The Poisonous Cuckoo
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Chapter One - Party Favour
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The rain lashed down heavily against the windscreen as I peer over my drivers shoulder into the darkness.
"What time would you like to be picked up Sir?"
My eyes still cast over the aesthetically pleasing looking venue that we have duly pulled up outside of, in the main doorway come reception a cluster of suited males and cocktail dress clad females huddle, braving the elements for the desperate need of nicotine inhalation. The large plume of an electronic cigarette drifts away from the congregated addicts.
"George," I offer back to my driver almost immediately "I think you'll be safe waiting for me here... it's a little more than a PR exercise this for me."
"Right you are Sir,"
George's formality grated with me, it always had done. I had used the firm he had previously worked for initially for private hire chauffeur services to avoid the crass and common nature of taxi cabs. Having soon discovered how little George was making an hour and how good he was at his job I'd very soon offered him full time employment and provided him with the Rolls Royce Phantom in which I now sat.
There was absolutely no need for the use of the term Sir, of which I had reminded him of on countless occasions to date. I was of wealth, as my Father used to surmise, but I chose not to let my wealth overtly show. I would have much rather George refer to me as Mister Halliday had he the need for such formality. Markus would be sufficient so far as I was concerned
With all that said I'd long given up on my attempts to coerce George's behaviour and now politely if somewhat begrudgingly accepted his over politeness.
"I've a feeling this isn't going to be a fun evening." It was a statement to myself rather than to George as I watched him turn the key in the ignition and felt the very feint rumble of the vehicle's engine subside.
Clutching hold of and opening the rear passenger door handle I clamber from the rain soaked, perfectly polished vehicle. Heavy pools of residual rain hung on the well waxed and polished roof of the Rolls Royce as it reflected back the orange glow of the lights that lit the vast car park to the front of the Stirchley Court Hotel.
The venue itself looked sophisticated enough from the outside and from what I recall the original building apparently dated to the late 18th Century. Crossing the gravel drive way I step up a flight on concrete steps that rise to meet the main entrance amongst which the crowd of half a dozen or so cigarette smokers huddle together against the persistent cold wind and accompanying light drizzle that's whipped around the side of the building to punish those who dare to face the elements for the sake of their habitual smoking tendencies.
I catch their glances as I pass, eye contact fleetingly made as I pass them without offering any recognition of my own.
Stepping up to and through a revolving door I enter the main foyer of the hotel. The expanse of well polished marble in keeping with the external appearance of the building. Inside the foyer individuals in formal attire mingle. Appreciating my lack of anonymity as I pass them and the impressive natural Christmas Tree that stands at least fourteen feet in height and is decorated classically in gold and silver ornaments.
I follow both my instinct and the distant sound of slightly muffled music that rumbles through the foyer. Unbuttoning my tuxedo jacket, I stride with a purpose across the reception area towards what I assume to be the main function room or at the very least the core room hosting this evening's function, the annual Clarkson Cooper Dinner Dance.
Clarkson Cooper being just one of a portfolio of companies I have invested in over recent years. Their speciality lay with Managed Warehouse space, and their property portfolio alone, or the commercial value of that portfolio had more than warranted my considerable down payment to become a silent partner over four years ago when the company had been facing financial oblivion off the back of a significant loss of a number of key contracts.
Pulling open one of two double doors, I step aside and hold the door open for an attractive looking tall blonde in a deep purple ankle length ball gown who offers me a smile of acknowledgement from striking red lips and makes eye contact with steel blue eyes framed by dusky grey blue make up.
As she steps through the door I can't help but cast my eye along the backs of a slender calf exposed by a slit to her thigh along the left hand side of the exquisite dress. A slender leg clad in opaque hosiery and accentuated by a seam that runs up her leg from the ankle strap of the black stiletto heels that she wears.
Focusing my attention back on why I'm here I step purposefully in to the main function room to find a hive of excited activity. Hotel staff hurriedly strip down and move tables to repurpose the room. While in the far corner a mobile DJ booth, already set up, accounts for the caustic cacophony of modern dance music that bursts from stack speakers as I step forth a brief ear piercing squeal of protested feedback, presumably from the microphone clutched in the hands of a heavyset male stood behind the DJ Booth, causes everyone to flinch.
Guests and Staff of Clarkson Cooper line the walls of the room, not surprisingly in the main they congregate towards the left hand wall where a bar stretches across the majority of the length of the wall. My timing had been impeccable, having successfully avoided the three courses of stereotypical Christmas fair that had likely been served at the start of the evening. The meal had been hugely unappealing despite the pang of hunger I felt in my stomach, having not eaten since lunch time around nine hours earlier.
A pretty, but far too young, brunette in a tight white blouse and black short skirt approaches me cradling awkwardly a tray of flute glasses filled with Champagne. Meeting her pretty hazel green eyes, I smile softly as I take a glass from the tray. Shyly she returns my smile before stepping away only to be immediately accosted by two middle aged women I don't recognise. As I step away I can't help but let my eyes fall over the toned yet slender black nylon clad legs of the waitress a brief vision passing through my mind which I move on from as I take a swig of the slightly chilled but hideously acidic tasting Champagne.
I've no idea how much of the companies pitiful profits have been wasted on hosting tonight for the assembled staff of Clarkson Cooper, but I can tell immediately that cost savings may at least have been achieved with the supply of a drink that despite being offered as Champagne is to all intents and purposes little better than a cheap sparkling wine.
Spotting him again through the crowd as I progress toward the mass, I had noticed him the moment I stepped into the function room, the lights of which now begin to dim to be replaced by the flashing strobing multitude of colours from the mobile disco. Right on cue a fake American accent erroneously welcomes everyone from 'Cooperson Clarkstons' to their Christmas Party. And as a turgid pop song begins to blare from the speakers the DJ continues his diatribe and makes a brave proclamation that, "The evening starts here."
Momentarily distracted by the cheap farce that constitutes entertainment but somehow still starts to fill a dance floor in the middle of the room I stride purposefully towards the Managing Director of Clarkson Cooper, Simon Anderson.
Simon offers me a broad and sincere smile as he spots me approaching.
"Markus..." he proclaims as he shakes me firmly by the hand, "...so glad you could make it."
Immediately I can tell that he is inebriated, possibly not entirely by the consumption of crass complimentary alcoholic beverages but also by the position of grandeur and subsequent posturing that he always creates. A truly false impression given my knowledge of how genuinely weak and infective he can be, especially in the face of the merest hint of any kind of pressure.
Simon Anderson is a nice enough man, but from experience a wholly ineffectual leader and businessman, the empire he runs today should be far stronger for my investment. That it isn't is only a reflection of his lack of capability and his failure to consider, let alone adopt, necessary changes to forward his own potential and subsequently the potential and reputation of his business he heads up. Closing down the business to release the collateral his operating premises represent grows closer with every passing month of significant failure.
"How are you Simon?" I offer in response to his exuberant greeting.
"Having a great night... a great night, " he states a little too energetically in response, "...it's feels good to reward everyone for their hard work across the year."
"You're just like Santa Clause," I dourly reply choosing deliberately not to acknowledge the benign function he seemingly revels in holding court over as he purposefully casts his hand around the room.
Simon grins inanely at my comment seemingly taking it as a compliment when it was not meant as such. Passing comment on the waste of company profits passes my mind but I decide to bite my tongue. Simon's denial of the increasing financial plight Clarkson Cooper faces as a going concern is dangerous not just to him but to every member of staff enjoying the pomp and circumstance of the event. The very real threat of every employee being made redundant within the next twelve months goes blissfully unacknowledged by all but a small handful of very concerned senior employees, it's perhaps no coincidence that those employees are conspicuous by their absence this evening.
"Have you met my kids..." Simon continued to enthuse as he sweeps his right hand now towards a teenage boy and a slightly older attractive looking girl who both sit looking bored to tears and glum faced at the far side of vast round table covered in a white table cloth. "Paul's doing his A levels next summer and hoping to go to Oxford... Sara's twenty and just finished her first term at Cardiff University after her gap year."
I acknowledge them both with a nod and receive little more than a grunt and a nod from Paul while Sara offers a polite smile with little other than a, "Pleased to meet you," before she's looking back to the phone her thumb rapidly scrolls across.
Roundly ignoring there ignorance Simon offers a raise of his eyebrows without apology before hastily adding, "Jana's here somewhere... My Wife."
He has no need to offer explanation of who Jana is. While I had not met the wider family I had met Jana on a number of occasions prior to this evening.
From the corner of my eye I can't fail to spot the attractive brunette, dressed tonight in a striking bright red dress, as she approaches through the function room, I notice her not least by the short cut of the long sleeve dress that sits just above mid thigh over toned legs that are clad in dark sheer nylon. The neckline of her dress dips teasingly towards the middle of her chest to offer a tantalising glimpse of what I had always suspected to be cosmetically enhanced firm round breasts.
"Markus how are you?" she enthuses, with far more sincerity than her husband, as she picks her way through ambling bodies and heads towards us.
