Murder on the Short List

by Peter Lovesey

  “But are you getting to know him?” she asked.

  “A bit. He strikes me as a bullshitter. He was on about making a fortune out of banks. No one does that without a sawn-off shotgun.”

  “He’s not kidding,” she said. “He’s fabulously rich. Drives a Porsche and updates it every year. If he offers to let you in on his secret, let me know.”

  “Sally, the only thing I want to know –”

  “Ask him, then.”

  One more possibility came to me during another disturbed night. I broached it next lunchtime in the pub. “You must have done plenty of flying in your life, Willy.”

  “Enough.”

  “I was wondering if you ever went in for parachuting.”

  “Me? No way. What makes you think that?”

  “Someone told me you were a very good jumper.”

  “That?” he said with a laugh. “That wasn’t parachuting.”

  “They said you jumped for England.”

  “And it’s true.” He took a sip of his drink.

  I waited for more and it didn’t come.

  “What do you do to earn a crust, Mike?” he said.

  “I’m a freelance illustrator. Kids’ books, mostly.”

  “Satisfying work – but not too well-paid, I reckon.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Suppose there was a way to set yourself up with a good amount of cash. Would you take it?”

  “Depends,” I said. “It would have to be honest.”

  “I like you,” he said, “so I’ll tell you how I made my first million. You’ve heard about Swiss bank accounts?”

  “Where people salt away money with no questions asked?”

  “That’s the myth. Actually a lot of questions are asked. It’s no simple matter to open a Swiss bank account with a suitcase full of banknotes. The gnomes of Zurich have strict banking laws these days. Customers have to be identified. You have to convince the bank that what you are depositing isn’t the proceeds of a crime. Various money-laundering scandals have led to stringent legislation being introduced. These days you can’t open a numbered account, as you once could, without identifying yourself. The beneficial owners of accounts have to be declared. As they should.”

  “Agreed,” I said, uncertain where this was leading.

  “They’ve also tightened up on withdrawals. The whole point of using Switzerland is that every account is rigidly protected. Great Uncle Edward dies and leaves you everything and there’s a rumour that he was stashing away money in a Swiss account. Can you find out from the bank? No. All you get is a petrifying glare and a reminder that they are bound by their banking codes. In another twenty years, the bank can claim the money. There are said to be tens of billions locked away in dormant accounts in Switzerland. The gnomes bide their time and then collect.”

  “What a racket,” I said.

  “Yes, and as soon as any of the big names gets in trouble and questions are asked about the funds they salted away, the banks freeze the accounts. Noriega, Markos, Ceausescu, Sukarno. But I don’t care about monsters like that. It’s Great Uncle Edward I feel sore about. I won’t say the little people because we’re talking serious money here. Let’s say family money, Mike. It should stay in the family, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I’m uniquely placed to help out people like the family of Great Uncle Edward. My Dad – the banker – had a contact in one of the great Swiss banks. Someone he trusted, a man of honour who had a conscience about these unfortunate families trying to get information. His hands were tied. There was nothing he could do within the Swiss banking system. But he knew the magic numbers the families needed, you see. He passed the numbers to Dad, who passed them to me. Then it was just a matter of matching the right families to the money that rightly belonged to them. It involved some basic research. Anyone can look at a will in most countries of the world. You find the beneficiaries and you offer to help.”

  “For a fee?”

  “A small commission.”

  “A small percentage of a big sum?”

  He smiled. “You’re getting the idea, Mike.”

  “So you pass on the information about the account numbers?”

  “And the sums involved. Dad’s friend listed the balances with the numbers. So I’m the bearer of good news. I’ve made a big difference to some people’s lives.”

  Including your own, I thought. Not bad.

  I said, “I guess some of this money is ill-gotten gains.”

  “I never enquire,” he said. “If Great Uncle Edward was a train robber, or painted fake Van Goghs, it’s no concern of mine. The way I see it, the family has more right to it than the bank. Are you with me?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “I’m only mentioning this because I think you can help me.”

  I hesitated. “How?”

  “Well, I still have details of a few accounts I haven’t been able to follow up, and time is running out. The twenty-year rule means that the banks will scoop the pool if something isn’t done. I begrudge them that. I feel I owe it to the memories of my old Dad and his friend – who also died about the same time – to recover that money. These are families I haven’t traced yet. I’ve found the wills, but the beneficiaries are more elusive.”

  “You want someone to do the research, track them down?”

  He shook his head. “There isn’t the time. What I need is someone I can trust to approach the bank and show them the documentation and claim the money for the estate.”

  “What – go to Switzerland?”

  “That isn’t necessary. They have a City of London branch. I’d do it myself, but they know my face from a previous claim.”

  “You want me to pretend I’m acting for the family?”

  “Pretend? You will be acting for them, Mike. I’ve opened an executors’ account. You show them the copy of the will and the death certificate and they verify that the names match. You give them the account details, which they confirm with Zurich. They write you a cheque, and bingo!”

  “Why should they deal with me?”

  “To keep them happy, you say you’re one of the executors.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll give you proof of identity.”

  “No, this isn’t right.”

  “Would five per cent make it right?”

  I didn’t speak.

  “Think it over,” he said. “Let me know tomorrow, or the next day. No sweat.”

  Plenty of sweat. Another night of disturbed sleep. This time I was wrestling with my conscience. It was a scam and a clever scam. But the only loser would be a bank that was about to get a fortune that didn’t belong to it.

  Much neater than pointing a gun at a cashier. This was beating them at their own game, with account numbers and cheques.

  Could I trust Willy Plumridge? He had the lifestyle that backed his story. Good suits, a Porsche, usually parked outside the pub. I hadn’t seen his house, but Sally had told me he had two, and they were both big places.

  In the morning my credit card statement arrived. I owed them three grand and some more.

  “If I did this,” I said to Willy, “how much would I make out of it?”

  He took out a calculator and pressed some buttons. “Give or take a few pence, fifty-five grand.”

  I tried to sound unimpressed. “So it’s a sizeable inheritance?”

  “You can work it out.”

  “And there won’t be any problem with the family?”

  He grinned. “The beauty of it is that we don’t know where they are. And when we trace them – if we do – they’re going to be so delighted by this windfall that they won’t begrudge us our commission. Believe me, Mike, this isn’t the first such deal I’ve negotiated.”

  I had my doubts whether Willy’s efforts to trace the family would yield a quick result. Maybe, like the bank, he reckoned the money should come to him after a passage of time.
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  Fifty-five grand would set me up for a couple of years at least. I could do some real painting for a change, get off the treadmill of cute teddy-bears and badgers dressed as postmen.

  “Would this be a one-off?”

  “Has to be,” Willy said. “I couldn’t use you again. I have to find some other guy I can trust.”

  “So we can draw a line under it?”

  “You’ll never hear from me again. It’ll be as if we never met.”

  “I’d prefer the money in cash, if that’s possible.”

  “No problem.”

  He was efficient. He’d done this before. A packet arrived at my house two days later. Inside were the details of the Swiss bank account of the late James Alexander Connelly, standing at £1,106,008, his death certificate and his last will and testament, including the names of two executors, Harry and Albert Smith. I was to be Albert. There was a letter from Harry giving me authority to act on his behalf, and another from an English bank confirming that an executors’ account had been opened. A birth certificate in Albert Smith’s name was included as proof of identity.

  Willy had told me to make an appointment. Banks don’t like people coming in off the street and making big withdrawals. I was to say I was an executor for James Connelly’s estate enquiring about the possibility of a bank account in his name. No more than that.

  I called the bank and spoke to someone who listened without much show of interest and invited me in the next morning at eleven-thirty.

  After another uneasy night I put on the only suit I owned, dropped my documents into a briefcase and took the train to London. Sitting there shoulder to shoulder with the business-men who commuted daily, I felt isolated, one of another species about to venture into their territory.

  The bank was right in the City of London, a massive building with grey pillars. Unlike my own suburban bank, this one had a security guard and a receptionist. I mentioned my appointment and was shown to a seat. The decor was intended to intimidate: marble, mahogany and murals. Don’t let them get you down, I told myself. They’re the crooks.

  They kept me waiting ten minutes, and it felt like an hour. “Mr Smith.”

  I almost forgot to respond.

  “This way, please.”

  The young woman showed me upstairs, where it was Persian carpets and embossed wallpaper. She opened a door. “Please go in and sit down. Mr Schmidt will be with you shortly.”

  Schmidt. One of the family? I said to myself, trying to stay loose. I sat back in a large leather chair and patted my thighs. I wasn’t going to cross my legs in case I looked nervous.

  Schmidt entered through another door. He looked younger than I expected, dark, with tinted glasses. “How can I help?”

  I gave him the spiel, stressing that Uncle James had repeatedly spoken about his special account with the bank. After his death there had been a delay of some years before we – the executors – found his notes with the account details. “His filing system was non-existent,” I said. “We came across the note in a book of handwritten recipes. We almost threw it out. As a cook, he was a dead loss.”

  “May I see?”

  “I didn’t bring the recipe book,” I said. “I copied the figures.”

  “And do you have other evidence with you?”

  I removed everything from the briefcase and passed it across.

  Schmidt spent some minutes studying the documents. “It seems to be in order,” he said. “Would you mind if I showed the papers to a colleague? We have to verify anything so major as this.”

  “I understand.”

  When he left the room I found I’d crossed my legs after all. I took deep breaths.

  The wait tested me to the limit. Just in case there was a hidden camera, I tried to give an impression of calm, but pulses were beating all over my body.

  When Schmidt returned, there was a cheque in his hand. “This is what you were waiting for, Mr Smith, a cheque for a million and just over two hundred thousand pounds. The account accrued some interest. All I require is your signature on the receipt.”

  Resisting the urge to embrace the man, I scribbled a signature.

  “Your documents.” He handed them across. “And now I’ll show you out.” He opened the door.

  Slipping the cheque into an inner pocket, I stuffed the rest of the paperwork into the briefcase and went through that door walking on air.

  Some people were in the corridor outside. I wouldn’t have given them a second glance had not one of them said, “Mr Michael Hawkins.”

  My own name? I froze.

  “I’m DI Cavanagh, of the Serious Fraud Squad.”

  I didn’t hear the rest. I believe I fainted.

  Three months into my sentence, I was transferred to an open prison in Norfolk. There, in the library one afternoon, I met Arthur, and we talked a little. He seemed more my sort than some of the prisoners. As you do, I asked him what he was in for.

  “Obtaining money by deception.”

  “Snap,” I said.

  “Only I was caught with the cheque in my pocket,” he said.

  “Me, too. I was caught in a Swiss bank, of all places.”

  “How odd,” he said. “So was I.”

  It didn’t take long to discover we had both been talked into the same scam by Willy Plumridge.

  “What a bastard!” I said. “And he’s still at liberty.”

  “Waiting to find another mug to tease some money out of the bank,” Arthur said. “I bet I wasn’t the first.”

  “Well, he got rich by doing it himself, I gather,” I said.

  “True, but with less risk. In the early days of this racket, he traced the families and advised them. They made the approach to the bank, and it worked. They paid him well for the information. Later, he was left with the account numbers he couldn’t link to a family, so he thought up this idea of finding people to pose as executors. Maybe it worked a few times, but banks aren’t stupid.”

  “So I discovered. What I can’t understand is why they haven’t pulled him in. He’s Mr Big. You and I are small fry.”

  “They won’t touch him,” Arthur said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s the man who jumped for England.”

  That again. “Give me a break!” I said. “How does that make a difference?”

  “Don’t you know?” Arthur said. He glanced to right and left to make sure no one could overhear him. “One of those account numbers he got from his father belonged to someone pretty important. A former prime minister, in fact.”

  “No! Which one?”

  “I never found out, except they’re dead. Supposed to have been a model of honesty when in fact they were salting away millions in bribes. Willy got onto the family and offered to liberate the money without anyone finding out. The next generation had some heavy expenses to meet, so they hired him. The bank, of course, was utterly discreet and totally duped. Willy pulled it off and was handed the cheque. Then I don’t know if his concentration went, or he was light-headed with his success, but he slipped on the stairs at Bank tube station, fell to the bottom and suffered severe bruising and concussion. He was rushed to hospital and no one knew who he was.”

  “Except that he was carrying the cheque?”

  “Right. And various documents linking him to the family. The police called them. They panicked and said they knew nothing about Willy. He had to be an impostor and all the documents must be faked. After a night in the cells, he was charged with obtaining money by deception and brought before the magistrate at Bow Street. They put him on bail, pending further investigation. Only it never came to trial.”

  “Why?”

  “The secret service intervened to avert the scandal. If it had ever got to court it would have destroyed a prime minister’s reputation. They decided the best way to deal with it was for Willy to jump bail and go into hiding. No attempt was made to find him and the matter was dropped. The family cashed the cheque, Willy got his commission, and the good name of a great prime
minister was saved from disgrace. That’s why you and I are locked in here and Willy Plumridge is sitting in the Nag’s Head enjoying his vodka and tonic. He did the decent thing and jumped for England.”

  SECOND STRINGS

  Mr Small was Mr Big, and that was no joke. It isn’t wise to make fun of an underworld king.

  “This is in confidence, right?”

  “Goes without saying, Mr Small,” Bernie said. Bernie wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’d survived by being respectful of men of violence. He didn’t much care for blood and guts. Crime didn’t have to be messy. By nature he was a gatherer, rather than a hunter.

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Thanks,” Bernie said, hoping it didn’t involve murder.

  “You’ve still got that Transit Van, I hope.”

  “Er, yes.” Maybe a bullion job, Bernie thought, looking steadily into Sly Small’s lizard eyes.

  “I want you to collect something for me.”

  “No problem, Mr Small.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest. This is a sizeable item. I’d say it weighs as much as you or me and is about your height. What are you – six feet?”

  “Just over six.” Oh, no, it’s a corpse, Bernie thought. He wants me to collect a stiff.

  “It’s an instrument.”

  Bernie’s mind switched to torture and his mouth went dry.

  “A Horngacher.”

  It sounded excruciating.

  “A musical instrument.”

  Now Bernie doubted if he was hearing right. What on earth would Sly Small – a man of brutal tastes – want with a musical instrument?

  “You’re a man who likes music, aren’t you? I mean serious music. Beethoven and stuff.”

  Bernie listened to Classic FM on the car radio sometimes. It was scary how much Sly Small knew. “I suppose.”

  “This is in confidence,” Sly said for the second time. “I’m only telling you because of your high taste in music. I sent my boy Rocky to one of them posh schools thinking it would help him when he steps into my shoes. Cost me an arm and a leg and after ten years of it, he’s still pig ignorant. The only thing he can do is music. They sent him for an interview at the Royal College and he’s in.”