Murder on the Short List (16 page)

In the morning my credit card statement arrived. I owed them three grand and some more.

“If I did this,” I said to Willy, “how much would I make out of it?”

He took out a calculator and pressed some buttons. “Give or take a few pence, fifty-five grand.”

I tried to sound unimpressed. “So it's a sizeable inheritance?”

“You can work it out.”

“And there won't be any problem with the family?”

He grinned. “The beauty of it is that we don't know where they are. And when we trace them – if we do – they're going to be so delighted by this windfall that they won't begrudge us our commission. Believe me, Mike, this isn't the first such deal I've negotiated.”

I had my doubts whether Willy's efforts to trace the family would yield a quick result. Maybe, like the bank, he reckoned the money should come to him after a passage of time.

Fifty-five grand would set me up for a couple of years at least. I could do some real painting for a change, get off the treadmill of cute teddy-bears and badgers dressed as postmen.

“Would this be a one-off?”

“Has to be,” Willy said. “I couldn't use you again. I have to find some other guy I can trust.”

“So we can draw a line under it?”

“You'll never hear from me again. It'll be as if we never met.”

“I'd prefer the money in cash, if that's possible.”

“No problem.”

He was efficient. He'd done this before. A packet arrived at my house two days later. Inside were the details of the Swiss bank account of the late James Alexander Connelly, standing at £1,106,008, his death certificate and his last will and testament, including the names of two executors, Harry and Albert Smith. I was to be Albert. There was a letter from Harry giving me authority to act on his behalf, and another from an English bank confirming that an executors' account had been opened. A birth certificate in Albert Smith's name was included as proof of identity.

Willy had told me to make an appointment. Banks don't like people coming in off the street and making big withdrawals. I was to say I was an executor for James Connelly's estate enquiring about the possibility of a bank account in his name. No more than that.

I called the bank and spoke to someone who listened without much show of interest and invited me in the next morning at eleven-thirty.

After another uneasy night I put on the only suit I owned, dropped my documents into a briefcase and took the train to London. Sitting there shoulder to shoulder with the business-men who commuted daily, I felt isolated, one of another species about to venture into their territory.

The bank was right in the City of London, a massive building with grey pillars. Unlike my own suburban bank, this one had a security guard and a receptionist. I mentioned my appointment and was shown to a seat. The decor was intended to intimidate: marble, mahogany and murals. Don't let them get you down, I told myself. They're the crooks.

They kept me waiting ten minutes, and it felt like an hour. “Mr Smith.”

I almost forgot to respond.

“This way, please.”

The young woman showed me upstairs, where it was Persian carpets and embossed wallpaper. She opened a door. “Please go in and sit down. Mr Schmidt will be with you shortly.”

Schmidt. One of the family? I said to myself, trying to stay loose. I sat back in a large leather chair and patted my thighs. I wasn't going to cross my legs in case I looked nervous.

Schmidt entered through another door. He looked younger than I expected, dark, with tinted glasses. “How can I help?”

I gave him the spiel, stressing that Uncle James had repeatedly spoken about his special account with the bank. After his death there had been a delay of some years before we – the executors – found his notes with the account details. “His filing system was non-existent,” I said. “We came across the note in a book of handwritten recipes. We almost threw it out. As a cook, he was a dead loss.”

“May I see?”

“I didn't bring the recipe book,” I said. “I copied the figures.”

“And do you have other evidence with you?”

I removed everything from the briefcase and passed it across.

Schmidt spent some minutes studying the documents. “It seems to be in order,” he said. “Would you mind if I showed the papers to a colleague? We have to verify anything so major as this.”

“I understand.”

When he left the room I found I'd crossed my legs after all. I took deep breaths.

The wait tested me to the limit. Just in case there was a hidden camera, I tried to give an impression of calm, but pulses were beating all over my body.

When Schmidt returned, there was a cheque in his hand. “This is what you were waiting for, Mr Smith, a cheque for a million and just over two hundred thousand pounds. The account accrued some interest. All I require is your signature on the receipt.”

Resisting the urge to embrace the man, I scribbled a signature.

“Your documents.” He handed them across. “And now I'll show you out.” He opened the door.

Slipping the cheque into an inner pocket, I stuffed the rest of the paperwork into the briefcase and went through that door walking on air.

Some people were in the corridor outside. I wouldn't have given them a second glance had not one of them said, “Mr Michael Hawkins.”

My own name? I froze.

“I'm DI Cavanagh, of the Serious Fraud Squad.”

I didn't hear the rest. I believe I fainted.

T
hree months into my sentence, I was transferred to an open prison in Norfolk. There, in the library one afternoon, I met Arthur, and we talked a little. He seemed more my sort than some of the prisoners. As you do, I asked him what he was in for.

“Obtaining money by deception.”

“Snap,” I said.

“Only I was caught with the cheque in my pocket,” he said.

“Me, too. I was caught in a Swiss bank, of all places.”

“How odd,” he said. “So was I.”

It didn't take long to discover we had both been talked into the same scam by Willy Plumridge.

“What a bastard!” I said. “And he's still at liberty.”

“Waiting to find another mug to tease some money out of the bank,” Arthur said. “I bet I wasn't the first.”

“Well, he got rich by doing it himself, I gather,” I said.

“True, but with less risk. In the early days of this racket, he traced the families and advised them. They made the approach to the bank, and it worked. They paid him well for the information. Later, he was left with the account numbers he couldn't link to a family, so he thought up this idea of finding people to pose as executors. Maybe it worked a few times, but banks aren't stupid.”

“So I discovered. What I can't understand is why they haven't pulled him in. He's Mr Big. You and I are small fry.”

“They won't touch him,” Arthur said.

“Why?”

“He's the man who jumped for England.”

That again. “Give me a break!” I said. “How does that make a difference?”

“Don't you know?” Arthur said. He glanced to right and left to make sure no one could overhear him. “One of those account numbers he got from his father belonged to someone pretty important. A former prime minister, in fact.”

“No! Which one?”

“I never found out, except they're dead. Supposed to have been a model of honesty when in fact they were salting away millions in bribes. Willy got onto the family and offered to liberate the money without anyone finding out. The next generation had some heavy expenses to meet, so they hired him. The bank, of course, was utterly discreet and totally duped. Willy pulled it off and was handed the cheque. Then I don't know if his concentration went, or he was light-headed with his success, but he slipped on the stairs at Bank tube station, fell to the bottom and suffered severe bruising and concussion. He was rushed to hospital and no one knew who he was.”

“Except that he was carrying the cheque?”

“Right. And various documents linking him to the family. The police called them. They panicked and said they knew nothing about Willy. He had to be an impostor and all the documents must be faked. After a night in the cells, he was charged with obtaining money by deception and brought before the magistrate at Bow Street. They put him on bail, pending further investigation. Only it never came to trial.”

“Why?”

“The secret service intervened to avert the scandal. If it had ever got to court it would have destroyed a prime minister's reputation. They decided the best way to deal with it was for Willy to jump bail and go into hiding. No attempt was made to find him and the matter was dropped. The family cashed the cheque, Willy got his commission, and the good name of a great prime minister was saved from disgrace. That's why you and I are locked in here and Willy Plumridge is sitting in the Nag's Head enjoying his vodka and tonic. He did the decent thing and jumped for England.”

M
r Small was Mr Big, and that was no joke. It isn't wise to make fun of an underworld king.

“This is in confidence, right?”

“Goes without saying, Mr Small,” Bernie said. Bernie wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he'd survived by being respectful of men of violence. He didn't much care for blood and guts. Crime didn't have to be messy. By nature he was a gatherer, rather than a hunter.

“I've got a job for you.”

“Thanks,” Bernie said, hoping it didn't involve murder.

“You've still got that Transit Van, I hope.”

“Er, yes.” Maybe a bullion job, Bernie thought, looking steadily into Sly Small's lizard eyes.

“I want you to collect something for me.”

“No problem, Mr Small.”

“You haven't heard the rest. This is a sizeable item. I'd say it weighs as much as you or me and is about your height. What are you – six feet?”

“Just over six.” Oh, no, it's a corpse, Bernie thought. He wants me to collect a stiff.

“It's an instrument.”

Bernie's mind switched to torture and his mouth went dry.

“A Horngacher.”

It sounded excruciating.

“A musical instrument.”

Now Bernie doubted if he was hearing right. What on earth would Sly Small – a man of brutal tastes – want with a musical instrument?

“You're a man who likes music, aren't you? I mean serious music. Beethoven and stuff.”

Bernie listened to Classic FM on the car radio sometimes. It was scary how much Sly Small knew. “I suppose.”

“This is in confidence,” Sly said for the second time. “I'm only telling you because of your high taste in music. I sent my boy Rocky to one of them posh schools thinking it would help him when he steps into my shoes. Cost me an arm and a leg and after ten years of it, he's still pig ignorant. The only thing he can do is music. They sent him for an interview at the Royal College and he's in.”

“Top result,” Bernie said.

“Are you being sarky?”

“No, Mr Small. No way.”

“If I thought you was being sarky I'd nail you to the wall.”

“And you'd be right to do it,” Bernie said.

Sly Small gave Bernie a long look. “I don't want this to get around. Rocky is getting a Horngacher. From me.”

Bernie nodded.

“Don't look as if you know what a Horngacher is, you thick berk. I didn't know myself until a couple of days ago. It's a harp, a bloody great harp. Have a good laugh. My son and heir plays the harp. That's his instrument, okay?”

A
harp
. Bernie understood Sly Small's problem now. The criminal world would fall about laughing if it learned that Sly's son had turned into a harpist.

“He's flesh and blood,” Sly said. “What can you do? If the boy had asked me for a Harley-Davidson I'd have given him one. He doesn't want a Harley, he wants a Horngacher. There's one called the Meisterharfe Horngacher. It's the Harley-Davidson of harps he says, worth fifty grand, easy. Your job is to pick one up for me.”

“From a harp shop?” Bernie said.

“I didn't say
buy
one. What do you think I am? I've made inquiries, and there are only two Meisterharfe Horngachers known to be in Britain. One is in the Museum of Music in Winchester, and that's as secure as Fort Knox. But the other is out there being played. It's coming in tomorrow.”

“Coming in where?”

“The Albert Hall, for some concert. It was being played last weekend in Prague, with the Royal Philharmonic. They use a big furniture van to drive the instruments across the continent. Should be arriving around mid-day. That's when you pick up the harp.”

“It's all arranged?” Bernie said, much relieved.

“Plonker,” Sly said. “What do you think you are – American Express? No one's going to ask you for the paper work. You're knocking it off, right?”

“It's a hold-up?”

“Depends how you want to play it. If I was you I'd wear a brown coat and say I was staff. Shove it in the van – carefully, mind – and drive off fast. Make sure you're not being followed and bring it here.”

He made it sound simple. Bernie wasn't so confident. “If you don't mind me mentioning this, Mr Small, is this harp easy to recognise?”

“You know what they look like,” Sly said. “Ever see a Marx brothers film?”

“No, what I'm saying is that when Rocky turns up at the Royal College with a harp that's hot – a hot Horngacher – he's likely to be in trouble, isn't he?”

“It's for home use, dickhead, for Rocky to enjoy in private. When he goes to college he can play one of theirs.”

“Right.”

It had to be faced. There was no persuading Sly Small that this was an ill-fated enterprise.

“It'll be in a case,” Sly said. “But you handle it like it was a newborn baby, right? They're easily damaged. The carving, the gold leaf gilding. Over two thousand parts go into a harp, Rocky told me. I don't want a single one of them missing when you bring it here tomorrow night.”