The Namedropper by Brian Freemantle Page A

examined who never suffered a single childhood illness, nor has needed any medical advice since.’
    â€˜I guess I’ve been lucky.’
    â€˜And you’re sure you can’t remember a single illness from which your parents suffered?’
    â€˜Seems I’ve inherited their healthy genes.’
    â€˜What were the causes of their deaths?’
    â€˜They died together in a car crash,’ said Jordan, which was a lie. His father had died first, of cancer, and his Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother of pneumonia but Jordan was bored and impatient to end the pointless encounter.
    â€˜You’re responsible for payment, I assume?’
    â€˜Wrongly,’ said Jordan, who’d anticipated the approach. ‘Your secretary will have the name and address of the lawyer who booked this if it’s not on the note you’ve got there. Send your account to her, along with the results.’
    Preston was on the internal phone before Jordan finished speaking, his face clouding at the confirmation of what Jordan had told him. The doctor said, ‘Solicitors are very dilatory in settling their accounts. Will you please tell Ms Corbin that I expect payment within the period stipulated upon my invoice?’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Jordan, without any intention of doing so. ‘You didn’t tell me how my examination went?’
    â€˜I have obviously to wait for all the tests results but there’s every indication of your being remarkably fit: nothing obviously wrong at all.’
    Apart from you knowing – and a record now existing – of every physical detail about me, thought Jordan.
    The irritating medical examination, for which he’d allowed only an hour, completely disrupted Jordan’s schedule, leaving him with only thirty minutes to keep the afternoon appointment with the photographer. In the taxi taking him there Jordan decided to abandon until the following morning the intended visit to Hans Crescent to check for any further correspondence in his Paul Maculloch name; he was anxious to begin at once his money-manipulating casino tour.
    Jordan had booked for passport photographs, waiting until he got to the studio to add three larger prints and agreed at once to the obviously increase fee, interested only in getting the picture session over as quickly as possible. He was back in the Marylebone apartment by six and out, showered, changed and with £20,000 from the bedroom closet safe to begin the chips-for-cash receipt switch by eight. For an hour he played poker at the high stakes table of one of his favourite gambling clubs in Brook Street, Mayfair, before quitting £2,300 ahead to move to the roulette room. There he moved between three tables, increasing his winnings by another £7,000 before dropping £6,000 in an unstoppable consistent slide. By the time it did stop he was down to his poker profit. It took him another hour playing blackjack to take his winnings up a further £1,500. He cashed in and got his tax receipt for winnings of £24,500. Throughout Jordan remained constantly alert but failed to isolate anyone paying any particular attention or interest in him.
    Jordan hesitated for a moment as he left the club, turning to the doorman for a taxi, but abruptly deciding, without any reason, to walk into Park Lane. When he reached Park Street the darkened interior of the last car in the parking line at the corner was briefly illuminated in the headlight beam of an approaching taxi, perfectly enabling Jordan to see a man he remembered at every table at which he’d played that night.
    Nine
    â€˜B eing followed!’ Lesley Corbin frowned but smiled very slightly as well. The combination made her nose wrinkle.
    â€˜I believe so,’ said Jordan, discomfited by her doubting expression.
    â€˜When, how, did you come to believe that?’
    â€˜Three nights ago. I’d been gambling, in Mayfair. When I came out of the club I saw a man, waiting