Conman (33 page)

“
Just now
. He wants to meet me at noon
.
Embankment station, rear carriage, westbound District line of all places. And you were right. Said he wants to discuss something discreet
.”

“Get there early. Eleven forty-five. I’ll meet you on the platform,”
Laura said. “I’ve got a microphone you can wear. I’ll listen in from the next carriage and get it all on tape.”

“
I’ve got to go. O’Shea is demanding my personal assurance that … Actually, in truth I don’t know what he wants. Forget it. Eleven
forty-five
. Embankment. Westbound District line.
”

“Tape?” I said, hanging up. “For the police?”

“Barrister says the more evidence I’ve got the better. Plus I’m not leaving this Andrew of yours alone with Christopher without knowing
exactly
what’s being said. Right now I don’t trust anybody.” Laura stubbed out her cigarette in my Betty Boop ashtray. “It’s just possible
Christopher’s
spoken to a barrister. Or Henry has. Or Julio. Or any of them. Could be the cops are setting
me
up. Plus, how do I know Christopher didn’t swing by Andrew’s hotel room last night after I left? Offer you a sweeter package?”

“He didn’t.”

“Right. So
you
say.”

“God. Quite a life you’ve carved out for yourself here,” I said. “You trust
anybody?
”

“Just me. Which can get lonely for a girl.”

“Which is why you want out.”

Laura hoisted her bag to her shoulder.

“You’ll be here when we’re done?” she asked, flicking her hair from her sunglasses.

“
Done
– ? Are you joking? I’m coming with you.”

“With – ? No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Oh no you’re not.”

“And as much as I hate to turn this into a panto –”

“You’re not. You stay here and dry your Munchkins. It’s too dangerous. What if Christopher sees you?”

“What if he sees
you?
”

“He won’t see me, honey. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“Good. Then as long as I stand behind you, I’ll be fine.”

“
Neil
–”

“No. I’m not letting you out of my
sight
until Christopher and the rest are in custody and I have my daughter’s future and the trust of my wife back.” I grabbed my jacket from my chair and snatched up my keys. “Let’s go.”
By twenty to twelve I was paying the cab driver and scuttling after Laura, weaving through the tourists, through the
thud-hiss
of the barriers and down to Embankment’s westbound
platform
.

It was busy. Under sickly yellow light, loud gaggles of Europeans in rustling anoraks clustered about tiny maps, laughs echoing off the clean white tiles. The dot matrix board rolled around announcing arrivals, every three minutes another grimy train sighing in and out. Doors rolled and thudded, slicks of hassled commuters spilling among us.

I followed Laura to the far end of the platform where the crowd thinned to a couple of lone men.

“Here,” she said, dumping her bag. She began to rummage, leaving me to pace and skitter and twitch like one of the many pigeons on the platform opposite.

“
Could it be this one?
” I whispered, reading the indicator board. “
Going to Richmond. One minute?
”

“He won’t be here until precisely noon.”

“
Might he be early?
”

“He won’t be early.”

“
What if he’s early?
”

“Neil?”

“Sorry.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and shuffled over to Laura. She was perched on the bench, unrolling the broadsheet paper on her lap, revealing a small sandwich of that bobbly
camera-case
foam. Lifting off the top half, the sandwich filling turned out to be an
iPod
-sized black box, a tangle of thin black wire, a fresh pack of batteries and a big fat fountain pen chunky enough to have been stolen from my bank by three men with a flat-bed truck.

Behind me, a train burst into the station with a loud blare making me give a startled jibber.

“Make yourself useful,” and Laura handed me the batteries and the black box. “Careful.”

“What’s this?” The box was plastic, edged with flat black switches, a headphone socket and the head of a telescopic radio-antenna.

“The receiver. Change the batteries.”

Heart thumping, I fumbled with the plastic packaging, throwing
the batteries all over the floor.

“Stop mucking about,” Laura scowled as I scurried about in a
crouch. “Now how much do you know about this Andrew?”

“Know?”

“Where did you meet?”

“University,” I said, gathering up the final battery and slipping
them one by one into the casing. The platform clock read eleven
forty-nine. No Andrew.

“He said in the restaurant he did something with property?”
Laura was carefully, with nimble fingers, unspooling the thin black
wire.

“He does,” I said, one eye on the clock. It was eleven minutes
to. “Works for some New York firm. Glorified estate agents. He’s
over here trying to get a promotion. God where
is
he?”

Laura took the receiver from me, plugging in the earphone
wire and extending the antenna. She checked her watch.

“He misses this appointment, we’re screwed. Christopher doesn’t
trust a mark who won’t do as he’s told.”

“He’ll be here, he’ll be here,” I said. Eight minutes to noon.
“Do
you
know why today’s important by the way? Yom Kippur?
Ramadan? Jane thinks I’ve forgotten.”

“You have forgotten.”

“Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

A train rolled in. A train rolled out. Christ,
c’mon.

I paced, eyes flipping from the matrix board to the platform
steps, back and forth.

Six minutes to.

“I’ve been through my diary,” I whittered. “No birthdays, no
anniversaries …”

“Here we go, this could be him.”

A train rolled in, a train rolled out.

Four minutes.

“C’mon old pal.
C’mon.
”

Three minutes.

A train rolled in, Andrew fell out.

“
Jesus Christ
,” Laura hissed. “
In your own time.
”

“Sorry, sorry,” Andrew panted. He was breathing fast, face pink,
not helped by his ill-fitting shirt. “O’Shea’s accused Keatings of embezzling.”

“
Embezzling?
”

“I
know.
Because we’re holding on to his New York profit for three days before his London purchase goes through on Friday.”

“Isn’t that standard practice?”

“
Exactly!
That’s what we said. Standard practice. But no. He’s back there now flapping about loss of interest. What does he think we’re going to do with it in
three days?
Take it to the bloody dog track?” He shook a hassled head. “How much time we got here?”

The indicator board showed a District Line train due in three minutes.

“Stick this in your top pocket,” Laura said hurriedly, handing Andrew the fountain pen. He took it, giving it the once over.

“This looks familiar,” he hummed. “Didn’t I sign that
validation
yesterday with this?”

“Very observant,” Laura said, double checking the receiver. “It has a miniature condenser mic in the lid. For all your covert surveillance needs. Sends a signal to me in the next carriage,” and she waggled the black box. “Twist the cap until it clicks.”

Andrew did so, a tiny red LED snapping into life on the receiver.

“That’s it. Radio Free Europe.”

The next train on platform four will be your westbound District Line train via Earl’s Court.

“
Hello?
” Andrew spoke into the pen. “
Hello hello?
”

“Gotcha,” Laura said, pressing the earpiece in tight with a finger.

“Where’s Superman?” I asked quickly.

“It’s okay. The hotel has it in the safe. Don’t worry old man, I explained how fragile it was. They’ve got plenty of facilities and insurance. It’s safe.”

“Right,” Laura said, tucking the receiver into the folds of her broadsheet and closing it gently. “I’ll move down a couple of carriages –”

“
We
,” I interjected. They both looked at me. “
We’ll
move down a couple of carriages.” I felt a little like they were playing a
playground
James Bond and I was being sidelined into the Moneypenny role somewhat.

“Fine.
We’ll
be just down here. Keep that on, in your top
pocket. Get him to sit on your left if you can, but don’t make it
obvious.”

The train burst into the station.

“
The train on platform four
…” the tannoy squelched. “
Is your
westbound District Line train
…”

“Don’t forget. Be greedy, be eager. In fact
insist
he lets
you
play
a part in the drop,” Laura hissed quickly, shoving me away with
her up the platform. “But y’know, not
too
greedy or
too
eager or
too insistent.”

We stumbled up a carriage or two, leaving Andrew wide eyed
and alone on the platform, blinking like a lost child, lips mumbling
as he mentally prepared a tone that suggested a non-greedy
greediness and an un-insistent insistency.

Laura gripped my arm, head bowed into her chest and finger
in her ear as the train slowed to a stop. After a sickening second,
the doors hissed, rolling open with a thud. Laura hauled me on
and I turned quickly, giving Andrew a last quick thumbs-up before
he climbed aboard.

The doors shut behind us, Laura pulling me down low into a
corner seat.

“Well?”

Finger pressed in her ear, a small smile slid across Laura’s face.

“Got them,” she said. “Hold tight.”

The train rolled out of the station.

“What’s he saying? What’s he
saying?
”

“
Shhhh
, for God’s sake, I can’t … He’s giving Andrew the
Marmeladov
bit.
Experience tells me you are a man of education,
unhabituated
to the beverage.
All that.”

“He did that to me, what is that?”

“
Crime & Punishment
. He knows it by heart.”

“The whole
book?
”

“The whole,
shhh
, wait …”

The lunchtime train rocked and rattled through the darkness, grey pipes shimmying past, tunnel lights whisping by like ghosts. Around us, passengers stood, passengers sat, lost in their own worlds. Slapping tabloids, wrestling with broadsheets, texting, eating, sleeping.

Crammed in a corner like socks in a suitcase, Laura and I sat low, chins in our chests. She had one finger pressed tight in her ear, the other over her earphone leaving me to squirm, fidgety and apprehensive.

The train burst into St James’ Park station, a few suits dotted amongst its stark, prison-toilet tile.

“We’re onto his ‘
vating is that of the motor driven variety dear chap’,
” Laura whispered. “
We can choose to be lions or we can choose to be antelopes. Everyone makes that decision for them … shh,
here we go. Christopher’s laying out the … A greedy collector called Grayson.”

We stopped, the train doors rumbling open. A few suits
clambered
on board, a harried-looking middle-manager among them, dropping into the seat opposite. He tugged a file from under a sweaty arm, flicking a look at the pair of us. I coughed a bit and sat up awkwardly, trying to look less peculiar.

The doors rumbled closed and we began to heave westward once again.

“
Earl’s Court,
” Laura hissed, jabbing me in the ribs. “He’s telling him about your fair…”

The man opposite looked at her. Then back at me.

I smiled a bit, attempting to suggest we weren’t a couple of schizophrenic weirdos, remembering only after he’d quickly looked away that people who smile on the tube are mostly schizophrenic weirdos.

“
A staged robbery at one of the stalls … a scuffle … valuable comic gets nicked
…” Laura muttered. “Andrew’s showing an interest …”

Around us, a couple more people sat up, deciding that the whispered play-by-play going on in the corner was considerably more interesting than the
Evening Standard
Quick Crossword and Nokia
Snakes
.

“
Christopher will be in the Earl’s Court car park with Grayson … They’ll find the thief’s bag … argue over the split in the car-park
…”

The train burst into Victoria station. A few commuters took their leave of us and began to get up. I hunkered down and leaned in to Laura.

“What’s going on?”

“
Shhh … Pub … Decide on the split
… Andrew’s getting it …”

The tube doors rumbled open, passengers filing off. The wide platform was busy, thick with travellers returning from all over the –

Wait.

Victoria?

Wait.
I sat up a bit. A sick feeling began to abseil from the back of my head, lodging itself tight in my throat for a moment.

Wait. What was today? The tenth.
Tuesday?

No. I checked my chunky Faux-lex timepiece.

The sick feeling worked its way loose from my throat and slid greasily down into my stomach.

And you’ve forgotten tomorrow I expect? Being so busy?

Tuesday.

Victoria.

The platform crowds thronged and jostled with suitcases,
beginning
to pile on board one by one.

Oh shit.

Ted’s back from the coast tomorrow of course and between you and me I think he was hoping we’d have sorted you out by then.

Oh shit
no.

I’m going to speak to dad. Shall I tell him you’re still all right to pick him up from outside Victoria next week?

No. Shit, no.

–
or shall we just presume you’re going to forget that as well?

Shit no shit no shit.

The carriage was filling up. Panicky, I half stood. Shit. Damn fuck and –

“Well well
well
!”

Bollocks.

“Edward,” I gaped and gasped. “God, what are … I-I mean, I’m so … I totally –”

Edward loomed over me, anger spilt across his puffy cheeks like red wine on a couch. Back from Brighton, sweating in a fitted tweed jacket, he hauled a bulky, expensive looking suitcase in his little pudgy fist, barking and barging the shins of everyone around him.

“Half an
hour
I’ve been standing out there! Half a
bloody
hour! Jane said
eleven-thirty
. Eleven-thirty, by the newsstand.”

“I’m sorry, really. I …” and I reached out for the suitcase. “Let me –”

“Get your hands off that,” Edward barked, barging through to tuts and scowls. The suited man opposite looked up and grabbed his briefcase, sliding over to make room. Edward puffed and
whinnied
, squeezing his fat frame onto the seat, suitcase blocking everyone’s passageway.

“Half a
bloody
hour,” he boomed, fishing out a spotted silk hanky and wiping great sheets of upper-class sweat from his face. “Had Jane on the phone. She’s been trying you at the shop. What are you
playing
at?”

I felt a sharp stab in the ribs. I turned.

“
Andrew’s in,
” Laura whispered, oblivious. “Christopher’s told him Henry’s dropped out and we need a –”

“
Ahem!
” I coughed loudly, sending a rib-stab back Laura’s way. She looked up, lost in her own world.

“And who’s
this?
” Edward harrumphed, shooting a sly look at me.

“Uhh, this is … a friend of mine,” I squeezed slowly, testing and tasting each word one by one. “Uhmm, Laura. Er, can I
introduce
my father-in-law.”

“Uhm, a-a pleasure,” she said awkwardly, popping the earphone from her ear.

The three of us went quiet as the train rattled west. Quiet, save the soft hum of Edward perusing this cosy, lunchtime tête-à-tête and scrabbling to his own suspicious conclusions.

“And who’s looking after the shop, hnn?” he said finally, hauling an eyebrow up towards the hang-straps. “While you are busy…
entertaining?
”

“It’s er … I’ve got uhmm, Ted. You remember Ted? From the other Sunday? He’s lending a hand while I … while Laura and I … view some … see some …”

“My collection,” Laura interrupted, rescuing me rather. “Neil has kindly offered to sell some items for me.”

The train rolled into Earl’s Court station with a clanking sigh. Around us, passengers stumbled to their feet.

“I
see
,” Edward juddered in the low-high,
dum
-daaah
not-seeing
-at-all manner. “And what of young Dufford? Sat down with him yet?”

“Last night sir, yes.”

“Hmn. About time too. I can’t say I’m altogether happy with you young man. Can’t say I’m happy at –”

“
Shit!
” Laura screamed, leaping to her feet and everyone else’s. Edward, the businessman and I all jumped, yelping in a tangle of shoes. “
There they are!
”

Outside on the platform, I watched as Christopher, dressed in a generous dark green tweed suit and cap like he were walking Labradors across his fields, led Andrew hurriedly past the window, hand on his shoulder towards the station exit.

“Move,
move!
” Laura yelled, bag flying, hands grabbing,
earpiece
dangling as she pulled her way through the crowds.

“
Neil?!
” Edward flustered. “What is the meaning of – ?”

“I-I …” I stammered, Laura grabbing my sleeve. “S-Sorry. It’s our stop. Nice –
ow! Sorry
– nice to see yoouuuahh –” and I fell stumbling to the platform, the doors thundering shut behind me with a bang.

I sat, puffing on the filthy platform floor, rubbing my knee as the train hissed, clanked and began to grind westward, Edward’s accusing face sliding away from mine.

Sliding towards Putney. Towards Jane.

“I’m screwed. I’m totally screwed.”

“
Shhhh.
And slow
down,
we’ve got to keep our –”

“
Screwed.
”

“
Neil.
For heaven’s
sake,
” and Laura grabbed my denim sleeve, dragging me to a halt halfway up the tired steel stairs. “Keep back.”

“
Back?
You know who that
was?
” I writhed, pulling free and spinning around. I gazed out across the grey light of Earl’s Court station. A cavernous, echoing hangar under a pigeon stained roof. “That was my father-in-law.”

“So you said. Look, calm –”

“And you know where he’s
going?
”

“Neil, just calm down,” Laura said, twisting her earpiece back in place, breathing fast and flushed. She tugged out the receiver and began to adjust the frequency. “Let me find out where Christopher and Andrew are before you go rushing …”

“He’s off to see his daughter and his grand-daughter. To tell them tales of his travels. Tales of how his useless working-class dick of a son-in-law failed to pick him up. And why? Because he was taking the day off to ride around the District Line with a
mysterious
woman.”

“Yes, and haring off after Christopher and getting spotted and blowing the whole thing isn’t going to help. Slow
down.
Take a breath.”

“Letting him
get
away
isn’t going to help much either. Come on!” I yelled. “In half an hour Edward’s going to try to break my wife’s heart just to spite me. Break Jane’s
heart.
Now
move
!”

We reached the large tiled foyer moments later, Laura leaning panting against a map and adjusting her earphone against the rumble of traffic. I paced up and down, clapping my hands, teeth tight.

“
Andrew’s saying he has doubts … he doesn’t trust him fully
…
”

“Where are they? Are they far?”

“
Shhhh.
”

A few feet away, London buses coughed and whined, vans honked and bubbled, the world grumbling north up the Warwick Road to the West End.

 “
Thinks it’s dangerous.
Lending him his comic book … how does he know Christopher’s on the level?
” Laura shook her head. “It’s quietened down where they are. They must be somewhere fairly enclosed.”

“Then let’s find them,” I said.

We scuttled out to the roar of the street, scanning the
pavements
for any sign. Traffic slid past slowly, drum ’n’ bass thudding from speakers, the air dusty and loud. Across the road, Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre sat, fat and imposing, mouth wide, a great tongue of red tarmac sprawling out front. Flags fluttered, vans drew up, the yellow gates lifting and dropping.

My heart gave an ache as I clocked the two building-high banners hung on the left and right of the entrance, advertising the coming weekend’s convention – Spider-Man, Frankenstein, Bogart and Darth Vader making unlikely banner-fellows as they spun, lurched, shrugged and wheezed in garish colour.

“Wait,” Laura said, grabbing my arm. Her mouth hung loose, listening attentively to the faint voices in her ear. “Wait … Christopher’s … He’s saying it’s quite safe …
we’ll drop it here … loading bay … Loading Bay C …
Where’s Loading Bay C?”

“Shit. They’re in the Centre,” I said. “Loading Bay C. It’s where the stall-holders unpack. C’mon. C’mon!”

“
Hey!
”

But I was off, weaving in and out of the honking traffic.

“Wait,” she hissed. “
Wait!
”

Through the wide blue gate and past the guard kiosks, she finally caught up with me as we neared the front steps.

“There’s not a lot of cover. It’s all wide doorways and parking zones,” I said, heart hammering and thinking back to previous years packing and unpacking with Maurice among the ramps and fire escapes. I scanned the wide front, the smoky glass doors, the twin ticket booths on the left and right, mind racing. “Here, quick,” and I led Laura up the steps to the doors, pushing our way in.

The huge lobby was echoey and quiet like an airport terminal on Christmas day. Cold and still with just a wide empty floor ringed with steel turnstiles and shuttered kiosks.

“We can watch from here. They’ll have to come back out this way,” I said and we huddled up to the smoky glass, peering out
the front. Laura fished the receiver from her bag and adjusted the volume, head cocked to one side.

“Andrew’s … Good man, Andrew’s insisting on playing a role. My part …
doesn’t want to let the comic out of his sight … Willing to wear a cacklebladder
…”

“A what?”

“Cacklebladder. It’s a …
wait
… Christopher’s telling Andrew it’’ll mean taking a dive. Bursting the bladder, dropping to the floor, playing –”

“Christ …”

“But … That’s it, Andrew’s insisting … He’ll wear the bag and take a dive.
It’s that or he walks
…”

“Is that good?” I squirmed.

“The con only
works
if Andrew’s involved,” Laura nodded. “It’s how the double-cross –
wait.
Sounds like they’re moving.”

Shoulder to shoulder, we huddled by the door, fingertips squeaky on the glass. Breathing deep, nervous breaths, I could smell Laura’s familiar woozy warm perfume.

We watched as Christopher and Andrew appeared outside, moving away from the rear loading bays and back out down the wide red tarmac towards the station. Christopher had his pipe in his mouth and his arm over Andrew’s shoulder, all pally, and I could hear his voice hissing away in Laura’s ear.

“Where now?”

“They’re … Quick, he’s showing Andrew where they’ll do the split. C’mon.”

We followed Christopher and Andrew for a while, keeping a good distance back, over wet leaves and past the orange-bricked flats of Warwick Road. Around us, the traffic hissed and honked, the air at turns wet with rain and dry with fumes. Laura had her finger in her ear, muttering snatched staccato non-sequiturs of bugged conversation –
Andrew wears chest-bag, Pete fires a blank, Andrew goes down, Grayson panics and runs
– while I walked ahead a little, stomach churning, weaving in and out of school-boys and
bob-haired
Brompton Road mums.