Free Fogarty: A City of London Thriller by J Jackson Bentley Page A

greeter asked. “The whole bill will pro bably be less than fifty quid.”
    “That will b e just fine, and thanks again.”
    It was 2:30pm, only three hours since he’d sat with Dee Hammond, when the uniformed driver told him that they had arrived at Northern Cross Riverview House. Ben tried to tip the Scouse driver , who waved away the offer.
    “Just hope your Gran makes it OK,” the driver said. Ben realised that arriving by helicopter, then being in a hurry to get to an old folks home probably sent all the wrong messages. Nonetheless, now was not the time for explanations and so he simply thanked the driver for his kindness.
     
    ***
     
    The light coloured bricks which , along with the red tiled roof, gave the building its support and structure, also adorned the reception area. The building looked like a copy of every other care home he had seen here and in New Zealand. A young receptionist sat behind a high counter. She smiled as he approached her.
    “I would like to see May Fogarty, please,” Ben asked politely, using all of his charm. It worked. The young girl blushed as she typed. After a moment she look ed up from the screen, puzzled.
    “We don’t have a May Fogarty on the list,” she said , as much to herself as to Ben, “but I’m new here. Let me check with matron.” The girl picked up the phone and punched three numbers; a phone rang in a smoked glass office off to Ben’s right. The girl conveyed the message, listening for the reply. She looked up at Ben.
    “Matron wants to know who you are and how y ou are connected to May Fogarty,” the young receptionist conveyed with her perfectly manicured fingers covering the mouthpiece. Ben explained that he was May’s grandson and he had just arrived from New Zealand. The receptionist repeated his words and then replaced the receiver. The door to the smoked glass office opened and a handsome woman in a smart designer suit emerged. She looked at Ben and spoke. Her voice was quiet but her curiosity was obvious.
    “Please come in, Mr Fogarty. I’ll see if we can help you.”
     
    ***
    The Matron sat behind a utilitarian desk in blonde wood. The room was distinctly feminine in its design and everything was carefully placed, with all flat surfaces utilised. There were ornaments and ceramics of all kinds, from Delft pottery models of Dutch houses to colourful Murano glass vases and bowls. It was homely and comforting, as Ben imagined it was meant to be. The nameplate on the desk read Matron Burchill. The Matron had short spiky fair hair that surprisingly suited her, given that on closer inspection she must have been in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hands gave away her age but they too were perfectly manicured, the nails short and painted in pastel pink, probably by someone else. This was a lady who spent time in the gym and in the spa, he guessed.
    “Mr Fogarty, you will forgive me if I ask for some identification.” Her accent was difficult to pin down; there was a hint of Merseyside and a hint of Irish, but Ben guessed that there were a lot of Irish born people in Liverpool. He opened his wallet and handed over his business card and New Zealand Photo ID Card . The Matron remained cautious.
    “Assuming that May Fogarty is here with us, what would your relationship be to her, given that you are from halfway around the world?” s he inquired, her bright opaline green eyes boring into him. This lady may be moving on in years, but her eyes were those of a young girl.
    “I am her grandson, Matron. The reason you may not have heard her mention me is that I was adopted by a New Zealand family twenty years ago, and I have had no contact with her since.”
    “You are, presumably, the same Ambrose Benjamin Fogarty of All Black s Rugby fame?”
    “I am. Listen, Matron Bur chill, I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually. Could I meet May Fogarty, please? I can assure you that my visit is of vital importance.” The Matron smiled. It was an impish smile, with