Cat O'Nine Tales (2006)

by Jeffrey Archer

  Doug completed three more journeys from Marseilles via New-haven before the two customs officers were arrested. When Doug saw five officers heading toward his truck, he knew that his new impossible-to-be-caught system had been sussed.

  Doug didn’t waste the court’s time pleading not guilty, because one of the customs officers with whom he had been splitting the take had made a deal to have his sentence reduced if he named names. He named Douglas Arthur Haslett.

  The judge sent Doug down for eight years, with no remission for good behavior, unless he agreed to pay a fine of £750,000. Doug didn’t have £750,000 and begged Sally to help out, as he couldn’t face the thought of another eight years behind bars. Sally had to sell everything, including the cottage, the carpark, nine lorries and even her engagement ring, so that her husband could comply with the court order.

  After serving a year at Wayland Category C prison in Norfolk, Doug was transferred back to North Sea Camp. Once again, he was appointed as librarian, which was where I first met him.

  I was impressed that Sally and his two—now grown-up—daughters came to visit Doug every weekend. He told me that they didn’t discuss business, even though he’d sworn on his mother’s grave never, ever again.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Sally had warned him. “I’ve already sent your lorry to the scrapyard.”

  “Can’t blame the woman, after all I’ve put her through,” said Doug when I next visited the library. “But if they won’t let me get behind a wheel once I’m released, what am I going to do for the rest of my life?”

  I was released a couple of years before Doug, and if I hadn’t been addressing a literary festival in Lincoln some years later, I might never have discovered what had become of the chief librarian.

  As I stared down into the audience during questions, I thought I recognized three vaguely familiar faces looking up at me from the third row. I racked that part of my brain that is meant to store names, but it didn’t respond. That was, until I had a question about the difficulties of writing while in prison. Then it all came flooding back. I had last seen Sally some three years before, when she was visiting Doug accompanied by her two daughters, Kelly and, and . . . Sam.

  After I’d taken the final question, we broke for coffee, and the three of them came across to join me.

  “Hi, Sally. How’s Doug?” I asked even before they could introduce themselves. An old political ploy, and they looked suitably impressed.

  “Retired,” said Sally without explanation.

  “But he was younger than me,” I protested, “and never stopped telling everyone what he planned to do once he was released.”

  “No doubt,” said Sally, “but I can assure you he’s retired. Haslett Haulage is now run by me and my two daughters, with a backroom staff of twenty-one, not including the drivers.”

  “So you’re obviously doing well,” I said, fishing.

  “You clearly don’t read the financial pages,” she teased.

  “I’m like the Japanese,” I countered, “I always read my papers from back to front. So what have I missed?”

  “We went public last year,” chipped in Kelly. “Mum’s chair, I’m in charge of new accounts and Sam is responsible for the drivers.”

  “And if I remember correctly, you had about nine lorries?”

  “We now have forty-one,” said Sally, “and our turnover last year was just under five million.”

  “And Doug doesn’t play any role?”

  “Doug plays golf,” said Sally, “which doesn’t require him to travel through Dover, or,” she added with a sigh, as her husband appeared in the doorway, “back via Newhaven.”

  Doug remained still, as his eyes searched the room for his family. I waved and caught his attention. Doug waved back and wandered slowly across to join us.

  “We still allow him to drive us home from time to time,” whispered Sam with a grin, just as Doug appeared by my side.

  I shook hands with my former inmate, and when Sally and the girls had finished their coffee, I accompanied them all back to their car, which gave me the chance to have a word with Doug.

  “I’m delighted to hear that Haslett Haulage is doing so well,” I volunteered.

  “Put it all down to experience,” said Doug. “Don’t forget I taught them everything they know.”

  “And since we last met, Kelly tells me that the company’s gone public.”

  “All part of my long-term plan,” said Doug as his wife climbed into the back of the car. He turned and gave me a knowing look. “A lot of people sniffing around at the moment, Jeff, so don’t be surprised if there’s a takeover bid in the near future.” Just as he reached the driver’s side of the car, he added, “Chance for you to make a few bob while the shares are still at their present price. Know what I mean?”

  Charity Begins

  at Home

  Henry Preston, Harry to his friends—and they didn’t number many—wasn’t the sort of person you’d bump into at the local pub, meet at a football match or invite home for a barbecue. Frankly, if there was a club for introverts, Henry would be elected chairman—reluctantly.

  At school, the only subject in which he excelled was mathematics, and his mother, the one person who adored him, was determined that Henry would have a profession. His father had been a postman. With one A level in maths, the field was fairly limited—banking or accountancy. His mother chose accountancy.

  Henry was articled to Pearson, Clutterbuck & Reynolds, and when he first joined the firm as a clerk he dreamed of the headed notepaper reading Pearson, Clutterbuck, Reynolds & Preston. But as the years went by, and younger and younger men found their names embossed on the left-hand side of the company notepaper, the dream faded.

  Some men, aware of their limitations, find solace in another form—sex, drugs or a hectic social life. It’s quite difficult to conduct a hectic social life on your own. Drugs? Henry didn’t even smoke, although he allowed himself the occasional gin and tonic, but only on Saturday. And as for sex, he felt confident he wasn’t gay, but his success rate with the opposite sex, “hits” as some of his younger colleagues described them, hovered around zero. Henry didn’t even have a hobby.

  There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes I’m going to live forever is a fallacy. It came all too soon for Henry, as he progressed quickly through middle age and suddenly began to think about early retirement. When Mr. Pearson, the senior partner, retired, a large party was held in his honor in a private room at a five-star hotel. Mr. Pearson, after a long and distinguished career, told his colleagues that he would be retiring to a cottage in the Cotswolds to tend the roses and try to lower his golf handicap. Much laughter and applause followed. The only thing Henry recalled of that occasion was Atkins, the firm’s latest recruit, saying to him as he left for the evening, “I suppose it won’t be that long, old chap, before we’re doing the same sort of thing for you.”

  Henry mulled over young Atkins’s words as he walked toward the bus stop. He was fifty-four years old, so in six years’ time, unless he made partner, in which case his tenure would be extended to sixty-five, they would be holding a farewell party for him. In truth, Henry had long ago given up any thought of becoming a partner, and he had already accepted that his party would not be held in the private room of a five-star hotel. He certainly wouldn’t be retiring to a cottage in the Cotswolds to tend his roses, and he already had enough handicaps, without thinking about golf.

  Henry was well aware that his colleagues considered him to be reliable, competent and thorough, which only added to his sense of failure. The highest praise he ever received was, “You can always depend on Henry. He’s a safe pair of hands.”

  But all of that changed the day he met Angela.

  Angela Forster’s company, Events Unlimited, was neither large enough to be assigned to one of the partners, nor small enough to be handled by an articled clerk, which is how her file ended up on Henry’s desk. He studied the details carefully.

&n
bsp; Ms. Forster was the sole proprietor of a small business that specialized in organizing events—anything from the local Conservative Association’s annual dinner to a regional Hunt Ball. Angela was a born organizer and after her husband left her for a younger woman—when a man leaves his wife for a younger woman, its a short story, when a woman leaves her husband for a younger man, its a novel (I digress)—Angela made the decision not to sit at home and feel sorry for herself but, following our Lord’s advice in the parable of the talents, opted to use her one gift, so that she could fully occupy her time while making a little pin money on the side. The problem was that Angela had become a little more successful than she’d anticipated, which is how she ended up having an appointment with Henry.

  Before Henry finalized Ms. Forster’s accounts, he took her slowly through the figures, column by column, showing his new client how she was entitled to claim for certain items against tax, such as her car, travel and even her clothes. He pointed out that she ought to be dressed appropriately when she attended one of her functions. Henry managed to save Ms. Forster a few hundred pounds on her tax bill; after all, he considered it a matter of professional pride that, having heeded his advice, all his clients left the office better off. That was even after they’d settled his company’s fees, which, he pointed out, could also be claimed against tax.

  Henry always ended every meeting with the words, “I can assure you that your accounts are in apple-pie order, and the tax man will not be troubling you.” Henry was only too aware that very few of his clients were likely to interest the tax man, let alone be troubled by him. He would then accompany his client to the door with the words, “See you next year.” When he opened the door for Ms. Forster, she smiled, and said, “Why don’t you come along to one of my functions, Mr. Preston? Then you can see what I get up to most evenings.”

  Henry couldn’t recall when he’d last been invited to anything. He hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. Angela filled the silence. “I’m organizing a ball for African famine relief on Saturday evening. It’s at the town hall. Why don’t you join me?”

  Henry heard himself saying, “Yes, thank you, how nice. I’ll look forward to it,” and regretted the decision the moment he had closed the door. After all, on Saturday nights he always watched film of the week on Sky, while enjoying a Chinese takeaway and a gin and tonic. In any case, he needed to be in bed by ten because on Sunday morning he was responsible for checking the church collection. He was also their accountant. Honorary, he assured his mother.

  Henry spent most of Saturday morning trying to come up with an excuse: a headache, an emergency meeting, a previous engagement he’d forgotten about, so that he could ring Ms. Forster and call the whole thing off. Then he realized that he didn’t have her home number.

  At six o’clock that evening Henry put on the dinner jacket his mother had given him on his twenty-first birthday, which didn’t always have an annual outing. He looked at himself in the mirror, nervous that his attire must surely be out of date—wide lapels and flared trousers—unaware that this look was actually back in fashion. He was among the last to arrive at the town hall, and had already made up his mind that he would be among the first to leave.

  Angela had placed Henry on the end of the top table, from where he was able to observe proceedings, while only occasionally having to respond to the lady seated on his left.

  Once the speeches were over, and the band had struck up, Henry felt he could safely slip away. He looked around for Ms. Forster. He had earlier spotted her dashing all over the place, organizing everything from the raffle and the heads-and-tails competition to the ten-pound-note draw and even the auction. When he looked at her more closely, dressed in her long red ball gown, her fair hair falling to her shoulders, he had to admit . . . Henry stood up and was about to leave, when Angela appeared by his side. “Hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,” she said, touching his arm. Henry couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him. He prayed she wasn’t going to ask him to dance.

  “I’ve had a wonderful time,” Henry assured her. “How about you?”

  “Run off my feet,” Angela replied, “but I feel confident that we’ll raise a record amount this year.”

  “So how much do you expect to make?” asked Henry, relieved to find himself on safer ground.

  Angela checked her little notebook. “Twelve thousand, six hundred in pledges, thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and fifty in checks, and just over twenty thousand in cash.” She handed over her notebook for Henry to inspect. He expertly ran a finger down the list of figures, relaxing for the first time that evening.

  “What do you do with the cash?” Henry asked.

  “I always drop it off on my way home at the nearest bank that has an overnight safe. If you’d like to accompany me, you’ll have experienced the whole cycle from beginning to end.” Henry nodded.

  “Just give me a few minutes,” she said. “I have to pay the band, as well as my helpers—and they always insist on cash.”

  That was probably when Henry first had the idea. Just a passing thought to begin with, which he quickly dismissed. He headed toward the exit and waited for Angela.

  “If I remember correctly,” said Henry as they walked down the steps of the town hall together, “your turnover last year was just under five million, of which over a million was in cash.”

  “What a good memory you have, Mr. Preston,” Angela said as they headed toward the High Street, “but I’m hoping to raise over five million this year,” she added, “and I’m already ahead of my target for March.”

  “That may well be the case,” said Henry, “but you still only paid yourself forty-two thousand last year,” he continued, “which is less than one percent of your turnover.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Angela, “but I enjoy the work, and it keeps me occupied.”

  “But don’t you consider you deserve a better return for your efforts?”

  “Possibly, but I only charge my clients five percent of the profits, and every time I suggest putting my fee up, they always remind me that they are a charity”

  “But you’re not,” said Henry. “You’re a professional, and should be recompensed accordingly”

  “I know you’re right,” said Angela as they stopped outside the Nat West bank and she dropped the cash into the night safe, “but most of my clients have been with me for years.”

  “And have taken advantage of you for years,” insisted Henry.

  “That may well be so,” said Angela, “but what can I do about it?”

  The thought returned to Henry’s mind, but he said nothing other than, “Thank you for a most interesting evening, Ms. Forster. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” Henry thrust out his right hand, as he always did at the end of every meeting, and had to stop himself saying, “See you next year.”

  Angela laughed, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Henry certainly couldn’t remember when that had last occurred. “Goodnight, Henry,” she said as she turned and began to walk away.

  “I don’t suppose ...” he hesitated.

  “Yes, Henry?” she said, turning back to face him.

  “That you’d consider having dinner with me some time?”

  “I’d like that very much,” said Angela. “When would suit you?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Henry, suddenly emboldened.

  Angela removed a diary from her handbag and began to flick through the pages. “I know I can’t do tomorrow,” she said. “I have a feeling it’s Greenpeace.”

  “Monday?” said Henry, not having to check his diary.

  “Sorry, it’s the Blue Cross Ball,” said Angela, turning another page of her diary.

  “Tuesday?” said Henry trying not to sound desperate.

  “Amnesty International,” said Angela, flicking over another page.

  “Wednesday,” said Henry, wondering if she had changed her mind.

  “Looks good,” said Angela, staring at a blank page. “Whe
re would you like to meet?”

  “How about La Bacha?” said Henry, remembering that it was the restaurant where the partners always took their most important clients to lunch. “Eight o’clock suit you?”

  “Suits me fine.”

  Henry arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early and read the menu from cover to cover—several times. During his lunch break, he’d purchased a new shirt and a silk tie. He was already regretting that he hadn’t tried on the blazer that was displayed in the window.

  Angela strolled into La Bacha just after eight. She was wearing a pale green floral dress that fell just below the knee. Henry liked the way she’d done her hair, but knew that he wouldn’t have the courage to tell her. He also approved of the fact that she wore so little make-up and her only jewelry was a modest string of pearls. Henry rose from his place as she reached the table. Angela couldn’t remember the last person who’d bothered to do that.

  Henry had feared that they wouldn’t be able to find anything to talk about—small talk had never been his forte—but Angela made it all so easy that he found himself ordering a second bottle of wine, long before the meal was over—another first.

  Over coffee, Henry said, “I think I’ve come up with a way of supplementing your income.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s talk business,” said Angela, touching his hand.

  “It’s not business,” Henry assured her.

  When Angela woke the following morning, she smiled as she remembered what a pleasant evening she’d spent with Henry. All she could recall him saying as they parted was, “Don’t forget that any winnings made from gambling are tax-free.” What was all that about?

  Henry, on the other hand, could recall every detail of the advice he’d given Angela. He rose early on the following Sunday and began preparing an outline plan, which included opening several bank accounts, preparing spreadsheets and working on a long-term investment program. He nearly missed matins.