Chasing Paper

by Graham Hamer

  “Just a humble accountant doing what he knows best.”

  “Humble be buggered. You're the most conniving, scheming, devious bastard I know.”

  “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  “Indeed it was, old boy. Indeed it was. But what was all that stuff about 'Mr Tweedle is with me'?”

  Ron cackled “Just a code. Neither my young lady—”

  “Cindy.”

  “Yes, Cindy. Neither Cindy nor Nick has any idea if anyone's in the room with me. To confirm that it's all right to talk, I just start the conversation by saying, 'Mr Tweedle's with me'. As you heard yourself, they then speak freely.”

  “Genius,” muttered Tweedle. “The man's a bloody genius. And how, exactly do you plan to get Legg to move somewhere else?”

  “Leave that to Nick,” Ron said, tapping his nose. “He's good with people.”

  As indeed Nick was.

  “Five thousand dollars, Fergie. You get him to move on for a little while, let me know where he's going and I give you five big ones.”

  “But how do I do dat, Mister Ferris? I ain't never tried to lose a cus'mer before.”

  “Can't you tell him about some good diving on a different island? You've had him to yourself for a couple of months now, and you can have him back again in a few weeks. I'd just like to get him away from Barbados for a little while.”

  “I jes can't think o' nowhere, maan.”

  Bertram stepped out of the shadows of the hut. “Waddabout my cousin on Palm Island?”

  “Where the hell's Palm Island?” Ferris asked.

  “Bout two hunnerd miles west,” Bertram said, knocking the cap off a chilled beer. “Take a 'plane to Union, then boat across to Palm. There's no phones nor nutthin', but the divin's good, an' I could have a word with my cousin an' all. If Fergie an' me tell him, he'll do whatever we want.”

  “How big is this Palm Island?”

  “Bout twenny minnit's walk all round.”

  “No, it's not big enough. I don't want Sean to see me.”

  Fergie scratched his tight, curly hair. “What exac'ly yo' tryin' to do, Mister Ferris?”

  “I'm trying to keep Sean happy and healthy. He had a nervous breakdown a few months ago and his doctor told him he had to get away from the business - completely. Sean doesn't have a mobile phone but some time in the last twenty-four hours someone managed to get hold of the hotel phone number and started talking business to him again. Sean got all wound up and upset. He's a good man Fergie, and all we're trying to do is give him a proper chance to recuperate. It's just that he might get a bit annoyed if he thought we were watching him like a baby.”

  “Soun's reasonable to me.”

  “Well, listen, Mister Ferris, why don't you stay here on 'Bados an' soak the sun while we take care o' business?” Bert suggested. “Me or Fergie can go to Palm Island with Sean an' keep an eye on him for yer. If he gets a bit restless, we can take a boat and go all roun' Tobago Cays - it's a whole group of tiny, uninhabited islands - no phones, no people, no nuthin'.”

  Ferris waved his hand at a fly. “That sounds perfect, Bert. And you'll let me know if he plans going anywhere without you?”

  Fergie laughed. “We can send you a message in a bottle, Mister Ferris.”

  “It's as good as that is it?”

  “It's as good as that,” they agreed in unison, slapping each other's palms.

  “If Sean heads anywhere where there's a phone, we'll give you a call,” Bert said. “Keep you in touch, like.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “So that's five thousan' dollars, plus travel, plus accommodation, plus boat hire, plus a hunnerd dollars a day for the divin',” Fergie said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Done!” Ferris said, holding out his hand - palm up.

  “Done!” shouted the two divers together, racing to be first to slap the white palm.

  * * *

  “I think it's time I was introduced to Tweedle,” Sandy said, sitting in a loose-fitting housecoat as she painted cherry red varnish on her toenails. “If he had as good a time in Kuwait and Paris as he said, he'll appreciate a bit of female company now he's back home.”

  Ron Scott extracted his finger from his nose. “I agree with you, my dear. We need to know what's going on in his head, particularly the combination of the safe under the stairs, there's a lot of cash in there.”

  “My specialty.”

  Scott cackled. “That and compromising dirty old bank managers, and playing at nurses, and killing off old millionaires—”

  “Jack Tweedle died on his own,” she said, with a shudder. “The more help I gave him, the more he lapped it up - figuratively speaking, that is.”

  “Yes, well, whatever. Mind you, the most useful one was Legg, himself.”

  “Ah, Sean, yes. Now he was a true gentleman.”

  “Oh come on, Sandra, you're not going sentimental on us are you? This was your scheme, remember?”

  “No, not sentimental,” she said, leaning between her own thighs to reach her toes. She was aware that her uncle was examining her legs as she spoke. “It's just that sleeping with him was much easier than any of the others. He actually enjoyed my company, you know.”

  “So it seems,” Scott said, loosening his bow tie. “Enough, in fact, to tell you what he planned to do once he found a buyer for Three Leggs. You're a bright girl, Sandra. This whole scam is all down to you.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Ron. Oh, by the way, Nick sends his regards.”

  “You spoke to him after I'd finished talking to him did you?”

  “Yes, he said he'd soon get Sean out of the way. He said that the dive operator's easy enough to manipulate, and cash counts for everything. It sounded like he was enjoying himself.”

  “He deserves it. He spent long enough skulking around Three Leggs digging up information. We'll be out there to join him in a few weeks.”

  Sandy lowered her foot to the floor and lifted the other leg, exposing her shapely thigh. “Still sticking to the plan are we? Just transfer the money and run?”

  “Sure. Tweedle believes all that crap about transferring money through various bank accounts. So we just get him to make an electronic transfer one morning and before he even knows we're gone we'll be in The Caymans to empty the account. I reckon your dad will have Tweedle's signature off to perfection now. It never used to take him long to learn a new signature, and he's had plenty of time to practice.”

  Sandy's housecoat fell open, exposing her best assets. Scott stood as if to approach her. She glanced at her uncle before covering herself again. The tattoo on her breast had made him shudder and retake his seat. “You don't think we should take Tweedle out of the equation then?” she said, ignoring his expression and applying the nail varnish in smooth strokes. “It would be safer than having him hot on our heels when we do a runner.”

  “It hardly seems worth it,” Scott said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his top lip. “Why get our hands dirty when there's no need?”

  “So what about introducing me to Tweedle then?” she asked. “How are we going to go about it?”

  “Well you can start by remembering that, as far as he's concerned, your name is Cindy.”

  * * *

  “Ian?”

  “Hi Dave, how's it going?”

  “Fine, thanks. Can you speak? Just say 'yes' or 'no'.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Claire in the room?”

  “No.”

  “So why are you just saying 'yes' and 'no'?”

  “Get serious, dick-head.”

  “That's better, boss.”

  “Let's start again,” Ian said, laughing. “Good evening David Kelly.”

  “Good evening Ian Gidman, your gun is ready.”

  Ian drew in a breath. They'd spoken twice during the previous few weeks about his request, but it had been in hushed tones, reserved for illicit operations such as theirs. To hear Dave talk about a gun in the same way that he would talk about a potato caug
ht him off guard. “It's — er — ready?”

  “Yes, boss, but I still don't like what I think you're going to do with it.”

  “I know, Dave. Point taken and registered, but I assure you that I shall leave the Tweedle residence as free as when I enter it - probably more so.”

  “Nobody does something with a Browning Hi Power 9mm pistol that doesn't go 'bang', Ian, and when a gun goes 'bang' a high velocity projectile is emitted which, if one is not careful, will tear the guts out of a cow half a mile away.”

  “Alright, I promise not to aim it at any cows.”

  “That's what bothers me.”

  “Trust me, Dave. I'll have it back to you after a couple of hours, and I may not even have to use it.”

  “Well now you've really got me puzzled, boss. What are you going to do, stick it up Tweedle's arse and scare him to death?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But you'll use it on him for real if he doesn't terminally shit his pants to order?”

  “Again, Dave, something like that.”

  “You've got me boss, unless you just plan to frighten him off.”

  “Oh no!” said Ian. “Tweedle's got more than just a little fright coming to him. Tweedle's got a serious problem. Now, do I get to use it, Dave, or not?”

  He listened to the dull sound of the traffic below, in preference to the empty air from the telephone.

  “When are you coming for it?” Dave said, eventually.

  Ian allowed his breath to escape. “There's something I have to do over here first. It's part of the plan. How about a week Saturday. It'll be evening before I get there.”

  “What's that? Eleventh of October isn't it.”

  “Is that inconvenient? I mean, were you planning going out or something?”

  “No. No problem,” Dave said. “What will you tell Irene when she sees you?”

  “Same as Claire - that I'm on the island to sort out my affairs. Sell the car, get rid of everything out of the flat, stuff like that.”

  “And will you? Will you sell the car and get rid of your belongings?”

  “Sure, why not? I'll give the car to Pete and Denise. Pete's old Micra is on its last legs. Is there anything out of the flat that you and Irene want?”

  “Shut up boss, you're making it all seem so — sort of — final. “

  “It is final, Dave. I've promised Claire I'm going to get a job over here and live in France, so I might as well tidy up my affairs over there to seal the commitment. But I want to conclude matters with Tweedle once and for all before I settle over here. He can't keep damn well haunting us the way he has; and trying to run down Claire was the last resort. It has to end somewhere.”

  “You're the boss, boss.”

  “And you're a very dear friend, Dave. See you a week on Saturday.”

  SATURDAY 11 OCTOBER

  The two men crossed the tiny back garden towards the humble wooden shed where Dave Kelly stowed his tools and anything else that Irene didn't want in the house. A light drizzle had been falling all day and the grass was slippery underfoot. Ian took a deep breath. There was a scent of wet leaves, winter bonfires and harvest festival. He strained his eyes in the early evening gloom. “Couldn't we have left the kitchen light on or something?”

  “Sorry, boss, I'm so used to the place, I never even thought.”

  Ian stumbled over something, lurched forward and staggered the few yards to where Dave was unlocking the last padlock on the door of the tiny shed. “Bloody hell! It's like a minefield out here.” He heard Dave chuckle.

  As his friend moved around inside the shed, Ian held the door open. His eyes were still adjusting to the sullen shadows, though Dave moved with the certainty that comes with routine.

  “Here you go,” Dave said, stepping out of the absorbing darkness and standing in the low doorway. In his hands he nursed a bundle of rags, which he began to unwrap with paternal care. “It's all oiled and checked.”

  Ian peered down as the cloth opened to reveal the dull shine of the weapon inside. “It's smaller than I'd imagined.”

  “What did you expect? A Dirty Harry Magnum? Believe me, this is more than enough for what you're planning; whatever that might be.”

  “I'm sure you're right,” Ian said, taking the gun from the oily cloth. “It's quite light, isn't it?”

  “You've never handled a gun before, have you” Dave said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “So tell me what I need to know.”

  “Jesus, Ian, you can't just go waving guns around when you don't know how to use them. I don't like this at all.”

  “Nor will Tweedle, so just show me the basics.”

  Dave sighed, and turned to reach inside the shed. When he faced Ian again, he held a cardboard box in his hand. “Bullets.”

  “Just give me two,” Ian said. “That'll be enough.”

  “Why two?”

  “One extra in case I miss.”

  “Come on, Ian, this is serious.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I mean it, Ian. This thing isn't a toy.”

  “I know that, Dave, but don't ask too many questions. Stick a couple of bullets where they'll fire if I pull the trigger.”

  Dave took the Browning and slid two bullets into the magazine, then snapped it shut. He passed the gun back, but continued to point it away from both of them. “This,” he said, guiding Ian's hand to a tiny lever just above the grip, “is the safety catch. At the moment, the gun is safe. If you intend to use it, slide that lever up. While you're carrying the gun, always make it safe. The trigger's quite fine, so you don't have to heave on it to make it go 'bang' - a gentle squeeze will be enough.”

  Ian slid the Browning into his jacket pocket. “Thanks, Dave. I'll give it back to you later.”

  “I hope so. It's not the gun I'm bothered about: it's your safety that worries me. If things go wrong, just wipe it clean and dump it. It can't be traced.”

  “Don't worry. I'll have it back to you in a couple of hours. I'll tell you all about it over a pint, later on. What time is it now?”

  “About six thirty.”

  “Okay, I'll call for you at nine. Don't worry, old son, the plan's foolproof. Tweedle will get what's owed him, and nobody except you, me and him will be any the wiser.”

  “I still don't get it, boss.”

  Ian chuckled. “You will - believe me.”

  Dave crossed the lawn again. Ian followed, taking care to avoid hidden obstacles. As they reached the house, Dave turned. “Good luck, boss, and take care, eh?”

  “Thanks my friend, I'll be careful. See you at nine.”

  “Oh, hang on,” Dave said. “I almost forgot.” He reached into his back pocket. “Shit, what did I do with — ah, here it is.” He pulled out a small piece of paper, folded in two, and offered it to Ian. “Aunt Kate said I should give this to either you or Sean when I saw one of you. She said you'd know what it was.”

  Ian unfolded the scrap of paper and peered at it. “Can't read it,” he said. “It's too dark.”

  “There's a name and phone number on it,” Dave said. “I looked at it earlier, when the silly old dear called round with it, but I didn't take too much notice. I told her that Sean was away but, like most things, it didn't seem to register with her. You know what Aunt Kate's like - the eternal enigma.”

  “No, I don't actually, Dave. I bumped into her at Pete and Denise's wedding, but I've never really spoken to her. Stitcher reckons she likes to know what's going on.”

  “That's Aunt Kate. Nice old dear, but nosy as hell and daft as a brush.”

  Ian tucked the paper into his jacket pocket and turned again to leave. “I'll read it later,” he said, over his shoulder. “As soon as I've finished with Tweedle.”

  It was almost three hours later when Ian stood next to Dave at the end of the bar in The Pilgrims Reach as Ann served the two beers they had ordered, then melted into the background to tend to the rest of her flock.

  “So carry on,”
Dave said. “Tweedle only answered the door after you'd rung on the bell a hundred times —”

  Ian took a sip of beer. His hand had shaken earlier when he'd told Dave that he no longer had the gun, but now, after a quick brandy to steady his nerves, he'd regained some of his lost composure. It had been a bizarre evening and his voice was strained. “You're not going to believe it,” he said.

  “So tell, me,” Dave pleaded. “You got as far as the fact that Tweedle didn't come to the door straight away.”

  Ian shuffled, showing his discomfort. “Yeah, it took ages for him to answer. I could see his outline through those stained glass panels. He sort of wandered down the stairs. When he opened the door he was only wearing a bright red dressing gown - had his hairy legs sticking out the bottom. He wanted to know why I was there, and threatened to call the police. I pulled the gun on him and pushed him back into the house. When I aimed the gun at his face, I could see he was scared, but he tried to stare me down. 'Going to shoot me down in cold blood, are you?' he said. 'Are you sure you've got the balls.' It was a bit surreal. It wasn't the same Tweedle that I saw cowering behind the office chair when I thumped Scott.”

  “So what happened then?”

  Ian took another sip of beer and noticed that the glass still trembled slightly. “Well, I forced him into the living room and pushed him onto the settee. He was scared, but not as scared as I thought he was going to be.”

  “Was he pissed?”

  “That's what I wondered at first, but his speech wasn't slurred and he had no problems searching for his words or anything. He just seemed to find a bit of courage from somewhere. If I'm honest, it started to get me a bit rattled. Anyway, he didn't want to tell me why he'd screwed up my life, so I just carried straight on with the plan. What I hadn't told you earlier is that I'd brought some blood with me from France.”

  “Blood?”

  “Yeah. Claire is the Medical Director of a big laboratory that researches possible cures for things like Ebola and rabies and more straightforward things like hepatitis B and herpes. It was the herpes virus that I got hold of. I was hoping for a sample with Hepatitis B because that would have messed with Tweedle's liver and been very unpleasant. Anyway, last week, I got Claire to show me round the lab after most of the technicians had gone home. In one lab, there were fridges full of blood samples which Claire told me were from people who had the Herpes HSV-2 virus.”