Case of Gravity

Sim Moy

Description

To Christian Simpkins, time was of the essence. His old friend, a rather eccentric rotund scientist had been abducted from his own facility in Cornwall, England.Simpkins was on the trail, piecing together tiny snippets of information to steer him onward into the unknown. Others also desperately wanted this scientist, they wanted his knowledge and they wanted a particular little prototype that could seemingly defy gravity.Slowly, too slowly, Simpkins begins to unravel the workings of those that took his friend and their murderous intentions. Highly skilled in their deadly arts, they turned their attention to this worrying thorn in their side. Simpkins' survival plan was based on luck, circumstance and very little else except his strangely tuned mind, a strategy somewhat lost to the seasoned professionals on their deadly errand.A fast-paced windmill of twists of thought and cryptic subterfuge.A tale of intrigue, death, love and unerring friendship set in today's world of unforgiving hard truths.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398467095
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A C ase of G ravity
Sim Moy
Austin Macauley Publishers
2023-01-06
A Case of Gravity About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © South Wales Cornwall Cars Whitehall, London Sheena Voltaire The Cotswolds Robyn The Rosemount Hotel The Boat Overt to Covert Daves Cleaning House Tsargrin’s Prognosis Loose Ends Christmas Cheer
About the Author
Sim Moy is a London-born man with a well-travelled and diverse background. He has been writing for more than a decade. A Case of Gravity is Moy’s fourth book. It is a follow-up to his two previous books, Waters’ Edge and Sky High . Their genre is not specific, although they are often described as adventure thrillers laced with a little situation humour. A Case of Gravity is set in present-day Cornwall in the south of England. It generally concerns the events of a hapless but affable Foreign Office employee Christian Simpkins. The Christian Simpkins series has proved to be an enduring and popular endeavour for Moy’s particular take on modern day life.
Sim Moy himself describes this literary contribution as a conceptual novel, woven around a novel concept.
Dedication
To Birgitte, my ever-patient wife.
Copyright Information ©
Sim Moy 2023
The right of Sim Moy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398467088 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398467095 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
South Wales
Christian Simpkins parked up and wound the window down, he had been to this part of Wales several times; it was in the South West, close to the churning waters of the Atlantic and not far from the quaint little town of Llandover. The headland he was on was part of an expanse labelled a place of outstanding beauty and this, here and now in early September, he, Christian, had to agree. It was getting a bit chilly but with the windows down he could still embrace the sounds of nature at its best. Wind, always the whistle of the wind, songbirds, gulls and the roll of the waves. It was a happy moment that he thought he owed to himself after ploughing up the M4 motorway from London. He then had to cross the black mountains and down through to the coast among quaint little villages that he could not pronounce along with road signs that didn’t even yet register in English.
This was to be an interesting little appointment, nice almost, if one were to dwell on his previous near-fatal assignments in the Sahara followed by Central America. For some reason, he was still employed by the Whitehall department known as Ancillaries and Procurement. Although, his back-office duties were catastrophically dull, he still got paid and his life didn’t have to hang by a thread anymore. In Central America, he had somehow managed to get himself on TV far too often, Christian did not want to be a celebrity and neither did his mirthless boss, Sir Jeffery Pollock. It was deemed that between the Welsh assignment and his unobtrusive departmental desk there was very little scope for any death-defying adventures and unwanted public attention. Clearly, he was being kept on a very short leash at present. Ancillaries and Procurement was a little-known department to fix or annul problems that often plagued the Foreign Office. One wouldn’t think that Wales belonged on the Foreign Office front of things.
There were only a few buildings up upon the headland, a couple of old crofters’ cottages and a nest of clean grey Portacabins, and for the latter of these, he headed. He checked his phone, he liked to get people’s names right. Robin Reilly was the new site engineer and Christian looked forward to the meeting as the engineer was on loan from Tsargrin’s facility in Cornwall. Tsargrin Throtestabler, Christian’s old friend, chose his people well and the more tricky aspects of such a project needed the right man in the right place.
A few paces before he arrived, the door to the first Portacabin opened and a girl beckoned him over, he stretched out his hand and she limply took it.
“Hello, I’m Christian Simpkins,” he began.
“Yes, I have been expecting you, we have a lot to do. Robyn Reilly, production engineer.”
One of the few important talents Christian had was people, it was a skill that he had honed in his previous years in the diplomatic service, speech, emotive understanding and so forth. He scanned her briefly as he entered, but she was quick and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“Presumably I am not what you were expecting, Mr Simpkins?”
“No, not really—” She cut in before he could continue further.
“What is it? I am a woman, black maybe, something else?”
“No, not at all,” Christian countered, “it is because you are so young, but if you have come from Mr Throtestabler’s team, I know you are going to be good.” Robyn faltered slightly and her voice rose an octave as she edged onto the defensive.
“Oh, er yes, I guess I do look a bit younger than I am, um…so I am told anyway.”
To Christian, something was definitely amiss, he decided to politely clam up on the immaterial niceties until the situation eased. There were only two others there, one busy on his computer and the other pacing up and down outside on his mobile. Christian smiled slightly at the latter before turning toward the drawing table. Everything was very neat and tidy and organised as such, the programme chart on the wall pleasantly confirmed that everything was on schedule and the coffee machine looked equally welcoming. He fixed himself an Americano and placed himself down on a seat at a desk opposite where she was sitting.
“Any trouble with the local authority?” he ventured.
“No, none really, they seem more intrigued than anything else. We did have a woman around from the heritage people, but apparently, everything is fine, just routine, it seems.” Christian nodded and stroked his lightly bearded chin. He didn’t actually like facial hair, but it served its purpose to make him less identifiable and hopefully more intelligent.
“Budget?” he prompted.
“As in my weekly update, slightly over but within our contingency range.” Her voice was still a little too clipped but betrayed the trace of a south London accent.
“Yes, your reports are just fine, thorough and easy to read, thank you. How’s production? The circular hull must be almost complete by now, any complications?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Surveys?”
“Land and seabed complete, nothing to report.” Christian sipped his coffee and looked over to her, she immediately averted her gaze.
“The Spanish then, any news?”
“They are not Spanish, Mr Simpkins, they are Catalonians, a principality, somewhat akin to Wales. The Welsh wouldn’t take too kindly if you referred to them as English, anyway they are well off the mark and they still doubt what we can achieve here.”
“What, regarding the tidal generators?”
“Exactly, however, as I have said, everything is as it should be. Mr Throtestabler’s design and calculations are second to none.”
“But?” He placed his cup down and studied her, there was a but and he wanted to know what it was.
“Er…but?” she repeated.
“Yes, Robyn, there is a ‘but’, maybe you should tell me about it?” Slowly she nodded to herself.
“Well, actually there are two, no three of these buts, as you put them. It is probably better if I actually show you the first, come with me to the shoreline, it is easier to explain.” She donned a big orange padded safety coat and indicated another for him to wear. Robyn was, in his eyes, a pleasant enough girl; capable and relatively forthcoming. It was a good ten minutes’ windy walk to the headland shore side, but to Christian, walking was a good way to venture certain things, little eye contact and a physical gait that would offset any awkwardness.
“You are not overly enthusiastic about me being here, are you, Robyn?”
“Yeah, well spotted.”
“You going to enlighten me?”
“Well yes, why not, as you’ve happened to bloody ask. I know all about you, Christian Simpkins, everybody does, a right little James Bond I hear, I suppose you have your gun with you right now, huh?”
“Nope, carry on…”
“Good I will, thanks for the opening. Mr Throtestabler is one of the cleverest people any of us will ever meet and guess what, he is all alone. Nobody knows anything about him, most people doubt that he even exists, and you, Mr Smart-ass Simpkins, take his grand achievements, put your name to it all and rake in all the credit for yourself and that bastard Sir Jeffery Pollock. In short, it is just a load of chauvinistic shit and I would add, I refuse to have any doings with your games, Christian bloody Simpkins, because it will just not work with me, no way.”
“Mmm…okay, I get the message…Feel better?” She stopped for a second and looked across at him.
“Well, yes I do actually, by the way, that was the second but.”
“Er, right, okay.”
“Well, aren’t you even going to argue the point then?”
“Nah, can’t be bothered, now, what are you trying to show me?”
“That,” she said jabbing out a forefinger. Christian followed her line of sight, just a small pebbly beach and an outcrop of rock reaching out to sea a