Chasing Paper

by Graham Hamer

  “When did Nick say he'd meet us?” Scott asked.

  “Friday the twelfth, midday, at the bank,” she said, as she went back to brushing her long, black hair “He thought it would give us a bit of time to lose ourselves.”

  “Yeah, but it gives Tweedle a bit of time to catch us up as well.”

  “I doubt it, Uncle Ron. Tell him you're going fishing or something - any excuse will do, so long as he doesn't expect to meet with you next Thursday. He's bound to suss out something's wrong by Friday, but he'll never get to The Caymans quickly enough. Time he gets there, we'll be long gone and the account will be empty. And that's assuming that Sean doesn't discover who was involved in ripping him off and goes and breaks Tweedle's neck.” She glanced at her uncle who was staring at the outline of her nipples against the taut silk of her housecoat – like a cobra hypnotizing his prey.

  He noticed her look and averted his eyes. “I'll be even more happy to dump our Mr Tweedle after yesterday's episode,” he said.

  “Bit cheeky, wasn't it.”

  “Cheeky's not the bloody word. It's downright robbery.”

  “Oh come on,” she giggled. “We're hardly in a position to talk about robbery.”

  Scott remained stony-faced. “It's not funny, Sandra. It's the principle. Ten percent of that extra three million is our money.”

  “So we'll take it all, Uncle. Stop worrying.”

  “I'm not worrying, I'm just bloody annoyed. There's over four million quid in his bloody safe that we can't get to. Even if you find out the combination and we take the money, he'll almost certainly discover it's missing before we get away.”

  “Not if we're a bit daring,” Sandy said, watching him watching her again.

  “Meaning what?”

  She picked up a file and rubbed at her nails. “What about if we could get the money sometime Wednesday afternoon?”

  “How? What are you thinking?”

  “Cindy can go and whisper sweet nothings in Tweedle's ear. He'll offer to recompense her for her devotion to duty. She'll find out the combination, and we'll empty the safe.”

  “I'm listening, Sandra.”

  “Well, it's a question of timing - but even if we don't succeed, we'll have lost nothing.”

  “I'm still listening, Sandra.”

  She stopped filing her fingernails and looked at her uncle. “Okay, Wednesday straight after lunch I go to the house and amuse Tweedle. You give me an hour to find out the combination, and then you call round for a business chat - you know, final travel details, stuff like that.” She sat up and stretched, pushing out her chest. “If I know the combination by then, I can sneak downstairs while you're talking, open the safe, and take the cash. You leave again. I follow a bit later. Then we get the 'plane out of here.”

  “It's worth trying,” Scott said, eyes still fixed on the straining outlines beneath her flimsy housecoat. “But how do you plan to walk out of the house with four million quid? Are you going to tuck it into your knicker elastic or something?”

  “Have I told you about our new bedroom games? The ones that Tweedle likes? The ones that require a bit of equipment? Equipment that I take to the house in a little case? A case that—”

  “Stop, Sandra, stop. I get the message. A case full of 'things' going in, becomes a case full of money coming out, right?”

  “Right, Uncle. And the 'things' can be hidden under the bed or behind the wardrobe or wherever.”

  Ron Scott wiped his top lip. “I'm willing, if you're willing.”

  “And I'm willing if you're willing,” she echoed, laughing.

  He wriggled in his chair and made a futile attempt to adjust his clothing. “You do realize, my dear niece, that if we bugger about doing this at the last minute, there’s a chance that our plane off the island will cross with Sean Legg's plane from London.”

  “Could even be worse,” she said, with a twinkle, somewhere between amusement and satisfaction. “If Sean's flight from Barbados has a good tail wind, and he manages to catch a direct flight to the island, he might even have landed by the time we're ready to leave. It's exciting isn't it?”

  “Risky too. But then I can't imagine him travelling for ten hours or so and checking straight in to work. He's much more likely to go to bed to get rid of the jet lag. Anyway, even if he did call in at the factory, all the office staff would have gone home.”

  “Yes, but it's fun contemplating the possibilities, isn't it?”

  “It's much more fun to think of the look on Tweedle's face when he finds that his money's missing.”

  * * *

  “I just can't go along with it any longer,” William said. “I'm committed to a standard of professional ethics that forbids me doing anything like this.”

  “To hell with your ethics,” Nancy shouted. “They didn't seem to bother you for five years while you were bedding the wife of one of your clients behind his back.”

  “That was different.”

  “How? You mean I was less important than some old man's sick efforts to humiliate and punish you?”

  “I don't mean that at all, and you know it.”

  “Then what do you mean, William? Your so-called ethics are just about to get you barred as a practicing solicitor. Isn't that important to you?”

  He threw the large white envelope across the room. “Of course it's bloody important. Apart from you it's the most important thing in my life.”

  “Then why are you just about to throw them both away?”

  William paused. “What do you mean, both?”

  Nancy shook in anger as she spoke. “Because, William Wormald-Welch, if you give my ex-husband that envelope, you'll be barred from practice and I'll never speak to you again.”

  WEDNESDAY 10 DECEMBER

  Sean only opened his eyes as the mighty Boeing turned off the main runway onto the taxiway that would lead them to the airport terminal. Flying was a pleasure once the plane had reached its cruising altitude, but take offs and landings were like visits to the dentist without an anaesthetic.

  He looked out of the window at Heathrow's windswept grass and wondered whether he had done the right thing by coming home - after all, Christmas in Barbados wouldn't have been that bad. He could have shared a mince pie with George, the barracuda. He stretched his arms, rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and glanced down at the notes that he'd made during the flight. It was a list of items that he wanted to check with Mister Scott as soon as he was back in the office - items that were important to him now that he was getting back into working mood.

  The stewardess, reminding him not to leave anything on board, interrupted his cogitation. Without rushing, he stood, took his flight bag from the overhead locker, and followed the queue of passengers into the link way to the terminal building. He checked his watch. It was only just three o' clock. He might be in luck and catch an immediate connection to the island.

  * * *

  Richard made an unsuccessful effort to smooth his hair. It looked as though he had combed it with an egg whisk. “Well listen, Ronald, it's a bit inconvenient, old boy. Couldn't you call back later?” He pulled his dressing gown tight, hoping that it would mask the smell of massage oil.

  “It's a bit urgent,” Scott said. “There are some changes to the travel plans and I shan't be around tomorrow. I've got a few loose ends to tidy up myself before we leave.”

  “Well, hell. Why don't you call back this evening? I was just having a little lie down after that fuss at the bank this morning.”

  “What fuss?”

  “You know - the manager querying the size of the transfer and all that — oh, come on in, Ronald. I can't stand on the doorstep freezing my bollocks off all day.”

  Scott stepped past him, grinning at the sight of Richard's woolly slippers. “I'm sorry to disturb your rest,” he said as he closed the door behind himself.

  “Well let's get it over wi —” As he turned, Richard stopped mid sentence, with his mouth wide open. “What the bloody hell?”

&nb
sp; On the last and only other time that he had had a gun pointed at him, a beautiful young lady had rescued him. Now he found himself staring once more into the barrel of the same gun, but this time, rather than being his saviour, the same beautiful young lady, standing at the foot of his staircase, was the one who was pointing it at him.

  “What the—”

  “Yes, you've said that once,” Sandy said. “Now shut up and listen.”

  “I won't be told what to do by a—”

  “You'll be told exactly what to do Mr Tweedle,” she said, staring into his eyes, “And you'll do it. To the letter.”

  Scott moved to her side, facing him. “Sandra, this isn't part of the—”

  “Sandra? Her name's Cindy, so what—”

  “Oh shut up Tweedle, you stupid cretin. Let me introduce you to Sandra; my niece.”

  “Oh my God! What the bloody hell's going on here?”

  It was Sandy who answered, adjusting the bath towel that was wrapped around her, but never taking her eyes off him. “What's going on here, Mr Tweedle, is a little bit of daylight robbery, and Uncle Ron and I are the robbers.”

  “Where did you get the gun?” Scott asked.

  “Never mind about that now. I'll tell you later.”

  “Wh —wh —what do you want?” Richard stuttered. “You'll never get away with this, you know.”

  “What we want is the money in your safe,” Sandy said. “And as far as getting away with it is concerned, I can assure you that, as soon as we're ready, we shall walk out of here without you stopping us.”

  “Sandra, what exactly are you up to?” Scott said.

  “Levelling the odds, Uncle Ron. I've had no chance to find out the combination, and I think Tweedle here will be more likely to tell us with a loaded Browning aimed at his face.”

  “Well great. Then what do we do with him?”

  “Leave that to me. I know how to keep him quiet long enough for us to get away.”

  Richard edged towards the wall.

  “Where do you think you're off to?” Sandy snarled. “If you've any doubts at all about me using this thing, just test me. You'll only get one chance.”

  Richard looked at Scott. “Listen Ronald, old boy, let's just talk this over. I mean, if it's about what I was saying the other day about your share of the extra three mill, we can soon iron that out.”

  “Shut up you pompous arsehole. Hasn't it sunk into that thick skull of yours that Sandra and I are taking the lot - everything?”

  “But—”

  “Do as Uncle says, Tweedle. Stow it. Just follow instructions and we'll think of some way to keep you occupied while we slip quietly out of your life. You won't be rich, but you may be alive. Try anything and I'll put a very neat and very terminal hole between your eyes. Get it?”

  “I get it.”

  “Good. Now, the combination of the safe please?”

  “Look—”

  “The combination.” she shouted. “Or I spread your brains on the wall behind you.”

  The two-second silence lasted forever —

  “Right 47, left 01, right 44, left 06,” he mumbled.

  Sandy smiled. “Over to you, Uncle.”

  Scott strode to the walk-in cupboard under the stairs. He flicked on the light and disappeared inside.

  “You'll not get away with this, Cindy —Sandra, or whatever your real name is.”

  “Oh, I shall, I assure you. For a start, you're hardly in any position to go running to the police, are you?”

  “Maybe not, but the bulk of the money is in a numbered account which only I can withdraw from.”

  Sandy adjusted the bath towel that had begun to slip over her breasts. “Jesus, Tweedle, you really are as stupid as you look. You're forgetting that Ron set up the banking arrangements, so we know the number. And a certain friend of ours has been busy practicing your signature ever since you signed his redundancy cheque. The bank knows nothing about you. They don't know whether you're black, white or bloody green, and they don't know and don't care whether you're male, female or eunuch. You could be a one-eyed Scottish camel for all they care. All they need is the account number and a body to sign a withdrawal slip. So long as the signature matches with their specimen, and the account number is right, they've completed their part of the mandate. We're not amateurs, you know.”

  “Apparently not. So what do you plan to do with me, once your—”

  “It's fucking empty,” came a scream, from the cupboard. “There's bugger all in it.” With wide, staring eyes, Scott appeared from the under-stairs compartment. “Where the bloody hell is it, Tweedle?” he screamed, as he marched towards him. “What have you done with my fucking money?”

  “I don't—”

  “Hold on,” Sandy shouted, throwing her arm in front of Scott. “Don't get between us.”

  Scott stopped, but not before he had knocked into her arm, spinning her off balance. The towel fell away, revealing her exquisite nakedness, and Scott's head snapped to stare at his beautiful, unclothed niece.

  Leaping forwards towards the girl who held the gun was not an action based on a rational appraisal of the situation, it was an impulsive reflex over which Richard Tweedle had little control and no choice. When Cindy — Sandra had told Ron Scott to leave matters to her, he had known with absolute certainty that, unless he took some initiative, he had only a very short time left. It was stupid really; he should have spotted it before – a long time before. The similarity in the eyes and the same silky hair, like delicate spun glass. Her features were maybe a little more defined but, nevertheless, there was no denying her likeness to her mother. The perfect, hourglass figure was the same, and those long legs and firm buttocks could belong to nobody else.

  He wasn't a brave man, never had been, but he knew without thinking that the unexpected advent of a naked, nubile young lady was going to be his only chance. If he didn't take this opportunity, he wouldn't be offered another. As Sandy smiled and reached slowly down to pick up the towel and, while Ron Scott stood frozen in time, staring at her rounded posterior and silky thighs, Richard's instincts took over. He shot forwards, like spit from a camel, with hands outstretched towards the gun - the gun that still pointed squarely between his eyes.

  But Sandy's reactions were quicker and more sure. Richard Tweedle met the oncoming bullet halfway and was dead before he hit the floor; an unseeing stare fixed on the tattoo on her full, shapely breast.

  “Oh shit!” Scott screamed. “You've shot him.”

  Sandy turned to face him, the gun turning with her.

  “Yes, I know,” she whispered. “Goodbye Uncle Ron.”

  * * *

  Sean held his breath as the FlyBe Dash 8 - 400 appeared to skim the low dunes. He was sure that the undercarriage was going to take the roof off the car whose headlights lit the narrow road towards the village of Derbyhaven. His knuckles were white and a bead of cold sweat ran down to the end of his nose as the lights of College chapel shone through the magnificent stained glass windows, seeming to be just inches away from the wing tip.

  The final lurch of the plane as it came to a complete halt outside the terminal had not come a moment too soon. Thankful for the fresh air, he staggered rather than walked across the tarmac to the terminal entrance, mopping his brow with his handkerchief as he went. Perhaps next time he would catch a boat to Barbados, or swim there, or learn to walk on water. One thing was for certain; it would be a long while before he sat in an airplane again.

  His luggage arrived with the usual efficiency of a small airport; waltzing round on the carousel before some of the passengers were even inside the building. He collected his overgrown suitcase and his even larger diving bag, and headed for the main hall, where he could find a seat and recover his composure. He banged his case into the swing doors as they opened and barged into the fluorescent brightness of the terminal, like a bull set loose to face the matador.

  El matador was a beautiful young lady with long, black, silky hair and finger nails the
colour of ripe cherries. “Hello, Sean,” she said, with a cheeky smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Hello, Sandy, my love. Long time no see. Let me put these damn things down a minute.” He dragged the two heavy cases to the nearest chair and let them drop to the floor. “Now then my girl,” he said, turning to face her and kissing her cheek, “Sure and how's the world been treating yourself?”

  “Fair to middling, Sean. What about you?”

  He sat down and searched for his handkerchief again. “Well, I could have done without the last couple of hours,” he said, mopping up the perspiration. “I hate flying; it scares the hell out of me. I can only settle when the plane's up in the air and going horizontally in a straight line. On these short hops, like London to here, the ruddy thing just gets taken off when it's damn well coming down again.”

  Sandy laughed. “Ah well, I've got it to look forward to then.”

  “Why, where are you off too?”

  “Manchester. Five thirty flight.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “Yeah, I'm going to see Dad for a few days.”

  “What's he doing in Manchester then?”

  “Didn't you hear?” she said, with a look of surprise.

  “Hear what?”

  “He got the sack.”

  “He what.”

  “He got the sack. While you were away, Richard Tweedle was up to all sorts of—”

  “Tweedle?”

  “Tweedle. The guy who bought Three Leggs off you.”

  His response was drowned by the public address system as it announced the last call for Sandy's flight.

  “Must rush,” she said, standing on tiptoes and planting a kiss on his forehead. “Let's get together sometime when I get back. You can buy me a large drink and tell me what decided you to let a fool like Tweedle buy your business.” She picked up her bulging, leather holdall and trotted towards the stairs to the departure gate.