Masters And Lovers 1-4

Part Four: The Daughter’s Manumission

Twenty-Nine Years Ago

Dear Davey, Stevie and Dad,

I’m not sure if any of my other letters to you have reached you because I’ve not heard anything back

from you.

I don't really know where to begin except to say that I’m sorry that I left the way I did, and I wish I’d

done it some other way. I hope that you’re not still too mad at me. If you have had my other letters and

you are still angry with me, please forgive me.

And especially, I wanted to apologise that I stole your money. I have enclosed a money order for the

amount I took. I did it with the other letters but it was never cashed. I hope that makes it right.

I'm doing fine now and I’m earning well. I have my own apartment. It’s only a small one that I’m renting,

but I’m saving up to buy my own place. If you are in the City at all, you could visit me. Or if you like, I

could visit you. I'd love to come and see you.

How are you all? How is Dad these days? Better, I hope? I miss him. I miss all of you.

I’ll keep this short now, but if you get this letter, please write back to me. I’d love to hear from you.

All my Love,

Shelley.

David leans forward, snags toast from the back and scrapes butter over it. “More toast, Dad?” he says,

offering it across, then looks more closely at his father. “Still tired? If you'd like to go back to bed, I'll

bring your breakfast up.”

Al accepts the toast. “No, I'm feeling a bit better today, David. I think I'll go for a walk.”

David smiles. “You're not fooling me, Dad. I saw you walking with that Delia Hemsworth again the other

day. And the two of you looked very friendly.”

Stephen, working through the mail, glances up, brows raised. “Really? S’that right?” But he doesn’t

look unhappy. Material © of NôvelDrama.Org.

Al concentrates on the marmalade he is spreading on his toast. “Would that bother you boys?”

“Not at all,” says Stephen, a letter poised in his hand. “She’s a good strong woman. Just what you

need. She’d be good for you.” He nods towards the mantelpiece where a framed photo of a woman

with firm features and a hard smile sits next to another of a red-headed teenage girl. “Nice-looking too.”

David looks up from his paper. “Anything interesting in the post?”

“No, just the usual crap.” Stephen glances at the photo then screws up the letter and tosses it into the

fire with the rest of the junk mail.

*****

James

I wrestle with our ongoing problem. Klempner knows things he shouldn’t. How is he finding out?

Who is his spy?

Francis, as ever, has been a treasure, extracting data from personnel files, both from the Haswell

Corporation and staff files from Michael’s employees.

And so far, nothing.

Klempner's spy...

Who is it?

*****

Twenty-Nine Years Ago - Klempner

“So, what’s he like? This Conners that we’re meeting?”

Bech sniffs. “Pretty much what you expect for the type….”

“The type?”

“The profession then. Well-turned out. Slick. A bit glib.”

“And we’re not meeting him at his office?”

“No. I checked out the business address he lists. It’s just a PO Box. I’ve met him three times so far.

Each time was in a hotel. For the second meeting, he’d booked a conference room.”

“So, low budget? Or just careful would you say?”

“Not sure yet. I asked around in the trade; the other property agents in the area. He has a good

reputation in the trade.”

*****

The meeting has been arranged in a hotel bar. A man is waiting in there, standing as we enter. Bech

gestures me forward. “That’s him.” Then, “Mr Conners, I'd like to introduce you to my employer. Frank

Conners. Lawrence Klempner.”

“Great to meet you, Mr Klempner.” Conners offers his hand, his smile large and apparently sincere.

“You too.”

Smooth manner….

Goes with the job….

Good suit….

…. and shoes….

The smile is large and toothy, with an all-American look about it. And it matches the square chin, the

broad shoulders and the solid build. He’s not overly tall, but there’s a lot of him. If he were American,

he’d be a football player. If he were Brit, it would be rugby.

“Please, take a seat.” Conners waves to a seat by a low table spread with plans and maps. “I thought

you might like an overview of the site before I walk you around.”

Thorough….

“Good idea. Thank you.”

“Coffee? Is it Lawrence or Larry?”

“It's Mr Klempner,” growls Bech.

I shoot him a look. “Calm down, Bech. There's no need to be unfriendly. It's Larry. And yes, I’ll have a

coffee. Just black.” Bech turns away with a sour expression as Conners first serves me a cup and then

another to Bech, adding milk but no sugar to his….

Already knew his preferences…

Notices the details….

…. then adds milk and spoons three sugars into his own. “May I ask what it is you want to use the site

for? Mr Bech here wasn’t very forthcoming.”

I sit back in my chair, hands clasped, legs splayed. “Bech was doing as I asked him. I don’t want it

splashed everywhere until and unless we make some forward progress.”

Conners’ brows rise. “Sounds intriguing.”

“I want to open a shelter home. There are so many in need of safety now, children from abusive

backgrounds, women in need of refuge, both sexes and all ages from war zones. My aim is to set up

an organisation where these people can find a safe harbour until they can take control of their own lives

again.”

Conner absorbs that….

Will he go for it? Take it at face value…

No reason he shouldn’t….

He tugs at his chin. “That’s a helluva target you’ve given yourself there,” he says. “Do the City

authorities know about this?”

“Not yet. I’ve been looking for an appropriate site for some time. I didn’t want to say anything until we

had the pieces of the jigsaw in place…. Why do you ask?”

Conners muses, “Well it occurs to me that’s just the kind of project that ticks a lot of boxes for the

pencil pushers. If they know what you’re doing, you might well get some help with the funding.”

Bech turns away to look at some distraction, trying to hide a smile….

A smile on Bech’s face seems somehow unnatural.

“Funding?”

Conners continues. “Sure. There are all kinds of grants out there for this kind of thing: charity for the

kiddies, the ethnics and so on. You could probably get financial help with the capital purchases at

least.” He waits for his words to take effect. “Perhaps we’re running before we walk. Let’s take a stroll

around the site. I’ll show you the general layout then you take a look yourself without me hanging

around your neck.”

The site is everything Bech promised and more; the old factory plant, warehousing and outbuildings,

the services are dilapidated but fundamentally there….

“The owners bricked up more of the ground and first-floor windows against squatters,” says Conners.

“Most of the doors too, so it looks pretty grim right now….” He manhandles a huge bunch of keys,

sorting through until he locates one to fit the padlock on the steel-reinforced front entrance. The key is

wrestled into the lock, which sticks, groans, then gives. “…. But it wouldn’t be a huge job for you to

open up the windows again and let some light in.”

“I'm new to this area,” I say. “Can you recommend the contractors we would need for the works?”

“Oh, sure. No problem at all. Whatever you need. Plumbers, electricians, builders, joiners. I know them

all around here, including the ones to avoid.”

“Sounds good.”

We stand in a hall. Conners punctuates his words with gestures in various directions. “Along there,

office space, the doors to the cellars along the end there and if you go upstairs, you’ll find the old

factory floor spaces. I’ll turn on the electric for you, then you have a wander. I’m going to leave you to it

for a while. I’ll wait in the car if you have any questions.”