The Manipulators: Ronda George Thrillers, #3

Chapter 1

‘Speculation is only a word covering the making of money out of the manipulation of prices, instead of supplying goods and services.’

Henry Ford

I’m squinting at the rain, splashing solidly on the windscreen, as the wipers thud back and forth while checking the destination on my SatNav.

You have reached your destination, she announces.

I sigh. The drive from the country road, up to the imposing dark steel gates, on gravel, is bumpy and uncomfortable. Peanut, my Fiat 500, purrs to a halt while I survey the scene before me.

The monastery consists of an old stone Priory to my left, a small nineteenth-century church ahead of me, and a modern building called the Peace Centre, located on the Welsh hillside overlooking the wild and thrashing Irish Sea. Although it’s not yet midday, it appears as though this is as light as the day will get, it’s foggy with a dank, low grey cloud.

I pull down the window and the salty air rushes in.

From behind the gate, a monk appears in a dark brown habit. It’s a loose-sleeved, hooded, gown and around his waist, a white cord is tied and hanging from that is a rosary. He waves and smiles. The gates open and I drive Peanut onto the tarmac drive.

‘Welcome, to the Monastery,’ the monk calls.

He’s mid-forties and his hair is receding and grey. His jowls are flushed from the biting, cold December wind.

‘You must be Ronda George.’

‘Hello.’ I give him the benefit of my best smile.

I haven’t been this close to God since I was a child.

‘I’m Brother John,’ he replies. ‘Welcome to St. Peter’s. If you follow the gravel pathway to the back of the Priory, you can park there. You’ll have to walk to the convent, but it’s not far.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll follow you.’

‘It’s Baltic out there, do you want a lift?’

‘No, no.’ He smiles, he’s already closing the gate behind me. ‘I’m used to it.’

To my right, I pass a row of signs on the cliff tops with white circles and red lines:

Danger. Do Not Pass. Beware. Caution.

At the back of the Priory I park beside a small, maroon-coloured van with a St. Peter’s Monastery emblem embossed on both sides. The logo is a swirling cross and two bloodied palms. It’s the same logo as on the entrance gates and the notice board placed on the pathway leading to the main church door. Someone takes their marketing and branding seriously. They’ve done an excellent job.

As I pull to a stop and glance to my right, the magnificent and eye-catching logo is also above the entrance to the modern Peace Centre, a white building with long glass windows, that looks busy inside. The main hall is illuminated and seems to be a hub of activity and; I assume; this is where the weekend conference will take place.

The three-buildings are in a triangle with St. Peter’s Church at the pinnacle,where it overlooks the cliffs and the rough, dark, churning sea below. As I listen to the roar of the pounding waves on the rocks, it’s dramatic and invigorating, and I slide the window shut.

I hadn’t wanted to take this job so near to Christmas but after attending Gloria’s concert last week - the famous Canadian chart-topper, and the last gig in her European tour at the O2, I knew I had to get my life back on track. Her music had filled me with vigour and energy, and I’d hummed along to her new chart-topping hit the whole way from London to the north-west corner of Wales:

You will not bring me down, you will not make me your clown

I will stay true, I will not follow you

I am me.

I climb out of the car and inhale the sea air, stretching my legs and arching my back. I rub my hands through my short hair, conscious that it’s standing up on end, and it needs a cut. This would be a perfect location for a luxury hotel and a spa weekend, and if it were, I’d book in immediately and stay a fortnight.

The events from last month are still firmly in my memory. Although my cuts have healed and the bruising has faded, the emotion of coming face to face with my ex-partner who was about to pull off one of the most outrageous scams and earn himself billions of dollars still rages through me. Fortunately, James is now firmly behind bars with no chance of bail and waiting for his trial in the new year. I doubt I will ever get the money back that he stole from me - fifty thousand pounds - but I’m pleased I’ve been instrumental in stopping him, literally, with my bare hands.

Unfortunately, poor Hugo, a Europol police officer and my friend, had been shot accidentally in the thigh. He is now in physiotherapy and making good progress.

Behind me, the arched leaded windows of the stonewalled Priory is illuminated with yellow lights making it look warm and inviting. Still, I imagine it inside, a long wooden table with hooded monks hunched over mugs eating dry bread and drinking ale. I shake my head to rid it of the medieval images and think about this weekend’s conference.

‘Religious, Spiritual Minds and Bodies’ – an international convention of medical doctors, monks, nuns, and a local prayer group.

I hear footsteps on the gravel behind me and I turn to watch Brother John hurrying toward me, his gown flapping in the wind, his hand outstretched.

‘Ronda, it’s delightful to meet you. I’m such a fan.’

Brother John is over a foot taller than me and his feet are bare in his open sandals. His grip is firm, and his large hands make mine feel small by comparison.

‘I’ll confess now, Ronda. I watched every episode of Masterchef and I loved the lemon meringue, it looked simply beautiful.’ His voice is melodious and rich.

I smile. ‘Thank you.’

The meringue had earned me a place in the semi-final that I’d gone on to win. It seems to be a dish that many people remember, or was it the fact that I’d punched the air in delight and almost knocked the host in the face? Either way, that’s what many viewers remembered.

‘How was your journey? The last weekend before Christmas is always a busy time on the roads.’

‘I was lucky. I left early.’

‘London can be a bit of a slog, especially on a Friday morning.’

‘Five hours but I did stop on the way.’

‘Good, good. Well, welcome to St. Peter’s Priory. You’re shivering. Come in and get warm. Let me help you with your bags, and then I’ll take you over to the convent. It’s the far side of the field, and it’s quicker to walk. Sister Mary has agreed for you to stay both nights.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s easier than you trekking back to a hotel in town each night.’

He stares, his eyes peering inquisitively into mine.

‘You’re much taller than I thought you’d be,’ he adds.

‘I’ve learned that television can be quite misleading.’

He grins. ‘You’ve still got those unusual green eyes, though. My goodness, they’re quite remarkable.’

He leans past me and reaches into Peanut’s boot, lifting my weekend bags effortlessly. He’s built like a wrestler, and I’m sure he is a solid body of muscle and, as he leads me inside, I wonder if the monks have their own private onsite gym.

‘I’ll let Sister Mary know you’ve arrived. If you think this is remote, wait until you see where they’re located.’

I return his smile.

Inspector Joachin had warned me St. Peter’s was isolated, but there’s also something peaceful and calming about the place, and I’m struggling hard to reevaluate what he’d told me only two days ago. He’d arrived at my flat and, after paying Molly a suitable amount of attention, he’d accepted coffee and a large slice of carrot cake before asking for my help. He said, it wasn’t a matter of life and death, but there was some serious fraud going on at the monastery. He said my task was simple. A weekend catering and to be his eyes and ears – at the conference. I had been unable to refuse his request. I’d tried to figure out why on the drive to Wales this morning. I could have said no. I could have refused. I could have made an excuse, but I hadn’t. I had actually felt a quiver of excitement. A thrill of expectation. A desire for action. And the awful thought dawned on me; perhaps this business was addictive.

* * *

I follow Brother John through to a stark but comfortable room with a long dining table. On the way, he introduces me to so many monks including Brother Simon, Brother Joseph, Brother Mark and Brother Jeremiah – so many that I lose count. Around us, religious relics and crosses adorn the nooks and recesses and pictures depicting the various stages of Christ’s complicated and short life. I glance at them with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment.

‘Are you a believer?’ he asks.

‘Not really.’

‘You’ll notice that here, we are dedicated to Padre Pio. Do you know who he is?’ Brother John indicates for me to sit at the end of the long mahogany table, and he sits opposite me. He’s placed my two bags on the floor beside me; one is carrying my overnight clothes and washbag, the other holding my catering attire, including my bandanas and also my set of expensive Japanese catering knives.

‘Brother Jeremiah will bring us coffee.’

‘Wasn’t Padre Pio canonised by Pope John Paul II?’ I reply.

Brother John beams and I’m pleased with my late-night research on the internet.

‘A stigmata is a mark on the skin.’ He indicates a circle on the palm of his hand. ‘Padre Pio became famous for exhibiting stigmata for most of his life. He was born in May 1887, and although he passed in September 1968, he generated a lot of interest and controversy – he still does. This is the reason for the convention this weekend. It’s a meeting of spiritual, religious and medical minds.’

Brother Jeremiah is old, well past retirement age, and he brings us coffee on a silver platter as if we’re about to take Communion.

When I thank him, he smiles. He doesn’t have many teeth and his skin is heavily wrinkled, reminding me of Dexter, a hairy Shar Pei, and a four-legged friend of Molly’s.

‘A stigmata,’ Brother John continues, sipping his coffee, ‘Is when reported wounds appear on the body. They are scars and pains which are in the same location as all or some of the five crucifixion wounds suffered by Jesus Christ. You may know that Christ suffered from injuries to his wrists and feet from the nails they used to crucify him on the cross, and he also suffered from a lance that pierced him in his side. More recently, stigmata as a crown of thorns has appeared in the twentieth century, around the head.’

He circles his receding hair with his forefinger, then he pauses to regard me carefully. I don’t say anything. As an agnostic, I’ve been present in some of the world’s most horrendous conflict and casualty zones. I believe that if there was a God, he wouldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t let all the people die so needlessly. More formally, and if asked, I’d argue factually – I believe human reasoning is incapable of providing sufficient reason that God either exists or doesn’t exist.

Brother John is a believer and he continues enthusiastically, ‘We Roman Catholics believe that Francis of Assisi was the first person to have stigmata, the first recorded stigmatic. For years, this has since been studied by physicians.’ He smiles. ‘And, you’ll see this weekend the eagerness and the desire that many physicians still have for investigating these remarkable phenomena.’

‘I’ll probably spend most of my time in the kitchen.’ I return his smile.

‘Well, I wanted to let you know a little about us and what we believe in.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It will be a busy weekend. Have you seen the schedule?’

He pulls over a manila folder lying on the table and slides it over to me.

‘I have this for you. I’ve prepared the paperwork for all the relevant people this weekend so that they know what’s going on and what to expect.’

I open it, and I’m surprised at the neatness of the pages. ‘You did this?’

‘With a little help from Lisa, the event coordinator.’

On the first page is a breakdown of guests:

100 international physicians

5 nuns

15 monks

25 local prayer group

= 145 total

I turn to the second page.

Weekend Programme of events:

Saturday

Welcome Church Service – St. Peter’s – 9 am

Welcome and Introduction = 10am

Seminars 10.30 – 12.30am

Lunch – 1pm

Seminars – 2-5pm

Afternoon tea – 3pm

Dinner – 7pm -150 pax.

Sunday

Welcome Church Service – St. Peter’s – 9 am

Seminars 10 – 12.30am

Lunch – 1pm

Church leaving Service – 2.30 pm

Afternoon Tea – 3.30pm

Departing – 4.30pm

The third, fourth and fifth pages show the menus for the weekend which I flip through. I’ve been sent an advanced copy by Father Donovan, so I am already familiar with the catering arrangements. In the same email, he’d assured me that the products would be purchased and delivered before my arrival.

The sixth, and final page shows a small hand-drawn map of the priory, St Peter’s Church and the Peace Centre as a triangle of buildings all joined by pathways. To the left of the picture is a square box with a cross, and in neat handwriting someone has added, ‘Carmelite nuns’.

‘Is this where I’m staying for two nights?’ I point.

‘Yes.’ Brother John beams as if I’ve understood everything correctly. ‘Now, Lisa Rutherford is the conference organiser. She will be here later this afternoon. She’s arranged for you to use some of the produce grown by the Sisters in the greenhouses. Brother Matthew will be on hand to take you over there. The nuns have very green fingers, so you’ll be very impressed.’

‘I’m sure I will.’

‘You’re very good to come and help out at such short notice.’

‘It’s my pleasure.’

‘Was it Father Donovan who hired you?’

I frown. ‘It came from higher up than that,’ I reply truthfully. ‘With no offence intended, I think they probably wanted to impress the international delegates arriving from overseas.’

Brother John nods in understanding.

‘No offence taken. This is a significant step forward in discussions between different groups and beliefs, and an important one in recognising the truth.’

‘The truth is always important,’ I reply.

‘Absolutely.’ He holds my gaze for a few seconds. ‘Now, I suppose we should crack on. You’ll want to get settled in today so that you’re up to speed tomorrow when the guests arrive. So, I’ll walk you over to the convent and we can go via the Peace Centre where the guests’ conference will be taking place over the weekend. The Brothers are setting everything up, but I’ll show you the kitchen and introduce you to the sous chef and the staff of volunteers who will be helping you. You’ll find Brother Matthew particularly helpful. He’s only been with us a year but he’s taken on most of the kitchen duties already. He’s very willing and I’m sure you’ll find him extremely capable.’

Brother John stands up and seems to tower over me like a hooded giant. His hands are slow and careful as he carries the mugs on the silver platter to a room at the far end.

While he’s gone, I look around and imagine the monks sitting around the table and wonder at the thoughts that must go through their minds—belief, faith, trust – in something you can never see but only feel.

But why are they here? What happened in their lives to bring them to this isolated location for silent prayer and a life dedicated to God?

In the recess, near the door, there’s a marble statue of a bearded man with an intense and soulful expression. I read the inscription aloud. ‘Always live under the eyes of the Good Shepherd, and you will walk unharmed through evil pastures.’

‘That’s Padre Pio.’ Brother John is suddenly beside me. I hadn’t heard him approach, and I’m startled. He seems to notice, and he places his hand comfortingly on my shoulder. His touch is gentle and calming, or is it my imagination?

‘He looks an interesting man,’ I say, ‘but forgive my ignorance, Brother John, what do you do here every day?’

Instead of looking offended, Brother John appears amused.

‘There are many Orders in the Roman Catholic Church. Here, were are aligned to the Third Order Regular and the Brothers of the Poor of St. Francis of Assisi.’

‘Do you help in the community?’ I ask.

‘That is one of our missions.’

‘Last night, I tried to do some research, but I got lost in layers of religious definitions on Google until the early hours of this morning so I’m seeking clarification from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’

Brother John appears to find this amusing. ‘Come with me, and we will talk and walk. I’ll carry your bags.’

He lifts them with ease and guides me out of the large room in the priory and outside into the cold. Although the low cloud has lifted and the clouds seem to be parting, I pull my sheepskin coat closer to my neck.

‘Over there.’ He points toward the church and the cliffs. ‘The views from St. Peter’s are stunning but take care not to go too close to the edge of the cliff. They are very precarious at this time of year, and we don’t encourage people to go down onto the beach. It can be very hazardous.’

I nod and dig my hand deeper into my pockets. ‘It’s not warm enough for me to go sightseeing,’ I grin. ‘But I’d imagine you get tourists in the summer.’

‘Yes, there are, but we try to discourage them from walking along the clifftops.’

‘I saw the warning signs.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s not as if we don’t welcome people from the community to the monastery. We do. We are Franciscan monks and we strive to lead a life through prayer, through our community and ministry to the poor. This includes helping all the neglected, the disadvantaged and the powerless in