by Geoff Wolak
Sex and the sixties
1
Sir Morris Beesely placed down the house phone, a 1940s antique that had been specially adapted for modern exchanges. ‘How very odd.’ He stood at the edge of a large oak table that had been the focal point of family gatherings his entire life. It remained one of the few things that reminded him of the war, his parents and his brother, all now long dead. He remained by the phone, his thumbs in the waistcoat pockets of his tweed suit. ‘Very odd,’ he repeated.
Johno wandered in, slapping a newspaper onto the table. ‘What’s odd, Boss?’ He stood dressed as usual in an old black suit with a clean white shirt.
Beesely stared down at the phone as Johno drew near. ‘That was the auction house up in town,’ he stated without looking up.
‘Sold this old place then?’
Without making eye contact Beesely quietly stated, ‘Oh, yes, my boy, well and truly sold.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘In fact, sold several times over.’
Johno flicked through the paper’s TV section. Without looking up he quietly commented, ‘That auction house idiot screwed up and sold it to two people at the same time?’
Beesely raised his head without making eye contact. ‘Nothing so simple, my grammatically challenged little helper.’
Johno glanced across. ‘Uh?’
Now Beesely turned to face Johno squarely. ‘They did not sell it twice, young man, they sold it once … and for seven million pounds.’
Johno’s cheek creased into a huge smile. He faced Beesely. ‘Result! I feel a fact finding trip to Bar-bloody-Bados-in-the-frigging-sun coming on.’ Then he checked himself and frowned. ‘Thought you said that all the work it needed for the listed building status shit ... would make it only worth a million?’
Beesely issued a reluctant nod. ‘Correct. It is only worth a million.’ He straightened, staring ahead. ‘And yet, here we stand like a pair of prize tarts on the opening night of a New Delhi whore house.’ Focusing on Johno for a few seconds he asked, ‘Would you be happy … to retire to Barbados, never to return?’
‘In an instant.’
Beesely carefully studied his driver.
Johno stepped closer. ‘Have they … you know, received the money?’ he asked, almost whispering.
Beesely leant towards him, whispering conspiratorially. ‘Wired immediately.’
Johno folded his arms. ‘Can they ask for it back?’
‘Nope,’ Beesely shot back. ‘Auctions … have rules, my boy.’
Johno let his arms drop and turned back to the TV section. ‘It’s their problem then. Someone with that kind of money knows what he’s doing. Maybe there’s oil under the lake.’
‘It’s a puzzler.’ Beesely breathed out. ‘I’d hate to find out that this old place is being pulled down to build the next McDonalds or ... or what am I babbling on about. We’re miles from anywhere, the roads are terrible, we sit on the edge of a National Heritage site and the grounds are too small for a weird little theme park of sorts.’
Johno glanced up briefly. ‘Know who bought it?’
Beesely tipped his head from side to side, stretching his neck muscles. ‘Anonymous. Paid with a Swiss bank transfer.’
Johno controlled his reaction. ‘Swiss?’
Beesely took a moment, making eye contact. ‘Just because the buyer uses a Swiss bank … it does not mean that he is Swiss.’
Johno shrugged, looking resigned to the fact, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘They must know what they’re doing, not our problem. Let’s just pack a bag and fuck off, eh.’
As Beesely held his gaze on Johno, his long serving housekeeper entered the room with a silver tea set. It held a mug for Johno that pronounced ‘Passing forty!’, its side adorned with a picture of Homer Simpson, belly hanging out.
‘You’re back early. So what’s not our problem?’ Jane enquired as she prepared the tea. The two men walked over to where she had placed the tray.
The housekeeper, and occasional secretary, wore a pained expression on a forty-one year old face that typically showed no joy. She often complained about the temperature in the old house, even in the summer, her cold hands the butt of many jokes from Johno. Even when they were abroad together, in the Caribbean or the tropics, she complained of the cold.
‘Some silly sod just paid seven million quid for this old dump,’ Johno blurted out.
She turned to Beesely for confirmation, her aged employer smiling and nodding. ‘Wow, that’s great,’ she commented in a quiet, West Country accent. ‘What with all the stuff you’ve sold off and the shares you sold … you’re set for life now. Good for you.’ She poured out two teas.
‘Set for life,’ Beesely loudly repeated, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. ‘I wonder what I’ll do when I finally retire.’ He lowered his gaze to Johno, who rolled his eyes at Jane’s statement. ‘I can just about pay your salaries now,’ he risked.
It was an old joke. Johno and Jane exchanged glances, as they had done a hundred times before.
Beesely’s mobile came to life, Johno hiding a smile; he had downloaded another ring-tone to it without anyone noticing. A mechanised voice began, ‘Ring ... ring! Won’t somebody answer the damn phone? Ring! Hello!’
Beesely focused on Jane as he took it out. ‘Death can come as such a sweet release.’
She gently slapped his arm and scowled as Johno laughed.
‘Beesely here,’ their employer answered in a high-toned and nasal voice.
‘My name is Otto Schessel, and I am calling from The International Bank of Zurich,’ came an accented voice.
‘Ah, I had been expecting someone to call.’ He glanced at Johno as he lowered the phone. ‘Swiss bank,’ he whispered.
Johno’s shoulders dropped. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. ‘Knew it was a cock-up. So much for Barbados.’
‘Go on,’ Beesely keenly requested of the voice. ‘You are calling about the sale of Broadlands –’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’ Beesely puzzled.
‘No, sir. I wish to talk with you regarding your late brother-in-law from Switzerland, Herr Gunter Schapphaust.’
Beesely suddenly looked pale, Johno noticing and jumping to his feet. ‘My late brother-in-law,’ Beesely repeated for the benefit of Johno and Jane. ‘Would that be the Swiss Nazi bastard, Gunter? That particular brother-in-law?’ He carefully observed Johno’s sudden lack of interest in the call it.
The caller paused. ‘I cannot comment upon that, sir.’
‘No, of course you can’t, you’re a polite and efficient Swiss banker. Well then, why exactly are you calling my good self at this hour on a damp Thursday night?’
‘Apologies for the hour, sir, but this is an important matter. You are the last surviving heir, a distant relative, and your brother-in-law left no will. Therefore, we must speak with you urgently given the large sum of money you will be inheriting.’
‘Large sum of money I’ll be inheriting,’ Beesely repeated with a sceptical look, Johno now taking an interest. He added flatly, ‘It is my lucky day.’
‘Sir?’ came from the caller.
‘Never mind,’ Beesely intimated. ‘What did you wish to discuss and how, pray tell, would we communicate about this matter? Do I need to fly to Switzerland?’
‘No, sir, I am outside your gate.’
Startled, Beesely clicked his fingers at Johno. ‘You’re outside my gate.’ Johno stepped to the window. After a second he turned and nodded, looking all business. ‘Then I suppose we should get to the bottom of this. My man will come out and open the gate; not electric I’m afraid, bit of a chore to open it.’ He clipped the phone shut. ‘Tool up,’ he instructed Johno, his features hardening. ‘We have company … and I smell a rat.’ He held up his mobile. ‘And just how the hell did they get my mobile number? This darn thing is an unregistered pre-pay whatsit.’
2
As Johno walked out to the gate he could feel the Browning 9mm pistol digging into his lower back, cocked ready and stuffed down his belt
for the most discreet profile. Stepping slowly, glancing around, each step was loudly advertised as his shoes crunched gravel, a fine misty rain cooling his face. He manhandled the large gate, the old iron squeaking loudly in protest as it was pulled open on dated hinges, gravel being crunched and displaced. He stood to one side and waited, his face and hair now moist.
The Range Rover drew level and he strained to see inside, the passenger’s window already down. Once the headlights were beyond him he could see two men in suits, dressed like … well… dressed like pin-head Swiss bankers, he considered. The passenger looked like a nervous Boris Becker with a tidy haircut, Johno considered. He had tired eyes sunken into a youthful, pale face.
Johno’s concerns ebbed away. ‘Evening,’ he flatly offered. ‘Nice night for it.’
The passenger glanced up at the dark sky and the rain with a puzzled look. ‘Nice night for what?’ he genuinely enquired, missing the sarcasm.
‘For things that you might want to do a night like this, like slug spotting.’ He raised an arm towards the house. ‘Park anywhere, but not on the flowerbeds, the boss gets pissy when visitors do that.’
Confused, the two visitors glanced at each other as they watched out for non-existent flowerbeds, pulling forwards onto the large gravel driveway, Johno having failed to notice the diplomatic number plates. And the rear of the vehicle was now passenger free. The passenger stepped down from the car, briefcase in hand, and waited. The driver came around the front of the vehicle; no briefcase, just a bulging chest visible under his jacket.
‘Please,’ Johno said, gesturing towards the house, ‘go on in.’ He slowed his progress, keeping his distance behind them. The two visitors stepped into the illuminated porch. Johno had just stepped inside when he felt the press of cold metal to his right temple.
‘Keep walking,’ a voice whispered, a hand now on Johno’s left shoulder.
‘Bollocks,’ Johno let out, louder than he’d meant to.
The two visitors had turned, smiling oddly at him before proceeding calmly inside. They walked into the dining room to be greeted by Beesely and Jane sat waiting. As Johno trailed them inside, he carefully considered his options. Beesely and Jane were both sitting behind the table, Johno noted as he entered the dinning room, the big bullet-proof table with several under-table drawers, great places to conceal a gun. The tables were about to be turned.
The passenger politely introduced himself to Beesely as Otto Schessel, placing his briefcase onto the table before standing off to one side, the driver walking a similar distance the other way. Johno now stepped slowly towards the sitting Beesely, gun still to his head. His employer’s hands had been below the table, but as Johno crossed the room Beesely raised them onto the table, as did Jane. Johno felt as though he might explode; he stared so hard at Beesely he thought his eyes were going to pop out. But Beesely smiled widely, soon copied by Jane. The press of metal against his temple ended, the hand came off his shoulder.
‘Getting frigging old, slow and fat,’ came a voice that Johno recognised immediately. He spun around. There stood former SAS sergeant Richard ‘Ricky’ Davies, beaming. The ‘gunman’ put his weapon into his shoulder holster. Ricky stood almost six foot tall, a wiry frame with shortly cropped grey hair and a face that made even close friends believe he was contemplating killing them then eating their body parts. Beesely had always remarked: a face that only a mother could love.
Johno worked hard to control his reaction; this was one man in the world he could not get angry with, no matter what he did. And this was a dirty rotten... ‘Dirty rotten bunch of bastards,’ Johno began, addressing them all. ‘Bleeding sons of putrid dogs’ bollocks …’ They were all in on it, he was sure. It was elaborate enough for Beesely to have had a hand in, but it wasn’t his birthday or April the first, no major anniversary, not that he could remember those anyway.
‘You looked shit scared, sonny,’ Ricky teased as he stepped closer. ‘You need a drink?’
Johno stayed firmly rooted to the spot, muttering every bad word he could think of; a long list. He had been humiliated, scared, the butt of a joke, yet stood utterly delighted to see the man now in front of him.
Jane was the first to Ricky. She flung her arms around him and he lifted her up, her eyes already full of tears of joy. He let her down gently and kissed her on the forehead, Johno having hurt people for far less.
‘Hey, skinny,’ Ricky whispered. ‘How’re the hands?’ He felt her hands, exaggerating a sharp jerk at how cold they were. She slapped his arm, hard. ‘I told you before, if you want to play with my balls you’ve got to warm up them hands.’ She slapped him again.
Beesely drew level with Johno, who was still swearing under his breath. ‘Beaten by a better man,’ he whispered as he passed, Johno relaxing a few degrees. Ricky put out a hand to shake, but was surprised to find Beesely giving him a hug. ‘Good to see you again, Richard.’
The visitor, who had introduced himself as Otto, stood watching, his face betraying no emotion as he studied them all carefully.
Ricky hugged Beesely back, careful to note that he was hugging an eighty-year-old man, even if fit and healthy for his age. ‘Good to see you again, sir.’
Beesely eased back, but held onto Ricky, suddenly becoming serious. ‘Last I heard you were supposed to be banged up somewhere, but no one could find out anything. I would have come for you –’
‘I know,’ Ricky cut in, also now serious, ‘but I have a new guardian angel, thanks to you in no small part.’ He tipped his head towards Otto.
Beesely followed Ricky’s gaze, sizing up Otto. ‘I thought these goons were with you, part of the … joke?’
Ricky shook his head. ‘He’s the real deal Swiss banker, no joke. I’ve been working for him for the past few months.’ Beesely studied Otto, many things racing through his mind. Ricky added, ‘I was in a Chinese jail for life till Otto here bribed half the officials in chicken-chow-mein province and got me out. They faked my death so that Peking-duck and Ho Chi Min wouldn’t be asking too many questions. Hell, MI6 were not about to swap me –’
Beesely straightened, shocked. ‘MI6 sent you into China?’ Without waiting for an answer he shook his head, walking back to the table. ‘Jane, could you please prepare something for our guests.’ She turned towards the kitchen. ‘And if someone would be so kind as to shut the bleeding front door we will all stay warm and toasty. Except Jane, of course.’
‘I heard that!’ she complained as she disappeared through a side door.
Now Ricky stepped up to a more relaxed Johno, although Johno still appeared as if he might clobber someone. ‘How you been then, runt?’
‘I’m an inch shorter, that’s all. And I can cook field rations.’
‘You call that cooking?’ Ricky challenged. ‘You ungrateful little shit stain.’
‘Hey, old man, I didn’t alert the enemy by farting too loud!’
‘Listen, sonny, if you weren’t so damn fat we could have got out of that scrape days earlier, maybe weeks, you little whinge bag.’
‘Arsehole!’
‘Toe rag!’
‘Whore house toilet washer!’
Beesely stepped up to Otto. ‘This could go on for a while. Tea?’
Otto gave a slight head bow. ‘Thank you, that would be very nice,’ he said with an accent that Beesely picked up on straight away: German-speaking Swiss. Otto shot a glance at the other man, who immediately sat in the farthest corner, tucked out of the way.
Beesely had followed Otto’s signal around to the second man. ‘Your … driver?’
‘Driver and bodyguard,’ Otto replied. ‘One of many.’
‘I see,’ Beesely muttered, frowning slightly as he pulled out several chairs around the large table, as if a board meeting was about to be convened.
Jane soon reappeared holding two large coffee flasks, mugs precariously gripped on each little finger. She fetched several best china cups from an old wooden sideboard and a large stack of coasters. Ricky and Johno
were now gently punching each other on the shoulder, talking about an arm wrestle or a race around the house.
‘Ricky, Johno, front and centre!’ Beesely firmly commanded, noting Otto’s mild surprise. ‘Sit down! And somebody close that bloody door!’
Johno attended to the door as Ricky sat. Otto sat where his briefcase had been left and Jane stood at the far end of the table, busy taking whispered orders for tea and coffee. She had also brought out a pen and pad, an old habit.
When Johno returned, still mumbling to himself, Beesely seated himself deliberately opposite Otto. ‘So, Richard,’ Beesely asked whilst staring directly across at Otto. ‘Just what, in exact and precise terms, not withholding any relevant detail, is going on?’
‘Long story, Boss.’
‘Good job then that we have biscuits,’ Beesely cut in with, still focused on Otto.
‘Sir Morris, may I introduce to you Otto Schessel, head of The International Bank of Zurich. And, at forty-two years old, quite likely one of the world’s richest men.’
Beesely appeared as if he was about to say something, but checked himself and turned to Ricky, a ridge creasing his brow. ‘Really?’
‘Yep,’ Ricky replied. ‘This guy has more money than God.’
Johno eased forwards, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Bought any nice old English country houses lately, Blotto?’
Otto frowned slightly at the deliberate mispronunciation of his name. Before he had a chance to answer Beesely had turned to Johno.
‘Good question,’ Beesely approved, surprised by Johno’s insight. ‘Not quite as stupid as you look.’
Johno gritted his teeth as Ricky laughed.
‘Yes,’ Otto answered. ‘I bought this property today, as you have guessed it correctly.’
‘For seven times what it’s worth,’ Beesely pointed out. ‘Not a very smart move. Generous, and gratefully received, but not very smart. And from the same man who is handling my … inheritance. How intriguing.’ He glanced again at Ricky.
Otto studied Beesely for a second, then opened his case and took a large brown envelope from the middle of a pile of envelopes and files.
‘I was expecting to see your sandwiches in there,’ Johno quipped, Ricky controlling a small, stifled laugh. ‘Does your mum know you’re out this late?’
Otto did not react as he retrieved a set of house deeds from the envelope. ‘This signs the house back over to you, to use as you wish until death,’ he stated.
Beesely shot a look at Ricky, noting his coy grin, then just stared across at Otto, his expression blank. There came a long, awkward silence.
‘Nice gesture,’ Ricky finally encouraged, Beesely not responding.
Otto glanced at Ricky before taking another file from his case. ‘Your late brother-in-law left a detailed will that stated … that in the event of his death, his money was to be used for supporting several political groups across Europe.’
Beesely eased his head forwards. ‘On the phone you said that he left no will.’
Otto stared back for a moment, then seemed to read the documents in front of him. ‘If that version of his will had been allowed to be executed, many right-wing political groups would have benefited from Gunter’s money.’
‘You mean … neo-Nazi groups?’ Beesely prompted with a concerned look.
Otto paused. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ Beesely gave it some thought. ‘So you, Mister Otto Swiss banker, are here because you do not agree with my late brother-in-laws’ will and would rather … I get to choose how the money is used?’
‘It is complicated, but in simple terms, yes.’
Beesely sat back in his chair and turned to Ricky, who was now munching on a large shortbread biscuit. ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’ Ricky tried to swallow. ‘I mean, call me old fashioned, but I have always believed that Swiss bankers do not go around changing wills, that they take their work very seriously, that they act diligently in the interests of their clients. And yet here we sit, expected to believe that this Swiss banker - generous to a fault in throwing away money on decrepit old houses - has changed someone’s will so that I benefit. Little old me.’ He turned to Otto and stared directly at him. ‘Were you, perhaps, hoping I might split the proceeds with you in this grand international conspiracy?’
‘No,’ Otto replied as he pulled out another brown envelope, the top one. ‘The money is yours, to do with as you please.’
Beesely started to get louder. ‘And just why the hell would you be arranging this … for me?’ He checked Ricky, finding him still smiling.
Otto opened the envelope and slid an A4 black and white photo across the desk, not dissimilar to someone laying down four aces in a poker game. Beesely suddenly appeared tired, the colour draining from his face. He reached down with his right hand and placed a Beretta 9mm pistol onto the table.
‘Boss?’ Johno asked, straightening.
‘It’s OK!’ Ricky assured them all. ‘Everyone relax!’
Beesely stared down at the photo of a woman. He ran a finger over the glossy paper, as if running it over the imagined contours of her face. ‘You’d better have a very good reason for having this photo, mister.’
His hand remained on the pistol as their eyes met.
‘She was my mother,’ Otto stated.