The Samsara Project - David Burgess (early reader books .txt) 📗

part in it.
John shifted in his seat and turned towards Andrew, “How did you enjoy your first major press conference?”
Although Andrew had been assisting John for just less than six months he had never attended one of his ‘Jack the Ripper’ lectures and was not yet accustomed to the un-sanitised images of real life crime.
“Some of the pictures were a bit too graphic for me” Andrew answered, “I’m sorry, but I had to look away a couple of times. I’ll send a suggestion in to the Met that in future they should rate their briefings, you know PG or eighteen. That was definitely an eighteen.”
“Not to worry, you’ll get used to it. Sorry but it tends to come with the job. We can’t spend all our time writing about finding homes for cute little kittens.”
John smiled, not saying that he too had missed a large part of the briefing but for entirely different reasons. He then looked at his watch. Their meeting was not due to take place for another thirty eight minutes. They had time to kill.
“Still hungry Andrew?” asked John.
“Not just now, a bit thirsty though.”
“We’ve got a bit of time before our meeting and I’ve got a quick call to make. There’s a café just over the road. Get two coffees and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
“Sounds good to me,” replied Andrew.
John watched as Andrew left the room and headed out towards the café. He did not particularly want a coffee but he did want privacy. John tucked himself away in a quiet corner of the room, as far away from anyone else as he could. Under normal circumstances this may have looked suspicious but in a room of journalists all looking for a story no one took any notice of him at all.
John took out his mobile; punched in the number he wanted and waited. The phone rang six times before a broad Scottish voice answered. “Hello there John, my, it’s a long time since I’ve had a call from you.”
“Hello you old goat, how are you?”
“Nice of you to ask John, I’m fine thanks and less of the old if you don’t mind. So, when is it you’re looking to pay me a visit?”
”What makes you think I want to pay a visit?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve been expecting a call from you ever since that unpleasant business on the common last night. You have heard about that haven’t you John?”
“Am I that obvious Pat?”
“You are old son, you are. So, what time will you be round then? I’ve this excellent fifteen year old malt that needs two to give it the respect it deserves.”
“How does twelve fifteen sound?”
“Look forward to it, John.”
”One last thing Pat, is there any chance that this fifteen year old malt will help me to find out how a ‘Braveheart’ loving Scotsman ended up with an Irish name?”
“I doubt it John, I truly doubt it, till this afternoon then.”
At that John ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He then walked over to the door and headed out towards ‘Enid’s café and a cup of coffee that he was now looking forward to.
It must have been a good few years since Enid’s café had seen Enid as it was now run by a forty eight year old second generation Pakistani called Raj Patell. Raj was born in East Ham and had a Cockney accent as strong as the coffee he served. Raj had owned the café for the past twenty years and had built up a very loyal customer base. He had done what many a budding entrepreneur hadn’t, and as a result they’d failed. Raj had done nothing. Not a thing. The décor, the furniture nor the menu had been altered. As a result what he had done was to keep the atmosphere and ambience of a nineteen fifties ‘greasy spoon’. When asked if he ever would update the place he would always reply “It was good enough for Enid so it’s good enough for me.” With the modern retro trend in full swing Raj was in the ideal position, after all, his was not retro, his was period classic.
John walked in through the wooden half glazed door. Covering the glazed section was a net curtain that looked as though Raj was taking his retro look just one step too far. The originally white, now nicotine yellow painted walls, had traditional mock Tudor beams. Lighting was three fluorescent strips, each covered with a plastic diffuser. The café did not have lot of floor area and this made for a cosy atmosphere between the eleven small round wooden tables, each covered with red and white chequered cloth. Each table had four wooden chairs, no cushions to sit on and wicker backs. Not the most comfortable way to enjoy a mug of tea and full English.
John joined Andrew at his table. A large mug of coffee was waiting for him. He took a sip, it felt good. Another sip, the rush of caffeine through his body put some life back into him. He was normally a decaf man so the effect was very noticeable to him.
“Nice coffee,” said Andrew. “Fancy some toast before we go?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Andrew. “I can’t believe a place like this stays open, or is allowed to stay open.”
John leaned over towards Andrew so he could whisper to him. “Never judge a book by its cover Andrew; this is a great little place. Don’t forget what’s over the road, New Scotland Yard. In here you will find a lot of people who work over there, and not just police officers, a building that size has to have a large civilian staff to keep it open. Cleaners; maintenance; catering; telephonists; secretarial; I.T. staff the list goes on. This place is close to ‘home’ for them. Here they are comfortable and happy to speak freely amongst their colleagues. They think that when they are talking that they are talking quietly. They’re not. Traffic noise, café noise, people coming and going raises the noise level. People think they are whispering quietly when in fact they are talking louder than they would do in their office or home. They just don’t know it. This is the type of place you will visit a lot, get to now Raj and make sure he gets to know you. This place, for a journalist, is a gold mine for information. Just remember to keep your head and the full English down.” John had a quick check of his watch, “Time to leave. With DCS Hughes you can be one minute early, but never one minute late.”
After once again checking through the Yards security systems, John and Andrew were escorted to the office of DCS Hughes on the seventh floor. His secretary was expecting them as they walked in through the large double doors and into a smartly furnished and decorated waiting area. An L shaped couch was opposite the secretary’s desk, a coffee table had on it a good assortment of magazines. Just off to the side was a water dispenser. “Mr Reynolds and Mr Cleaver, the Chief Superintendent is expecting you. He is on a call just now and apologises for any delay. Please have a seat and I’ll make sure the Superintendent is aware that you have arrived.”
John thanked the secretary but did not manage to get her name. “Well trained,” he thought.
John and Andrew sat down as the secretary sat back behind her desk. John looked over towards the anonymous secretary. She was about five foot four inches tall; slim with a neat trim figure. Her face was framed with neatly trimmed blond hair that was just below ear length and she had the most amazing green eyes and a captivating smile. John smiled and unable to help himself kept glancing over towards her, there was something about her that ignited a fire inside John that he had not felt in a long time, It was a feeling he never though he would experience again and its intensity frightened him. John suddenly became conscious that he was staring at her, he quickly looked away not sure what to do next, he had never made the first move in any relationship, he didn’t know how. For some people it came perfectly naturally but not for John, he had no idea at all how to read women. His friends had joked to him that if he walked into his bedroom and lying on his bed was an alluring and very naked woman he was likely to ask if she would like a cup of tea to warm her up. The thought that she might find him attractive and that she was desperately waiting for him to ‘get the message’ would never occur to him.
Although John would never admit it, this inability had caused him more than his fair share of problems over the years. Not knowing when, or if, a girl was interested in him was bad enough but it was nowhere as embarrassing as thinking a girl, or a woman in later life, was interested in him when she wasn’t. Pure friendship, or a potential lover, was too complicated for him for handle so in the end he would say nothing and just wait and hope.
He looked over again, trying not to be too obvious; she wore a nicely tailored two piece navy blue trouser suit, a white blouse with the top button open and what looked like a gold brooch in the shape of a rose fastened neatly to the left lapel of her suit jacket. She looked over towards the two of them, smiled, and then returned to her work. John guessed her age to be late twenties to early thirties. He had also noticed that she did not wear any rings on her left hand. At one time this would have been significant but today, with many couples living together as ‘partners’, a term that John detested, that meant nothing.
John was just about to return the smile when the door to DCS Hughes’ office opened and the man walked out and straight over to John and Andrew.
“John, Andrew,” he said, shaking both of them vigorously by the hand. “So sorry to have kept you, follow me.”
As they approached his secretary’s desk he said, “Tracy, can you arrange tea and coffee for three and a few chocolate biscuits as well if you can find any?”
“Certainly sir,” she replied.
“Tracy” thought John. At that moment he had no idea why but for some reason he felt slightly nervous.
He smiled as he walked past her desk towards the office.
DCS Hughes stood by the door as they walked in, then closing the door behind him DCS Hughes gestured for them to sit on chairs angled towards him but placed at the right top corner area of his desk.
The office was bright, very neat and tidy. On the desk was a multi line phone, a computer, a diary, pens and paper. All the walls were half glass fitted with the same style of vertical blinds as the Media Centre. An interior designer would have called the office ‘minimalist’. If something had no official use or purpose, it was not there. No pictures, no executive toys, nothing personal at all.
“Dreadful business this murder,” said DCS Hughes in his broad Yorkshire accent, getting straight to the point as ever. Even his conversations tended to be ‘minimalist’. “I thought I had seen everything there was to see both as a copper and in the forces. This though makes me sick to the bones. This evil monster has to