Midas

Dominic Ranger

Description

Midas, Dominic Ranger's superb debut thriller novel, is a rollercoaster ride of revenge, intrigue, sex and money, taking readers from a quiet town in Hampshire to the tiny and incredibly beautiful Greek island of Symi. Newly-bankrupt and newly-separated Alan Marks discovers he has neverending riches when he tries to use his cash card at an ATMin Farnborough, Hampshire. He's desperate for money, but has no hope of success - until appears out of the machine. Then another , and another... Alan Marks is suddenly rich, and it's not come from his account. If this works in any cash machine, he is potentially the richest man in the world. What does he do now?Garry McAllister, ex-cop, top fraud investigator and a lifelong lover of Scotch, arrives for work at his bank's headquarters. Glancing at his computer screen, he discovers his worst possible nightmare. Someone is operating Midas, a scheme which allows the holder to withdraw endless amounts of money, without the withdrawals attributing to any account. Now McAllister is on a mission; to stop Midas. And the bank doesn't really mind how. But what McAllister doesn't know is that he is not the only one trying to get Midas...Dominic Ranger is the pseudonym of Christopher Lillicrap, a former teacher, prolific writer and composer, who is best known as a children's TV presenter in the 70s and 80s. He is still involved in writing for children and his educational series Numbertime gained the Royal Television Society award for Best Educational Programme. Christopher has also worked with numerous police forces over the last twenty five years as a media consultant and been an adviser on several high-profile cases, including the Millie Dowler murder in Surrey. It is this work which has inspired Midas.

Sujets

• Greece
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 08 mars 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781780888569
• Langue: English

Extrait

DOMINIC RANGER is the pseudonym of Christopher Lillicrap, a debut thriller novelist who has worked with numerous police forces over the last twenty five years as a media consultant and been an adviser on several high-profile cases, including the Millie Dowler murder in Surrey. It is his work with the police which inspired MIDAS.
A former teacher, prolific writer and composer, best known as a children's TV presenter in the 70s and 80s. His own shows, We'll Tell You a Story and Flicks , ran on Thames TV for over ten years. He also presented Playboard for the BBC and appeared in several episodes of Rainbow . He is still involved in writing for children and his educational series Numbertime gained the Royal Television Society award for Best Educational Programme.
Christopher’s adaptation with Mike Fields of the J. L. Carr Book, How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers Won the FA Cup , co-produced with Bill Kenwright, ran at the Mermaid Theatre for six months. His comedy, My Wife Whatsername , written with Jonathan Izard for the Watermill Theatre was produced most recently at the Altmühlsee-Festival in Germany.
He lives in Devon with his actress wife Jeanette Ranger and for part of the year on the Greek island of Symi.

Copyright © 2013 Dominic Ranger
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
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ISBN: SB 978 1 780888 569
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
With thanks to:
Roger Williams, my oldest friend, who made me write it.
Jeanette, my long suffering wife, who put up with me while I wrote it.
David Grubb, who persuaded me to publish it after I’d written it and who encouraged me to keep writing.
All those who are in it under different names.
(You will know who you are.)
To my Symi Pal
Crawford Morrow 1954-2013
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER ONE
The man who was about to become the richest man in the world, put his card into the cash machine outside the First Independent Bank in Farnborough, Hampshire. With very little hope of success, the forty five year old typed in the numbers 5474 and waited. The thin, sallow man pulled at his ponytail as he looked down the shining empty street. “Fifteen years of bloody hard work and I’ve got a one thousand two hundred and fifty pound overdraft and five quid in my pocket to show for it.” He muttered at the cash dispenser as he shifted his weight from one trainered foot to the other. “Come on, tell me I can’t have anything, eat the damn card, come on. You’ve finished my business you stupid bank, come on, stick the knife in.”
On that same, wet Sunday evening, thirty five miles away in the Fraud Office of the First Independent Bank in Kings Cross, London, a man, who was about to get the shock of his life, slumped into his chair. The craggy-faced Scot switched on his computer and, while it booted up, sniffed at a plastic cup of black coffee. He hated this shift.
Gary McAllister sipped at the thin black liquid and almost spat it out. “God, that is foul.” He span around in his chair. “Bloody Sunday evening,” he screamed at the empty building. “I hate this soddin’ bank.” On his desk, the internal speakerphone rang. He pressed the green button
“Is everything alright Mr McAllister?” A woman’s concerned nasal voice issued from the speaker.
“Yes, Sophie,” sighed McAllister. “It’s just Sunday night and a soddin’ bank holiday weekend.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied. “I thought that was it. I’ve sent you a data batch from ATM control as it just flagged up an unknown alert and they sent it straight over. I hate to tell you this sir but I think you need to look at it urgently so I’ve linked it to the live feed. Would you like a coffee? A real one?”
“No thanks, I’ll survive.” The Scot pressed the red button, pulled out the lower drawer of his desk and, from a box file that was lying there, lifted out a half bottle of Glenfiddich. He poured a generous measure into his coffee and, as the screen in front of him burst into life, he typed in his password, ‘Whiskey Mac’ and waited…
In Farnborough, ten, crisp, twenty pound notes slipped out of the cash dispenser. Alan Marks smiled and reached out his hand. He just had enough time to pick the notes out of the slot before another ten appeared in their place.
In King’s Cross, Gary McAllister screwed the top back onto the bottle, placed it back in the box file, and glanced up at the blue screen as the rows of figures scrolled slowly down…page after page…after page after… “Christ this job is boring.”
He sipped his coffee and burnt his lip.
“Oh shit!” He spilled the coffee all over the keyboard.
“Oh hellfire...”
He grabbed some tissues from his drawer and pressed the mouse to pause the computer. The scrolling figures stopped as he mopped the coffee, as best he could.
“I need a fag.” He snatched at the open packet of Marlboro on the desk and out of the corner of his eye...on the screen...in the rows of figures in front of him…he saw something...or did he?
Yes, he did.
“Oh no!”
He pressed the green button on his phone again “Sophie get me…”
The voice on the other end finished his sentence for him. “John Foley Head of Security? I’ve already tried his mobile, shall I call his home?”
For the twenty-fifth time, in Farnborough, Alan Marks took ten, crisp, twenty pound notes out of the cash dispenser, which gave a high-pitched single tone as the green screen suddenly displayed the words:
THIS MACHINE IS NO LONGER ABLE TO DISPENSE CASH. ALTERNATIVE MACHINES ARE AVAILABLE AT THE BRANCH IN ALEXANDER ROAD.
The richest man in the world stuffed the final bundle of notes into his leather jacket and zipped it up as far as it would go.
He looked down at his chest.
“God, I look like a Sumo wrestler.”
He glanced around at the empty rain-sodden street and walked, awkwardly, to his bright yellow Porsche Boxter.
Having disgorged the money onto the back seat, he took off his jacket and threw it over the scattered notes. He slammed the door shut, stared through the window, and laughed.
“Bloody hell…Jesus…Bloody hell.”
He slipped into the front seat, locked the doors, started the engine, took a deep breath and headed for Alexander road…
Gary McAllister was trying very hard to keep his cool as he gripped the phone.
“I don’t care what the time is...Tell him it’s McAllister and it is urgent OK? … No, McAllister...”
He took a deep breath…
“I don’t care what he said...Trust me he will want to be disturbed... Yes he will.”
This was unbelievable... “No I’m not going to call back...”
He tried to sound as calm as he could, all too aware that at any moment this au pair or housemaid, or whatever she was, might just hang up.
“Yes I understand Mrs Foley is away and I don’t care what Mr Foley is up to or who with quite frankly, what is really important now is that you knock on his door and tell him Gary McAllister, his Chief Fraud Investigator, is on the phone.” He sighed. “Chief Fraud…Look, just say a man from the Bank and tell him I said…Midas.”
He exploded.
“No you stupid cow not Miras, that’s for fucking mortgages...
Jesus I don’t believe this…MIDAS...as in gold. You stupid bitch…MIDAS!.. Hello? Hello? Oh shit!”
Alan Marks sat in his car for a long time and gazed, through the water sheeting down his windscreen, at the cash machine in Alexander Road. Maybe it was just that last machine. Perhaps this one would eat his card. After what had happened on Friday, he hadn’t expected to get the two hundred pounds he’d requested, let alone the five grand he had on the back seat. Jesus, he’d been told the Company was finished. The bank facility was terminated. All bets were off. All access to funds withdrawn. He assumed that meant his personal account, too.
For Christ’s sake, he’d been through hell and back since Friday. Sally didn’t even know. She was away at Moira’s in Edinburgh. She’d go apeshit. He’d spent most of Saturday trying to work out how to tell her that Lombard Direct wanted the BMW back, for good. Mind you threatening to smash Justin Barnes, his ‘Small Business Adviser’, in the face and throwing the ripped-up business plan all over his office probably ranked as one of the pettiest things he’d done in a long while. Still, he felt better after it. He relived it for a moment.
“And you can shove this small business plan up your small business arse you nasty little shit. Got too big too soon did I? Well it was your bloody bank’s brilliant idea, and now it’s all ‘we have to be realistic Alan.’ ‘There is a need to consolidate our position Alan.’ I’ll consolidate your position you little pratt, in fact I’d consolidate your face except you bastards would sue me. I hope you bloody sleep nights Justin, because I wouldn’t walk down any dark alleys on your own. What, a threat? Me? You bet your damn life it is.” The exit was good too, slamming the door and shouting “bollocks” as he passed out through the queue in the bank.
So h