The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP

by J. C. Williams

  .

  Chapter Ten

  F or the following couple of days, it felt rather like a surreal dream sequence. Marion Higginbottom, or “Manky Marion” as Emma had taken to calling him, had indeed come good on his promise to get Florence’s song — titled “Florence’s Song” appropriately enough — onto the front page of his rag. Sadly, it wasn’t a full page devoted to their latest fundraising effort, only a half-page. And the reason it was only a half-page was that the other side was taken up by an article about Grandad instead, and accompanied by a photograph of Grandad completing a perp walk that Al Capone likely would have been most proud of. Still, because of the positive coverage on the front cover of the paper regarding Florence’s song, it meant that sales of the song were skyrocketing, and it now had a realistic chance of actually breaking into the top twenty on the iTunes chart. Despite this wonderful news, however, the gang at the Lonely Heart Attack Club were not exactly in the mood for celebrating on account of one of their own facing serious jail time. Those who knew Geoffrey rallied around him and his family, but for those that didn’t know him, well, he was currently considered worse than the FBI’s most wanted, particularly due to the nature of the alleged crimes and the apparent abuse of his position as treasurer of the charity’s finances.

  Whilst the charges against him were grave, the police had seen fit to release Grandad on bail pending further investigation. Geoffrey had been worried they might place an electronic tag on his ankle, although common sense fortunately prevailed in this regard. Instead, he was ordered to surrender his passport, which was no problem as he didn’t have one in the first place. In fact, Grandad hadn’t been off the Island for forty-three years, so the chances of him absconding to the Costa del Sol or similar were extremely minimal at best. The police, perhaps, suspected that Geoffrey Tate was not exactly a criminal genius, but were required to fully investigate regardless, as was their duty.

  On the other hand, one person who demonstrated that they were, in fact, a criminal genius was their former accountant, Barry Cox. Crafty manipulative bastard that he was, he’d only gone and conned Grandad into countersigning a slew of fraudulent documents — which was, as it should happen, the source of Grandad’s current predicament. And to make matters worse, the paperwork was not only on behalf of their charity but also for other companies that were nothing at all to do with them. Geoffrey was proud to be on the charity’s finance committee but, in hindsight, Jack was starting to suspect that the experience in financial matters Grandad had touted to him wasn’t perhaps as keen as the old fellow had indicated. Indeed, Grandad had rather unfortunately been happy to sign anything and everything stuck under his nose, and old Barry Cox, being quite the shyster, had well and truly dropped Grandad in the shit. And confirmation of Grandad’s felonious involvement was happily provided by Barry Cox’s wife. She was most obliging, and fully motivated, by the gold around her fingers, the diamonds in her ears, and the silicone enhancements held within her bra. She, and Barry Cox, never wanted the gravy train to stop rolling. Barry had just needed a prize plonker to come along with the financial savvy of a wombat and, with that, Grandad had been stitched up like a kipper.

  Now, presently, in the kitchen of master criminal Geoffrey Tate’s crime lair in Onchan, Isle of Man…

  “Frontpage news,” moaned Jack, screwing up the paper. “Frontpage news,” he repeated for the benefit of Emma and Ray who took tentative sips from their respective cups of tea.

  “How’s he bearing up, Ray?” asked Emma, reaching over to lower the newspaper being gripped furiously by Jack. He was gripping it so tightly he was in danger of leaving an ink imprint on his palm.

  Ray used his foot to ease the kitchen door closed so his reply wouldn’t filter through to the living room where Grandad was currently sat, moping in despair. “He’s not good, luv. I won’t lie,” said Ray.

  Jack smacked the rolled-up paper off the kitchen table. “They cannot seriously believe he’s behind all of this. Surely, they can’t?” he asked, rhetorically, and for what must have been about the seventh time. “I mean, seriously. It’s Grandad we’re talking about here. In no way, shape, or form is Grandad a criminal mastermind, or, no disrespect intended, a mastermind of any kind. He once got hopelessly lost in bloody B&Q, for fucksake!”

  Ray tilted his head, assuming the role of devil’s advocate to some extent. “You can see how it must look to the police, son? Your grandad’s signature is all over those documents,” he said. “That Barry Cox is saying he was just carrying out the orders of the man in charge of the finance committee. Cox has owned up to a couple of minor wrongdoings, but is placing the blame of the serious stuff squarely on the shoulders of him,” Ray said, pointing through the closed door. “So, you can at least see why they’re taking the allegations seriously.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking he’s involved in any of this?” asked Jack. “Grandad is not a master criminal.”

  Emma nodded in agreement. “He got his hand caught in the toaster trying to cook a crumpet last week,” she pointed out. “Again, not the work of a master criminal. It singed the hair on his knuckles and smelt awful.”

  Ray sighed. “We all know that, luv. The problem is that this accountant has dropped him completely in it, and the police can only go on the evidence that’s placed in front of them, I suppose. It’s not good, this situation, but hopefully common sense will prevail in the end.”

  “We can only hope that it does,” replied Jack. “Bloody hell, we’ve got the charities commission all over us thinking we’re all involved in wholesale fraud. They might shut us down. We’ve had to employ an auditor and a reputable accountancy firm to take over the charity’s bank account until we can prove we weren’t involved. Honestly, it’s a complete…” he said, trailing off. Jack had just been about to say ‘clusterfuck’ but decided against it. He could see the anguish on both Emma and Ray’s faces, and they didn’t need him adding to it. “Look, we’ll get through this. The important thing is that we all stick together until we can figure this thing out,” he added, softening his tone and trying to sound hopeful and optimistic.

  “And we’re definitely going ahead with the record attempt?” asked Ray.

  “We have to,” confirmed Jack. “We’ve paid for that bloke from the TV to come over, and we already have thousands of people signed up to attend. We’ve also already received money from commercial sponsors, who I’m actually waiting for phone calls from, no doubt, to see if their money’s been misappropriated. If it wasn’t for the fact that we’d just hired a reputable accountancy firm to oversee the finances, a truly reputable firm this time, well, I’m pretty sure everyone would have deserted us by now like rats from a sinking ship.”

  “Good, good,” said Ray. “I’d hate to see the waltz thing fall through.”

  Jack let out a sigh. “Shall we get going, then, Emma? If he’s late to sign on at the police station then they’ll revoke his bail, and I don’t want that on my hands. My mum’s already none too pleased with me for letting this all happen to Grandad in the first place. Honestly, you’d think I was his bloody nursemaid or something.” Jack patted Ray’s arm. “And speaking of nursemaids, thank you for taking extra special care looking after him these last few days, Ray,” Jack told him. “It means a lot to us.”

  Ray smiled. “He’s done a lot for me, your grandad. I’m pleased to be able to return the favour.”

  “Come on, Bernie Madoff!” shouted Jack through the hallway, nudging the kitchen door back open. “We need to get you down the cop shop before they issue a warrant for your arrest!”

  Marion Higginbottom eased back in his chair, hands cupped behind his head. It was easy to prejudge, but Marion definitely appeared to be the sort to keep a bottle of cheap whiskey located in his bottom drawer for a little nip or two when everybody had gone home from work for the evening. He was a seasoned reporter, having cut his eyeteeth working on some of the leading national papers in the UK until a number of questionable, some-may-say-unethical,
practices had left Marion with fairly limited career opportunities. He was, perhaps, overqualified for the position of junior reporter at The Provincial Rag, as he took immense delight in referring privately to his present employer. He had to admit that there was, perhaps, a certain sort of charm in, for instance, reporting on cats stuck up trees or the opening of a community centre as opposed to, say, armed robberies or murder, what with the crime rate being relatively low on this small island as it was. Still, when a case with a little more meat on the bone presented itself, Marion was very much the man to pick it up and run with it.

  Currently, at the offices of The Douglas Spectator, a.k.a. The Provincial Rag…

  “Oi!” said Marion, in reaction to the lights being switched off. “I’m still working over here!” he shouted across the deserted office.

  “Jesus! You nearly scared me half to death!” replied Andy, Marion’s co-worker, clutching his chest and turning the lights back on as requested. “Sorry, mate, didn’t see you hiding in your cubicle over there,” Andy added, now walking over to Marion’s corner of the office. “Didn’t expect anybody to still be here. And since when do you work late, Marion?” he said. “Two front-page stories this week and you’re still hungry for more, is that it? Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?” he asked amiably.

  “No, you’re doing a good enough job of that on your own,” replied Marion, with little apparent intent on being considered the most popular person in the office.

  “Oh, har-har, good one,” replied Andy, used to Marion being a bit of an arsehole but not letting it bother him.

  “Here, Andy. You worked on the story about that dodgy local accountant, yeah?” asked Marion, getting straight to business, and posing this more as a statement rather than a question, as he already knew the answer. “Right. You spoke with him, then, didn’t you? This accountant? How did he come across to you?”

  “Barry Cox?” Andy answered. “Hmm, I guess, well… intelligent, charming, and seemingly credible. At least that’s the way he presents himself. And I suppose it’s just those apparent qualities that helped him to con all those people in the first place.”

  “It doesn’t appear he’s done all of that on his own, though, does it?” suggested Marion, holding up a copy of his front-page edition with Geoffrey Tate’s mug plastered on it.

  “Bullshit,” replied Andy. “You seriously think that little old bloke has had something to do with one of the largest frauds the Island has ever seen? Nonsense. The poor bloke is a patsy, fall-guy, idiot, or whatever you want to call him. The bloke on that front page of yours is innocent. The only thing he’s guilty of is being played for a sucker. I’ll bet you a steak dinner on it!”

  “I’m just reporting what the police have charged him with,” said Marion with a wry smile.

  “Bollocks to that,” Andy protested. “You’ve omitted enough information from your report and crafted it sufficiently so as to portray that poor Tate bugger as a bloodthirsty gangster preying on the innocent!”

  “Just reporting the facts, Andy,” Marion answered, unmoved by Andy’s characterisation of his article. “Oh, and did I mention that our newspaper’s circulation is up thirty percent this week? You just remember that when your salary continues to get paid this month.”

  Andy only gave a slight shrug in response. It wasn’t worth arguing with someone like Marion Higginbottom. Trying to get any sort of point at all across to him was an exercise in futility. “Anyway, I need to get going,” Andy told him. “Turn the lights out when you’re done?”

  “Andy, hang on. I’m sure there’s more to this story than we’ve uncovered so far,” pressed Marion, not through with Andy quite yet. “That Barry Cox fellow blames the old bloke, and vice versa. But let’s imagine, just for a moment,” he proposed, holding a finger aloft, “that the old chap isn’t as pure as the driven snow. That charity of theirs has four branches on the Island, and forty or so chapters across the UK, right? His grandson has just bought himself a nice little house and has expanded his chain of coffee shops four-fold in less than two years,” he said, now rubbing his thumb and forefinger together like he was counting out a load of cash.

  “So what are you saying?” asked Andy, narrowing his eyes, uncertain as to where Marion was heading with this, exactly, but remaining unconvinced nevertheless.

  Marion looked to the ceiling, and then back down again. “I’m saying that I’m sure this story is bigger than we think. There’s got to be more to it, and I’m convinced the old boy is up to his neck in this situation. And being the studious reporter that I am, well, it’s my duty to get to the bottom of it.”

  “As sure as your name is Marion Higginbottom?” replied Andy, though mumbling this to himself so that Marion couldn’t hear him.

  “What’s that?” asked Marion.

  “Don’t let me stop you, then, I said,” lied Andy, making his way to the door once again.

  “Mind if I have a read-through of your file on Barry Cox?” Marion called after him.

  “Knock yourself out, Marion,” replied Andy with a dismissive wave of the hand. “It’s in my filing cabinet. It’s unlocked. But when you find out in the end that the old bloke is innocent, as I’m confident you will, and that the accountant is bent as a nine-bob note, then you’re buying me dinner, and you’re not invited to eat it with me, yes? Agreed?”

  But Marion had already buggered off to the filing cabinet, not bothering to reply to Andy as Andy left, Marion’s attention being on other matters, namely, the downfall of one Geoffrey Tate.

  After twenty minutes to find the damned thing, and with a mental note to challenge Andy on his disorganised filing skills, Marion ambled back to his desk, flicking through the file once he got there, and with the file being comprised of a jumbled batch of handwritten notes on lined paper, the remnants of what appeared to be at one time a ham sandwich, and several photographs of Barry Cox also thrown into the mix, both on his own and also accompanied by his wife. Marion wasn’t sure how long the half-eaten ham sandwich had been in there. Several days, at least, he guessed. But he helped himself to it anyway. Needs some Colman’s mustard, he thought, making another mental note to relate to Andy.

  Marion ran through each and every word scribbled on Andy’s notepaper, having to pause periodically in order to study and attempt to decipher the especially hard-to-make-out bits of Andy’s difficult handwriting. Scanning through, Marion held his finger over one paragraph in particular that interested him, tracing each line with his fingertip as he went through it. “Hmm, yes, well hello there,” he said aloud, and in reference to the information presently at hand. He quite liked what he was reading. So much so, in fact, that he felt a celebratory drink was in order. As such, he reached into his bottom desk drawer with a sort of practised ease, without even having to look, his eyes still glued to Andy’s notes, effortlessly retrieving a half-empty Bell’s Whisky bottle. Marion Higginbottom was very much living up to perceptions as he necked a substantial slug and, in the process, giving his cheeks and the tip of his nose a nice rosy glow. He placed Andy’s page of notes he was holding next to one of his own, darting his eyes between the two of them, and with a knowing grin emerging on his jowly chops.

  All this exercising of his investigative prowess was building quite the thirst, and so Marion took another generous swig from his bottle as he carried on, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He then picked up a grainy black & white photograph that appeared to have been taken from a distance so great that even the Hubble Space Telescope would have had a fair amount of difficulty zooming in. Marion pressed the photograph up close to his face, but it was useless, with any fine detail being absolutely impossible to make out. Fortunately, as disorganised as he was, his co-worker Andy had still managed, miraculously, to tag each photograph with their respective locations and dates taken, so this was, at least, of some assistance to Marion. He set the photo back onto his desk, taking hold of Andy’s notes once more, furiously running his finger over the lines of written te
xt. Finally, he threw himself back into his chair, closing his fingers into a fist, triumphantly.

  “Gotcha!” he said, punching the air. “No one makes a fool out of Marion Higginbottom!” he declared, well satisfied, and then allowing himself several more ample swigs of whisky in order to celebrate the successful fruits of his investigative genius.

  .

  Chapter Eleven

  F earing Grandad was becoming more reclusive, and not to mention increasingly unshaven and unwashed, Jack had suggested a change of scenery and perhaps a nice drive through the Isle of Man countryside to take his mind off things.

  Grandad was not a young man, of course, and Jack had very real concerns about the toll that these criminal charges would be taking on his health. Jack had now spoken to the detective in charge of the investigation on multiple occasions to become apprised of any progress made, and also to see if formal charges would be presented. Frustratingly, they were constantly placed in a holding pattern with no timescales or next steps provided. This was the worst bit for Grandad, the entire waiting around. The poor chap was a nervous wreck, concerned that every phone call or knock at the door was going to be the police arriving to throw him in jail. It was awful for him. Grandad was ordinarily a social, outdoors person, especially since his involvement with the Silver Sprinters and other such initiatives. But now every time he stepped outside he had accusing stares cast in his direction, and snide remarks regarding his supposed criminal wrongdoings could often be overheard as murmurs and whispers whenever Grandad should happen to walk by. And it was because of this that Grandad had been staying indoors more and more. It was perhaps understandable, the looks and the comments Grandad received whenever he ventured out of doors, as he had indeed signed any and all documents thrown under his nose. But it was out of naivety than anything else, though of course the public didn’t necessarily have any way of knowing this.