Countdown to Terror

Chapter Two

The Gent waiting on platform one at Crewe station on an unusually warm Tuesday, 10th April 2012, would have looked out of place to an interested observer. Most travellers waiting for the West Coast line, Virgin Rail intercity pendolino to London Euston, were professional business-class in slightly crumpled suits, many toting the current fashionable black briefcase-cum-overnight bag slung over the shoulder by a strap. Others were student types in jeans, sporting a rucksack from Sports Direct, alongside a smattering of ethnic minorities, some in traditional garb. Among the fewer passengers waiting at the first-class end of platform one there was the world-weary senior business type and lower-level politicians. With a traditional overnight case and pondering the Times, the Gent had the air of a celebrity, dressed in a Ted Baker mid-blue two-piece suit, except for an air of absent-minded detachment.

Ho hum, the train was fifteen minutes late. Finding his seat, he made himself comfortable and settled in to complete the Times crossword. After a pleasant and uneventful journey, he took the Northern line to King’s Cross and changed to the Piccadilly line to Russell Square, where he walked the short distance to the Imperial Hotel, Bloomsbury, in the heart of Central London.

To the right of the hotel on Southampton row was the old Pitman Training Centre (from Sir Isaac Pitman, the famous inventor of shorthand). Reception was through an archway, where the first view was of a central fountain behind which was a casino. On the right, two groups of statues lined the entrance to the underground car park. There were six life-sized, scantily-clad allegorical women, two of whom were clutching books helpfully entitled Literature and Chemistry. Another one was clutching a mask indicating Theatre, but the other three weren't telling.  Reception was on the left.

The assistant manager, remembering him from previous visits, asked, ‘How are things in Cheshire, sir? And what are we up to this time?’

‘Oh, this and that, but firstly I’m booked in on the Ancient Egypt tour at two thirty in the British Museum,’ remarked the Gent.

‘Your room is number twenty-four, sir, but it is just being finished off. Can I get you a coffee in the lounge for a few minutes?’

After finishing his coffee, he took the lift to the second floor. After settling in the room, he spent a few moments appreciating the view over Russell Square. Later, pondering his surroundings as one does when closeted in a hotel bathroom, and tiring of counting the number of tiles in the middle of the wall above the basin, his gaze caught something placed awkwardly on the top of the soap dispenser. The object was a credit card, obviously mislaid by the last occupant. He would return it to reception.

After drying his hands, he picked up the card and turned it over to find the words HELP, with museum written in toothpaste on the black metallic strip on the back of the card. The name on the card was Ms. Carol Lomas. How bizarre; his mind caricatured an effeminate character in the latest TV soap. An hour later he was still pondering the credit card as his curiosity began to build. The card must have been there when he checked in mid-morning, but he hadn’t noticed. Why museum? He was due there at two thirty on a guided tour, but how would the cardholder know that, and why on earth should she seek him out for help? Was she in danger? Should he call the police? The word museum was obviously written on the credit card for a reason!

The Gent’s analytical mind was at once aroused, and what was to have been a short trip to London to visit the British Museum was to turn into a tangled web of intrigue.

The Gent was not short of a bob or two, but after a costly divorce his confidence and ego were still not sufficiently repaired to venture back into the love stakes. Friends and relatives were always trying to fix him up with ideal dates, but when their faces morphed into that of his ex, that was the end of that. Attempts at internet dating usually resulted in one-sided contests with swamp monsters from the inner cities of Manchester and Stoke-on-Trent. For his next venture, he was going to try out the Cheshire Dining Club.

Meanwhile, he consoled himself and kept his considerable intellect alive with occasional short holidays such as this intended visit to the British Museum.

A Cambridge graduate in English with experience in human resources for a multinational company, he was reasonably well travelled and could fit into most social situations. He wasn’t the most accomplished athlete, but his golf swing was above average.

He lived in a converted barn and kept chickens and two pigs in half an acre of land, and was fortunate in that the farmer’s wife and teenage daughter were happy to look after them all when he was away. He drove an old Saab 900I – one of the last to be manufactured, reflecting Saab’s original aeroplane design principles. Maintenance was fastidious and it was kept in concourse condition