by Graham Hamer
“What for, Cheri?”
“Last night. I was being a bit bolshie.”
“What's bolshie?” she asked, smiling at him as she touched the end of his nose.
“Rebellious - factious - mutinous,” he said, hugging her waist.
“You mean the disagreement we had.”
“What else?”
“Forget it. Maybe I was a bit forceful.”
“Possibly, but you were also right,” he said, unable to resist the urge to caress her naked buttocks. “I never used to drink like this, and I do need to start looking for a job. What money I have isn't going to last forever. At the moment though, I just feel so unsettled and useless.”
“You're a long way from useless, Cheri. Let's put it behind us,” Clair said pulling the cord of his bathrobe loose and reaching inside. “We've got the whole weekend ahead of us.”
He didn't have to ask what for.
WEDNESDAY 16 JULY
As the Regal Dutch Airlines 747 began its final descent into Schiphol Airport, Richard yawned open-mouthed, displaying a darkened void of nicotine-stained teeth to the world. Two o'clock in the morning had been a bloody uncivilized time to catch a flight, but there had been compensations. He sank back into the wide First Class seat and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, an endless stream of dusky young maidens smiled and beckoned to him, just as the girls at the beach clubs had done.
The real Kuwait had proved to be a bastion of licentious living, at least for honoured guests such as himself. Whisky was traded for women and women for whisky - wonderful system, particularly when it hadn't cost him a penny piece. He smiled and adjusted his trousers as he remembered the unrelenting supply of young womankind that Khalid's servant, Michele, had arranged for their private consumption. Khalid and he had passed them round from one to the other like swapping postage stamps. These Johnny-Wogs know how to live, he thought. Much more civilised than spending a fortune trying to get into the pants of some young scrubber back on the island.
He opened his eyes and touched the remaining tender spot on his cheek. How in God's name had that jumped up belligerent swine, Gidman, evaded the law for so long? It was inconceivable that he'd escaped from such a tiny country, surrounded by thousands of miles of scorching desert. There was no way he would get an exit visa and Faisel, the police chief, and Al-Kirimi, the customs chief, had both assured them that the hunt was still on. Funny thing, though, his froggy girlfriend had stopped ringing the day after he'd run away.
The long, leggy stewardess with the green eyes smiled at him. “Can you fasten your seat belt please, sir. We'll be landing in just a few moments.”
“Certainly, old chap,” he said, examining her lapel badge. “Nice flight, Marijke, excellent service.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant day.”
So nice to be looked after by people who cared.
THURSDAY 17 JULY
Richard strode past Cathy, the normally bright receptionist. She raised her eyes and scowled at him. “Good morning, old chap,” he said, ignoring the muttered reply as he marched on towards the Managing Director's Office. Nothing to be gained from irritating pleasantries with the hoi polloi.
Scott looked up, from where he sat behind the large oak desk. “Hello, Richard,” he said, as he vacated the seat. “Everything go well?”
“Splendidly, Ronald, splendidly.” He sat in the still warm Managing Director's chair as Scott occupied the one facing him across the desk. “Everything's signed, sealed and delivered,” he said, with his well-practiced air of authority. “And we have a rather large wad of cash for good measure. I've got over a quarter of a million in notes under the stairs at home and a substantial order from the Saudis for initial stock.”
Ignoring any preliminaries, Richard reached into his pocket, took out a folded paper and smoothed out the creases as he spread it on the desk. “He we are,” he said, proudly. “A list of over forty items that the Saudis want a.s.a.p. Normal discounted price, about three quarters of a mill according to Al-Sabah's reckoning. Cash price to the Saudis, half a mill. As soon as we deliver it, they'll arrange for sterling to be delivered wherever we want it.”
“Can we trust them?” Scott asked.
“Certainly. I told them they could have as much as they wanted for cash, at the same discounts, so I hardly think they're going to screw us on the first delivery. Anyway half a mill's nothing to these people. You should see the houses they live in, Ronald, bloody palaces the lot of them.”
“You had a good time then?”
Richard lit a cigarette. “Bloody marvellous, old chap. Jolly sociable people these towel-heads. Talk about wine, women and song.”
“And how did it go with Gidman? From your brief phone call, I gather you had some problems.”
Richard touched his cheek. “You can say that again. I didn't have time to tell you much on the phone. A bit busy, old chap. But Gidman gave us a hell of a time.”
“Why, what happened?”
“He didn't like it when I told him to piss off. Talking of which, can you believe what that uncouth bastard did? I mean, can you really believe what that uncouth bastard did? According to him, he didn't just bugger up my car; he also pissed in my ice tea in the old site office at Headland View. God, what an odious son of a bitch.”
“Real bastard,” Ron said, covering his mouth with his hand. “What happened?”
Richard cracked his knuckles. “The little upstart landed a punch when I wasn't looking. Then, when I was off balance, pushed my head into the desk. The bruises are only just going.”
“Belligerent sod, isn't he,” Scott said, his hand still over his mouth. “It sounds about as painful as when he broke my nose.”
“Probably worse, Ronald, probably much worse. Anyway, Gidman thumped me and the Al-Sabahs, stole Khalid's Chevrolet and did a runner. The car was found in a real mess, abandoned in the city the next day.”
“So where is he now?”
“I guess he's still somewhere in the bloody desert. With a bit of luck, the sun will have bleached his bones by now. Fancy pissing in my bloody ice tea, I still can't believe it.”
“Terrible,” Scott said, looking down at his feet. “Quite terrible.”
Richard had the feeling that Scott's sympathy was somewhat synthetic, so ignored him and studied the papers on the desk. His accountant had been busy. “What's all this then?” he asked.
“Stock lists, stuff like that. I've done deals with several of the agents to take more machines and spares. All at substantial discounts for thirty-day payment of course. They're lapping it up. So far I've agreed sales for over a million. The dispatch department is working flat out trying to get stuff delivered.”
“Excellent,” said Richard, sitting back and blowing smoke towards the ceiling. “So that's roughly two mill so far.”
“Plus the rather healthy bank balances. Nearer three million than two.”
“What about this pension fund?”
“Better than we'd ever imagined. There's a whole bundle of money we can do whatever we want with when the time's right. I've already cashed in the stocks and bonds and put everything into one account. As soon as we're ready to move, we just transfer it to the Cayman bank. Simple as that.”
“And the land at the back?”
“All in hand,” Scott replied, adjusting his bow tie. “I've had a word with my friend in the Planning Department. He said it's all nice and straightforward. He's got delegated powers to approve it himself.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand for an answer within a week.”
“Pay him. Any possible buyers?”
“Two. We can play one against the other.”
“Excellent,” Richard said, with a satisfied smile. “How much do you think we'll get for it?”
“We're talking over two million. That's about two hundred and fifty thousand an acre. It's prime commercial land, Richard, and these guys know it.”
“How long before we get a result?”
“Okay, let's get it done, old boy. What else is there?”
Scott leaned back in the chair. “I've approached the bank about borrowing on the value of the buildings. They've already instructed their valuer. He'll be here tomorrow.”
“And is it your er — associate?”
“It certainly is,” Scott said, rubbing his hands together. “He'll put maximum value on the property.”
“How much does he want?” Richard asked, though things were going so well that the question didn't seem too relevant.
“Nothing. He owes me one, and he's just about to honour the debt.”
“Bloody marvellous, Ronald. You've done an exceptional job, and all in two weeks. Legg must have been stupid not to have seen what this company was worth.”
Scott raised his wire thin eyebrows. “Oh no,” he said. “He's far from stupid. Don't let that bluff exterior fool you.”
“So how was it that he sold us the half the company for three million, old boy?”
“Because he looked at its value in the traditional sense.”
“And we're not looking in the er — traditional sense, Ronald?”
“No, Richard, we've turned the situation arse about face and are looking at it in the time-honoured let's-grab-as-much-bloody-money-as-we-can-and-get-the-hell-out-of-here sense.”
Richard hunched up laughing, stubbing out his cigarette as he coughed. With a red face and watery eyes, he reached into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Oh gawd, Ronald, I shall have to remember that one.”
Scott smiled strangely at him as he mopped his brow. “Perspective,” Scott said, grinning. “It's a question of what one person can see that the other person can't.”
Richard stood up, paced to the window and looked out to the nearby airport as he gave his nose a second blow and wiped something unpleasant off his tongue. The island seemed small and unimportant now. “I'll be glad when we can get away,” he said. “After my experiences in Kuwait, I've just realised what I've been missing all these years.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Crumpet for a start. Acres and acres of sun-tanned pussy.”
“Don't worry; there'll be plenty of that where we're going.”
“Yes, old boy, but not like the one's that I've had a taste of over the last two weeks. Order us a coffee and I'll tell you all about it.”
“No ice tea?”
“No, I think I've gone off that stuff.”
Scott picked up the telephone on the desk and pressed a button in the base.
“Yes Mr Scott?” came the girl's voice.
“Two coffees, Miss — er —”
“Williams,” she said, and replaced the receiver.
“They're on the way,” Scott said. “What are your plans now? Do you want to get involved here?”
Richard mopped his brow again, giving himself time to think. As long as Ron was carrying out their plan, there was nothing for him to tackle. Mind you, he thought, that's the way it should be. Like in Kuwait. Why have a dog and bark yourself? “I don't want any day-to-day involvement,” he said, folding his moist handkerchief with care and sliding it into his pocket. He gave his fingers a secret wipe before withdrawing his hand and reaching for his cigarette packet. “It would raise suspicions if I spent too much time here. Perhaps there's something I can be doing somewhere else. Overseas perhaps?”
Ron seemed happy to agree with him. “Well, there is something, actually,” he said, without seeming to pause for thought. “There's a hell of a lot of stock in the depot at Paris. You speak a bit of French don't you?”
“Just a bit, old boy. I'm not fluent, but I can get by.”
“Well don't worry too much because Abattu, the manager, speaks good English. But it would be useful if you'd go over there for a week or two and get rid of whatever you can from their yard. You don't need to go for cash deals, just offer plenty of big discounts for quick settlement. You know the set up.”
“Certainly do, Ronald. I'm getting the hang of this business quite well.”
“Good,” Scott said, raising his eyes towards the ceiling. “I think it'd be best if you adopt a false name though.”
“That sounds a bit 'cloak and dagger', old boy. Why can't I just be myself?”
“Well, from what I gather, Abattu became a great friend of Gidman's so we don't want him knowing too much, just in case. Shall I arrange a flight for you on Monday?” he asked, in a strange mumbling voice that appeared to emerge from the depths of his dirty shirt collar.
“No need, old boy, I'll drive down over the weekend. I don't suppose I'll get the chauffeur treatment in Paris.”
“I don't think you'll get the sun-tanned women treatment either, Richard.”
“Wrong, Ronald. There's plenty in Paris if you know where to look.”
“Well, it's been a few years —”
The girl entered the room with two cups of coffee. She placed the cups on the desk, staring hard at Richard.
“What's your problem, young lady?”
“You've got a great big glob of snot stuck on your head,” she said, as she turned to leave the office. “I'm surprised Mister Scott didn't tell you.”
SATURDAY 2 AUGUST
Nick Ferris stood in the thick grass where the sweet, heady resin of the palms lingered in the humid air. The shade from the trees both protected his scrawny white body from the burning sun and kept him from being seen by his 'subject'. He was enjoying his new life of leisure far more than working in the accounts office at Three Leggs. A month in the Caribbean had done wonders for his usually pale complexion.
Barbados was his favourite - rum punch, skimpy bikinis, day and night reggae, Cajun chicken, all night bars on Baxter's Road and pretty black girls who were happy to get their clothes off for a few bucks. Yep, Barbados was the best so far. Hopefully Sean Legg would stay here longer. In fact it was his duty to make sure that Sean Legg stayed here longer.
Today's agenda was nothing more strenuous than making sure that Legg was being well looked after by the dive operator. As soon as the big man was in the boat and out of the way, he would go and have another word with Horace Ferguson and pass him the agreed amount for the past two days.
It was so nice of Ron Scott to have paid him such a substantial sum in severance pay, but then Ron always had been good to him - guided him and shown him what to do. The holiday detective bonus was even more fun, particularly since his subject's firm was unwittingly footing the bill. Poor old Sean, he'd wonder what the hell hit him, when he got home.
The blue and white dive boat pulled away from the shore and rode the gentle swell out into the clear blue lagoon. Nick Ferris watched it until it had disappeared beyond the headland. He slid his sunglasses from his receding hairline onto his nose and left the shadows.
“Morning Fergie,” he called, as he approached the open-fronted hut.
“Mornin' to you Mister Ferris,” the smiling Bajan said. “Welcome to another day of sun and fun. I hope you're still enjoying your stay on our beautiful holiday island.”
“I am indeed, Fergie. More importantly, though, is Mr Legg enjoying himself?”
“Sean's havin' a wunnerful time,” said the tall black man, displaying a full keyboard of gleaming white teeth. “He's divin' The Stavros this morning.”
“What the hell is 'The Stavros'?”
“The S.S.Stavronikita. She was sunk a few years ago by the U.S.Navy.”
“The U.S.Navy? I didn't know they went round sinking ships in this part of the world.”
Fergie laughed with a loud boom, like a far off 'plane breaking the sound barrier. “They don't as a rule, maan, but this one was sunk on purpose in a hunnerd foot of water - just for the divers. They had a big fire on board and no-one noo what to do with the remains, so they just towed her inshore and blew a hole in the hull. She sits on the bottom, pretty as a picture, mast as upright as a black man's�
��”
“Yes, yes, I get the picture,” Ferris said, smiling. “No need to elaborate. So my man's having a good time then?”
“We can't keep him out the water. We doin' two daytime dives and one night dive every day.”
“Good, so that's six dives in the last two days?”
“You god it, Mr Ferris. Six dives.”
“At thirty dollars a dive that's a hundred and eighty dollars,” Ferris said, reaching into his back pocket.
“As you say, Mr Ferris, one hunnerd eighty dollars.”
Ferris counted out nine $20 bills from the folded wad and returned the rest to his pocket. “There you go, Fergie. Now don't forget to let me know straight away if you hear any talk of Sean moving on — and, of course, you've never heard of me, have you?”
“Never seen you befo' in my life, Mr Ferris.”
As Ferris's fluorescent green and red shirt disappeared back into the trees, Horace Ferguson turned to his divemaster, who was checking equipment in the darkness of the hut. “I don't get it Bertram. Sean pays us to go a-divin', then this guy just turns up every coupla days and give away his money like it's goin' out of fashion. We're gettin' paid extra for every dive Sean makes.”
“So why worry about it?” Bert said, emerging into the sunlight. “'s not illegal is it?”
“Nope - quite th'opposite. All I godda do is keep Sean happy and keep him a-divin' here for s'long as possible. Heads I win an' tails I can't lose.”
“Good on you, Fergie - so buy me a beer.”
“Comin' up, my friend. I think my planet must be juuust in the right position at the moment.”
* * *
“Well at least I've got about enough money to pay for our lunch,” Ian said, as he came back from the below-stairs toilets of the Frog and Roastbif on rue St. Denis.
Claire responded with a forced smile.
“I don't know what happens now,” he said, resuming his seat.
She pushed her lunch away and lowered her voice. “I've told you, Cheri, I earn more than enough to support us both. If it bothers you, you can pay me back when you get a job.”