He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘You know what I mean – having an office here.’

  ‘The wonders of modern technology and communication systems, David. I might be stuck out in the middle of nowhere but I’m only an email or a phone call from someone who needs me.’

  ‘You’re sounding like something out of a marvel comic.’

  The cushion hit me square in the face.

  ‘Besides, I can’t afford offices in a big town yet. I need to establish myself as a name to be trusted, someone who gets the job done.’

  ‘Now you sound like the A Team.’

  I dodged the next one.

  I said, ‘You’ll leave then? If you get the chance?’

  ‘Of course I will. If I’m still working out of this place in five years’ time I’ll kill myself.’

  I must have looked hurt.

  ‘No offence. But it’s just not me. I’m a city girl. Or at least a decent sized town.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I felt like that up until six months ago. Funny how things change. Who’s the guy you’re going to see on Thursday?’

  ‘Marion Pardew. She works in Economic Crime.’

  I furrowed my brow.

  ‘It’s a department within the City of London Police.’

  ‘She’s a police officer?’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘I still don’t understand how you’ve got a complete stranger to talk to you.’

  Jo just smiled and waggled her eyebrows.

  ‘You think that whatever whoever is threatening to expose him over will be something financial? Some dodgy insider trading, perhaps?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I’ve got to start somewhere and work’s as good a place as any, especially when it involves lots of money and he’s recently been let go. This got much longer to go?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘Bloody hell, really? Mind if I call it a night?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  She didn’t give me a peck on the cheek. She didn’t squeeze my shoulder. She just said goodnight and left, carrying her tray with her. And the room was colder and emptier for her leaving. Still, at least I could stretch out and watch Jimmy Stewart getting it on with Kim Novak. I fell asleep before the end and dreamed of dangerous women. As if there’s any other kind.

  ***

  10

  Wednesday was always going to be just the day before I went to London to see a man about a bag of books. The sky was overcast and oppressive. It weighed heavily on Romney Marsh, seeming to pressurise the cushion of air between the heavens and terra firma. I blamed it for my headache. The coffee shop did a slow trade. We were getting a few regular callers mixed in with the newbies – distinguishable by the way they edged in, gawping in wonder at the place and looking generally lost regarding how things worked. After lunch the wind blew and the rain fell. I’d managed a run in the morning and that had set me up mentally for the day. I dithered about with the plans for outside again, made a few phone calls, drank too much coffee – which, contrary to what I’ve always understood from the movies, didn’t help my headache – and wasted too much time talking with old man Croker.

  John Croker was the last surviving village character from a bygone era – a living relic, a caricature, a legend in his own lunchtime. He still had his fingers in a few shepherds’ pies but left the work to others these days. At ninety-three he was entitled to. He looked like he was dressed by the Salvation Army but was worth thrice what I was and change. He was the last of the Dymchurch dynasty of fish and chip shop barons. Behind his back they called him ‘The Codfather’. I think he secretly approved. Since I’d opened, he liked to visit – regularly. He’d park his mobility scooter outside, blocking the pavement, shuffle in leaning on his stick, drink free tea – he wouldn’t touch coffee (filthy brown muck) – and because he was something of a village celebrity, as well as someone I respected for what he’d achieved through hard work and single-minded grim determination from extremely humble beginnings, I accommodated his demands and tolerated his scathing negativity when he’d tell me how my kind of place would never work in a village like ours. He wasn’t mean with it. He might even have been right. Time would tell on that.

  By the time dusk was descending and the women were mopping the floors I’d about had enough. It was soon too dark for me to think of going outside for anything other than a smoke but since I’d packed them in I was denied even that distraction. That’s another thing about coming into money – it made me more health conscious. I couldn’t speak for others, but for me having a small fortune in the bank made me value my health and my prolonged existence that little bit more. I’d given up the smokes but the booze, in moderation, would always be a feature and a pleasure in my life.

  I hadn’t seen Jo all day. Her car had been missing since I’d come back from my morning run along the beach. We didn’t have the kind of relationship in which we felt obliged to keep each other informed of our whereabouts.

  I was still in the shop when the lights of her car swept in and briefly illuminated the back yard to the sound of compacting gravel crunching under her tyres, like a distant wave washing up a beach. Her return lifted my spirits. I hoped she’d see lights on in the shop, know I was in there and come in for a chat. And we had to talk about arrangements for the following day.

  I was still more comfortable in the shop than I was in my dead relatives’ flat. It is no exaggeration to confess that I was somewhat smitten, somewhat in love, with the environment downstairs, especially when we were closed. The decor, the books, the furniture, the smells, the quiet, the space. I’d created an ambience where I felt I belonged. When it was dark outside, the calculated soft yellow lighting of the wall-mounted fittings created an impression of warmth, refinement and intimacy, an effect that daylight meddled with and spoiled. Sometimes I’d put on some low, slow jazz, or some classical piano and just sit and enjoy being there. Sometimes I felt like a character in a novel.

  I understood I was still gripped in the first heady throes of proprietorial infatuation, like a teenager moons over a first car. There was also the not inconsiderable influence on my feelings about upstairs – almost nothing had changed from my aunt and uncle’s time. I had ploughed all my energy and creativity into the shop. The flat was essentially just for eating, sleeping and washing – the mundane routines of life. I needed to do something about all that. And what I was intending to do was to build a cabin and move out, gut the flats, refurbish and let them.

  I had my feet up and was renewing my acquaintance with the most famous detective duo in fiction when Jo rapped on the back window. I unlocked and let her in. She brushed past me into the warm, making a brrr noise for a greeting. I caught her smell. And not for the first time, I felt something akin to desperate longing for her deeper in my centre than I was made. Not a sexual longing, but an intimate relationship longing where each partner is half of a whole.

  I almost asked her where she’d been all day, but Jo didn’t like questions like that. Instead I went with, ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Interesting. Yours?’

  ‘Not particularly. Want to talk about tomorrow now?’

  I locked up after her and followed her into the shop, where she’d plonked herself down on a Chesterfield.

  I suggested a timetable: train from Ashford, I go see my bookseller contact in Cecil Court off Charing Cross Road while she sees her appointment, I buy her lunch in Covent Garden, we could have a mooch around and then back before the evening rush.

  ‘I’m meeting my contact for a lunchtime drink.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘How long will you be in with the book guy?’

  ‘Depends. He knows what I’ve got and he’s very interested. Perhaps an hour.’

  ‘Why don’t you meet me and my appointment for lunch?’

  ‘Won’t she mind?’

  ‘If she does you can sit at another table. Have a drink. Read a book or something.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

/>   ‘I shouldn’t think I’ll be very long with her. Then we can eat.’

  I agreed. I was more than a little hopeful that Marion Pardew wouldn’t mind me sitting in.

  ***

  11

  We got into Charing Cross mid-morning. The weather that was afflicting Romney Marsh obviously wasn’t a local phenomenon.

  Cecil Court is a shortish walk up Charing Cross Road. We detoured only slightly so that I could appreciate Trafalgar Square, pay my respects to Nelson’s Column and feel proud to be British. It didn’t happen very often. We ambled up past the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, the Garrick Theatre. So much culture. It felt good just being near it. Life was passing me by.

  We turned into Cecil Court. ‘Fancy a look in a gallery while we’re up here?’ I said.

  ‘You can if you like.’

  ‘My treat?’

  ‘David, even I know they’re all free admission. I’m just not that into paintings.’

  ‘How about a matinee? There’re bound to be some tickets for a show round here.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Which I took as code for no.

  I stopped and turned to face her. ‘Look, I think you’ll just be bored in here with me.’ I gestured up the narrow alley that was home to several of London’s book-dealing community. I really didn’t want Jo huffing and tutting about the place, yanking expensive volumes off the shelves and being careless with them when I was trying to conduct business. It was going to be hard enough for me as it was. I had absolutely no experience of what I was about to involve myself in. And I was playing with someone else’s money.

  ‘No, I won’t. I’ll behave. I promise.’

  ‘You’d better.’ I flexed my grip on my bag and turned away.

  Jo said, ‘Would it be all right to take an ice cream in with me?’ She was letting me know she still had a sense of humour.

  ***

  12

  Jo had arranged to meet Marion Pardew in a hostelry called The New Moon on Gracechurch Street. It wasn’t a huge trek from Cecil Court and I suggested we hoofed it. Actually, what I did was sing her a line from Ralph McTell’s hit from the sixties. She just looked embarrassed for me. I don’t think she’d heard of it. She asked if I had toothache, which was her way of saying I couldn’t sing.

  I’d never been what you might call a regular visitor to the metropolis and so when I did drop by I’d always rather walk the streets of London than take the Underground or a taxi. You never saw anything like that and part of the pleasure of any visit for me was a bit of sightseeing.

  We retraced our steps to Charing Cross, headed down the side of the mainline railway station on Villiers Street to Victoria Embankment and turned left to walk alongside the Thames. There weren’t many boats about. Not many tourists either. A chilling and challenging breeze was channelled along the ancient waterway. We were walking into it. The sky was heavy and I thought it could snow. I wished I’d brought a warmer coat. Maybe a hat. Maybe some gloves. Maybe some tissue for my nose that was now running. I started to wish we’d taken a taxi or the Tube. Or risked the bus. At London Bridge we turned our backs on the river and in towards the City in search of Gracechurch Street. The wind dropped abruptly.

  I liked The New Moon immediately – spacious, comfortable, cared for. Jo took a table. I got our drinks. As I put them down Jo was finishing on the phone. I took a good slurp of my real ale. Lovely.

  ‘She’ll be here in a few minutes. You happy with what you got for the books in the end?’

  I shrugged and made a face. ‘He has to make a profit too; I don’t think I could’ve pushed for more. If he hasn’t got a buyer lined up he’s now got quite a bit of capital tied up in those. I think I can convince Mrs Swaine that she should be satisfied. At least she can afford you now.’

  Jo raised her glass to me and took a sip. ‘I’ll drink to that. This is nice.’

  ‘The place or the wine?’

  ‘Both. See what I mean about cities and big towns. It’s where the life is, David.’

  ‘So what were you doing policing a crummy mid-sized town like Folkestone?’

  ‘Kent police were my employer. You don’t get to choose where you’re posted. I planned to transfer somewhere more alive.’

  I felt suddenly sad for her. ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘The police?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes and no. But there’s no point in crying over the way things turned out. I don’t regret any of my actions. I did the right thing. If I hadn’t, well, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?’

  I thought Jo was putting a brave spin as well as a brave face on things.

  ‘What about you?’ she said.

  ‘What about me what?’

  ‘Do you miss teaching?’

  I think she was being serious but I couldn’t stop the snort of derision exploding out of my nostrils along with most of my last sip of beer. As I cleaned myself up, I said, ‘Definitely not. Listen, kids are energy vampires. They suck the life out of you all day every day five days a week and what they take from you energises them so that they become even more demanding. Looking back on it, I think that shutting a single grown-up in a room with thirty young learners for forty minutes at a stretch should be against the Geneva Convention. I was permanently exhausted when I was in a school term. If I lost all my money tomorrow I’d rather work in a petrol station than go back to teaching. I mean it. It was fun while it lasted but my time with chalk dust respiratory problems and classrooms stinking of wee-soaked five-year-olds is over.’

  We were spared further talk on that subject by the arrival of her contact. Marion Pardew looked nothing like a police officer and every inch the City slicker – nice clothes, good hair, a tangible confidence that generally only money and/or madness can bring. Jo signalled her and stood to greet her. Either they knew each other or Jo had been primed to look out for a woman carrying a red umbrella.

  I stood and we shook hands. And then I was dispatched to the bar to get our source a dry white wine. By the time I returned they were talking easily with each other.

  Marion thanked me with a nod and said, ‘Are you ex-job too, David?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Jo. ‘But he’s trustable.’

  Marion nodded and turned her attention back to Jo. ‘Nigel Tate worked for Hudsons a little over five years. They parted company a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Not an amicable split?’ said Jo.

  Marion smiled. ‘They let him go. There are strong rumours that he was involved in something the FSA were interested in. Hudsons didn’t want the bad press or the attention so they got rid of him.’

  ‘The Food Standards Agency,’ I said, showing off. ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘Financial Services Authority,’ said Jo, with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. ‘Any idea what it was?’

  Marion swallowed a mouthful and said, ‘Possible insider trading. Allegedly. The FSA,’ she looked at me, ‘the Financial Services Authority,’ she was still looking at me, ‘the body that regulates all providers of financial services in the UK – are still investigating. They won’t let it go just because Hudsons let Tate go.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Impossible for me to say. From a police perspective it’s all just gossip and rumour for now, but there’s definitely something in it. I know someone over there.’

  ‘Would I be able to talk to your source at Hudsons?’

  Marion shook her head briefly. ‘As a favour, I’ll ask. I can promise you that. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. What’s it about? What’s your interest in him?’

  ‘His wife claims he’s being blackmailed. She wants me to find out by whom. This sounds promising. If I could talk to your source I could find out who might be in a position to know about Tate’s alleged dodgy dealings.’

  Marion chewed her lips for a long moment. ‘Tell you what, I’ll ask for you. It’ll save time and to be honest I’ve got a better chance of getting
that information than you have.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ said Jo.

  ‘How much is he being blackmailed for?’

  ‘Fifty k.’

  ‘Are the local police involved?’

  ‘No. The wife isn’t even supposed to know. Says she found the letter by accident. And she categorically doesn’t want to involve the authorities.’

  ‘Interesting. Give me a day or two. We’ll keep in touch over this, won’t we? Might be something in it for me.’

  Jo smiled nicely and said, ‘Of course.’

  I said, ‘Where did he go to from Hudsons?’

  Marion said, ‘TJC.’

  I said, ‘Are they another city bank?’

  She said, ‘No. The Job Centre. I asked around but it seems he wouldn’t have been able to secure a position with another financial institution even if he tried. And I’m not surprised if he had the FSA breathing down his neck. No one would touch him with a bargepole while he’s in limbo with them. Guilty ‘til proven innocent. Financial institutions can’t afford to risk giving anyone the benefit of the doubt. They trade on their reputations and customer confidence – and after the banking disasters of the last few years customer confidence is always going to be a very brittle thing in their business.’ Marion threw back the last of her drink. ‘Right. I should be off. Nice meeting you, Jo.’ We all stood. They shook hands like old friends. As an obvious afterthought Marion turned to me and said, ‘Bye...’

  ‘David.’

  ‘Right. David. Nice meeting you.’ She turned away from us and I watched Jo watch Marion walk away.

  ‘You never told me how you got her to come out and meet us, let alone divulge such sensitive information,’ I said.

  ‘Friend of a friend.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I called up an old friend who’s still in the job – she’s in the Met now. Fraud. Not her, her line of work. I asked her if she would be able to get me a meeting with anyone who worked for Hudsons who could help us and she came up with Marion.’