See Naples and Die by Ray Cleveland Page B

in fact built circa 1944 to the specifications of a well-known English
actor of the time.
    The actor had co-starred in several
Hollywood movies and, although never destined to be a leading man, had carved a
niche for his charming English characters. But then, with the growing unrest in
Europe and the imminent threat of war, he felt it only right to return home and
do his bit for king and country. So he bade a fond farewell to Tinseltown and
flew back to the rolling hills of the South Downs where he had this house built
in a style that reminded him of Los Angeles, and for the rest of the war he
spent his working hours at a South London film studio playing various military
parts in low-budget war films. Now that’s patriotism for you.
    For the past eight years the house had
been owned by Walter Monreal, a Conservative member of parliament. Walter was a
humourless individual who seemed to take pleasure in berating defenceless
waiters in restaurants or other unfortunates who crossed his path, and he had
one of those mouths that had a permanent upside-down smile. He was smug and
crass with an overinflated ego matched only by his ruthless ambition, and he
stepped over people without remorse or regret. He was a human being who truly
believed he was the centre of the universe with the rest of the population in
his orbit and at his beck and call.
    As an MP he had moved up the greasy pole
of politics with ease. Walter was an expert at choosing the right alliances,
and even better at gaining sensitive information on individuals who he could
then control. The FBI would be proud to have produced such dossiers. It had
taken only a short time for Walter to manoeuvre himself into a permanent role
at the department of business development, which was as far as he wanted to go.
He had no desire to become a senior cabinet minister. Those positions came with
a mountain of responsibility and offered little in return … and Walter was in
it for the money.
    His grand project was the development of
a large area on the outskirts of Manchester. The government was making lots of
noise about plans to relocate some of its departments out to the provinces, and
was putting pressure on the financial institutions to do the same. This was
never going to happen, of course – the capital would always be the centre of
commerce – but the prime minister had given instructions to make a gesture, and
Manchester had been chosen as the Canary Wharf of the north.
    Walter had been instrumental at deciding
on the exact location. Land was cheap in the north, and through a maze of
companies he had been buying up great chunks of the area. But, as with any
commodity, buying and selling are two entirely different animals. He had bought
low but would sell high, and the government wouldn’t question the price because
it was his decision. He would be signing his own cheque. The development would
go ahead and he would continue to profit from leases on the buildings, where he
held well-hidden percentages. The construction company, the architects, the
financiers: they were all under his thumb – well, most of them.
    There was a potential problem. A square
peg was trying to force itself into a round hole. A Mafia family was involved.
This had happened in the early stages … just to get it moving. He had made that
quite clear. They were never a long-term proposition, but now they wanted to
change the goalposts. Well, he wasn’t having it. Nobody, not even the Mafia,
told Walter Monreal what to do. He had returned their initial investment plus
interest, and that was the end of it. And as additional insurance he had done a
deal with a new consortium, which included London gangsters – who had promised
muscle, whenever and wherever necessary. He felt utterly protected and safe. In
any case, no one is going to get rough with a member of the British government.
It would cause too much of an uproar, and create pressure even the Mafia could
do without. Walter grinned inwardly,