Murder on the Short List (13 page)

To his credit, Chamberlain gave it a glance and placed it smoothly in his pocket. He shook hands with Hitler. Then he turned to Rigby and said, “And how charming to meet you once more, my dear. Perhaps the Führer will allow me to drive you home if your duties are over.”

“They are,” said Rigby.

T
he British had come in two cars, and Rigby travelled in the second. It made a detour to the finishing school. On the advice of one of the diplomatic staff she didn't go in. It was possible that the Gestapo were inside. But her heart pounded when a figure presently emerged on crutches and limped towards the waiting car.

Only it wasn't Manfred.

It was Camilla, disguised as a man. She sank beside Rigby, slammed the door and said to the driver, “Start up, for God's sake! The Gestapo are on their way.” To Rigby she said, “Manfred's safe.”

“What happened? Where is he?”

“Rigby – I'm sorry to tell you this. His wife collected him.”

“His
wife? Manfred is married?
” The world caved in on Rigby.

“I know. It was a complete shock. There were two young children. Absolute sweeties. He doesn't deserve them. She arrived in a car twenty minutes ago. One of Manfred's colleagues had tipped her off that Hitler had ordered a raid on the school. I think they'll make it to the border. I dressed up like this in case the place is being watched. To put them off, you see.”

Rigby was numb.

Even when the plane took off she felt no sense of relief at escaping. She would never trust a man again.

Fifty years on, that flight home is still a void in her memory. She does have some recollection of the landing at Croydon, when Chamberlain stepped off the plane to make his famous announcement to the press. In some of the photographs Rigby can be seen in the background, standing beside Camilla, who is wearing a trilby. She remembers the moment of horror when Chamberlain produced his famous piece of paper and waved it triumphantly. She recalls opening her handbag and checking that it still contained the agreement Hitler had signed.

Chamberlain was holding up a piece of paper with the words
Presented by the Führer for Good Posture
.

How was it, then, that shortly after, he appeared to read out the text of the agreement? As Rigby had observed, you could say one thing for Neville Chamberlain – his memory was phenomenal.

S
he was a talkative redhead and he couldn't hear a thing she was saying. Night clubs aren't places for conversation. Her mouth moved, sometimes making words, sometimes smiling. But it didn't matter. She'd moved in so close as she danced that her breasts kept touching him. Herbie tried to look cooler than he felt. He wasn't used to women coming onto him. He was forty-three, paunchy and five foot four. He wasn't even a regular clubber. He was there with about sixty other friends of Paddy, one of the regulars at his local. Paddy had decided to celebrate his fortieth in style.

After twenty minutes the strain got too much, and Herbie gestured that it might be time for a drink. The woman nodded and reached for his hand and they threaded a route to the bar. Even there it was difficult to talk without shouting, so he suggested finding a pub outside. But when they were in the street she said, “You're coming to my place. It's only a short walk.”

Herbie didn't argue.

Her place was a two-storey house on Richmond Hill with a spectacular view of the lights reflected in the river. This was one classy lady. She handed him a bottle and told him to open it while she changed into something more relaxing. “I hope you're not a connoisseur,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he said. “This is vintage bubbly.”

“It isn't chilled.”

“No problem.” He popped the cork and filled two tall glasses.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said when she came back in a red silk kimono. “What do you do for a living?”

“This and that.” He didn't want to say he was unemployed. He'd been made redundant in April. “How about you?”

“I'm an entrepreneur.”

Herbie wished he'd said he was an entrepreneur. It sounded better than this and that. “Cheers.”

They touched glasses and drank.

“You're not married?” she asked.

“Divorced.”

“Want to come to bed with me?”

“Try and stop me,” Herbie said, and it seemed a smart answer.

But she said, “Yes, I will.”

He wasn't sure if he'd heard right. “What – stop me?”

“I'm not ready yet.”

“So why did you mention it?”

“I wanted to make sure you fancy me. Relax. It's not a total no-no.”

“Why invite me back and open a bottle if you're not in the mood?”

“I said relax.” She reached for a remote and switched on Billie Holliday. “I don't even know your name yet.”

He told her.

She said, “I'm Chloe. What's your taste in music?”

They talked jazz for a while, but Herbie's mind was about ten per cent involved. He was trying to understand why she'd invited him back and gone cold on him.

Then he had his answer. The door behind him opened and a man in a dark suit strolled in, as calm as the manager in a shoe shop except that he looked like a state executioner. Chloe wasn't fazed. She said, “What do you think?” And it was obvious she was speaking to the man, not Herbie.

The man took a long look at Herbie and said, “Turn your head.”

This was so unexpected that Herbie did as he was told.

The man said, “He'll do.”

Chloe said, “I knew you'd agree.” Turning back to Herbie, she said, “I told him you were amazing.”

Herbie had been called many things in his time. Amazing wasn't one of them. “What's going on?” he asked, not liking this at all.

The man said to Chloe, “You tell him. I'm off.” He crossed the room to the main door and let himself out.

“Did I dream that?” Herbie asked.

“Brady's all right. He was giving me a second opinion.”

“What for?”

“Don't worry. You passed. Want to make five grand and get an Armani suit for nothing?”

“I don't get you.”

“You might . . . if you play your cards right.” She widened her eyes a fraction.

“I don't follow any of this.”

“That's the beauty, Herbie. You don't need to. If you're bright – and I know you are – you take what's on offer and ask no questions.”

“Is it legal?”

“There you go – another question.”

“I need to know what I'm getting into.”

“No one's asking you to hold up a bank.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing, except be yourself.”

“For five grand?”

“And a designer suit. And a date with me.”

“Tonight, you mean?”

“You don't give up, do you? Tomorrow, you go for a fitting at the Armani shop in Knightsbridge. It's important you look right. Did I say you also get a shirt and tie and shoes? A dark shirt and a white tie.”

“Who's paying for all this?”

“Not you. I'll meet you in Sloane Street. You get the first payment of a thousand pounds just for turning up. Would two-thirty do?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you want me to call a taxi?”

“Now?”

She nodded. He'd already concluded he wouldn't get lucky tonight. No bad thing. He'd lost most of his confidence when the man called Brady appeared from nowhere.

“I'll walk.”

O
n the way home, he went over everything in his mind. Five grand
and
all the clothes. There had to be a catch. She'd said he wouldn't be asked to rob a bank, but what other scam could she be planning? In the club he'd got the impression she fancied him. What had happened later suggested another scenario. It seemed as if he'd been earmarked for a job. Chloe had brought him to the house to be vetted by Brady. Maybe she, or others, had been watching him before he ever set foot in the club.

She hadn't asked him to do anything illegal. What could he lose by going along to Knightsbridge tomorrow?

S
he stepped out of a silver Porsche the minute he arrived in Sloane Street. He couldn't see who was driving before it moved off.

“Let's get you suited,” she said, taking his arm. She was in a white leather coat and red shoes with amazing high heels.

He wasn't used to shopping in Knightsbridge. The assistant showed them to a sofa and brought coffee and biscuits before any business was done. Then they were handed a book of designs. Herbie was measured and they looked at cloths.

Chloe made all the choices. She had a clear idea of what would look best. She also picked the shirt, the tie, the shoes and the socks. The suit would be ready on Friday.

“That will do,” she said to the salesman, “and this is my treat, so I'll settle for everything now.” While the bill was being prepared she took a wad of fifty-pound notes from her bag and handed it to Herbie. “The first thou, as promised. You don't need to count it. Put it in your pocket and don't get mugged on the way home.”

“What happens next?” he asked.

“You come back for a fitting in about a week and then you collect the suit when they tell you.”

“Will you be here?”

She laughed. “You're a big boy. You can manage without me.”

“So what happens after?”

“You have a mobile?”

He told her the number and she stored it in her phone.

“I'll be in touch,” she said. “Don't lose any sleep. When it comes, it'll be your benefit night.” She was texting as she spoke. “To my driver,” she explained.

As they left the shop, the Porsche pulled up outside. She kissed Herbie lightly on the lips before getting in. “See you soon, Herbie.”

He hailed a taxi. He wasn't returning in the tube. He was in a bigger league now with his boxes of new clothes and a grand in his pocket.

I
n under two weeks the suit was ready. Superb. No one would have known he had a paunch. He was tempted to wear it to the pub, just to get a reaction from Paddy and the others, but he decided against it. They'd demand an explanation and he didn't want to tell them the truth of it. Those yobs wouldn't understand why he hadn't spent the night with Chloe. He'd be a laughing-stock. And if he told them about the money they'd insist on drinks all round for the rest of the evening. Anyway, this adventure wasn't over yet. Chloe had promised him a benefit night.

H
e heard nothing else for ten days. The suit waited in his wardrobe in its zipped cover. He'd unpacked the shirt and it was on a hanger next to the suit. He was beginning to arrive at an understanding of that strange evening at the night club – how a classy lady like Chloe must have been attracted by his chunky physique and rhythmic movement in the strobe lighting and then a touch disappointed by his Chelsea FC shirt and blue jeans when she got him home. Clearly she liked formality in her men.

He'd pushed to the back of his mind the sinister Brady who'd looked him over and said he would do. In Herbie's eyes the night club episode had been all about Chloe and her taste in men.

T
he call came early on a Thursday morning when Herbie was walking back from collecting his paper and milk at the corner shop. Chloe's sexy voice was unmistakable. “Hi, Herbie. Are you up for it today?”

“Try me.”

“Do you know the Black Bess in Hounslow?”

“I've heard of it.” But not in a good connection, a little voice said inside his head.

“Be there at nine-thirty sharp tonight.”

“In the gear?”

“Of course. Take a taxi. I'll be inside with some friends. Walk in and kiss me on the lips and take a seat beside me. Someone will bring you a Diet Coke. That's what you drink, right?”

“Actually I drink bitter.”

“Tonight you're on Diet Coke. Everyone will treat you with respect, but you have to conduct yourself with dignity. At the end of the evening you get your reward.”

“I'm not much good in company.”

“Stay quiet then. Let the others do the talking.”

T
he suit made him feel like a movie star. He looked in the mirror and winked. Benefit night. He dabbed on some of his favourite aftershave.

He took the taxi as instructed. The Black Bess was a large pub in Hounslow High Street with an ornate Victorian exterior and a sign with a masked Dick Turpin galloping his famous horse. Maybe the idea of highway robbery had been the reason Herbie had been troubled when the pub was mentioned. He paid the driver, checked his watch, took a deep breath and went in. There was loud music and the yeasty smell of beer. He looked for Chloe and spotted her with some people at a table to his right. She had her back to him. He strolled over, rested a hand on her shoulder, leaned down and kissed her on the lips.

She said just for his ears, “What are you wearing?”

He said, “The things we bought.”

“The aftershave. It's cheap. Wash it off at the first opportunity.”

The group had suspended whatever had been under discussion. They eyed Herbie with what seemed to be respect, even awe. One of them, he was disturbed to see, was Brady. Those cold eyes locked briefly with Herbie's. Chloe said, “We left a chair for you.”

Herbie noticed it was a better chair than anyone else's. He sat and drummed his fingers on the arms. One of the men (there were four altogether, all in good suits, and two women in black spaghetti-strap dresses) said, “What's your poison?”

Herbie twitched. His nerves were getting to him.

“What are you drinking?”

“A pint of –” Herbie had to correct himself. “No, a Diet Coke.”

Brady snapped his fingers. The barmaid was watching, poised for the summons, and came over to the group. A fresh round of drinks was ordered. The others were drinking beer and vodka martinis. Herbie was envious but said nothing.