Saint Peter's Remorse Read online

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 Hamish Hudson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner, without the written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First edition June 2021

  www.hamish-hudson.com

  ***

  For my wife, who patiently puts up with all my hare-brained projects.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

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  Saint Peter Black Mystery Thriller series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Free book – ‘Revealing Saint Peter’ (Book 3)

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  Saint Peter Black Mystery Thriller series

  Saint Peter’s Remorse is Book 2 in the Saint Peter Black mystery thriller series, but don’t worry, you can read it as a standalone.

  For those that need a quick reminder of what happened in Book 1 (Becoming Saint Peter), here’s a short summary and a link to download the book.

  Becoming Saint Peter (Book 1)

  Peter Black is considered to be a saint. He’s the CEO of a respectable investment firm and a generous philanthropist. But Peter is no saint. He’s a master manipulator, hiding behind a mask of professionalism.

  Peter grew up in foster care with his twin brother, John. They inherited different traits from their abusive, alcoholic father. Peter is a sociopath, and John is an alcoholic down and out.

  When Peter dies in a car crash, John snatches the opportunity to get a better life. He becomes Saint Peter.

  Overcoming addiction, acting a new persona, and battling remorse, John struggles to conceal his true identity. When cocaine snorting property developer, Ray Woods, wants to scam the government out of millions, John discovers that nothing is what it appears.

  Download ‘Becoming Saint Peter’ here.

  PART 1: SAINT PETER’S REMORSE

  Chapter 1

  Ray Woods, the property developer from Edinburgh, spun round on his chair at the conference table. It was nearly five PM in late January, and the strip lights in my office in Liverpool’s Commercial District reflected off his totally bald head. His round, chubby face looked like a bulldog as he continued his monologue, barely breathing as he rambled on excitedly. I gave him a weak smile and struggled to muster even an iota of enthusiasm.

  “Peter, mate, this development at the Gasworks in Edinburgh will be the biggest deal in my career. It’s huge. One hundred acres of prime redevelopment land that’s been held up in city planning for a decade, and finally I have the leverage to get it released.” He stretched back in his chair and linked his fingers together behind his head, showing large sweat marks on his light blue shirt.

  “Will it be less risky than the DataFeed project?” asked Odell Jackson, our investment director at Janus Angelica Investments.

  “The Gasworks development is completely above board.”

  “Good. Because DataFeed was touch and go. We made twenty million pounds by the time we shut the company down just before Christmas. Thank God they can’t trace it back to us.”

  Twenty million pounds! A big haul when I ran drugs in Glasgow in my teens and twenties was twenty thousand!

  The DataFeed scam, where we’d setup a shell company and then claimed millions of pounds of employment grant payments for roles that didn’t exist, was my first experience of large-scale white-collar crime. I was wildly out my depth on all fronts, including the cover up, when I’d done things I never thought I was capable of, or even expected to do, when I took on this role.

  When the director of the employment programme, Charles Ward, hired a charity worker, Adam McFarlane, to snoop around us, Odell expected me to take care of the dirty work. I’ve always shied away from vicious, cold-blooded activities, but I put on a good act and tidied up the loose ends.

  But these actions still niggled away at me, like so much of what I’d got myself into.

  I tuned out of their conversation, swirling the dregs around the bottom of my coffee cup. When I stole my brother’s identity nine months ago, I inherited the first-rate lifestyle of a rich CEO, more money than I could spend, and a professional kudos around the city that takes decades of hard work and sacrifice to accomplish.

  Yet I had done nothing to earn this position or the high esteem in which people held me. Briefly I contemplated what would happen if the truth came out. What’s the worst that would happen if I went to a police station and told them I was actually John Black? Would they slap me round the wrists for wasting police time? Would they convict me of profiting under a false pretence? They might investigate Peter’s death more closely. I hadn’t killed him after he crashed the car in Snowdonia National Park, but I had waited until he was dead before calling the ambulance. The police might decide I was a murderer. Maybe that’s what I deserved.

  “Are you listening, Peter?” Ray stared at me.

  “Sorry, Ray. I was miles away. You were going to tell us about the Gasworks. I’m all ears.”

  “Just like Dumbo!” Ray burst out laughing at his own joke. I curled the corners of my mouth up in the slightest smile and half listened to the rest of his conversation. “To business then!”

  Ray rubbed his hands and grinned, reminding me of a child who’s mistakenly received two chocolate bars at a party and assumes it’s a sign of preferential treatment. “The Gasworks is a straightforward land purchase. I’ll secure the planning permission and organise the technical reports and then sell it shovel-ready to an Arab consortium to develop.”

  “How do you know the consortium?” Odell asked. He had a smooth American drawl.

  “I don’t. I’m working with a broker, Saj Khan, who’s negotiated several deals for them. They’re on a spending spree and will pay fifteen percent more than anyone else.” Odell raised his eyebrows. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve already checked them out. They’re trustworthy. Khan’s the only way I can get to them, but he’s very devious and slippery enough to lubricate a long abandoned dry-dock winch!”

  In the past nine months, I’d learnt as much as I could about finance, but I was still a novice c
ompared to my brother, who had over two decades experience. To hide my knowledge gaps, I hide behind the excuse of post-traumatic amnesia. I told everyone that I was knocked unconscious in the car crash when my brother died, and this had affected my memory.

  “I’m having a blank. Have we collaborated with Khan before?” I asked.

  “Nah, it’s the first time.”

  “Why do you say he’s slippery?” Odell asked.

  “I’ve heard rumours. Apparently, he shafted one of his business partners by tipping the press off about a dodgy deal they were concluding. When the deal fell through, he swooped in and snatched the opportunity at a bargain price.”

  Odell issued a low, deep whistle and ran his hands through his receding afro hair. “You’ll need to play your cards close to your chest in that case.”

  “Don’t worry, mate. I’ve got the leverage to force the council to release the land to me and not Khan. Without my information, the deal is worthless to him. He can’t cut me out.”

  Odell nodded. “Let us know what help we can be.”

  “I do actually need your research team’s help.” Ray shuffled through some papers on the conference table before handing a paper to Odell. “This is a list of the analysis we need to provide the buyer. You told me you’d hired a shit hot research analyst.”

  “Yes-sir. Three months ago I recruited an exceptional woman,” said Odell, nodding. “She’s finishing her PhD at the University of Liverpool on the subject of automated portfolio valuation in hedge funds. These funds often have a basis in physical assets, so she’s also done work on property markets. She showed me a research paper she contributed to on property cluster analysis that shows which sub-markets are most likely to outperform the general market.”

  Ray's smile grew wider as Odell spoke. “That’s all jargon to me, but it’s giving me goose bumps. Let’s get her in here!”

  “Is there anything on the table you don’t want her to see?” Odell pointed at the conference table.

  Apart from Odell and myself, only the finance director, Cassandra Rose, knew the truth about the two parts of Janus Angelica. In one half of the firm, we laundered money in what we called Rainbow Funds for criminally minded clients, like Ray Woods. We also managed nefarious Trade Deals as diverse as extortion, fraud, and cybercrime.

  The other half was a legitimate financial and asset management firm, which managed pension funds, management buy-outs, and stock and share investments for high-net worth individuals. We referred to these as Ivory Funds and clients.

  “No. Like I said, everything on this project is above board.” Ray chose a mini chocolate chip muffin from the leftover lunch tray and shoved it in his mouth.

  “OK, I’ll get Luisa,” said Odell, closing the door behind him.

  Ray turned to me and continued in his boisterous Cockney twang. “Peter, I can’t tell you what this deal means to me. I’ve worked on this for years, and there’s a bloody woman on the city council planning who point blank refuses to release the site for planning. But now I can force her hand.” He reached for another muffin. “Do you want one?”

  I shook my head.

  “When I pull this off, it will be the pinnacle of my career. I always look at you as a sort of inspiration, Peter. We both started off as apprentices in construction firms and now look at us. But you’ve done so much more than me. You’ve really made it big.”

  My cheeks felt flushed. Taking credit for my brother’s successes was getting harder every day. It dredged up the painful memories that I tried to bury. It was even worse when people praised my saintly and philanthropic activities.

  Ray opened his arms and waved them around the room. “You’ve got a very tidy business here, and you’re respected by people out there. Hell, the Mayor has you on speed dial!”

  “I’ve just been lucky,” I said weakly. These conversations were becoming more common and increasingly unwelcome to me. My hands tingled as my palms became clammy.

  “No way, mate. Don’t be one of those fucking humble guys. You can’t be lucky for a decade. That takes skill, intelligence, determination.” He took the last muffin. “Anyway, I’m just saying that when I pull this deal off, I’ll finally feel like I’m on your level.”

  I restrained the urge to burst out laughing, releasing the pent-up emotion that boiled away in me like a steam engine. I shook my head and avoided his reverent gaze. I looked past him, out of the full height glass windows over to the River Mersey. “You’re already past my level, Ray. More than you know.”

  Before he could reply, Odell opened the door and mercifully the conversation ended.

  A petite woman in her mid-twenties followed Odell into the room, clutching an A4 sized leather notepad across her chest. She wore blue jeans, and a brightly coloured halter neck top that looped round her slim neck with a white collar. She had jet black hair and large, white-rimmed glasses perched on a small nose, framing deep brown eyes. Her hair hung casually over her exposed collarbones, showing off an olive skin.

  I’d seen her a handful of times in Odell’s office when I’d dropped in to ask him to fill in a memory blank, but I didn’t know her name.

  “This is Luisa Gonzales. She’s our newest research assistant, and she’s already proving her weight in gold.”

  Luisa blushed.

  Odell beckoned her to sit down while he resumed his seat opposite Ray. “This is one of our clients, Ray Woods. He’s looking for our help with some macro-economic analysis. And this,” he pointed to me, “is Peter Black.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ray.” She sat down beside Odell and directly opposite me, smiling. “I’ve heard a lot about you Señor Black. It’s lovely to finally meet you.” Her lilting Spanish accent was accentuated by the slight lisp on the letter ‘s’. “The thing that attracted me to the company was your reputation for philanthropy. I read a newspaper article about the donation you made to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital. Too often financial institutions are heartless and profit driven. You’re obviously different.”

  I shuffled awkwardly in my seat. “Call me Peter, please,” was the best reply I could think of. I pulled out the gold-embossed fidget spinner from my pocket and spun it round in my hands. It was an affectation of my brother that I’d copied when I took over his persona. Now it was a crutch for when the pressure rose. “I’ve heard good things about you from Odell.”

  She flicked her hair over her shoulder and smiled at me. “Gracias. I was so nervous starting this job when I’m still completing my PhD. But Odell has been good at helping me settle in. If you can spare fifteen minutes in your diary, can you tell me more about your philanthropic work?”

  Here we go again, I thought. Another out-gushing of praise for actions I hadn’t done and didn’t have a damn right to accept.

  “Maybe we can find some time,” I said without commitment.

  As Odell summarised Ray’s research needs, once again using language that was alien to me, I excused myself and left the building.

  With Ray and Luisa’s undeserved praise echoing in my head like a stuck record, I wished it could all end. Coming clean seemed like the only atonement for what I did to my brother.

  Would the punishment free me from this torment?

  Chapter 2

  In the Plaza’s underground car park, I pressed the electronic ignition on my Mercedes S-Class and the engine purred to life. I say it was ‘my’ car, in reality it was my brother’s. I had just amalgamated it into my life, like everything else.

  My infatuation with expensive cars started at an early age. My parents never had a car—it was hardly practical when growing up in a Glasgow high rise. The foster carers we lived with after our parents died all had basic family cars. Even in my early thirties, I used to read about Jaguars, Aston Martins, and Porsches in car magazines in the local supermarket. I imagined what it would be like to have enough money to buy one.

  Here I sat in a top of the range luxury car, on the road price of eight thousand pounds, yet it made me sick to my c
ore. I let out a long, loud bellow, like an injured sea lion, and hammered the steering wheel repeatedly with my fists.

  “Who would be affected if I handed myself in?” I asked myself. Could I just go down to the police station and say, “Hi, I’m John Black. I switched places with my twin brother when he died in a car crash. I’m sorry.”

  But maybe not. After all, I didn’t actually kill anyone. So why should I hand myself in?

  ***

  The next day, I went to the office at lunchtime and headed straight for the coffee shop on the ground floor, delaying the inevitable visit to my office. Odell rang my mobile.

  “Morning, Mr Black,” he said in his usual deferential manner. After the pleasantries about our respective weekends, where I lied and told him I’d been in bed with a migraine, he said, “Are you coming to the office today? I want your advice on my presentation for the auditors.”

  “Auditors?” Growing up in a Glasgow gang, financial due diligence was never a top priority. I barely knew what an auditor did.

  “That’s right. They’re doing a preliminary analysis of our readiness for the year-end audit. We do it every year because it saves time later on.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be up shortly. I’m just grabbing some lunch first.” I picked up a tray and joined the back of the queue. I made a mental note to ask Odell what the auditors would expect from me.

  “Cool. Oh, Luisa has been asking after you.” He chuckled. “I think you have an admirer there, Mr Black. She’s quite taken by you! If you play your cards right...”

  “I don’t think so.” I thought back to my last failed relationship.

  “Well, if you change your mind, you could do worse.” With more urgency in his voice he said, “I almost forgot, Cassandra’s looking for you.”

  I hung up and moved forward in the queue, half-heartedly looking at the sandwiches on plates inside the fridges. I picked up a cheese ploughman’s and a tuna mayonnaise, and chose neither. In the end I put a ham sandwich on my tray without enthusiasm and picked up a carrot cake covered in buttercream icing.