by John Macrae
Then I was back in and gunning the engine to pull away. To my horror, the back wheels spun uselessly and the car slid sideways. The drizzle had turned the bridle path into mud. I stopped, panicking and ready for a terrible second to run.
Then reason, training and common sense flooded in. Carefully, I put the car in second and delicately revved the motor. For a heart-stopping moment the wheels spun, then she bit and slithered forward, shaking herself like a dog coming out of the river as the tyres found firmer grass on the ride and then the road. I had to stop for a moment as a car's headlights flashed by in the rain; then I drove away down the lane, heading west, away from the motorway and any obvious escape routes, good Kentish mud clattering against the underside of the car.
At the first telephone box I stopped and dialled 999. In broad Glaswegian I told the tale, gave the startled girl the address and told her to send an ambulance – fast. Then I put the phone down. Gloves. No prints. Get out. I hadn't meant to stab Varley. The least I could do was give him the fucker a chance, however remote.
By the time I came out of the box I was thinking hard. I drove steadily back to London, watching the wipers smear the growing rain on the screen. By swinging wide to the west into Surrey, I would avoid any Kent police roadblocks on the M2 or M20 routes into London. Then I drove through an all night car wash before leaving the car on the forecourt of the hire firm and pushing the keys through the door. I'd paid the deposit in cash, so I'd lost that.
Then I caught what must have been the last late night cab, carrying my pack suitcase style and dropped off near the flat. I didn't want curious cabbies remembering where they had dropped me. The final four hundred metres on foot were the worst. At 2 a.m. lone pedestrians with packs are objects of intense interest to beat policemen. Fortunately the Metropolitan Police had long discarded such mundane methods of policing. The walk seemed to take for ever. My footsteps echoed hollow on the walls and my shadow lengthened and receded as I passed the streetlights in the night. But no curious policeman was there to see me. With a sigh of relief I let myself in.
I drank a tumbler of whisky almost neat, but not before I'd dumped the pack in the bath. The stereo went on to Bach, straight away. I stood in the middle of the room, clutching the tumbler and staring blankly at the walls. Only later did I shower myself scrupulously clean before emptying the pack, being careful to keep it all inside the bath. The money and documents went under the floorboards for the moment. The rest, including my black trainers, went into a black plastic waste sack, mud and all, ready to go back to my lock up garage. By three o'clock I was in bed, exhausted. It had been a long day.
In my sleep, Varley was stabbed a hundred times, until I woke at six, bathed in sweat and with my heart pounding.
Never again. Never. At least it was over.
CHAPTER 17
London
But it wasn’t over. It was worse.
By the time I made it into the office, I was already picking up the drift of the story from the paper. There had been nothing on the radio, which was hardly surprising. The morning radio team were more interested in making laboured jokes about the state of the motorways and interviewing some excitable American Foreign Affairs Committee representative on the state of Iran and the Middle East to worry about obscure crimes in Kent. But the newspaper had an interesting spot, on the inside page:
'CITY MAN STABBED'
I sighed with relief and put the paper down. At least I hadn't killed him, although how he'd survived, God alone knew. In an obscure way I felt pleased that I'd saved his life by telephoning from that call box. I turned to the rest of the day with renewed enthusiasm, despite my sandpaper eyes and drooping lids.
Later on Mallalieu looked by. "Good God! You look shattered," he said, swinging the door to my office shut with a careless back flip of the foot. "Heavy night?"
I rubbed my face and tried to brighten up. "You know how it is ..." I trailed off, hoping to indicate lots of work. Mallalieu mistook it for sexual innuendo and looked even more surprised. "I didn't know that the action was in Peterborough. What a place! Maybe I should visit?"
"Peterborough?" It was my turn to be surprised.
"Yes." He sounded irritable. "That's where you went yesterday afternoon, wasn't it? Have you got the answer?"
"Oh, yes, of course." I was sweating now. "Yes; got back last night and had a late night reorganising the flat."
"Oh" Mallalieu looked at me, baffled and indecisive. Then he shook his head and abruptly walked away.
After that I was glad to escape from the office. On the way home I bought an evening paper. To my horror, Varley had made the front page. He was dead.
Now I was a murderer.
To say I was shaken rigid would have been an understatement. Of course I've killed before, but always by intention. It's one thing to fire a rocket launcher into a Comcen and blow a machine gun team away. I've even cut down a terrorist at point blank range as he went for a pistol. He was so close I could smell him, and I've never, ever, had a qualm about it. He's gone to the hell he deserved. When it's like that, it's him or you. To tell you the truth I’ve even enjoyed it: but I'd never killed by accident before. I've never before blundered stupidly into a meaningless death with a stupid amateur like Varley.
I walked back to the flat and had a slow drink and tried to think carefully. I forced myself to think like a murderer. Had I left any clues? The evidence of the stories was 'no'. Had I left any clues which could link me with Varley? Yes; at least two: one with Barbara, and secondly, with the evidence in my flat. And I didn't like that 'SAS style raid.' I decided to deal with Barbara last and to clear the flat first, as it presented the more immediate threat.
I turfed out the contents of the plastic bag. It was a shame, because there was a lot of good and useful stuff there. But I really should ditch it. After a struggle, I decided against that, although the stinking sockful of sand went out of the window into the garden. The sock itself went into the dustbin. The expensive things I cleaned up scrupulously, and walked round to the hidey hole behind the loose breeze block in the lock up garage. If things ever went wrong I might need those clandestine tools as never before.
Then I turned my attention to the cache under the bathroom floorboards. Leaving the money to one side, I quickly scanned the documents.
Sure enough there were a couple of insurance policies, as the hapless Mrs Varley had said. I wondered if she had known about the money. I expect Varley kept her in the dark about that too, as he did on so many other things. There were twenty bundles of a hundred £50 notes - £50,000, plus three fat bundles of £50 notes, all well used; another £50,000. I sat back and whistled - Varley had had £100,000 stashed away in cash, presumably against a rainy day. I'll bet his wife didn't know about it - and I'll bet the Inland Revenue didn't either.
I went back to the documents. Underneath the insurance policies was another envelope, containing two ornately engraved certificates. They looked like graduation scrolls. To my astonishment they turned out to be bearer bonds, one for $250,000, drawn on the ' First Grand Canyon Bank, Inc.' and the other for £100,000, drawn on the 'Federated Banque of Zurich AG.' Excited, not so much by the money as by the growing evidence of Varley's secret finances, I dragged the other papers onto the floor.
A cascade of grainy black and white photographs and a few black, shiny negative strips scattered before me. Most of the pictures were the sort you see in cheap sex magazines; fuzzy, unlovely slabs of humanity; half-focussed flesh vying with blurry pictures of faces distorted by passion. Uncomprehending, I picked up a photograph at random. An attractive but skinny young woman sprawled, half supported on one arm on a sofa, one leg cocked invitingly. A man’s hand gripped her breast and her head was inclined back to kiss him as he leant forward over the back of the sofa. With a start of recognition I realised that the photograph was of a junior cabinet minister, but taken some years ago, with his bald spot - and much else - revealed.
Blackmail! No wonder Varley had been doi
ng so well. I rapidly skipped through the rest of the pictures. None of them was exactly 'Playmate of the Month' stuff, but I recognised at least two of the other players. One of them I noticed was a well known right wing newspaper columnist who was for ever ranting on about morality and the family. Apparently he enjoyed a little firm discipline himself, if the camera didn’t lie. He certainly looked as if he was enjoying himself. Varley had clearly been a busy little soul, and any vestiges of conscience I had about his death disappeared on the spot. As I contemplated the sprawl of pictures of the floor, buttocks mixed with breasts, limbs slackly entwined, I realised that I had probably done a lot of people a favour. I wondered just how he had managed to get photographs. In vain I hunted for a notebook or record of payments, but Varley had been too careful for that. There was nothing for it but to burn the lot. I didn't need them and their very existence threatened me. Mind you, I could probably have sold them to the Sunday papers for a small fortune.
Once I'd done that, I took the bearer bonds and money and shoved them back under the floorboards. Then I settled down to work out how to push the cash to Barbara. She didn't need it all and the bearer bonds were far too risky to move, but £100,000 in cash would go a long way to helping the family. But how? Over a slow salad and a worn out bit of steak, the answer came.
After supper I phoned an old acquaintance in the stamp business, who'd done me favours in the past.
"Michael, how would you like to sell me a stamp collection?"
"Sure, that's my business. Stamp collections I sell. Now, you I never had you down as a philatelist. What sort of stamps would you like?"
"The sellable sort."
Michael snorted with laughter. "How much did you want to buy?"
"About a hundred grand."
There was a pause. A hundred thousand pounds to a stamp dealer like Michael Tilling was not a big deal, but it wasn't exactly chicken-feed, either. "Hmmm. That’s quite a lot of stamps. How quickly would you want to sell them?"
"At any time from the moment I walked out of your shop."
Michael digested this, again in silence. I could almost hear his brain working. "OK, how small a collection would you like?"
Now it was my turn to be silent. "Small? How do you mean?"
"Well," he explained patiently, "Would you like a collection in a nice big shiny leather album or just one stamp?"
I was stymied. "I don't know, Michael. What do you advise?"
"Portability can be an issue with some clients. There’s nothing like a stamp in the wallet for moving money round the world. Are you going overseas again? Have you got a buyer in mind?"
"No, not yet. But I'd prefer to take it into a big dealer. Stanley Gibbons for example."
Michael snorted again. "You'll lose if you deal with the big boys"
"How much?"? "
"On a hundred K." He pondered. "They'll take you for at least ten on a straight sale, I reckon. Minimum."
"One hundred thousand to ninety thousand - just by crossing the Strand?"
"Yes. If you’re lucky, even. That’s the stamp game. How do you think the big boys got big?"
Another silence. Michael broke it. "Are you trying to turn some ready cash round, by any chance?" The voice was dry, mocking. " ‘Cos you can always do that at a gaming club. That's what casinos are for. Nice girls too. Or buy a consignment of those mobile phones; you know, GSMs. Razors. Illegal black market cigarettes. Ah, the possibilities are endless. That's what the Mafia do to launder money, you know. "
"No, no, Michael - I'm just looking for a good investment."
Michael bellowed with laughter. "Investment? Listen, alright. Come and see me, tomorrow lunch time. I'll give you some nice clean stamps for seventy five grand ... “I started to interrupt, but he cut me short. "Seventy five on the receipt," he emphasised, “Then you and I both benefit. Right? Then I'll fix it for you to go round and sell them to a friend of mine off Covent Garden later in the day. Eighty five k?" It sounded reasonable. "Very discreet chap. That way everyone's happy, aren't they?" added Michael patiently. "I'm happy, you're happy and my mate in the Garden's happy." He assumed my deal was a tax thing. "Why, even the Revenue's happy. You’ve got to be careful these days. You can’t even buy a house without saying that your not a money launderer and show ‘em your passport.”
I tried to work it out. "So you get £100,000 in cash, but say its £75,000 for the tax man. I get stamps and flog them for £85,000." I thought about it. "How do I benefit?"
"Effectively you pay fifteen grand for the privilege of turning the hundred K you want to turn round into a reputable bank cheque - money you could put in the bank. Straight away. Even tell the Revenue about it. Cheap at the price."
"How do you benefit?"
"I make some pocket money, without bothering the Revenue, and move some stock for a normal margin."
"But the stamps?" I persisted.
Michael sighed. "They'll be worth a hundred grand. Good stamps. I'm just glad to make the sale."
"So your friend gets £100,000 worth of stamps for £85,000?"
"That's it - you're getting it now."
I contemplated the deal. It seemed very reasonable. Michael added the clincher. "And it's all as legal as your original cash stake." Again the mocking laugh.
"OK, Michael: see you tomorrow." As I put the phone down I felt a twinge of unease. I detest exposing my security to any third party, even using the cut out principle.
Glumly muttering to myself, 'no man in an island,' I went to bed to the strains of Rameau - again. I really must put on the softly crashing waves tomorrow night.
CHAPTER 18
The Strand
I’d never thought of myself as a stamp collector.
But true to his word, Michael was waiting for me at lunch time the next day. I took the money round in my battered old briefcase, and in return he gave me a glass of superb Alsace, a trophy from his last trip abroad to some stamp auction in Zurich, a short lecture on the bizarre economics of the stamp business and a block of six ancient dusty-orange stamps from South Africa. Apparently they were the real McCoy. To me they were just stamps, but, if that’s what turns rich anoraks on, that’s their business.
Then he gave me a near illegible receipt for £75,000 and an address off Covent Garden. I tromped through the packed Strand to the address, the envelope with its stamps in my inside pocket, not knowing quite what to expect, to be greeted by an avuncular character as unlike Michael as I could imagine.
Whereas Michael was fortyish, trendy and dressed like an Italian male model down to his expensive silk socks, Mr Owen, on the other hand was very tall, bald, bespectacled and looked as if he could have taken the part of the absent-minded professor in one of those old black and white Ealing comedies. I tried - unsuccessfully - to visualize him discussing business with Michael.
"Ah, yes," he said, peering benignly over his round 1940s glasses. "Mr Ah .. um .. yes. Well, how nice." He pushed his glasses onto the polished dome of his head and peered carefully at the stamps through a large magnifying glass for what seemed like three minutes in total silence. I was very conscious of the TV security camera sitting above his head, its black glass eye gazing unwinking at me. Mr Owens’s eyebrows wiggled up and down like a pair of demented shrimps. He was a dead ringer for Alastair Sim in one of those old films, I reckoned.
"Yes .. well. Very nice indeed, Mr .. Ahum .. exactly what I would ... well ... " He lowered his glasses back onto the eagle nose and favoured me with a leathery, wrinkled beam. "Very nice," he repeated. Then, with an air of something approaching decision, added, "Yes. Very nice. That is, Mr .. ah.. um if you .. ah .. agree .. um? Eighty five thousand, I think seems, well .. ah .. reasonable?"
I tried not to smile. "Yes," I confirmed. "Eighty five seems about right, Mr Owen; and most reasonable."
"Good, good ... Would a cheque be acceptable?"
“Most acceptable,” I found myself saying. Mr Owen was one of those courteous old boys you find yourself almost mimickin
g. He solemnly wrote out a Coutts cheque in an antique copperplate using a dull green fountain pen that would have been at home in a theme park museum for the fountain pen. "Shall I make it out to you personally, Mr .. ah .. um? Or should I make it to .. ah .. cash, if you feel that is more appropriate?"
"No. Could you make it out to 'Mrs Barbara Backhouse', please?
His shrimps wriggled their long tails in surprise as he carefully blotted the cheque and handed it to me with a ceremonious flourish, and something not unlike a grin. Despite myself I grinned back. It was impossible not to warm to Mr Owen, with his extraordinary brown tweed suit and donnish vagueness. To survive in this business, I thought, I'll bet he has a mind like a trap.
"Thank you, Mr Owen."
"No, not at all ; thank you, Mr Ahum .. ah ..." He showed me to the door with old world courtesy, and shook me by the hand. A bony finger pressed a switch and the door clicked unlocked, leaving me out on the street with a cheque for £85,000 in my pocket. "Nice stamps, by the way," said Mr Owen. "Did Michael .. er .. explain exactly what they were?" His eyebrows quizzed me.
I shook my head.. "He did say .. ah .. they were special. He said they would be good."
"Remarkable. They are. I didn't know he had those. Well, well… Anyway, Mr .. ah .. um .. thank you, again. So kind. Goodbye." With a chuckle the demented shrimps danced farewell. He closed the door, leaving me puzzled. But pleased.
Michael’s illegible receipt went scrunched up into the first litter bin I passed. My next stop was special little safe deposit in Knightsbridge. I kept a few odds and ends in there. Stuff you wouldn’t have been happy flashing round at a cocktail party. An embarrassing little Skorpion machine pistol from Makarios’s secret armoury when the Greeks flogged it off – well, you don’t want well-armed Archbishops, do you? – plus a couple of passports and other useful things that I’d acquired or had gone missing along the way. You know how it is. Well, the Bearer Bonds, whatever the hell they were, went in there. To be honest, I hadn’t the faintest idea how to dispose of the things but they were obviously worth money. I’d save those for a rainy day.