Sweet Talking Money

by Harry Bingham

  ‘On your way, lad,’ said Bryn.

  He tried budging the chimp over the threshold, but the chimp resisted, one burly arm hanging on to the thin wooden frame round the door, easily shrugging off Bryn’s efforts to dislodge him. ‘Have it your way,’ said Bryn, and, leaving the chimp in the doorway, clambered over him instead. The monkey sat thoughtfully, watching a sea of smaller life swirling out over his legs, feeling the unaccustomed night air blowing freely over his face.

  Bryn made for the other sheds. Each one held the same general tale of horror, though the animals varied: pigeons, rabbits, chinchillas. In the third shed there was a small office area containing records on feeding, breeding, delivery dates, and so forth. Bryn wrenched open the filing cabinets, scattering the papers, doing his best to cause as much confusion and muddle as he could. Then on with the camerawork. It was hard to walk steadily down the aisles of woe, video camera in hand, when all his impulses were to release the animals and wreck the cages, but Bryn disciplined himself. He did his filming, released a few catches, spared a few lives.

  Weary now, and sickened, Bryn left the fourth shed, the camera tucked back into his belt. Dawn fought silently for control of the skies and was gaining perceptibly over the retreating darkness. Bryn felt annoyed with himself. They should have left sooner than this. He began to hurry.

  As he emerged into the dirt circle, he saw something which made his heart leap into his mouth. A guard was running into the shed where Dai and Cameron were still at work. Leading the guard, almost yanking him forwards on a leather leash, an alsatian strained to get at the intruders. Bryn wanted to call out a warning but didn’t dare to, in case of attracting further attention. He ran.

  Struggling not to step on any in the continuing stream of liberated animals, he burst in after the guard. The bare ceiling bulbs were enough to reveal what happened next. The guard, still running, met Dai. A massive fist flew through the air, big as a cannonball. With the feeblest of groans, the guard collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  But the guard wasn’t the problem.

  During the short-lived contest, the dog, briefly distracted by the surge of animals all round, had temporarily deserted his master. No longer. Snarling, and with teeth for wolves to envy, the dog hurled itself at Dai.

  Dai fell to the ground as he wrestled with the beast, grabbing at its neck in an effort to keep its teeth away from his throat. The dog accepted the invitation, and sunk its teeth into his arm instead. Dai was too much the man to shout in pain, but an agonised gasp escaped him involuntarily, as though forced out through the double set of puncture wounds. Wrestle as he might, Dai only gave further assistance to the deeply embedded teeth. Bryn leaped forward.

  ‘Where’s bloody Cameron?’ panted Dai.

  ‘Just hold still,’ said Bryn, manhandling the dog out of the way to improve his position.

  Dai understood his brother’s intention. ‘Oh Christ,’ he muttered, but he held his arm steady, bringing the dog’s head outwards and upwards, the back of its skull against the concrete floor. Knotting his hands together to make a club, Bryn drove downwards with all his strength. It was enough. Dai hollered, the dog slumped, its teeth still knotted into the Welshman’s arm. ‘Bloody sodding shitting buggering hell,’ said Dai, giving due weight to every sentiment contained in his brief summary. ‘Where in buggery is that doctor of yours?’

  First things first. Bryn hooked his thumbs into the dog’s mouth and yanked the jaws open. The dog’s tongue lolled stupidly from its mouth, but it breathed normally and would wake with nothing worse than a serious hangover. Dai examined his arm, which was badly gashed. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, reverting to his normal, more laconic, assessment of the situation.

  Dragging the dog, Bryn pushed it into one of the empty monkey cages, checking its position to ensure its tongue wouldn’t block its throat and choke it. He closed the door and latched it. Dai meanwhile did the same with the guard, although he was none too gentle as he squelched the man backwards into the monkey shit which had for so long been somebody else’s jail.

  ‘Count yourself lucky, you sod. You’ll only be there a few hours,’ he said, locking the catch.

  ‘Now, Cameron,’ said Bryn. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  The question was soon answered.

  ‘Guys … guys …’ Cameron’s voice, sounding small.

  Now Bryn thought about it, he realised the sound had been present in the background for the last couple of minutes, unattended to in the hubbub.

  ‘Cameron?’

  It was strange looking for her. The ceiling bulbs weren’t bright, and the cages cast strong shadows. Meanwhile, the floor was full of life: the cats, rats and mice which hadn’t yet found the door; the whining monkeys, clinging to each other for comfort, feeling touch for the first time. Several times, Bryn thought he saw Cameron, only for the shape to resolve itself into a monkey as he drew close.

  ‘Cameron? Cameron?’

  Eventually, a small sound by his legs stopped him.

  ‘Bryn? Down here.’

  Bryn crouched. Deep inside one of the larger cages, a big chimp hunkered back in the shadow. Folded into his burly arms was Cameron, squashed against him like a comfort blanket.

  ‘Jesus. Are you OK?’

  ‘We’re kind of cosy. I think the big guy’s taken a shine to me.’

  Dai arrived on the spot as well, but there was only room for one of the two men to get inside the cage to help. It was Bryn, of course, who took the plunge, squelching into the shit, head grazing against the slatted bars above.

  Monkeys are famous for their ability to use legs like arms, feet like hands: an ability used to full effect right now. Cameron was fastened by two huge arms across her body, two legs folded tightly over her own. Her face was pale but composed. ‘Big daddy here thought he’d audition for King Kong. I’d say he was doing pretty well.’

  Bryn took the chimp’s outer arm and hauled. Though unfit and maltreated, the chimp remained a large and powerful animal. One-handed, Bryn would have stood no chance. But bracing himself with his feet and using both hands, he gradually tugged the outer arm away, forcing it against the side of the cage. Cameron wiggled, but it was a token gesture. She was still held as firmly as ever, and the moment Bryn shifted his attention to the second arm, the first one came back, like a steel clamp.

  ‘There, there, sweetheart,’ murmured Cameron to her captor.

  The animal was still frightened, still in need of its comfort blanket. It had suffered years of maltreatment and an open cage and a few soothing words wouldn’t do much for its hurts.

  ‘Hell,’ said Bryn, thinking of the growing light outside, and the stupidity of being caught and jailed.

  ‘In my belt,’ said Cameron. ‘The syringe. If you can reach it.’

  Bryn fought silently with the chimp to gain access to the precious belt. The contest brought forth grunts from both of them: heavy, laboured ones from Bryn, small noises of surprise or offence from the chimp. Eventually, Bryn forced his hand through to Cameron’s waist. He could feel her belt and her body beneath.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Round to the left. Further. OK? Yeah, kind of … I just hope that damn needle’s intact.’

  Inch by inch, Bryn fought his way. He found the right tool pocket, drove his hand inside. The chimp was beginning to get annoyed at the interruption to its comfort session. Its grunts had a hostile edge now, its fuse was running short. Cameron’s breaths became increasingly laboured as the chimp tightened its grip.

  ‘Got it,’ said Bryn. ‘The needle’s OK because I’ve just stabbed myself.’

  The needle had indeed lost its plastic sheath, and the hardest part of the whole exercise was withdrawing the syringe while protecting the fragile needle. The chimp adjusted position, folding Cameron even more tightly against him, starting to snuzzle her hair with peeled-back lips.

  ‘Get off my hair,’ she said, ‘and I was planning on holding on to that ear as well.’

  ‘Done it!�
� cried Bryn, holding out his prize.

  ‘Stick it in anywhere, doesn’t matter.’

  Bryn drove the needle into the chimp’s arm, squeezed home the plunger.

  There was no effect.

  Whereas the dog had simply keeled over, the chimp still blinked with dark eyes, its arms still holding its precious trophy. ‘Sod it. It hasn’t worked.’ The smell of monkey shit doubled in intensity for some reason, forcing tears to Bryn’s eyes.

  ‘Give it a minute. It’s got a much greater bodyweight, it probably won’t even be knocked out. But it’ll be dopey, that’s all we need.’

  She was right. A minute passed, and the chimp began to loll stupidly. Bryn resumed his battle with the great hairy arms, and this time won with ease. He dragged Cameron from the cage, clasped her into his arms. He hugged her with abandon, relief overpowering all thought of the distance it was proper to keep between them. She let him hug her. She had been more frightened in her hairy prison than she’d let anyone see. Bryn kissed the top of her head, rubbed her back, wanted passionately to kiss her lips but was not allowed.

  After a short time – more than she wanted, and far, far less than he wanted – Cameron pushed him back.

  ‘OK, OK. It was only a monkey, for heaven’s sake.’

  It was time to go. They made their way outside, Bryn and Cameron cleaning themselves as best they could, though they’d have won no prizes in a fragrant body contest. The shed was now almost empty. Only the monkeys still lingered, as though knowing they had no chance of escape except by death.

  ‘Bye, guys. Good luck,’ said Cameron, turning back at the door for one last look.

  ‘Let’s leave our calling card,’ said Bryn.

  Drawing aerosol sprays from his belt, he handed one each to Cameron and Dai, keeping one for himself. Taking a shed each, and working together on the fourth, they sprayed.

  ‘ALF’, in huge letters – Animal Liberation Front.

  ‘Animal rights not human profit’.

  ‘Chimps wouldn’t do this’.

  ‘Stop the animal torturers’.

  Dai’s can rattled as it gasped its last. ‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘Wish we’d had time for the other sheds.’

  But they didn’t. The sky was light now, and the twisted rhododendrons were little more than an annoyance as they raced towards safety. Finding the hole in the wire, they threw themselves over the wall and into the getaway cars that they had summoned. They drove away fast, exultant at their triumph, shocked at the horrors they’d left behind.

  6

  The journey home was mostly silent. Cameron slept in the back of the car, as Kati drove. She tried to avoid leaning up against Bryn, but in the end tiredness overwhelmed her and she snored away, her head on his shoulder. Just twice, she woke up.

  The first time, she said, “Thanks for getting me out of that cage, by the way. It was getting kinda scary.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  ‘That chimp was a nice guy and all, but …’

  But what, Bryn never found out, as she closed her eyes and slept.

  A while later, as the car began to jolt through the congested London traffic, she woke again.

  ‘How did you know we’d find all that? Those sheds, those poor animals … Meg didn’t know, nor Degsy.’

  ‘Oh, that was easy. I’m a banker, remember.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Amazing what you can learn from a balance sheet.’

  It wasn’t exactly a satisfactory answer, but Cameron was asleep once again.

  The truth, however, was simple. When Bryn had searched Companies House for the facts about his property company, he’d also slipped in a request for Altmeyer’s accounts and used them to dig down to his major sources of profit.

  Altmeyer’s business had three legs. First was the research outfit, not contributing so much profit now, but a potential goldmine if they hit on a useful product. Given the way biotech companies were valued these days, the research organisation was likely to be the most valuable part of the business, the key to everything else.

  Second was Altmeyer’s original business: marketing drugs which other people had researched and developed. With his showiness, self-confidence and willingness to deceive, Altmeyer would always be a good marketer. But the third leg of his business, and the second biggest generator of money, came from a less expected source: Chirpy Chimps Ltd. The name – Altmeyer humour at its most disagreeable – and the description of the company’s activities were enough for Bryn. The company described its business as ‘the breeding and logistics of laboratory animals’, both for Altmeyer’s in-house research work and for the British drugs industry at large. The profits were enormous, with margins approaching a stunning fifty per cent.

  Gazing with tired eyes at the flickering screen, Bryn had understood the whole dirty economics. The big drugs companies certainly wouldn’t slash costs by maltreating animals, but if there was an operator who offered to lower their overhead by managing the whole breeding cycle himself, they certainly wouldn’t be over-inquisitive about animal welfare. Bryn saw the outrageous profit margins. He heard Altmeyer’s malevolent snicker ringing through the company’s jaunty name. He knew enough of Altmeyer’s greed and cruelty. He’d heard Meg talk about the pong coming from the grounds when the wind was wrong. He’d known what to expect, and he’d been right.

  They’d already made a phone call to the news desk of the local paper, calling themselves the Animal Liberation Front and reporting a victory over the locally-based MA Research Associates. By now, long after dawn, Altmeyer’s people would have found the wire, found the unconscious guard and the doped-out dogs. They’d be chasing over the grounds, retrieving the monkeys, swearing as the cats and mice eluded their grasp. It wouldn’t be tough to figure out what had happened, and there’d be no reason at all to believe that the central building had been burgled. Anyone reporting lost documents would be told to take better care of them in future, while the contents of the safe itself were all present and correct.

  But, as they drew closer to London, Bryn’s self-satisfaction dissipated fast. The raid had been successful, but the tough part was yet to come. He was anxious, desperately anxious, and for the time being there was nothing more he could do.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  1

  Across the country, the radio begins to talk. This is an hour of the day which belongs to farmers, an hour when everyone else is in bed, when the airwaves belong to the Yorkshire dales, the East Anglian agro-factories, the Devon creameries, the Welsh hill farms.

  Mervyn Hughes stirs in bed and switches on the radio. Gwyneth wakes up. Muttering his thought of the day (‘Bloody hell’ – same as it was most days) Mervyn heads off to the bathroom. Gwyneth looks at him going with amazement.

  ‘Are you getting up?’ she asks.

  ‘’Course I’m getting up, woman. I’ve a farm to run.’

  ‘That’s right, you have.’

  Mervyn repeats his thought for the day a couple of times and splashes around in the bathroom, making the old pipes gurgle and slam as he switches the water on and off. He emerges, shaved, and with hair that looks as though it had seen a comb, however briefly. He starts to get dressed.

  ‘Best not to have breakfast ready until eight this morning, love,’ he says. ‘I’ve a fair bit to catch up on.’

  Gwyneth is astonished, but she keeps her astonishment to herself.

  ‘Right you are, dear. Breakfast at eight.’

  2

  Still an hour before daybreak, twenty-four hours on from the break-in. A swollen red sun is preparing to haul itself up over the horizon, but for now struggles to free itself from the grey towers and dull air of London’s skyline. The first petals of rose-coloured light begin to bloom on the cold winter water round Bryn’s barge. A gentle wind, in opposition to the current, rocks the boat: the perfect lullaby for a man with a few hours’ sleep still ahead of him.

  Perfect in theory; irrelevant in practice. Cameron is up already, has found hersel
f locked out of the boathouse, is hammering at Bryn’s door asking for keys.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Echoing his father, Bryn rolls out of bed. He sleeps as God made him and he can’t find his dressing gown. He grabs a towel, wraps it round his waist and goes to the door, which he throws open. Clean chilly air folds itself around him, waking him.

  ‘Cameron. What a delight. Such an imaginative time to call.’

  ‘I need keys to the boathouse. Some fool’s quadruple-locked it.’

  ‘Some fool is me,’ says Bryn. ‘I’m stepping up security for the race to the finish.’

  ‘Uh, good idea.’

  ‘D’you just want keys, or do you want some breakfast too?’

  ‘Uh. It’s kind of early. You probably want some more sleep.’

  ‘Want some,’ says Bryn, scratching his chest. ‘Yes, want some.’ He motions her inside. ‘Not going to get it, though. Too awake.’ He blinks himself another few notches more wakeful, and rubs his chest again, self-consciously. It is a fairly small towel he’s wearing and he’s a big lad. ‘Sorry about the towel.’

  She shrugs, looking at him dispassionately. ‘I’m a doctor. I’ve seen worse. Dissected worse, actually.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. Decent cadavers were tough to come by.’

  ‘Cadaver shortage. Rough. I’ll shower, you make coffee.’

  ‘Uh, sure.’ Cameron is a brilliant scientist and a woman of a thousand virtues, but her kitchen skills wouldn’t pass muster in a kindergarten. Her voice is as uncertain as if Bryn had asked her to play the violin or sing an aria.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I make coffee, you shower. No? Then I suppose I’ll just do everything.’

  He takes a six-cup espresso maker from the shelf, and loads its perforated tray with two spoons of mild Colombian, one spoon heaped with a fierce dark Brazilian roast. He tamps down the coffee, checks the aroma, adds a little more of the darker bean, then fills the jug beneath and sets it on the stove to brew.