Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  SHAM

  Roger Silverwood

  © Roger Silverwood 2006

  Roger Silverwood has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2006 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  1.

  The Elms, Wallasey Road, Liverpool, Merseyside, UK. Monday, 9 May

  ‘Just lean back on ze pillow, Mrs Rossi. Relax. That’s it … Are you feeling drowsy?’

  The busty ex-model with the long auburn hair nodded. She had cheekbones higher than the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and a nose and nostrils the shape of the gold cast taken from the death mask of Cleopatra.

  ‘I feel strange,’ she said. ‘I feel very strange.’ She lifted her head up from the operating table, opened her eyes and glared at the bald little man in the thick glasses and white coat, hovering over her.

  ‘Should I feel strange?’ she demanded, suspiciously. ‘I have never felt like this before.’

  ‘Just relax. It’ll be the sedative, that’s all,’ the doctor replied, putting his hand gently on her shoulder to ease her back down on the operating table.

  She stiffened, breathed in noisily, pulled away from him, glared at his fat red fingers then stared at him with eyes like Medusa.

  He took in her reaction. His mouth dropped open and he withdrew his hand instantly.

  ‘Don’t manhandle me, doctor,’ she said icily.

  His pasty white cheeks flushed the colour of the final notice he had had from the Inland Revenue that morning, and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed a couple of frogs hell bent on filling a jam jar with spawn. The touch was entirely innocent. He felt foolish and breathed out a long silent sigh.

  The skirmish served to remind him that he was dealing with a very, very dangerous woman.

  She settled back on the pillow. Her eyes closed.

  There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

  Doctor Schumaker pursed his lips. He needed to lighten the atmosphere; the patient shouldn’t be tense. He managed a smile.

  ‘Yes. Yes. That’s all right,’ he said eventually. ‘Relax. You need to be as relaxed as possible. There, there. Now it won’t hurt. You’ll hardly feel anything. Just lean back against the pillow, that’s it, yes. Think of something nice; think of how much more beautiful you are going to look, when we are finished. You’ll have men falling at your feet.’

  ‘They already fall at my feet,’ she growled. His left eyebrow lifted then dropped.

  ‘Yes. Yes. You’ll look as beautiful as ze statue, de Venus de Milo!’

  ‘I know. And I do.’

  His jaw tightened. He licked his lips.

  ‘Tink how much you are going to give those young girls a run for their money.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snarled. ‘I have five homes in the UK and one in the States. I have two limos. I have a husband and two sons and a granddaughter. I am not a young tart who hangs around hotel bars and shoves cards in telephone boxes, to earn fifty quid a drop!’

  Schumaker blinked.

  ‘No. No. No, of course not,’ he said quickly and then licked his lips. ‘You know I didn’t mean that, Mrs Rossi.’

  ‘I know I only look half my sixty years,’ she said and it was true. ‘But I just want to make the best of myself. So get on with it.’

  The doctor pursed his lips. He must be careful not to show what he really thought.

  ‘I just mean that you are going to be as beautiful as the most beautiful of them.’

  She closed her eyes and wrinkled up her nose as though she could smell twelve jurymen about to cry, ‘guilty’.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah.’

  There was a rattle of metal against glass as the doctor rolled open a canvas holdall. He found a small bottle and stuck a hypodermic into it; he held it up to the light and pulled down the plunger. He glanced down at her as the pale yellow liquid began to fill the syringe.

  Her eyes were still closed and she seemed relaxed.

  He sighed.

  ‘That’s it, Mrs Rossi,’ he said in a practised monotone. ‘That’s it. Go to sleep. Think beautiful. Think beautiful torts. Think warm beaches, blue green seas, gentle svishing of ze tide coming in and then falling back. That’s it, that’s it.’

  Her eyelids suddenly clicked open.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she snapped. ‘It’s no good. I can’t sleep.’

  She saw him move over her with a hypodermic in his hand.

  ‘Have those instruments been sterilized?’ she snapped. ‘I won’t have dirty needles used on me.’

  ‘It’s a brand new needle, Mrs Rossi. Brand new. Straight out of sterile wrapping. Don’t vorry. I don’t take any chances. Now please, lean back … close your eyes and relax. Have confidence. Trust me. There is nothing to vorry about.’

  She glanced at him, turned the corners of her mouth down while wrinkling the nose upwards, and flopped back on to the pillow.

  His fingers trembled slightly as he tucked the white sheet neatly back under her chin.

  He was about to beautify a valuable, cash paying client: wife of one of Britain’s most notorious murderers, bank robbers and fixers.

  He hadn’t wanted the job. He hadn’t needed the work. Rikki Rossi had rolled up outside his house with a couple of heavies and demanded his services. Schumaker only agreed because he was too scared to refuse. The Rossis had a terrifying reputation and the doctor had taken a liking to living. He had got used to it. The money was all right. Twenty thousand pounds in cash. For a total of around eight hours work spread over ten weeks. Payment on completion. A piece of cake. He had already planned to winter in the Maldives again and he was looking forward to it.

  However, he found that there was no pleasure in the work. He would have been far happier, nipping, tucking, enlarging and reducing the host of would be starlets and has-been celebrities that had kept his appointment book more or less full the last twenty years.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ she suddenly bawled.

  ‘For the sedative to work. You must keep very still. Very still, Mrs Rossi. And keep calm.’

  ‘I am calm!’ she snapped.

  His left eye twitched. He swallowed and pulled the powerful light down closer to her face. He picked up a pair of powerful magnifying spectacles, settled them on his nose and threaded the sides round his ears.

  ‘Hmmm. These are the same hands that helped Gloria Van Struman come first in the European Beauty Championship of 2003,’ he said, as he pulled on the rubber gloves. ‘And I was the von who made the granddaughter of an Ethiopian goat farmer so irresistible to Lord Henry Pennington-Bookbinder that he proposed to her on their very first meeting. She is now Lady Pennington-Bookbinder, heiress of the Blue Crescent shipping line and half the Caribbean. Modesty prevents me from citing the many others I have had the pleasure of including among my patients … royalty, film stars, beauty queens, models … from all over ze world. I could go on.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a sneer. ‘You do go on,’ she added wryly.

  His mouth went dry.

  He coughed and said: ‘Now please keep still.’

  ‘I am still! Get on with it!’ she fumed.

  He swallowed.

  ‘When I have finished, Mrs Rossi,’ he said, as his trembling hand reached out to the corner of her mouth, ‘I promise you, you will take your husband’s brea
th away!’

  She opened one eye and glared at him.

  ‘And if you stick that needle in the wrong spot, Schumaker,’ she replied sourly. ‘I promise you: he will take your breath away … permanently!’

  A cold shiver ran down the doctor’s back.

  *

  King William Street, Streatham, London, UK. Friday, 29 July

  The Northern National Bank opened its doors as usual promptly at 9.30 a.m. and three young women and a man who were standing on the front steps turned and moved inside.

  At 9.32 am, three grey-haired men arrived at the bank from different directions. They went through the door and slowly made their way to the tellers’ windows. They were followed in by a woman stooping and wearing a headscarf that also covered her mouth. She carried a bulging plastic Tesco shopping-bag that appeared to be heavy. She struggled with it through the double doors on to the tiled area just inside the bank, where, suddenly, it appeared to split open. Coins tumbled out, making a loud noise and rolling in every direction around the bank floor. Everybody turned to see what was happening. The woman stared at the pile of coins in dismay then bent forward to begin to collect them up. Nobody, including the grey-haired men, seemed inclined to leave their places in the queue at the tellers’ windows to assist her.

  A young woman clerk from behind the tellers’ partition heard the noise and peered through the glass. She went to the door to the foyer and peered carefully through the security spy-hole. Seeing nobody close by, she opened it carefully and rushed out to help the woman.

  One of the three grey-haired men, standing only ten feet away, threw a handful of bean bags he had concealed in his pockets at the open doorway. Some landed between the door and the jamb preventing the door from closing and locking. He rushed to it, pushed it wide open and was in the tellers’ area and next to the tills in a second. Another of the grey-haired men followed right behind him.

  The first man pulled out a Walther PPK/S automatic from his waistband and waved it in the air. ‘Everybody stand still. Don’t move. Hands in the air, where I can see them,’ he bawled savagely.

  The third man pulled out a revolver and stood in the foyer by the street door. Meanwhile, the woman near the entrance, who had dropped the money, leapt to her feet, abandoned the scattered coins and dashed out of the bank at surprising speed.

  The young woman clerk, realizing what she had allowed to happen, put a hand to her mouth, let out a small gasp and stood shaking, looking anxiously at the armed man.

  The second man took out a black plastic bin-liner from his pocket and opened it up.

  ‘Fill that sack,’ the gunman yelled. ‘Just the paper. No coins. Hurry up.’

  Nobody moved.

  The tellers, clerks and customers stood frozen to the spot and stared at the three men. They could now see that they were wearing skin-tight masks and grey wigs and, by their movements, observed that they were much younger than they had at first appeared.

  ‘Move it!’ the first gunman yelled and angrily fired a shot at the wall. A shower of dust fell across the counter into a woman teller’s hair. Her jaw dropped open, her big eyes grew bigger.

  Bells suddenly began to ring, both inside and outside the bank. The racket made the walls and floor vibrate.

  The gunman spun round through 180 degrees and back, waving the Walther in the air.

  A man at the back made a swift move.

  The gunman saw him and fired a shot.

  The clerk’s face showed pain, his eyes closed, he collapsed, arms in the air, hitting his face on a desk as he fell. A small trickle of blood ran from the side of his head.

  A girl screamed, some others gasped.

  ‘Fill that sack,’ the gunman shrieked again and fired another shot at the ceiling.

  A woman teller promptly leaned over her till and began rapidly pulling out the paper money and dropping it into the black sack.

  The others hurriedly followed her lead and began to unload their till drawers and reserve stock underneath, thrusting bundles of wrapped notes of all denominations at the man.

  ‘Hurry up! Hurry up!’ the gunman bawled and fired another shot, above the head of a teller who was not moving fast enough for him.

  Twenty seconds later, the money stopped flowing. The tills were empty. The bank staff straightened up, put their hands above their heads and stood motionless, their hands shaking in the air.

  The second man closed up the neck of the sack, and dashed out into the foyer. The gunman followed. They joined the third man.

  The three of them rushed into the street together. The bells seemed even louder outside. The two men with guns waved them in the air.

  A small throng of eighteen or twenty sightseers had gathered on the pavement at the opposite side of the road; there were a few exclamations as the men appeared. They edged back rapidly at the sight of the guns.

  A high-powered black car promptly raced up to the bank doors. The brakes squealed. It was being driven by the woman who had minutes earlier noisily managed the dis charge of the bag of coins in the bank entrance. The grey wig and headscarf were still in place.

  The three men jumped into the car. The engine roared. The car disappeared round the corner of the building as the doors were being slammed shut.

  Two men dashed out of the bank door and looked round.

  Seconds later, a police car arrived on the scene at speed, its siren blaring, blue lights flashing. The co-driver spoke briefly to one of the men and the car sped off in the direction of the black car.

  Another police car arrived, sirens blaring, and a third, then an ambulance arrived.

  Five minutes later, the body of a man covered by a bloody sheet was brought out of the bank on a stretcher.

  *

  Coronation Park, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. 8.30 p.m. Sunday, 31 July Mirabelle looked wistfully into his eyes as they sauntered holding hands in the warm summer evening.

  ‘But I hardly know you,’ she whispered, and then opened and closed her moist lips several times intriguingly.

  The young man smiled.

  ‘What is there to know? You know that I love you.’

  She returned the smile, then shook her head.

  They drifted through the park in silence, taking in the dimming blue sky, the trees in full leaf and the long stretches of carefully maintained grassy areas around them. They passed between some thick bushes that developed into an avenue of cypresses.

  ‘It was a lovely meal,’ she said at length. She put a hand to her temple. ‘But I think the wine has gone to my head,’ she added, with a smile.

  ‘My flat is only a few yards from the park gates, Mirabelle. We can be there in a few minutes,’ he said gently. ‘You could rest there awhile.’

  She gave him an old-fashioned look.

  He smiled back. Then he spotted a bench in an alcove of squarely cut privet. He raised his eyebrows and pointed to it. She nodded and they sat down. She snuggled up close to him. She shivered slightly. The pristine sleeveless summer dress did not afford much warmth. He took off his jacket and draped it round her shoulders.

  She looked up into his clear brown eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured sweetly.

  ‘Now I’ve got you, I have to look after you.’

  ‘Who would think, I have only known you a week,’ she said.

  ‘What does time matter, Mirabelle,’ he said. He took her hand and squeezed it slightly.

  She sighed.

  He sighed.

  There was a quiet moment.

  Suddenly an empty lager can came flying through the air and landed on the pathway in front of them; it bounced and rolled towards their feet.

  They sat upright, astonished, and looked round.

  A young man in a black T-shirt and tight jeans leaped on to the path from behind a bush with a dangerous-looking knife in his hand. He stood leaning forward, with his feet spread apart in the stance of a challenger.

  ‘What does time matter,’ he said mockingly, attempt
ing to imitate the voice of the young man. ‘What does time matter,’ he repeated. ‘Well, your time has come, mate. That girl is mine.’

  Mirabelle stared at him and gasped. She noticed the careful and detailed representation of a skull and crossbones in blue on the back of his hand.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ she cried. ‘Leave us alone!’

  The young man stood up, faced him and assumed a similar stance. He eyed the long glinting knife studiously. It looked like a kitchen knife with a pointed tip. He had nothing to defend himself against it.

  The intruder stared at the young man, smiling, but his eyes showed only his enthusiasm for a fight.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ the young man said boldly.

  The intruder advanced, stabbing strongly and dangerously into the air.

  ‘That girl’s mine,’ he snarled.

  The young man dodged his attacks deftly by backing off and moving in a circular direction, arriving with his back to the park bench.

  Mirabelle screamed. Her lips quivered. Her eyes glowed brightly with fear. She leapt up from the bench and moved behind it for safety. The suit coat he had so gallantly put round her shoulders slid on to the bench.

  The intruder advanced more strongly.

  ‘I’ll have you, you swine!’

  The young man made another quick step back with his right foot. Out of his eye corner, he noticed his coat on the seat. He reached out for it and lashed it wildly around the intruder’s head.

  The intruder grinned and reached out to try to grab hold of it, but didn’t get a hold.

  The young man then threw it in his face.

  Momentarily, the intruder’s view was obstructed; he lunged blindly with the knife into the air.

  This time the young man managed to grab his wrist with both hands and he squeezed it and squeezed it.

  With his free hand, the intruder hurled a mighty succession of blows to the young man’s head. He reeled but hung on tightly to the wrist. As they struggled, both men lost their balance and landed on the hard concrete path.

  Mirabelle screamed again.

  The young man squeezed the intruder’s wrist with a grip of steel and banged his hand repeatedly on the concrete. Four, five, six times.