Treasure Sleuth (15 page)

"Yes I will thanks Uncle Brad, you go easy on those English breakfasts, not sure your buttons could hold another hash brown in," Abby snapped back.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Mark muttered as he watched them disappear down the drive.

"Yes, I told you my uncle is a complete prick," Abby replied with a scour on her face.

"No, not your uncle, although yes, he is a prick. That guy he is with. His so-called business partner."

"What about him? He seems to have an odd relationship with my uncle."

"I knew I recognized him that night at the church. Remember I told you about a security guard?"

"Yes? No!" Abby said shaking her head. "Not him."

"Yes, him. That was him. I was standing right in front of him while he smoked himself to death looking up at the stars. I could see him clear as day and it was him."

"What shady shit is my uncle involved with now?"

"I don't know, but he's the last person on earth I want buying this place."

"What happened back there in the lighthouse? Tell me you didn't unzip yourself at the top of the stairs?"

"No, I didn't need the toilet. It's water from the coffee pot. Nothing puts people off property more in this country than water and damp. Hopefully they'll have all sorts of rotten images, and mounting costs when they sit at that auction," Mark said with a wink.

"Let's hope it works," Abby said.

"Listen, I've got to go, I'll see you later," Mark said kissing Abby on the cheek.

"Go? Go where? I thought we were heading to the auction?"

"I'll meet you there. I need to see someone first."

"Don't be late. Two thirty Mark, remember. Promise me you won't be late."

"I promise. See you later," Mark said and accelerated out down the drive in a cloud of blue tire smoke and noise leaving two thick, black tread marks behind.

Mark stood behind the glass window of the drab office watching the bank staff strut amongst the customers. Waiting for the manager to give his loan application the okay, Mark's eyes soon lost focus and his head tilted towards the shiny floor zoning out into an ocean depth of thoughts.

In a last ditch attempt to raise additional funds and be a hero, Mark wasn't feeling hopeful. A sense of helplessness washed over him and he began feeling like a child waiting for his parent's permission. Had he been a good boy? Good enough for a financial treat? It wasn't like he was asking for a gift, a loan would be repaid after all. And with interest, so technically it was in the bank's interest to lend him the money. The interest was their profit and would pay for the staffs salaries, and the cleaner to keep the shiny floor shining.

As quickly as Mark's rational thoughts raised his confidence, the doubts came flooding in reminding him of his frequent overdrawn status. Building websites was a good earner, when the clients paid. But they were always late. An unspoken rule in the world of business that seemed to state payment terms were only a guide and ninety days after the work was completed was more than acceptable.

And it's not as if clients were easy to come by. Web designers were ten-a-penny, so common that Mark didn't even bother with breakfast networking meetings any more. What's the point when most of the others sat at the table are web designers too? Increased competition, lower prices, the art was lost and now it was just a slog of using the same old templates for the same old big-feel look.

Mark started imagining the gold he sold the day before. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds worth, saved up over the years and all from treasure hunting. Perhaps keeping the hobby and the job separate wasn't such a good idea after all. Having a hundred grand sat in the bank would have put him in good stead for all the credit he could ever wish for. But it was the explaining of where the money came from that would have caused more than a few eyebrows to be raised.

Payments from museums are one thing, but tax-free pounds from undeclared finds was another. Yes, in reflection, saving it in a graveyard for an exotic supercar car wasn't such a bad idea after all. At least that money was safe and in the HART account now. But a few more grand would certainly help secure the lighthouse and outbid any interested third parties. Like Brad.

The prick.

Mark spotted Mr. Higgins, the branch manager coming towards the office, head down and paperwork clutched tightly to his side. Mark tried to read his expression for advance preparation, but Mr. Higgins look was like any other bank manager - dead pan. Mark hurried to the other side of the desk and sat down like a naughty schoolboy waiting for the headmaster.

"I'm sorry Mr. Munro, we are not in a position to offer you a loan of this size at this stage I'm afraid," Mr. Higgins said.

"I see. And the fact that I'm putting so much into the deal and that the lighthouse could be used for collateral?" asked Mark.

"I'm afraid we wouldn't be able to use the property for collateral because you do not yet own it. At this stage it would be treated like a mortgage and I'm afraid we are unable to offer mortgages on properties of that type," Higgins explained.

"But if I had the money I could be sure to own it and then you could use it for collateral. Hell, I might not even need the money so I could cancel the loan. It's just for safety."

"I appreciate what you're saying but at the time of the loan application you don't own the property so we would be unable to lend against a future collateral."

"And the business development loan?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Munro but that option is also not viable. Miss Hart only recently opened the account and we would prefer to see some signs of trading before we can consider a trading loan, especially with no collateral. It's a catch-twenty-two I'm afraid."

"I understand. We can't borrow the money to buy the lighthouse because we don't have any collateral, but if we could buy the lighthouse then we would have the collateral but then we wouldn't need the money because we already bought it."

"Urm... yes, that sounds about right. I'm very sorry Mr. Munro. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Mark walked through the glass doors and onto the street feeling like a broken man. The sun was shining down but Mark couldn't feel it's warmth. The street was a bustle of activity as people milled about, tourists eating ice-cream as they took a leisurely stroll along the shop fronts, but the world was in silence, Mark couldn't hear a sound. He watched momentarily from the bank step but his eyes were glazed. Hands in pockets, he walked back to the car, trying to make sense out of the situation.

Maybe they wouldn't need the extra finance, the coin and his gold would be enough. But no matter what reasoning he conjured up, Brad's face was burning indelibly in his brain and refusing to go. The thought of losing to him was unacceptable. If not for the lighthouse, for never seeing Abby again. He could understand how she felt and if he was being honest, he wouldn't be able to face her either. But imagining her in the lighthouse, the two of them going on quests together and finishing the day in the lantern room watching the sun set over the cove... his resolve was heating up again. They had enough to cover the deposit within the twenty four hour period, that was the most important thing. He started to think of solutions.

Sure we could figure out a way to get the rest within the twenty eight day period. Somehow. Maybe there was something in the safe that could make its way onto the black market. As long as it couldn't be traced back, it would be worth the risk. And then Brad could go shove it up his arse.

Mark walked across the road not even hearing the van screech to a holt and sounding its horn. He was busy seeing the future. One with Abby, the other without. Or worse. Never being able to forget her. The lighthouse would provide a constant reminder of what could have been.

In a state of trance he twiddled with the loose change in his pocket, the same way a baby rubs its fingers on a blanket for comfort. Then with his other hand he felt something in his empty pocket that woke him up.

It was Mrs. Prescott's ring. He held it up to the light and his thoughts started running in a new direction.

What could this be worth?
He thought as the sun glinted across the diamonds. No sooner had the thought presented itself, Mark shot it down. Even in a state of desperation he knew he couldn't bring himself to pawn it. His own sentimental values had to firm a foundation to let him.

Perhaps now would be the best time to return it to Mrs. Prescott using the address Abby gave. He knew there was a chance this would be the last time he'd set foot on Hope Cove.

Abby looked down at her watch, the butterflies in her tummy giving her grief. The auctioneer was a typical English gentleman, in a grey suit reading the item details just a beat too quick and a decibel too loud for the microphone to cope with.

She selected Mark's number on her phone and hit 'call'. Pressing the phone into her ear she could hear it ring. Then his voicemail answered. Abby could see her uncle sat in the third row with his shady business partner. She made sure she kept well out of sight at the back of the room. She kept her eye on people as they left the room and new ones came in.

Lot 54, a small bungalow, probate, in need of updating. No bids at a starting price of one hundred and ten thousand, but as soon as the price drops to eighty thousand hands start flipping up and it carries on past it's start price. The guide is one hundred to one twenty, and sure enough it stops at one eighteen to a phone bid. No sign of Mark yet.

Next Lot is for a water tower in woodland belonging to the local water company. It seems popular and goes for forty seven thousand, which was seven thousand above it's expected price.

Where the hell is Mark?

The next lot was delayed. Men in suits talked and waved arms at each other before the auctioneer's voice boomed over the speakers apologizing. It seems Lot 56 has been withdrawn due to a last minute offer.

Abby thought of her Mom and why she couldn't have done the same thing. At least she wouldn't have to sit through this stress. The sight of her uncle was making her feel sick and lightheaded. He was sat there twirling a large cigar in his chubby fingers, the poor buttons on his shirt doing all they could to hold his tummy in place. She got up to go to the restroom and get some air.

Where was Mark? He promised. If this was for effect, it wasn't funny.

She pulled out her phone and placed her handbag next to the sink. Mark's mobile rang several rings then the voicemail answered.

"Mark!" She whispered loudly, the stress on her face reflecting back to her from the restroom mirror. "Where the hell are you? Our lot is coming up, what are you doing? Please call me as soon as you get this, or better yet, bloody get here!"

As she got back to the room, lot sixty was starting. The empty chair next to where she was sitting was now taken. But it wasn't Mark sitting there.

The traffic was light and the dual carriageway clear. The supercharged Jaguar was slicing through the countryside like a low flying missile. Mark glanced at his watch, two fifteen.

Auctions never run on time anyway, I can make this
he thought as the needle passed one hundred and fifty five miles an hour. The scenery rushed by as Mark watched for other motorists and any deer that may be on the grass verge between the woodlands and the road. With his concentration at its peak, Mark failed to notice what was behind him. The flashing blue lights lit up his face as they reflected back off the rear view mirror.

Shit, shit, SHIT. Not now, please, not now.

Mark took his foot off the accelerator and eased the speed down. There was no point running. The unmarked police BMW, it's hidden blue lights flickering from behind the radiator grill, was no doubt packing a powerful motor. There would be no way to outrun him, plus a helicopter would soon be joining the chase if he did. For all the uselessness the bumbling Devonshire police could be sometimes, when it came to traffic cops they were top notch, often catching speeding celebrities visiting the area. Mark pulled over into the fuel station and parked up in the lorry forecourt away from the fuel pumps and nosy attendants. He slid the shifter into park and turned off the engine.

"Sorry old girl, looks like it's the pound for both of us," he said to the car as he tapped the dashboard with the palm of his hand.

The policeman appeared at the window and asked him to take a seat in the back of the BMW. Mark's phone began to ring and he looked at his watch and thought of Abby. He couldn't answer it now. He sat helpless watching through the windscreen of the police car as the officer checked the Jag for drugs. The officer walked back and sat in the driver's seat turning to Mark with his driving license asking him to confirm his details and date of birth.

"Mr. Munro, is there any reason why you were travelling at one hundred and fifty five miles an hour?"

Feeling annoyed knowing there was no escape, Mark thought for a moment.

"Yes, it's the limiter I'm afraid, it cuts in at one fifty five, otherwise I'm pretty sure I would have been doing one eighty."

"You realize this is serious. Prison serious. You could have killed yourself or someone else at that bloody speed. You'll probably never see this F-Type again."

"That's okay, I quite like the look of the Aventador anyway."

"Where the hell were you going in such a mad bloody hurry?"

"A girl I had made a promise to. It was a moment I got carried away with."

The officer looked mad, but also had a strange look of intrigue.

"Yes I know it can happen to the best of us. Do you mind telling me why you have a metal detector in the back of your car?"

"I'm a recovery specialist. I help find things that have been lost or hidden, artifacts, bodies, that sort of thing."

"Wedding rings?"

"And rings, yes."

"I have a friend who lost his wedding ring in another friend's garden."