Conman (29 page)

The clerk handed me a small key and showed me to my box, tugging out a flat sliding tray from beneath the metal door where I could rest the contents. Clammy handed, heart thumping, I slipped in the key, turned it twice and slid out the metal box with a teeth-edging scrape, resting it upon the tray. Opening the lid, I reached in and pulled out an A4-sized black velvet wallet, throwing a quick look above me at the soft humming bulbs.

“It’s all right,” the clerk said, clearly noting my hesitation.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just …”

“Light is our clients’ number one concern. Along with air quality of course. The whole room is UV free. Plus you’re in a Mylar container there,” she said, pointing to the tag on the key. “US National Archives and the Library of Congress use the same system. Mr Spencer was very anxious his investment was protected.”

His
investment? Figured.

I hurriedly slipped the velvet pouch into the protective
darkness
of my satchel, feeling the cold solid sealed plastic box through the fabric and handed her back the key.

“That it sir?” she said.

I nodded quickly, heart in my throat.

“I’ll need your signature on the release slip. Will you want the box kept here for you?” she asked.

“Yes yes. God, it’ll only be away for a few hours I hope.”

“Letting an expert take a look?” she smiled.

“Uhm, of sorts,” I said.

My phone was deedly-deeting as I emerged back, squinting, on the chilly street.

“
He’s -anged the venue,
” Andrew crackled. “
Must be as you said. Throwing -e a dummy to -ake it sound convin –”
The line was breaking up.
“Says he’s -ot to get an earlier fligh –. Wants to meet at the restau … four.
”

“Four? Meet at
four
? Shit. Where? Which restaurant … ? Benno? Hello?”

“-
ello? Oh bloody h –
”

The line fizzed and crackled and died like a damp,
pay-as-you-go
firework.

I stood, trainers sticky on the pavement, glued by panic and indecision. An hour. Around me, city boys jostled and barged with huge weekend-rugby shoulders. I clutched the satchel hard to my chest.

Think. Think Neil,
think
.

I shut my eyes, buffeted and elbowed by the sea of Hackett elbows and Loake’s brogues. Where would Christopher take him?
Somewhere fancy. Somewhere fitting a high-rolling city insurer.
Claridge’s
again? No. Not after the jiffy bag and kitten sting. He wouldn’t be going back there again. Then where? Somewhere else in his little black note – ?

Wait.

The world lurched forward suddenly. I opened my eyes, the winter sun low and bright.

Wait.

Twirling and spinning, horizon tipping, I stumbled around, eyes scanning the street. Sandwich bars, travel agents, key-cutters,
there
!

Satchel tight, digging into my ribs, I darted across Ravensgate to the blare of taxi horns into a small WHSmith. The shop was humming. Suited men buying
Evening Standards
, women choosing monthly glossies. I scanned the signage like a lunatic until I stumbled
breathlessly
past newspapers and greetings cards into the travel guides section. I dumped my satchel to the floor and craned my neck, eyes peeling over the shelves until – a-ha. I took the fattest, most
comprehensive
London restaurant guide from the shelf and flicked towards the index where the eateries were listed alphabetically.

C’mon,
c’mon
…

That afternoon at
Claridge’s
. Sat at the table. He’d flipped to the back of his notebook where a list of some sort had been written in his neat blue hand.
The Clarendon I’ve done
, he’d said and crossed it out.

How else would you do it? If you conned a free dinner out of a different London restaurant every day, what simpler way than this to make sure you didn’t accidentally dine at the same place twice?

I scanned down the guide, closing my ankles tight about my bag on the floor.
Clannaught
in Mayfair.
Clarendon
on St James.
Claridge’s
, Hanover Square. That had been last Friday. So, Saturday, Sunday, Monday …

I began to count down the list. Ten days since then. Ten entries down.

Page 96. I thumbed back quickly. A short entry. Ultra modern, stripped wood, low lighting, international cuisine. Starters from
£
12.

That could be the one.
Should
be the one.

God
please
let that be the one.

I shoved the book back on the shelf and grabbed up my bag, hurrying from the shop and waving for a cab.

“Soho mate,” I said, hauling myself in and falling all over the vinyl.

I slammed the door and with a wide lurch, we were off.

It was creeping up on three twenty-five when my phone began deedly-deeting again. Fumbling fingers, I eased it carefully from the satchel and thumbed it open.

“
It’s me,
” Andrew said. The line was clearer. “
My cell’s playing silly-buggers. I’m calling from my desk so I’ve got to be quick. O’Shea’s calling a meeting this afternoon at the Holborn site for something or other but I’ve told him it’s an emergency. Did you manage to get you know what
?”

“Right here,” I said, running my hands over the hard square shape in my bag.

“
Great. But we’ve got a problem. The bloody restaurant he’s picked is all the way over in Soho.
”

“Lexington Street?”

“
What
?
Yes
.”

“
The Crib
? Two stars. Terrace at rear?”

“
Jesus, how did you
– ?”

“Lucky guess. I’m halfway there. What’s the plan? Outside in fifteen minutes?”

“
You’re on. Find a doorway or a phone-box opposite side. I’ll see you there.
”

Andrew’s cab finally pulled up at ten to four, just as I was re-reading the phone-box’s hypnotic, soft porn interior décor for the thirtieth time in an attempt to keep my reeling mind steady.

Breathe
in
… eighteen-year-old pre-op transsexual new to area wants discipline … and
out
.

“All right?” I said as he heaved open the door to join me, his cab pulling away in a cough of London dust. He clambered in and shuffled up a bit, the heavy door swinging shut slowly.

We breathed warm breaths intimately, our chests pressed together, elbows banging on the glass.

“Fine fine. What time you got? Ten to? Okay.” He was as nervous as me but trying harder not to show it. Through the greasy glass panes we had a view of the restaurant opposite.
The Crib
was a large modern place with a brushed chrome and oak façade, its lettering in a squat, lower-case orange that had been cutting-edge for about an hour and a half two years ago. Through its smoked glass we could see stocky gay men laying out linen, horsey blonde waitresses three-day eventing between them.

“Right then,” Andrew said, composing himself with a puff and a cough. “Christopher said on the phone he was bringing someone from valuation with him. Any clue as to who that’ll be?”

“God,” I said, and if there had been room to shrug I would have done. “If he’s working with the same team, then it’s most likely to be Henry – Australian guy, youngish. Or maybe Pete. Black guy, tall. They seem the tightest with him.”

“Righto. I gave the restaurant a bell on the way here to see if I could get you a table for one, but –”

“Me?!” I jumped, banging my arm on the phone painfully. “Ow.
Me
? I can’t be seen in there. Are you out of your
mind
?”

“I just thought it would be helpful, y’know? Have you listen in. Round a corner or something. But the maître d’ says it’s all pretty open plan. We’ll have to come up with something else. I thought this might work,”and Andrew banged his elbows a bit, tugging out the usual breath mints, matches and a Zippo, laying them on top of the phone before fishing out his phone.

“Do you carry this shit with you everywhere? You don’t even smoke.”

“True. O’Shea does though. Corny I know, but it never hurts to light a man’s cigar.”

Unravelling his hands-free cable, he stuffed the tiny earpiece into his inside pocket, letting the wire and mouthpiece dangle just inside the jacket. He slipped the phone into his trouser pocket and let his jacket fall closed, hiding the wires.

“There. An instant bugging device. If you call me on
your
phone, you should be able to hear everything we say at the table.”

“You sure your phone’s reliable?” 

 “Hmn. Could be right there old man. Let’s try yours,” and we swapped them over. Andrew pointed at the phone-box receiver. “You can call from here if mine’s clunky. Try it.”

I lifted the receiver and shoved my credit card into the slot, dialling my phone. Andrew thumbed open the line and slipped the glowing handset into his jacket. He cleared his throat.

“
Ahem. I’ll have the prawn cocktail cocktail, the chicken kievs kievs followed by the black forest gateaux gateaux,
” he said, his voice echoing a second later in my ear. “How’s that that?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Then that’s it. You have the bait?”

I took a deep breath, swallowed twice and handed him my satchel.

“Is it all right in here? Nothing I need to know? Don’t get it wet, don’t feed it after midnight, anything like that?”

“It’s in a velvet pouch and sealed in an Impregnated Mylar-S Sleeve with an Oxy-Sorb inside,” I said. “You don’t let him take it out of the pouch unless he’s wearing gloves and you keep it out of direct light.”

Andrew nodded, pushing open the heavy door. The street was quiet. Just the distant sigh of traffic.

“It’ll be all right,” he said. “We’re just going to see what he says. We’ll be on the coffee before you know it and you’ll have it back in the bank.” He waggled his lapel. “Don’t forget I’m on Radio Con FM.”

He let the door swing shut and checking the street, jogged across to the restaurant whispering into his lapel.

I placed the phone to my ear, stomach rolling, seasick with nerves.

“
Receiving me? Niner niner ten-four come back?”
Andrew crackled.
“Here we go.
”

Crouching down in the little booth, I watched him through the tiny panes as he entered the restaurant. He approached a lectern where a tall blond man waited with a book.

“
Good afternoon. I’m meeting a Mr Fitzgerald here at four o’clock?
” he crackled in my ear.

Andrew’s shape was lost among the reflections in the window, just as a large black reflection peeled up to the kerb.

I swallowed hard at the sound of slamming doors and familiar voices, my hands cold around the receiver. I found myself
stumbling
back, further from the scratched glass, trying to lose myself amongst the Blu-tacked calling cards. Oh to be a fluorescent eighteen-year-old pre-op transsexual, new to area and needing discipline, I thought.

Two figures emerged from the cab.

Christopher. In a sombre suit, the silver attaché case in his hand, pipe in his mouth, shoulders back. Ready for business.

I could feel my teeth grind. My lip curl.

Hot, purple hate raged up inside me.

I wanted to shout. Bang on the glass. Yell, scream, tear at him like an animal.

Trembling, I watched.

Behind him, his valuation expert climbed out of the cab and paid the cab driver.

She then adjusted her stockings, undid a button on her blouse, and followed him in.

“
Then, dearie boy, I think we might just have ourselves a deal-ette. Cheers.
”

“
Ch-cheers.
”

“
And … mmnm, and how does your wife feel about the possibility of a sale, Mr Mayo
?”

“
I-I’m not married. And please, call me An … g-gus. Angus.
”

“
Angus
?”

“(cough)
Right
. (clatter)
Oops S-sorry, was that your
– ?”

“
It’s fine. Really. I quite enjoyed it.
”

I jammed my finger knuckle-deep into my ear and pressed my head against the receiver hard, breath fogging the scratchy glass.

They were on their main courses as far as I could tell. That is to say, I’d heard them all make the same yummy noises, the same two asparagusy chomps and the same unsatisfied sighs as they’d then all pushed their plates away a second later. Introductions had been brief, Christopher ladling on the
righty-hoes
and
indeedy-dooberies
in his usual flowery manner and they’d got down to
business
immediately. Andrew had brought out the Mylar sleeve to a round of gasps and a
well-bless-my-gracious
, the rest of the wine and starters being been taken up by Christopher’s well-rehearsed
whittering
– scarcity, market value, auctions – all text-book stuff and all lifted verbatim from me and what sounded like half an episode of the
Antiques Roadshow.

In fact, standing there in the callbox, my only real concern was Laura. Or Margaret. Or whatever the hell she was calling herself.

“
And you were saying, you’re not married
?”

“
Huh? No, no, I’m –
”

“
Free and single
?”

“
Well
(cough)
uhmm, is that your
(yelp thud giggle).”

God, what the hell was she
doing
to the poor man?

This
free and single
line was just the latest in a meal-full of
giggles, come-ons, chat-ups and breathy adolescent flirting. From the moment they’d sat down in fact, Christopher had had to crowbar his valuation and insurance waffle between Laura’s
coquettish
compliments and tarty teasing. All
gorgeous tie, Mr Mayo.
Can I feel?
and
oooh, it’s warm in here.
All these accompanied by sporadic whimpers, yelps and bangs of cutlery, leading me to only imagine at what was going on under the table.

Now you need to understand, it’s not that Andrew’s a
bad-looking
bloke. He isn’t. At college at least, the Byronic beard, fisherman’s jumpers and brooding concern for wildlife, all wrapped up in broad shoulders and Nordic, eco-warrior jawline was quite the catnip to the hall full of moony first years.

But Laura’s flirty temptress act? This was out of
all
proportion. Now clearly she was just role-playing her usual part in Christopher’s elaborate set-up. The same part she’d performed for me. But as I listened intently within the stuffy callbox, face screwed up, straining for every murmur, I could tell something wasn’t right. Her tone, her manner. It was different from before. Dangerous.
Urgent
, even. The pouty coffee-shop girl had been replaced by a more obvious
bored-business-woman-looking-for-a-quick-hotel-room-and-a-good-
hard –

Deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet dee.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet dee.

Dropping the handset with a loud plastic crack, I fumbled in my jacket, Andrew’s clunky mobile phone trilling out again. O’Shea’s name flashed in the display.

Christ.

Deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet dee.

Panicky and cursing, I swallowed hard and thumbed open the line.

Deedle-ee-deet dee –

“H-hello?”

“
- enjamin? That you?
” the line crackled.
Where da – ell are ye
?”

“Er, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Andrew’s a bit tied up …”

“
Eh? What? Speak up, I -anny hear a ting there. Benjami –
?”

“Can I give him a message? He’s just away from the phone.”

“
-essage? Jeezus, you can tell -at greedy eejit that I didn’t just -ome
over on the la … erry. Who does he th- … dealing with? -ello? I -ant to see his f- … xplain wh- ello? -y half past fi- … -ello?
”

The line went dead.

Shit.

I thought about Andrew. His share options. His Long Island holiday home. A corner office overlooking the park.

Biting my lip hard, I retrieved the swinging handset and pressed it to my ear. It had gone eerily quiet. Oh God. Oh God, had they heard the ring? Was the game all –

“
Neil
?” a voice hissed down the line. “
Neil? Where are you
?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” I jittered. “O’Shea just called. Where are you – ?”

“
Gents. It’s all … Just get over here. Get over here now
.”

A moment later I was shuffling in a half crouch, past the brushed chrome and pale wood, under pin-pricks of halogens, down a short echoey corridor. Thudding through the door, I fell into the polished glare of the bathroom.

“Thank God. You all right?” Andrew said quickly. He was at the wide basins in his shirt sleeves, running a tap noisily. My satchel leaned up against the wall. He scuttled forward and pulled me further in with soggy hands.

“You okay?”

“Bloody hell. I’m not cut out for this,” and he paced, puffing, breathing deep.

“What’s he … I-I mean, have you figured out what his game is?”

“I’ve no bloody idea,” Andrew said, splashing water on his face, moving dripping to the blow-dryer. “He’s got my signature on some form.”

“Signature – ?”

“Got me to sign with a fountain pen. A
validation
. Saying I’ve heard his opinion and am aware of the potential value and so on. Paperwork. Just covering their backs, nothing more. But Lordy, this
Linda
?”

“Linda?”

“It’s what she’s calling herself. Linda something. Phew-ee, I see what you mean old stick. She’s all
over
me. Shoes off under the table, toes in my groin, I don’t know where to look.” 

“All part of the plan, y’think?”

“Possible.”

“Only
possible
? You think she
genuinely
… ?”

“I don’t
know
, do I? All I know is, Christopher’s trying to butter me up, lure me in, get me all excited. But all the while the woman’s got her shoes off and her toes halfway up my trouser leg. I’m just saying, if they wanted me to concentrate on his
pitch
, she’d be better leaving her toes where they … wait,” and he stopped suddenly. “Wait, you say O’Shea called? Hell’s bells, what did he say?”

I explained the garbled message. Something about not coming over on the last ferry? Who you think you are dealing with? Greedy eejits?

“Bloody hell,” Andrew said, spinning and snarling. “He doesn’t … Shit.” He flashed a look at his watch. “They’re going to be wondering where I am. There’s a meeting at five. Can you …” he paced, panicky. “Look, here,” and he tugged a fat wedge of folded paperwork from his hip pocket and a couple of twenty pound notes. “Here. This is where O’Shea is. Take this, get a cab back to my office. I’ll get someone there to put the paperwork at reception,” and he snatched the phone from his inside pocket.

“Wait wait wait. Paperwork? Leave you here?” I checked my watch. “Isn’t there some other
wh-EYY!
” I yelped, suddenly
stumbling
backwards, Andrew shoving me hard in the chest. I slammed into a toilet cubicle loudly, arms flailing, bumping the backs of my knees against the lavatory and found myself suddenly sitting on the loo. Andrew, eyes wide and panicked, put his finger to his lips quickly and swung the door shut.

I sat, dizzy, blinking and bewildered in the small cubicle, rubbing my bruised chest when I got the faint whiff of pipe tobacco and heard what Andrew had obviously heard already.

“Bah!
Here
you are old fruit ’n’ nut.”

“H-Here I am,” Andrew squeaked. Taps were running again. “Just finishing up. Sorry to keep you …”

“Not at all dear fellow, not at all,” Christopher warbled. “Need a quick pinch-off myself.” I heard his brogues clicking across the tiled floor, a shadow passing in the two-inch gap under the door. I held my breath, hands out against the thin wooden walls,
heartbeat
hammering in my ears. “Heady numbers taken you by surprise I bet, hmmn?”

“No no. I-I mean yes. Yes. I had no idea it was so … I mean, like I said, it was my father’s …”

“Well. It’s a mint condition Golden Ager, you see. 1938 to 45. Perennial.” I shut my eyes at the sound of a belt buckle, of zip, a pause, and then that familiar masculine sigh as he took a seat in the cubicle next door. “Like anything else, there’s an element of fashion to the market,” he went on, voice echoey. “If an artist dies it’s helpful. Or a fiftieth anniversary,” and on he went. “Anyhoo, if all’s
Con Brio
?” Christopher said standing, zipping up. “I’ve ordered coffee.” He flushed loudly and moved back out into the
bathroom
.

“Be one second,” Andrew said.

I held my breath as brogues clicked, a tap skooshed and the door swung closed with a clunk.

Oh this wasn’t good.

This wasn’t good at all.

“He’s playing you,” I said, pushing out into the bathroom. Andrew was drying his hands. “It’s started. Whatever he’s doing, it’s started. We need to be careful.”

“You sure?”

I motioned at the cubicle.

“A pinch off? He didn’t make a sound. Not a parp, not a strain, not a plop. In fact … ” and I slid into his booth. “Look.” The lid was down and the loo roll was still folded neatly into a virginal point. “He only came in here to check you were alone. Make sure you weren’t calling the cops or changing your tape player. He’s up to something. We just don’t know what.”

“Then I had better find out. You’ve have that address?”

I waved the paper at him.

“I’ll call the office. You pick up the artist’s impression from reception and take it over to Holborn. See you back here in an hour.”

I nodded and, taking a last longing look at my satchel, crept out of the bathroom.

“Thank you,” I said to the maître d’ quickly as I slunk past, but nobody paid me any attention. Not him, not the man at his lectern.

An Australian man dressed in a navy suit holding a battered burgundy briefcase.

A familiar man. Very familiar. As familiar, in fact, as his driver.

Sat at the kerb in a shiny Mercedes, smoking a foul cigarette, peaked cap pulled down, hiding his eyes. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, an unruly thatch of thick brown hair.

A speedy cab had me climbing Andrew’s office steps near St Paul’s fifteen squirm-filled minutes later. The security guard gave my attire an inquiring “Awright sir?” which I batted back with a small smile and a purposeful stride, pushing through the glass into the busy lobby where dozens of suited men and women milled about in front of the desk, heels clicking, phones trilling. The envelope was just where Andrew had said it would be so I was back on the street and into the cab, turning a wide circle back towards Holborn moments later, resuming my journey and picking up my paranoia just where I’d left it.

What were Henry and Julio’s roles in all this? Where was this going? My mind had played it over and over again, trying every possible permutation of cross, double-cross and triple double-cross with extra cheese. Was Henry about to join their restaurant table? A mysterious Aussie stranger with a case full of money?

A sickening thought arrived in the back of the cab with me. I didn’t want to budge up to give it room but it didn’t seem to care as it plonked itself on my lap with a horrid grin.

Was Henry swinging by their table at that very moment? Playing the greedy buyer? Would Henry top Christopher’s valuation? Offer quick cash?

No. No, it couldn’t … Andrew … He wouldn’t. He’d see though that. He’d … Christ.

“This it mate? Hoi, mate?”

The cabbie’s voice stretched out to me like a lifeline, hauling me from the thick quicksand of worry. I looked up. He’d pulled up at a wide kerb, huge building boards circling the block, the world shaking with pneumatic drills, shouts and clangs, a film of pink brick dust on the air.

I piled out, the cab’s motor idling, looking up and down the street quickly.

“Hey! Hey fellah!” O’Shea’s voice rang out over the industrial din. He was positioned by a doorway to the site, a fluorescent yellow waistcoat over his fat suit, a dusty hard-hat perched high on his head. “Hey! You lookin’ for me, boy?”

I scuttled over, handing him the envelope.

“Sorry!” I hollered over the steel chatter of drills. “Andrew got caught up. Said this was what you wanted. Sends his apologies.”

O’Shea’s dusty fat fingers scrabbled the lip open.

“Jesus has dat boy gat himself some cheek, that he has.” He shook his podgy face, tutting, a curled lip releasing whisky breath and yellow snaily teeth. “I’m not some fetlock-tuggin’ farmhand, y’hear me? What does he think? Oim’ some charity is it? Some charity? Help The Eejit?”

“I …”

“Only ’ting worse than that boy’s manners is his golf-swing.”

“I … Sorry, Mr O’Shea, I have to be getting going …”

I was backing away. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but picture Andrew sliding a velvet sleeve across a dining table, Laura’s toes in his groin, his mind in her cleavage, Henry swapping cases
surreptitiously
behind his back.

“T’inks missin’ a hole or two’ll warm me to him does he?” O’Shea stuffed the contents of the envelope back in roughly. “While he pulls a stunt like this? You can tell ’im oi ain’t impressed. Tell ’im that from me. Oi ain’t impressed at’all, y’hear? Hey, y’hear?”

It was creeping up on five-thirty, as the cab crept up on Soho.

God. Please.
Please
let it be all right. Fear bunched tight like wet rope in my throat, short shallow breaths pumping. Let Andrew be paying attention. Let him … Let him talk his way out of it. Feign another appointment, make his excuses. Up and leave. Not suspicious, not shifty. Just … just God, let him leave. Get clear. Get safe. Please God.