Dreams to Die For by Alan G Boyes

Gordon, time sped by, and after a little over three hours she concluded that most of the other articles were more about gossip and supposition than hard fact. A few females had been named but nothing of any substance was forthcoming that might hint at a long-term relationship.
    She returned to the search screen and clicked ‘images’ and pressed the enter key. Almost instantly, the screen filled with pictures of Gordon. Some were of him casually dressed, some in black or white tie for a particular charity gala or some such. A few showed him accompanied by a female but his companion was either the host or fellow guest. The photographs however fulfilled Cindy’s prime purpose of seeing exactly what Gordon looked like, as she had only faint recollections from the train. The clear images now showed him to be quite tall, probably a little over six feet with slightly waved brown hair, always – it seemed from the photographs – immaculately groomed. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his facial features, nothing to get overly excited about at all, but her heart was racing.
    â€œI don’t believe it… three hundred
million
… on the underground?” Cindy muttered absentmindedly to herself. Then, more audibly, “So that’s what you look like”, and she immediately hoped Mrs Crookes didn’t hear downstairs.
    She needn’t have worried. Mrs Crookes was pushing the powerful, red vacuum cleaner across the deep sitting room carpet gathering up non-existent dirt, whilst listening through a headset to her favourite
Scissor Sisters
latest album. Cindy’s expert fingers flashed across the keyboard and she paged back to the first text item. This time she studied the words in detail and the more she read and reread them, the greater her delight and anticipation of his promised phone call – the call that would change her life.

9

    Alan Crossland had finished reading his emails when Jane opened his door and walked into his office. In her right hand, she was carrying a small DL-sized white envelope which she gave to her boss.
    â€œI haven’t opened it but it has just been delivered by the police.”
    â€œWhat? Did you say the police?” Crossland’s raised, incredulous voice reverberated off the oak-panelled walls. “Since when have they been postmen?” He continued, as he took the envelope. Jane remained motionless, clearly curious as to what its contents might be but Crossland made no attempt to open it in her presence and said a mere “Thanks, Jane” in a tone that clearly implied ‘goodbye’. Jane stiffened and slowly turned before she left the room, closing the heavy door quietly behind her.
    Crossland carefully slit open the envelope and placed the letter onto the desk. It was obviously word-processed, despite the personalised salutation to ‘Dear Alan’ and informed Crossland that following the terrorist outrage of the 7 th July, some bank accounts (not named or identified) had been frozen by the Bank of England in accordance with the powers entrusted to it by Parliament. Hannet-Mar was not one of the banks involved but Alan was reminded of his obligations in respect of the legislation and asked to report any suspicious transactions immediately to the Anti-Terrorist Unit. His cooperation was being sought and in this regard he could expect a visit from the ATU to whom every courtesy should be extended.
    Bloody cheek,
thought Alan. He knew full well the law and the obligations of all banks in respect of money laundering or indeed the possible financing of terrorism. He might not be too fussy over some of his personal clients but he knew all those people and they were certainly not terrorists.
    Anyway,
he thought,
I can only act once I know, or ought to know, or have reasonable grounds for suspicion. Until that arises, how can I assist the ATU?
    Nonetheless, he was shaken. This was the first time the ATU or any law