“That was some stroke of luck,” the man says, a slight undertone of suspicion in his voice.
I don’t know how to respond to his statement, but thankfully Clement interjects.
“Yeah, it was, and we’re willing to share that luck, Mr…”
The man holds out a bony hand. “Powell. Oswald Powell.”
Clement reaches across and shakes Oswald Powell’s hand. “I’m Cliff, and this here is my friend, Louise.”
Of all the false names Clement could have offered, Cliff feels the least appropriate. However, I’m pretty sure I’d have given our real names, which would have been a mistake given the legality of what we’re up to. Proof enough I’m out of my depth.
“How much are you looking for?” he asks.
“You know the current price of gold, so make us an offer,” Clement replies.
“I need to see it first.”
Clement nods, and removes the rucksack from his shoulder. The gold bar is extracted and placed on the counter.
“There she is — a hundred and fifty ounces of pure gold.”
Mr Powell’s eyes suddenly widen. He leans forward and slowly runs his hand across the bar while inspecting the hallmarks, embossed on the top.
“I need to test the purity. Can I take a small shaving?”
“Help yourself,” Clement replies.
Mr Powell ducks below the counter and returns with a scalpel-like knife in his hand. He turns the bar over and runs the scalpel along the bottom edge, covering less than an inch.
With his miniscule sample shaved, he stands up straight and presses his thumb over the blade, presumably to stop the sample from falling off.
“Give me a minute.”
He turns and disappears back through the door.
Clement doesn’t waste any time in returning the bar to the rucksack.
“And you say I have trust issues,” I scoff.
“Considering what we went through to find it, I’m not about to take any risks, doll. Anyone could wander in and grab it from the counter.”
No matter how valuable the prize, I doubt anyone would be brave enough, or stupid enough, to take on Clement. Still, better to be safe than sorry, I guess.
“Okay. Point taken.”
We continue to wait as the clock on the wall ticks away the seconds and minutes.
Mr Powell eventually emerges.
“It does indeed appear you have a block of pure gold. Congratulations.”
“Good. Now, you interested in buying it, or not?” Clement replies.
Mr Powell rubs a hand across his bristly chin, perhaps contemplating his opening gambit.
“I’m interested, at the right price.”
“And that price is?”
He drums his fingers on the counter and looks to the ceiling.
“I’m assuming you want cash?” he confirms.
“Correct.”
“And no paperwork?”
“No paperwork. We take the cash and walk away. You never see or hear from us again.”
“In which case, I’ll give you fifty grand.”
I really want to vent my opinion of his lowball offer, but as I look up at Clement, his stony expression suggests our response is in hand.
“Nah. Forget it. We’re not idiots, mate. It’s worth double that, even on the black market.”
Mr Powell’s mouth puckers, as if he’s sucking on a lemon. “I’ll go to sixty.”
Clement picks the rucksack up and drapes it over his shoulder. Ignoring Mr Powell, he turns to me. “Let’s go try that other place, shall we?”
I nod, and Mr Powell, sensing his opportunity to make some easy money is about to walk out of the door, throws his hand wide open.
“Alright, alright,” he pleads. “Ninety grand, final offer. I can’t get my hands on any more cash than that, so take it or leave it.”
Clement stares down at Mr Powell, and even I don’t know what he’s going to say, such is his poker face.
“Give us a minute.”
He makes his way over to the door, waving his hand to suggest I should follow.
We reconvene on the pavement. Clement doesn’t waste any time in getting to the point.
“You wanna take his offer, doll?”
I am so conflicted I don’t really know.
On the one hand, ninety thousand pounds is a ridiculous amount of money, and a windfall very few people would turn their nose up at. However, a greed gremlin is now whispering in my ear. While there’s no disputing it’s a lot of money, what if somebody is willing to pay an extra ten thousand? Or twenty even?
“Um, I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Does ninety grand solve your problem with that Sterling bloke?”
“Yes, comfortably.”
“There’s your answer then. My job was to help you, and with him paid, I’ve done what I came to do.”
“But, we might be able to get more for it.”
“Yeah, we might. Or we might not.”
Not the most helpful of answers.
I need more time, but I sense Clement is growing impatient with my indecision.
“Look, doll. If I’d turned up at your shop last week and offered you ninety grand in cash, would you have accepted it?”
“Yes, of course I would.”
“Why?”
“Err, because no sane person would turn an offer like that down.”
“Yet here we are now, and you’re dithering over it.”
“But…”
“Let’s not push our luck, doll. We’ve squeezed the bloke to his maximum price so let’s just quit while we’re ahead. That’s my advice.”
He’s right. While there is a chance we could get more, I’ve had enough stress over the last week to last me a lifetime. The emotional cost of trying to secure a better price might well outweigh any financial gain.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Good call.”
I can’t believe we’re nearly there. I draw a deep breath and follow Clement back into the shop.
34
Mr Powell is standing behind the counter, anxiously awaiting our decision judging by the pensive look on his face.
Clement approaches and holds out his hand. “Alright, you’ve got a deal. Ninety grand.”
Mr Powell enthusiastically shakes Clement’s hand. “Very sensible. It’s a good offer.”
“I’m sure it is,” Clement grunts. “Shall we do this then?”
“I’ll need a little time to get that much cash together, you understand?”
“How long?”
“Twenty four hours?”
Clement frowns, and applies a couple of strokes to his moustache.
“Alright. We’ll come back tomorrow at ten.”
Mr Powell assures Clement the cash will be waiting.
With that, I assume our business is done for the day, but Clement leans on the counter and fixes a stern gaze on Mr Powell.
“Just so we’re clear, I don’t like being dicked around. If you can’t get the money, or you try to haggle us down on the agreed price, I’ll be mightily pissed off. And you really don’t wanna piss me off.”
“It’ll be here,” Mr Powell confirms, his thin smile betraying the panic in his eyes.
With a final nod, Clement turns and I follow him out of the shop.
Back outside, I get a belated chance to offer my opinion. “Was that a good idea? Giving him time to get the money?”
“Nobody is gonna have that amount of cash kicking around. Another day doesn’t matter does it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“It’ll be alright, doll. I’m pretty sure he’ll come good.”
Considering the less-than-subtle threat Clement left with Mr Powell, I suspect he might be right.
“So, I suppose we might as well go and open the shop. No sense in losing a day’s trade.”
“We?”
“Um, yes, unless you had other plans?”
“Honestly, doll. I’d rather
stick pins in my eyes than hang out in a book shop all day.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“Drop me back at your gaff. I’m quite happy watching TV.”
I’m actually quite relieved he’d rather not come back to the shop. I’ve got enough to do without keeping him occupied all day.
“Sure. And assuming you don’t destroy my home while I’m out, how about we go out and celebrate later? Dinner and drinks on me.”
“You’re on.”
“Excellent, and thank you again…Cliff.” I snigger.
“What’s so funny?”
“The thought of you being a Cliff Richard fan.”
“Eh? I bleedin’ well ain’t.”
“Why did you tell Mr Powell your name was Cliff?”
“Remember what I said about bullshitting people? Keep it close to the truth.”
“Right. So why Cliff?”
An obvious conclusion strikes me. “Oh, my God,” I shriek. “Is your first name Cliff?”
“Is it hell,” he snorts. “When I was a kid, kicking a ball around with my mates, I pretended to be Cliff Bastin.”
“Who?”
He stares at me in disbelief. “You telling me you’ve never heard of Cliff Bastin?”
“No. Should I?”
“Christ, he was an Arsenal legend, and our record goal-scorer. I’ll never forget old Cliff so I use his name when needs must.”
“Alright, I believe you,” I giggle. “Cliffy.”
“Piss off.”
We get back in the car, which, to my mild surprise, still has all four wheels.
I drop Clement back home and leave him in front of the TV, furnished with instructions on how to use the phone if he needs me. I then drive back to the shop and open up, still early enough for customers wishing to browse during their lunch break.
For a few hours, I’m busy enough not to think about the pile of cash heading my way tomorrow. But by three o’clock, the shop is empty and my spending plans begin to take shape. While I might not have enough to completely pay off my mortgage, I can certainly put a significant dent in it. And I can also afford to deal with all the long overdue repairs to the house, and maybe get the lounge redecorated.
With my plans sorted, I’m ready to take a break for ten minutes.
I head into the staff room and make myself a cup of tea. I then grab a John Grisham novel, The Racketeer, and sit down at the table, content to wallow in a rare moment of quiet.
It’s a challenge, trying to focus on the plot rather than interior design ideas. I reach chapter four and regain my focus, until a particular term leaps from the page and stops me dead in my tracks — money laundering.
Crap.
I snatch my phone from the table and google it.
It only takes a minute to determine I have seriously underestimated the practicalities of filtering ninety thousand pounds into my bank account.
I do a bit more googling, and the full extent of my problem becomes clear. I can’t take the cash to the bank, or buy anything over ten thousand pounds without providing identification, and offering proof of how the cash came into my possession.
Double crap.
I slap the book on the table and curse my naivety.
However, there might be a solution, or more specifically, I might know someone who can offer a solution.
I call my home number and Clement picks up after six rings.
“Clement, it’s me.”
“Alright, doll. What’s up?”
“I need you to have a think about something for me.”
“Go on.”
“I need to know how money laundering works, and how I can disguise the cash we’re picking up tomorrow.”
“You want me to explain now?” he groans. “I’m in the middle of a cracking film.”
“No. Just have a think about it, please. We’ll discuss it later, over dinner.”
“Right, sure. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it, thanks. What film are you watching?”
“Frozen.”
“Oh, okay. Is it…wait. Did you say Frozen?”
“Yeah.”
“The animated kids film, with Anna and Elsa?”
“Yeah.”
I’m tempted to ask why, but I don’t think I want to know.
“Um, okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Alright, seeya.”
He promptly hangs up. That man is an enigma.
I chuckle to myself and return to the shop.
Although I’m not feeling particularly motivated, there are still two tasks left for me to complete this afternoon. I need to restock the shelves, and I need to get the King James Bible photographed and listed online. Last week, the potential value of that book was all I had to hang my hopes upon. Now, it’s almost inconsequential compared to the fortune heading my way in the morning. Still, it should provide a reasonable contribution to the cost of replacing my boiler.
I spend an hour restocking the shelves and serving the sum total of two customers.
With the shelves restocked, I delve below the counter in search of the bible.
I expected to see it sitting on the shelf, next to the CD player, but it’s not there. Puzzled, I begin to remove all the detritus I’ve discarded under the counter.
After five minutes of searching, it’s clear the bible isn’t there.
I stand and scratch my head, trying to visualise the moment when Clement first appeared in the shop on Friday night. I remember sitting on the floor, holding the bible in my hands. I stood up to check something on the computer and that’s when I realised I wasn’t alone.
But then what?
I spend a few frustrating minutes replaying the scene in my head. Did I drop it on the floor? Did I leave it on the counter?
I just don’t know.
The only thing I do know is that it isn’t here, and the only person who might be able to recollect what happened to it, is Clement.
If he can’t recall seeing it, the only other plausible explanation is that it’s been stolen, although the shop has been closed up until this morning. Maybe I did simply drop it on the floor and some light-fingered tosser picked it up.
That thought annoys me more than the loss of the money. I don’t know why I should expect more from my customers, but it riles me that anyone would steal from a struggling independent business.
I suppose I really shouldn’t let it bother me. On the balance of good and bad fortune, I’m still well in credit.
I see another three customers before closing time arrives. The day’s takings are barely into three figures; a depressing statistic which counters any guilt I might have felt for another delayed opening time tomorrow. I print off a sign and tape it to the door.
With another work day over, I lock up and endure a tortuous drive home under dark, rain-filled skies.
The one benefit of the wet weather is that many residents in my road have taken to their cars and parking spaces are in plentiful supply. I park up and dart the twenty yards to my front door. Such is the ferocity of the downpour, I’m half-soaked by the time I barge into the hallway.
I throw my jacket and handbag over a coat hook and kick my shoes off. Half-expecting to hear the TV blazing, the silence suddenly strikes me.
“Clement?”
No reply.
I poke my head around the door to an empty kitchen.
He’s probably having a nap.
I wander through to the lounge, expecting to see Clement sprawled out in the armchair.
He isn’t.
A sickly feeling begins to rise from the pit of my stomach.
I dash from the lounge and scrabble up the stairs. The bathroom door is open, as is the door to the spare bedroom.
“Clement?”
I’m met with silence, and the sickly feeling reaches nausea status.
With almost apoplectic panic, I charge into the spare bedroom and fall to my knees. I lift the duvet and look beneath the bed. I’m
greeted with a clear view of the skirting board on the far side of the room.
There’s no rucksack, ergo, no gold bar.
Fuck, no. Please God, no.
I clamber to my feet and cast my eyes around the room, for what I don’t know.
Where the hell are you, Clement?
I sit on the edge of the bed and consider where he might have gone. As much as I want to believe he’s just popped out for a walk, every shred of evidence suggests I’m deluding myself. It’s pissing with rain for starters, but that fact is pretty inconsequential when coupled with the absence of the gold.
Have I just been the victim of some convoluted scam?
My mind spins with questions and half-baked conclusions. Nothing makes any sense. How can this possibly be a scam if I was nothing more than a passenger? It was Clement who orchestrated the hunt for the gold. Did he even need me? Besides funding our food and travel expenses, my contribution was minimal.
Am I missing something here? Am I really so dumb that I still can’t see the obvious, even when it’s staring me in the face?
But wait — what if something bad has happened to Clement? Could Sterling have sent round half-a-dozen goons, and they’ve overpowered him? Maybe they’ve taken him and the gold?
No, I’m clutching at straws. There would be signs of a struggle, and I can’t imagine even half-a-dozen goons faring well against Clement.
Face it, Beth, he just walked away.
Through the haze of questions, two conclusions collide.
Without the gold, I have no money to pay Sterling.
Yet again, I’ve let my defences down and been royally shafted.
One catastrophic explosion of anger, disbelief, and shame.
You stupid, stupid, woman.
I’m torn between throwing a screaming fit, or slumping down on the bed and crying. I feel like one of those women, hoodwinked by an online scammer, offering love in return for large sums of money to help them out of a fictional predicament.
I can scoff at their naivety, their stupidity. Yet, here I am. No better.
The doorbell rings.
I suck in a lungful of air and take a moment to compose myself.
I stomp down the stairs, getting halfway before the doorbell rings again.
“I’m coming, for God’s sake.”
I flick the latch and swing the door open, ready to vent at my unwelcome visitor.
“Jesus, doll, what took you?” Clement huffs as he eases past me. “It’s comin’ down cats and dogs out there.”
Who Sent Clement? Page 30