Paper Money (14 page)

"Perfect. Help me get Willie in there."

Jacko took his shoulders and Jesse his legs. They carried him to the

car, whimpering, and put him on the backseat. The keys were in the

ignition.

One of the men called from the currency truck.

"All done, Jacko." Jacko would have struck the man for using his name,

but he was preoccupied. He said to Jesse:

"Know where you're going?"

"Yes, but you're supposed to come with me."

"Never mind. I'll get Willie to hospital somehow, and meet you at the

farm. Tell Tony what happened. Now, drive slow, don't shoot the lights,

pull up at zebra crossings, do it like it was a bleeding driving test,

okay?" "Yes," Jesse said. He ran back to the getaway van and tested the

rear doors. They were locked.

He stripped the brown paper off the license plate. its purpose had been

to stop the guards getting the number; Tony Cox thought of

everything--and got behind the wheel.

Jacko started the Volvo. Someone opened the yard gate. The rest of the

men were already getting into their own cars and peeling off their

gloves and masks. Jesse pulled out in the van and turned right. Jacko

followed him out and went the site way.

As he accelerated down the street, he glanced at his watch: ten

twenty-seven. The whole thing had taken eleven minutes. Tony was right:

he had said they would be away and clear in the time it takes a squad

car to get from Vine Street nick to the Isle of Dogs. It had been a

beautiful job, except for poor Deaf Willie. Jacko hoped he would live to

spend his share.

He was approaching the hospital. He had figured out the way he would

play it, but he needed Willie to be out of sight. He said: "Will? Can

you get on the floor?" There was no response. Jacko glanced back.

Willie's eyes were such a mess that words like "open" and "shut" no

longer applied.

But the poor sod must be unconscious. Jacko reached behind and pulled

the body off the seat onto the floor. It fell with a painful bump.

He steered into the hospital grounds and parked in the car park. He got

out of the car and followed signs for Casualty. Just inside the entrance

he found a pay phone. He opened the directory and found the number of

the hospital.

He dialed, thumbed a coin into the slot, and asked for Casualty. A phone

on a desk near where he stood buzzed twice, and the sister picked it up.

She said: "One moment, please," and laid the receiver on the desk. She

was a plump woman in her forties wearing a crisply starched uniform and

a hara sed air. She wrote a few words in a book, then picked the phone

up again.

"Casualty, can I help you?"

Jacko spoke quietly, watching the sister's face.

"There is a man with shotgun wounds in the back of a blue Volvo car in

your car park."

The portly nurse paled. "You mean here?"

Jacko was angry. "Yes, you dozy old cow, in your own hospital. Now get

off your bum and go and get him!" He was tempted to slam the phone down,

but he stopped himself and pressed the cradle instead: if he could see

the sister, then she could see him. He held the dead phone to his ear

while she put hers down, got to her feet, summoned a nurse, and went out

into the car park.

Jacko went farther into the hospital and left by another exit. He looked

across from the main gate and saw a stretcher being carried across the

car park. He had done all he could for Willie.

Now he needed another car.

Felix Laski liked the office of Nathaniel Fett. It was a comfortable

room with unobtrusive decor, a good place in which to do business. It

had none of the gimmicks Laski used in his own office to give him

advantage, like a desk by the window so that his own face was in shadow,

or the low, unsteady visitors' chairs, or the priceless bone china

coffee cups which people were terrified of dropping. Fett's office had

the atmosphere of a club for company chairmen: no doubt it was

deliberate. Laski noticed two things as he shook Fett's long, narrow

hand: first, that there was a large, apparently little-used desk; and

second, that Fett wore a club tie. The tie was a curious choice for a

Jew, he reflected; then, on second thoughts, he decided it was not

curious at all. Fett wore it for the same reason Laski wore a

beautifully tailored Savile Row pinstriped suit: as a badge which said

I, too, am an Englishman. So, Laski thought; even after six generations

of banking Fetts, Nathaniel is still a little insecure. It was a piece

of information which could be used.

Fett said: "Sit down, Laski. Would you like coffee?"

"I drink coffee all day. It's bad for the heart No, thank you."

"A drink?"

Laski shook his head. Refusing hospitality was one of his ways of

putting a host at a disadvantage. He said: "I knew your father quite

well until he retired. His death was a loss. This is said of so many

people, but in his case it is true."

"Thank you." Fett sat back in a club chair opposite Laski and crossed

his legs. His eyes were inscrutable behind the thick glasses. "It was

ten years ago," he added.

"So long? He was much older than I, of course, but he knew that, like

his ancestors, I came from Warsaw."

Fett nodded. "The first Nathaniel Fett crossed Europe with a bag of gold

and a donkey."

"I did the same journey on a stolen Nazi motorcycle and a suitcase full

of worthless Reichsmarks."

"Yet your rise was so much more meteoric."

It was a put-down, Laski realized: Fett was saying We may be jumped-up

Polish Jews, but we're not half as jumped-up as you. The stockbroker was

Laski's match at this game; and with those spectacles to hide his

expression he did not need the light behind him. Laski smiled. "You're

like your father. One never knew what he was thinking."

"You haven't yet given me anything to think about."

"Ah." So the small talk is over, Laski thought.

"I'm sorry my phone call was a little mysterious.

It was good of you to see me at short notice." "You said you had a

seven-figure proposal to put to one of my clients: how could I not see

you?

Would you like a cigar?" Fett got up and proffered a box from a side

table.

Laski said: "Thank you." He lingered a little too long over his choice;

then, as his hand descended to take a cigar, he said: "I want to buy

Hamilton Holdings from Derek Hamilton."

The timing was perfect, but Fett showed no flicker of surprise. Laski

had hoped he might drop the box. But, of course, Fett had known Laski

would choose that moment to drop the bombshell; had created the moment

for just that purpose.

He closed the box and gave Laski a light without speaking. He sat down

again and crossed his legs.

"Hamilton Holdings, for seven figures."

"Exactly one million pounds. When a man sells his life's work, he is

entitled to a nice round figure."

"Oh, I see the psychology of your approach," Fett said lightly. "This is

not entirely unexpected."

"What?"

"I don't mean we expected you. We expected somebody. The time is ripe."

"The bid is substantially more than the value of the shares at current

prices."

"The margin is about right," Fett said.

Laski spread his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of appeal. "Let's not

fence," he said. "It's a high offer."

"But less than what the shares will be worth if Derek's syndicate gets

the oil well."

"Which brings me to my only condition. The offer depends upon the deal

being done this morning."

Fett looked at his watch. "It's almost eleven. Do you really think this

could be done--even assuming Derek's interested--in one hour?"

Laski tapped his briefcase. "I have all the necessary documents drawn

up."

"We could hardly read them--"

"I also have a letter of intent containing heads of agreement. That will

satisfy me."

"I should have guessed you would be prepared Fett considered for a

moment. "Of course, if Derek doesn't get the oil well, the shares will

probably go down a bit."

"I am a' gambler," Laski smiled.

Fett continued: "In which case, you will sell off the company's assets

and close down the unprofitable branches."

"Not at all," Laski lied. "I think it could be profitable in its present

form with new top management."

"You're probably right. Well, it's a sensible offer; one that I'm

obliged to put to the client."

"Don't play hard to get. Think of the commission on a million pounds."

"Yes," Fett said coldly. "I'll ring Derek." He picked up a phone from a

coffee table and said:

"Derek Hamilton, please."

Laski puffed at his cigar and concealed his anxiety.

"Derek, it's Nathaniel. I've got Felix Laski with me. He's made an

offer." There was a pause.

"Yes, we did, didn't we? One million in round figures. You would ... all

right. We'll be here.

What? Ah ... I see." He gave a faintly embarrassed laugh. "Ten minutes."

He put the phone down. "Well, Laski, he's coming over.

Let's read those documents of yours while we're waiting."

Laski could not resist saying: "He's interested, then."

"He could be." "He said something else, didn't he?"

Fett gave the embarrassed little laugh again. "I suppose there's no harm

in telling you. He said that if he gives you the company by midday, he

wants the money in his hand by noon."

ELEVEN A.M. KEVIN HART found the address the news desk had given him and

parked on a yellow line. His car was a two-year-old Rover with a V8

engine, for he was a bachelor, and the Evening Post paid Fleet Street

salaries, so he was a good deal wealthier than most men aged twenty-two.

He knew this, and he took pleasure in it; and he was not old enough to

discreetly conceal that pleasure, which was why men like Arthur Cole

disliked him.

Arthur had been very ratty when he came out of the editor's conference.

He had sat behind the news desk, given out a batch of assignments in the

usual way, then called Kevin and told him to come around to his side of

the desk and sit down: a sure sign that he was about to be given what

the reporters called a bollocking.

Arthur had surprised him by talking, not about the way he had barged

into the conference, but about the story. He had asked: "What was the

voice like?"

Kevin said: "Middle-aged man, Home Counties accent. He was choosing his

words. Maybe too carefully--he might have been drunk, or distressed."

"That's not the voice I heard this morning," Arthur mused. "Mine was

younger, and Cockney. What did yours say?"

Kevin read from his shorthand. "I am Tim Fitzpeterson, and I am being

blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox. I want you to crucify

the bastards when I'm gone."

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "That all?" "Well, I asked what they

were blackmailing him with, and he said, "God, you're all the same," and

put the phone down on me." Kevin paused, expecting a rebuke. "Was that

the wrong question?"

Arthur shrugged. "It was, but I can't think of a right one." He picked

up the phone and dialed, then handed the receiver to Kevin. "Ask him if

he's phoned us in the last half hour."

Kevin listened for a moment, then cradled the handset. "Busy signal."

"No help." Arthur patted his pockets, looking for cigarettes.

"You're giving it up," said Kevin, recognizing the symptoms.

"So I am." Arthur began to chew his nails.

"You see, the blackmailer's biggest hold over a politician is the threat

to go to the newspapers.

Therefore, the blackmailers wouldn't ring us and give us the story; That

would be throwing away their trump card. By the same token, since the

papers are what the victim fears, he wouldn't ring us and say he was

being blackmailed." With the air of one who comes to a final conclusion,

he finished: "That's why I think the whole thing is a hoax."

Kevin took it for a dismissal. He stood up. "I'll get back to the oil

story."

"No," Arthur said. "We've got to check it out.

You'd better go round there and knock on his door."