already in trouble, it wouldn’t matter if his clothes got dirty and mud spattered, but the river bank with its tree-covered weed-strewn tributaries was a bit creepy at the best of times, he’d be the first to admit.

Yet, it was a shortcut to Old Marston and at the moment, he needed all the help he could get. He turned right on to the dirt track behind the college playing fields and changed down a gear.

Aaron slowed his bike and looked over his shoulder. From past experience, he knew he’d be through the fields and back in suburbia within fifteen minutes – if he could only stop his imagination from working overtime.

Aaron sighed. He had to do it. He began pedalling again and made his way along the pathway. Panting slightly, although not sure whether it was through fear or exertion, he cycled across the first narrow bridge over the river, conscious of the traffic noise from the city fading into the distance behind him.

Halfway over the bridge, he stopped and looked down the narrow stream of water which led through the fields to the main river. It turned left before disappearing round a bend, while in front of him the track narrowed to little more than a horse trail. Aaron took one more look at the river and then pedalled as fast as he dared along the loose surface of the track, careful not to skid.

As he drew closer to the next bridge, the track narrowed and he could smell the early evening scent of damp undergrowth, pine sap and horse droppings while snowdrops tentatively poked through the grass verges on each side.

Aaron jumped as a pheasant flew out in front of him, squawking and flapping its wings. He laughed to himself nervously then jumped again as something else screeched nearby.

The narrow path ran between two tributaries of the river before it swept across them and out through the fields to Old Marston. Aaron slowed as he recalled the horror stories of people falling in the water and not being able to survive the icy temperatures at this time of year. He steered the bike to the middle of the pathway, away from the edges of the water, determined not to slip and fall in.

As he neared the bend in the track to take him home, he saw a shape at the water’s edge, draped between the shallow grass verge near the water and the gravel track. He slowed, heart racing. It looked like an old bundle of clothes dumped on the side of the path.

Aaron looked around him and suddenly wished he hadn’t come this way. He couldn’t bring himself to turn back though – it was too far now – so instead, he got off the bike and began to wheel it towards the bundle of clothing. As he drew closer, he could make out the shape of a person. ‘Hello?’

He stopped. He’d heard enough stories about ‘stranger danger’ when he was younger and despite what his parents thought, he’d listened to their warnings about wandering off with people he didn’t know. But this was different. It felt wrong.

‘Are you alright?’ he called.

Perhaps it was a drunk. It was no good, he thought, he’d have to get closer. He breathed out, and pushed the bike nearer and made sure he kept it between him and the figure as if to add some extra protection. As he drew closer, he could see it was a man, dressed in a suit, his face turned away from Aaron.

He stepped around the figure and screamed.  The bike dropped to the ground as the boy turned and ran to the other side of the gravel track and vomited into the long grass.

It seemed like an age before he could muster the courage to run back, grab his bike and cycle as fast as he could down the remainder of the track and home, where his mother tried to calm her hysterical son before calling the police.

It would be even longer before the memory of the dead man’s face would begin to fade from his nightmares.

The alarm screeched loudly, twice, before a hand shot out from under a blanket and punched it into submission.

Dan sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Christ, it was freezing
. He stood up, pulled on a thick dressing gown and padded over to the bedroom door. Running his hand through his hair, he wandered downstairs and stared blearily at the timer on the central heating system. He hit it hard with the palm of his hand and instantly heard the soft roar of the heating system starting up.

Yawning, he switched on the kettle and began to make coffee. He turned, and picked up the mobile phone from the kitchen bench. No messages. He frowned – he’d tried to phone Peter back after returning from the pub three nights ago but the voicemail service kept kicking in. He was wondering who he could contact at the university to track down Peter when a footfall at the front of the house caught his attention.

He glanced up as he heard the letterbox squeak on its hinges. He padded out through the hallway, picked up the copy of the
Oxford Times
lying on the mat, then wandered back to the relative warmth of the kitchen. While he waited for the water to boil, he sat at the breakfast bar and flicked through the newspaper until his eyes rested on a report on page five.

He felt his jaw go slack with shock. The headline read: ‘Prominent Lecturer Killed in Vicious Attack’.

‘Police have confirmed the body found near the River Cherwell in Old Marston twenty-four hours ago was that of Doctor Peter Edgewater, lecturer in geology at the Department of Earth Sciences, Oxford University. Police are describing the attack as vicious in nature. Doctor Edgewater’s colleagues raised the alarm when he failed to turn up for the first faculty meeting of the new academic term yesterday morning.

Doctor Edgewater, best known for his activism for more research into alternative energy, was apparently walking behind the College grounds when he was assaulted. Doctor Edgewater had just completed a successful lecture tour in Europe championing his paper on the theory of a white powder gold extract being used as an alternative to coal for the electricity industry. Doctor Edgewater used his lectures to regularly criticise gas and coal companies for allegedly delaying vital research into alternative energies. At the present time, the murder weapon has not been found and police are appealing for witnesses
.’

What a way to start the New Year
, thought Dan. He read through the report again, his heart beating hard as he searched for answers which wouldn’t come. He pushed the article to one side and slid his mobile phone towards him. Dialling up his voicemail, he listened to Peter’s message once more.

It had been strange to hear Peter’s voice after so many years. On the same rowing team at university, they’d drifted apart after Dan had chosen to join the army. Dan scratched at the stubble forming on his chin and stared into space. He remembered Peter as a big man who knew how to fight if he had to. It just didn’t seem right he’d be so easy to attack.

Dan couldn’t remember ever hearing Peter sound so scared before though and as he listened to the message again, he wondered what Peter had uncovered through his latest research to warrant such a reaction.

He stood up, made the coffee, then sipped it slowly, pacing the kitchen. He couldn’t ignore his friend’s last request. He’d have to check that Peter’s ex-wife, Sarah, was okay – if he could find her. He’d heard from a mutual acquaintance that Peter and Sarah had split up a while ago. His put his coffee mug down and slid a notebook and pen towards him. He picked up his mobile again. He vaguely remembered Peter saying his ex-wife was now a reporter for one of the national newspapers. He yawned as he scrolled through the phone numbers listed in the online telephone directory. Perhaps her editor would be able to tell him where to find her.

Dialling the newspaper’s office, he was put through to the editor, Gus Saunders who, after giving Dan a grilling the local constabulary would be proud of, reluctantly passed on Sarah’s current address and telephone number.

Dan dialled and flicked through the newspaper while he waited for an answer. There was none. He hung up and looked around the kitchen. He sighed. Maybe he should pay a visit to the ex-Mrs Edgewater. At least it would give him something to do, rather than stare at the walls waiting for the next mining job to find him.

Half an hour later, Dan was making his way down the main road towards Sutton Courtenay. After he turned off at the junction, he drove along the ring road until he reached a roundabout and turned left. According to her editor, Sarah’s house was located in a small lane about a mile into the village.

He spotted number thirty-seven straight away, a pretty three-bedroom cottage set back from the road. On the end of a row, it had a small neat garden sheltering behind a low white fence, a public footpath to the right of the property leading back to the main road.

He steered the car into a parking bay outside, switched off the engine and got out of the car. He had no idea what he was going to say but Peter had asked him to do this and, in the circumstances, it was the least he could do.

‘Here goes,’ mumbled Dan to himself as he walked up the path and rang the door bell.

As he waited for the door to be opened, Dan self-consciously tried to smooth down his wild hair and tugged at his jacket. He glanced down at his boots. He noticed how scuffed they were. Then tried to remember when he’d last polished them. It seemed a lifetime ago when polishing boots had been second nature. He sniffed, forced the memory from his thoughts and glanced up at the front door. The cold air clung to his ears and fingers, a biting bitter breeze whipping at his hair. He willed the door to open – soon, before he froze.

A light was switched on – the pale glow shining through the four panes of glass embedded in the top of the wooden door. Dan’s face glowed in the reflection. The grey afternoon daylight was quickly fading; another snow storm threatened. Dan stepped back from the shelter of the front porch and glanced upwards, willing the storm clouds away. He didn’t want to get stuck here. Just do the dutiful thing, find out what Peter had been up to, then get out fast.

The silhouette of a figure bobbed in front of the door. Hesitated.

‘Who is it?’ A muffled question, loaded with intent. Give the wrong answer, the door would never open.

Dan thought about first impressions. And automatically reached up to smooth his hair down again. He took a deep breath. ‘My name’s Dan. I’m a friend of Pete’s.’ He paused. ‘A real friend.’ He peered through the fuzz of the pock-marked glass.

A tall, slender woman, with pale brown hair peered back through. Hesitated.

Then Dan heard the sound of a security chain as it rattled against the wooden surface. The woman hesitated again, then the bolt slid back and the door opened.

Dan looked. The woman was pale, wrapped in a sweater three times too big for her body, thrown over skinny jeans. She wore thick socks. Dan blinked as the warmth from the house enveloped him.

‘What do you want?’ whispered the woman.

‘I want to help,’ he said.

The woman nodded. ‘He wrote and said you might come.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Sarah,’ she said.

Dan took it with a small smile. ‘I hoped you would be,’ he said. ‘Can I come in? It’s bloody freezing out here.’