Osborne Legacy , livre ebook

Little Bang Publishing - Mark Cundy

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145 pages

English

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Description

The final act of a dying man.A global treasure hunt with AGBP1 million for the winner.Five strangers, picked at random to compete.Self-made multi millionaire Michael Osborne has only months to live. He wants one last adventure, setting up a global chase with a prize that would tempt all the saints.Thousands apply, but only five are selected to compete. Each with their own driving need to win.As the chase heats up and the stakes get higher, what will each of them do to secure the prize?In the final reckoning there can be only one winner, when the true Osborne Legacy is finally revealed.

Sujets

Thriller

Informations

Publié par	Little Bang Publishing
Date de parution	07 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9780992964610
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Osborne Legacy

Mark Cundy

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters andincidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by: Little Bang Publishing
Essex
United Kingdom

Copyright © Mark Cundy 2014
The author asserts the moral right to be identified asthe author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from theBritish Library.
ISBN: 978-0-929646-1-0
www.MarkCundy.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or byany means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, withoutthe prior permission of the author or publishers.
Cover design by Maxine Jones
(www.maxinejonesdesign.co.uk)

The Osborne Legacy
ChapterOne
   “We’re going to have some fun,”said Michael Osborne.

   Turning from the walnut desk hewheeled himself across the thick, blood-red carpet. Brilliant sunlight filledthe huge drawing room and shone in the faces of the lawyer and the typist. JezMarkham was grinning. Emily Graham had that familiar, bewildered look on herface.

   Michael Osborne had worked allhis life to be sitting on a fortune. Then the disease struck. He hadn’t gotlong left. So who’d get his money – HM Treasury? He’d written too many chequesto those bastards over the years; he was ready for one last adventure. Sittingin front of him were the two people that would help make it happen.

   “Five people. Five strangers. Picked at random. I’ll put an ad in the Standard . Get awebsite cooked up. They follow a series of clues. I’ll bounce them all over theplace! They’re going to have to work for this. If they make it, whoever ends upon top...gets one million of my pounds.”

   The words tumbled out as risingexcitement replaced the anger he’d felt for so long. His body might be useless,but there was nothing wrong with his mind. Screw the doctors; he had nointention of going quietly.

   “Jez, I want you to draw up thecontracts. I want them watertight. No bloody disputes. And then you and I willsort out the locations and clues.”

   Jez Markham grinned even wider. In eight yearsacting for Michael Osborne he’d rarely had a dull moment. Life had been prettytedious since the illness hit Michael Osborne. Now things were set to getlively again.

   “Miss Graham. You’ll order thestationary. I want top quality. And then you can type out the contracts andinstructions. Yes, on your old typewriter if you must.”

   “Is that all you’ll require meto do?”

   That’s all I’m going to give you to do . This requires wit,imagination and a bit of backbone if things get tricky.

   “Yes Miss Graham. And I’m sureyou’ll do it brilliantly.”

   Emily Graham nodded once.Michael Osborne didn’t see the sour narrowing of her eyes as she did so.

   The next two weeks werefrenetic. The old Cornish manor house sprang to life again as phone calls weremade and deals done. Bemused foreign officials laid down conditions for theirservices, but agreed as soon as the right fee was offered. Writing paper, cardsand envelopes were commissioned and delivered on time for a premium.

   Finally, everything was inplace. Once again all three were assembled in the drawing room. Jez inspectedand approved the final set of documents, assuring Michael Osborne everythingwas
legally watertight. MissGraham confirmed the advert had been faxed to the Evening Standard .

   Michael Osborne thanked themboth and dismissed them. With an energy he had not felt for a very long time,he wheeled himself out onto the terrace overlooking the rear gardens.

   All over the winter he’dwrapped up and spent hours staring at these gardens. Thehighlight of his wretched days. Years before he’d kept the bankers andcompany directors waiting as he romped in those gardens with his dogs.

   Now the only bitch by his sidewas the oxygen canister. He’d told the housekeeper to remove all mirrors fromthe house. No well-wishers were invited in. He wanted everyone, includinghimself to remember him as he was.

   But tonight, he was the man atthe centre of it all again. He felt an echo of the thrills from years ago. Thiswould be his final masterstroke.

   “And now we wait for the castto assemble,” said Michael Osborne.
ChapterTwo
Friday, 20 th April

   Pippa Feltham gazed out of theoffice window across the Thames. The City skyline, dazzling on her first daynow barely registered at all. She recalled bitterly how those feelings ofindependence had been shattered by office gossip about the job and flat beingpresented on a plate by her Father.

   They were right. And she knewmillions would kill to be in her position. Rent paid by Dad and a great salaryto enjoy, but the easy ride left her unsatisfied. Some of the other girls hadto do bar work to make ends meet. Pippa didn’t really fancy that, but she didenvy their camaraderie. They were friendly, but she was never really part ofthe gang.

   If only she’d had a sister. Oreven a brother. Someone to divert her parents’ blessings andexpectations. Someone on her side. Auntie Em was the only one that had ever really understood, butshe’d left London years ago after a bitter dispute with Pippa’s father overtheir inheritance.

   Pippa cursed the clock rushingtowards 5:30 that Friday night. She’d promised to visit the family home inCamberley this weekend. Her mind was filled with those defiant conversationsshe would never have. Why couldn’t the bloody trains go on strike when youwanted them to?

   A couple of miles north, CliveCaldwell was willing the clock onwards. He had a datetonight and it wasn’t with his wife.

   After netting the firm’sbiggest commission of the year, Clive enjoyed a few rare moments of reflection.With his experience he should have been a manager by now, but had turned itdown. There was more money in commissions and he liked how the young brokerslooked up to him; he didn’t need the hassle of dealing with their egos andwasn’t interested in their personal issues.

   The dealing day was fadingfast. The shouted instructions, schmoozing patter and rapid typing washed overhim as Clive considered his options for the evening. Chloe wouldn’t be expectinghim back until late. He wondered whether she’d care if he came home at all.

   After the big rows over thechildren she wanted but he didn’t, the last six months had become a battle ofwills as she went off sex altogether. Unfortunately for her, Clive was only toowilling to look elsewhere.

   Blessed with his Mother’s looksand his Father’s physique he could still have his pick at 31. A Londonapartment would have looked good too, but he hadn’t strayed far from his rootsin Watford. The run-down pile he’d bought five years ago in Bushey was nowworth three times what he’d paid. Now he wanted to clear the mortgage before hereached 35. Then they could have kids. It all made sense to him – why couldn’tshe see that?

   Eventually the clock slipped overto 5:30. He got up and left, grinning at the night of passion ahead.

   Sex was the last thing onAlicia Garcia’s mind, despite leaning virtually naked on her haunches. At leastthe photographer was a professional, giving good direction for the shot theclient wanted. As she flirted with the lens, she wondered yet again when she’dland that big contract.

   Three years after moving toEngland the agency had brought her steady work, but no jackpot paydays. Alicialoved the London lifestyle, as the capital provided a cosmopolitan spirit tomatch her own. She’d been amazed by the liberality of the old city, and evensome of the English men had been pretty good in bed.

   Settled into a flat share inActon, Alicia divided her time between assignments, a punishing exerciseschedule and working to improve her English. She missed her family, but in thesummer would bring her parents over and show them how well she was doing.

   Dressing back into her streetclothes after the session, Alicia thought about the weekend ahead. She’d go outtonight, but not Saturday night. Her savings wouldn’t grow without prudence,but she didn’t want to live like a nun. A few more years, then back to Spain toopen her own agency and run it from her own villa outside town. Things would bea lot easier if she could bag that one big contract…

   Alex Claremont was looking toscore a big hit himself, but his seasoned 43 year-old eyes knew the pitfalls;he’d fallen in a couple of them last time around. It was years since his seminalbook about seventies pop culture had caught the nostalgic wave and topped thebest seller list. In the end, it had provided ex-wife Louise and son Jack witha comfortable home in Cambridge. Meanwhile he was renting a flat in Chiswick,complete with crappy pictures on lousy wallpaper.

   Alex wasn’t fooled by thealleged joys of marriage ‘second time around’. He knew he was a tetchy blokeand a bastard to live with. He didn’t need a replacement for Louise. What he needed was to pull off anothersuccess and buy his own pad. Show Jack what his old man was made of.

   Since the split he’d put hishorticultural degree to good use researching for Gardener’s Question Time and his column for the Gardener’s World. Nothing to set thepulse racing, but it paid the rent.

   No, he’d carry on slaving awayon his masterpiece, 50 Years of YouthCulture to eclipse the wedge the first book had made him. After that, hewouldn’t care if Louise never quit the house in Cambridge. As the sun went downacross West London he dived into the collected essays of the 1980sAnti-Apartheid Movement.

   Steven Kitts had been born inthe 1980s and therefore taken no part in the pr