Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,63
was waiting outside the glass doors of the exclusive Coutts Private Banking offices at number 100 The Strand.
"Can I help you, sir?"
The security guard gave Gabe a look that made it perfectly clear that the last thing he wanted to do was help him. Gabe didn't blame the guy. He'd shaved and smartened himself up as best he could, but in his thin gray jacket and ancient, rain-soaked jeans, he did not look like a typical Coutts customer.
I've left you a little something at Coutts. Just to get you started.
It was typical of Marshall Gresham's generosity. He'd already done so much, kick-starting Gabe's appeal, teaching him the real-estate business. Billy and the prison doctor might have gotten Gabe clean, but it was Marshall Gresham who'd kept him that way. Marshall had given Gabe hope, something to live for other than heroin. He hadn't so much saved his life as given him a whole new one.
And now he wants to make sure I have money for a bed and a meal tonight.
It was both touching and much needed. Gabe had walked out of Wormwood Scrubs with only five pounds to his name, and that had gone on his subway fare and a bacon sandwich at Kings Cross. This afternoon he'd start looking for construction work. Friends inside had given him a few contacts. But it was nice to know he wouldn't have to sleep rough on day one.
"I'm here to see Robin Hampton-Gore." Gabe spoke softly but with confidence. "I believe Marshall Gresham informed him I'd be coming."
The guard's look now said, And I believe you're a chancer come to try your luck with a sob story. Well, if you are, good luck to you, mate. You won't get far with Mr. H.-G.
Out loud he said: "Wait here, please, sir."
Gabe waited there. Five minutes later, as much to his own surprise as the guard's, he found himself being escorted into a corner office by a genial man in a pin-striped Savile Row suit and the shiniest pair of wingtips Gabe had ever seen.
"Mr. McGregor, I presume?"
The man sat down behind a comfortingly solid mahogany desk. He gestured for Gabe to take the chesterfield chair opposite.
"Robin Hampton-Gore. Marshall told me you'd be coming. Waxed quite lyrical about you, in fact. He assures me you're going to be the next Donald Trump."
Gabe laughed uncomfortably. For a ritzy banker, Robin Hampton-Gore seemed suspiciously friendly toward an ex-heroin addict, just out of prison for burglary and aggravated assault, whose only recommendation came from a convicted fraudster.
"Marshall's an old friend of mine," Robin explained, as if reading Gabe's thoughts. "He made me in this business. He was my first big client and he stuck with me, long after he became so rich he could have insisted on someone far more senior handling his account. I owe him a lot."
"So do I," said Gabe.
Robin Hampton-Gore unlocked the drawer of his desk with an old-fashioned brass key and pulled out a crisp white envelope.
"This is cash," he explained unnecessarily, handing it to Gabe. "Marshall thought you'd need some immediately."
Gabe broke the seal and gasped. Inside was a small fortune. There was a smattering of tens and twenties, then hundred after hundred after hundred, the distinctive red-inked bills fluttering between Gabe's shaking fingers like rare butterflies as he thumbed through them, trying to count.
"There's only ten thousand there. It's a float. The rest is in an account in your name. I have all the details here."
Robin Hampton-Gore passed Gabe a second envelope. This one was already open, with a sheaf of Coutts letterheaded paper sticking out of the top.
Gabe stammered, "I...I don't understand. What do you mean 'the rest'? I think there must have been a mistake. I only need a couple of hundred quid."
Robin Hampton-Gore laughed. "Well, you've got a couple of hundred thousand." He handed Gabe a third envelope and his business card. "It's a letter from Marshall. I trust it explains everything, but if you've any further questions, don't hesitate to call me."
Gabe's hands were still trembling. As ever with Marshall Gresham, the letter was short and to the point.
Dear Gabriel,
It's not a loan. It's an investment. Fifty-fifty partners.
Love, M.
P.S. Don't forget to write from Cape Town.
Gabe felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard. Now was not the time to get emotional. He had too much to do. There were so many people he was indebted to. Marshall Gresham, Angus Frazer, Claire, his mother. He couldn't let them down.