Threads of Deceit

Neal James

Description

James Poynter is a young man out for revenge. Set up for a crime which he did not commit, and by someone whom he felt he could trust implicitly, his sole focus becomes one of retribution against his former employers.His future at Brodsworth Textiles disintegrated one Friday evening prior to his wedding, when conscientiousness overtook him and he returned to the factory after work to rectify an error in his paperwork. What he discovered that night changed his life forever and set off a chain of events which sent him spiralling downwards, and out of a job which had promised so much.Murder, deception, drug trafficking and embezzlement combine to derail the futures of everyone connected to the company, and set off a chase for the man at the centre of a plot so intricately woven, that the forces of law and order in several countries are thwarted at every turn. Neal James began writing in 2007 when a series of short stories found favour on a number of international writing sites. Since then, he has released two novels and an anthology of short stories. 'Threads of Deceit', his fourth production in as many years, draws on the eighteen years he spent working within the textile industry.As an accountant for over three decades, he has drawn on his background to provide an insight into much of the substance required in the creation of his writing to date. He lives in the East Midlands with his wife and family.Book reviews online @ www.publishedbestsellers.com

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 26 août 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782281696
• Langue: English

Extrait

Threads
of
Deceit





Neal James
First Published in 2011 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing
Threads of Deceit Copyright © 2011 Neal James
Neal James has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work
Pneuma Springs
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data James, Neal. Threads of deceit. 1. Textile workers--Fiction. 2. Life change events-- Fiction. 3. Retribution--Fiction. 4. Murder--Fiction. 5. Drug traffic--Fiction. 6. Embezzlement--Fiction. 7. Suspense fiction. I. Title 823.9'2-dc22
Kindle eISBN 9781782280064 ePub eISBN 9781782281696 PDF eBook eISBN 9781782280903 Paperback ISBN: 9781907728266
Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
‘Threads of Deceit’ could not have found its way to publication without the help and guidance of a number of individuals, and my grateful thanks go to the following:
Robert Eldridge, my editor, for tirelessly challenging me to raise the bar. His ruthless attention to detail is a godsend to any writer, and I am very fortunate to be able to also consider him a very good friend.
Sebastian Alexandre, for listening during the growing pains of the book, and for providing the inspiration I needed at a crucial point in the story, when the case had ‘gone cold’.
Caroline Lowbridge and Tony Rose, of the Nottingham Evening Post, for professional help and advice, and for Tony’s depiction of George Carter.
My ever-loving wife, Lynn, for the final read through and the acid test of the book’s logic.
Last, but by no means least, the people at Pneuma Springs Publishing. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would be right here, right now.
To Joyce
for just being Joyce
Oh, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
Prologue
Greed – the third of the Seven Deadly Sins. Its impact throughout history has been one of negativity, and disaster on a global scale has inevitably followed in its wake. The unbridled ambition of a single individual was about to have a similar effect on the fortunes of an unassuming man and his livelihood. Subsequent events would prove to be catastrophic.
Brodsworth Textiles, standing on Bridge Street and close to the banks of the River Tone in Taunton, had little of note, beyond its sheer physical size, to recommend it to the casual observer. It was one of many Dark Satanic Mills which sprang up in Victorian Britain at the height of the nation’s dominance of world economic affairs, and from that perspective was no different to a myriad of others dotted around the country.
The company had ploughed its furrow in the textile industry for three generations, had seen the ups and downs of business life since its foundation by the present incumbent’s grandfather, and had come through the perils and pitfalls of successive economic booms and busts relatively unaffected.
Now, however, it faced a fresh challenge – a set of circumstances totally unrelated to the normal cut and thrust of its usual commercial undertakings, and foreseen by no-one. Fuelled by one man’s avaricious behaviour, the company would be pulled to the brink of financial ruin, and the lives of a number of innocent people would be irrevocably changed.
Murder, embezzlement, fraud and drug trafficking were to combine with lies and deceit as a chain of events, set in motion on a single Friday evening, would send the company spiralling downwards into insolvency.
Desperate to preserve the integrity of what his grandfather had begun, Malcolm Brodsworth was about to become the pivotal figure around which a maelstrom of events would unfold. His decisions, reactions to events increasingly beyond his control, would set off a vendetta destined to propel a young assistant manager to the forefront of the pursuit and elimination of an international drugs cartel.
It had all begun so innocently, as a young couple began their preparations for a wedding which they believed would secure their personal future – a future long awaited, but one which was on the brink of being brought crashing down around their ears…
The Novel
1
James Poynter was at home in the shower when he remembered the production schedule for next week. It was Friday evening, and he had no option but to go back to the factory; it was vital to send the e-mail out to the shift supervisors in time for the changeover at 6am on the following Monday. Ordinarily he would have logged on remotely and issued the instruction from home, but routine maintenance on the DNS server meant that the external e-mail software was down. The job would have to be carried out using the internal messaging system.
He’d missed the deadline once before and, although it had been a few years ago and not long after he’d joined Brodsworth Textiles, George Carter, the production director, had never let him forget. He used every opportunity to remind all those in the department who was in charge. James had an excuse – well, he felt so; tonight was the evening of his stag party and, with the wedding now only one week away, his mind had been on other things. He had met Rachel Stimson at a friend’s wedding three years before and, although they didn’t hit it off at first, a gradual understanding developed between them and the relationship had blossomed. It had taken him quite a while to pluck up the courage to pop the question - in the end he had mumbled something at the bus stop one night when he was taking her home to her flat after an evening out.
“Pardon?” A mischievous look flitted across her face.
She had jet black hair, deep brown eyes which seemed to hypnotise him, and full red lips terminating in a dimple on either cheek. At five feet six, she was considerably shorter than James, but made up for the lack of height with a personality which shone like a beacon.
“Will you marry me?” He leaned towards her, trying to keep the occasion as private as possible.
“James Poynter!” She hissed. “A girl likes to be proposed to properly, not whispered to in the corner of a bus stop in the rain. Do it right.”
He looked into her eyes; those deep, deep brown eyes, and he melted. His throat dried, and he glanced around nervously. The bus stop was full of passengers waiting for the last ride home, and he was certain that one or two had heard Rachel’s demand. Faces suddenly turned to stare intently into the window of the draper’s shop a few feet away, but glanced again in his direction as soon as he had looked back at her.
“What?”
“I said a girl likes to be asked properly. You know…” Her eyes pointed at the ground “…properly.”
He could feel the back of his neck starting to burn with embarrassment, almost as if thirty additional sets of eyes were boring holes into it. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet as Rachel stood expectantly before him. It was now or never, and he was down on one knee in a flash.
“Rachel Stimson,” he said, arms outstretched in supplication, “Will you be my wife?”
Her face transformed – it was a picture of horror as she looked down at his kneeling form. He now had his hands clasped almost in a gesture of prayer, and was staring up at her in anticipation of an answer. She had never believed for one single moment that he would go through with it. The nondescript chatter of the bus queue had now ceased as everyone stood with bated breath at the drama unfolding before them – you could have heard a pin drop. The frieze-like quality of the event was broken by a middle-aged woman standing just behind James.
“Go on dearie, what you waiting for? He might not ask again, and then where would you be?”
A mumbled agreement of all those in attendance, and a communal nodding of heads, had Rachel on the back foot as James remained, trousers now becoming wet in the evening rain, in supplication at her feet.
“Oh…err...well, yes, alright…I will; yes, I will. Now get up off your knees and stop being daft!”
She had turned a brilliant shade of red, and was feeling distinctly uncomfortable in her heavy winter coat. To thunderous applause Poynter got up, and Rachel’s blushes were saved by the arrival of the bus. They had laughed about it many times since, and a few of those in the queue that night had reminded them of the incident on a number of occasions.
That was then; this was now, and if he didn’t get back to the office before Carter found out – and the man always did – there would be hell to pay. Getting dressed quickly he was off back to work, and, looking at his watch, worked out that he had a couple of hours to spare so that he would not be late for the evening’s festivities. The front of the factory was in darkness as he pulled into the parking bays on the corner of the site, and normally he would have had to disable the burglar alarm system before getting past the reception area. Total silence greeted his entry into the building and, although it was not unusual for staff to be working after hours with the doors locked, he found it odd that all the lights were out without the security system being activated. James checked the time – 6.34pm; he made a mental note to mention the matter to George Carter on the following Monday.
Brodsworth Textiles occupied an almost cathedral-like structure in the west end of Taunton, at the junction of Bridge Street and Wood Street. From the towering former silk factory of Longs Mill at its south-eastern boundary, an iconoclast