Paper Money

by Ken Follett

  What he would like to do, was to stand behind her, and pull her trousers down slowly, then--

  The car in front moved forward twenty yards, and Jesse followed it. It was a brand-new Marina with a vinyl roof. Maybe he would get one with his share of the takings. The line of cars stopped again. Jesse pulled the handbrake and looked for the plump girl.

  He did not pick her up until the traffic was moving off again. As he let the clutch in he saw her, looking in the window of a shoe shop, her back to him. The trousers were so tight that he could see the hem of her panties, two diagonal lines pointing to the fork of her thighs. He loved it when you could see their panties under the trousers: it turned him on almost as much as a bare bum. Then I'd slide her panties down, he thought, and--

  There was a crash of steel on steel. The van stopped with a bump, throwing Jesse forward against the steering wheel. The doors slid shut with a double bang. He knew, before he looked, what he had done; and the taste of fear made him feel sick.

  The Marina in front had stopped sooner than it needed to, and Jesse, wrapped up in the plump girl with the tight trousers, had gone straight into its back.

  He got out of the van. The driver of the saloon car was already inspecting the damage. He looked up at Jesse, his face red with anger. "You mad bastard," he spat. "What are you--blind, or stupid?" He had a Lancashire accent.

  Jesse ignored him and looked at the bumpers of the two vehicles, folded together in a steel kiss. He made an effort to keep calm. "Sorry, pal. My fault."

  "Sorry! You people should be banned from the ruddy road."

  Jesse stared at the man. He was short and portly, and wore a suit. His round face was a picture of righteous indignation. He had the quick aggressiveness of small people, and their characteristic backward tilt of the head. Jesse hated him instantly. He looked like a sergeant major. Jesse would have liked to punch his face, or better, shoot him through the forehead.

  "We all make mistakes," he said with forced amiability. "Let's just give each other our names and everything, and get on. It's only a little bump. Don't make a federal case of it."

  It was the wrong thing to say. The short man became even redder. "You're not getting off that lightly," he said.

  The traffic in front had moved on, and drivers behind were getting impatient. Several of them sounded their horns. One man got out of his car.

  The Marina driver was writing the number of the van in a little notebook. That type of man always does have a little notebook and pencil in his jacket pocket, Jesse thought.

  He closed the book. "This is bloody careless driving. I'm going to ring the police."

  The driver from behind said: "How about moving this little lot out the way, so the rest of us can get on?"

  Jesse sensed an ally. "Nothing I'd rather do, mate, but this fellow wants to call in Kojak on the case."

  The portly man wagged a finger. "I know your type--drive like a hooligan and let the insurance pay. I'm having you up, Sonny Jim."

  Jesse took a step forward, clenching his fists, then stopped himself. He was getting panicky. "The police have got enough to do," he pleaded.

  The other man's eyes narrowed. He had seen Jesse's fear. "We'll let them decide whether they've got better things to do." He looked around, and spotted a phone booth. "You stop here." He turned away.

  Jesse grabbed his shoulder. He was scared now. He said: "This is nothing to do with the police!"

  The man turned and knocked Jesse's hand away, "Get off, you young punk--"

  Jesse seized him by the lapels and pulled him onto his toes. "I'll give you punk . . ." Suddenly he became conscious of the crowd that had gathered, looking on with interest. There were about a dozen people. He stared at them. They were mostly housewives with shopping bags. The girl with the tight trousers was at the front. He realized he was doing all the wrong things.

  He decided to get out of it.

  He let the aggrieved man go and got into the van. The man stared at him disbelievingly.

  Jesse restarted the stalled engine and backed up. There was a wrenching sound as the vehicles parted. He could see that the Marina's bumper hung loose, and its rear-light cluster was smashed. Fifty quid to put right, and a tenner if you do the work yourself, he thought wildly.

  The portly man moved in front of the van and stood there like Neptune, waving an officious finger. "You stay right here!" he shouted. The crowd was growing as the row became more spectacular. There was a lull in the oncoming traffic, and the cars behind began to pull out past the accident.

  Jesse found first gear and revved the engine. The man stood his ground. Jesse engaged the clutch with a jerk, and the van shot forward.

  Too late, the portly man dived toward the curb. Jesse heard a dull thud from the nearside wing as he swung out. A car behind braked with a squeal of tires. Jesse changed up and tore away without looking back.

  The street seemed narrow and oppressive, traplike, as he hurtled along, ignoring pedestrian crossings, swerving and braking. He tried desperately to think. He had screwed it all up. The whole tickle had gone beautifully, and Jesse James had pranged the getaway motor. A vanload of paper money blown on a fifty-nicker crunch. Arseholes.

  Stay cool, he told himself. It wasn't a blowout until he was locked up. There was still time, if only he could think.

  He slowed the van and turned off the main road. There was no point in attracting attention again. He threaded his way through a series of backstreets while he figured it out.

  What would happen now? A bystander would phone the police, especially as he had knocked down the portly man. The van's number was in the little notebook; besides, somebody in the crowd would have noted it too. It would be reported as a hit-and-run, and the number would go out over the air to patrol cars. Anything from three minutes to fifteen to get that far. Another five minutes, and they would broadcast a description of Jesse. What was he wearing? Blue trousers and an orange shirt. Arseholes.

  What would Tony Cox say, if he were here to be asked? Jesse recalled the guvnor's fleshy face and heard his voice. Tell yourself what the problem is, right?

  Jesse said aloud: "The police have got my number and description."

  Think what you'd have to do to solve the problem.

  "What the hell can I do, Tone? Change my license plate and my appearance?"

  Then do it, right?

  Jesse frowned. Tony's analytical thinking only went so far. Where the hell could he get license plates, and how could he fit them?

  Of course, it was easy.

  He found his way to a main road and drove along until he came to a garage. He pulled on to the forecourt. Quad stamps, he thought: jolly good show. There was a repair shop back of the pumps. A tanker was discharging on the far side.

  The attendant approached, cleaning his spectacles on an oily rag. "Five quids' worth," Jesse said. "Where's the khasi?"

  "Round the side."

  Jesse followed the jerked thumb. A rough concrete path led alongside the garage. He found a broken door marked GENTS and went past it.

  Behind the garage was a small patch of waste ground where newish cars in for repair jostled with rusty doors, buckled wings, and discarded machinery. Jesse could not see what he was looking for.

  The back entrance to the repair shop gaped open beside him, big enough to drive a bus through. There was no point in being furtive. He walked in.

  It took a moment to adjust to the gloom after the sunlight outside. The air smelled of engine oil and ozone. A Mini was on a ramp at head height, its entrails hanging down obscenely. The front end of an articulated truck was wired up to a Krypton tester. A Jaguar on chocks had its wheels off. There was no one about. He looked at his wristwatch: they would be having their dinner. He looked around.

  He spotted the things he needed.

  A pair of red-and-white trade plates stood on an oil drum in a corner. He crossed the floor and picked them up. He looked around again, and stole two more things: clean overalls hanging on a peg in the b
rick wall, and a length of dirty string off the floor.

  A voice said: "Looking for something, brother?"

  Jesse jerked around, his heart in his mouth. A black mechanic in a grimy overall stood on the far side of the shop, leaning on the gleaming white wing of the Jaguar, his mouth full of food. His Afro haircut shifted as he chewed. Jesse tried to cover the trade plates with the overalls. "The khasi," he said. "Want to change my clothes." He held his breath.

  The mechanic pointed. "Outside," he said. He swallowed, and took another bite out of a Scotch egg.

  "Thanks." Jesse hurried out.

  "Anytime," the mechanic called after him. Jesse realized the man had an Irish accent. Irish spades? That was a new one.

  The pump attendant was waiting beside the van. Jesse climbed in and threw the overalls and their contents over the seat into the back. The attendant looked curiously at the bundle. Jesse said: "My overall was hanging out the back door. It must be filthy. How much?"

  "We generally charge a fiver for five quids' worth. I didn't notice it."

  "Nor did I, for fifty bleeding miles. I did say five quids' worth, didn't I?"

  "That's what you said. No charge for the bog."

  Jesse gave him a five-pound note and pulled away rapidly.

  He was a little off his route now, which was good. The area was quieter than the places he had traveled through earlier. There were oldish detached houses on either side, set back from the road. Horse-chestnut trees lined the pavements. He saw a Green Line bus stop.

  He needed a quiet lane in which to perform the switch. He checked his watch again. It must be fifteen minutes since the accident. There was no time left for finesse.

  He took the next turning. The street was called Brook Avenue. All the houses were semis. He needed somewhere less exposed, for Christ's sake! He could not switch plates in full view of sixty nosy housewives.

  He took another turn, and another--and found a service road behind a little row of shops. He pulled in and stopped. There were garages and garbage cans, and the back doors through which goods were delivered to the stores. It was the best he could hope for.

  He climbed over the seat into the back of the van. It was very hot. He sat on one of the money chests and pulled the overalls up his legs. Jesus, he was nearly there. Give me a couple more minutes, he thought--it was almost a prayer.

  He stood up, bending over, and shrugged into the garment. If I'd blown it, Tony would have slit my throat, he thought. He shuddered. Tony Cox was a hard bastard. He had a bit of a kink about punishment.

  Jesse zipped up the overalls. He knew about eye-witness descriptions. The police would by now be looking for a very big, vicious-looking character with desperate eyes, wearing an orange shirt and jeans. Anyone actually looking at Jesse would just see a mechanic.

  He picked up the trade plates. The string had gone--he must have dropped it. He looked around the floor. Damn, there was always a piece of rope floating around on the floor of a van! He opened the toolbox and found a length of oily string tied around the jack.

  He got out and went to the front of the van. He worked carefully, afraid to botch the job by hurrying. He tied the red-and-white trade plate over the original license plate, just as garages usually did when taking a commercial vehicle for a road test. He stood back and examined his work. It looked fine.

  He went to the rear of the van and repeated the job on the back plate. It was done. He breathed more easily.

  "Changing the plates, then?"

  Jesse jumped and turned. His heart sank. The voice belonged to a policeman.

  For Jesse it was the last straw. He could think of no more wrinkles, no more plausible lies, no more ruses. His instincts deserted him. He did not have a single thing to say.

  The copper walked toward him. He was quite young, with ginger sideburns and a freckled nose. "Trouble?"

  Jesse was amazed to see him smile. A ray of hope penetrated his petrified brain. He found his tongue. "Plates worked loose," he said. "Just tightened them up."

  The copper nodded. "I used to drive one of these," he said conversationally. "Easier than driving a car. Lovely jobs."

  It crossed Jesse's mind that the man might be playing a sadistic cat-and-mouse game, knowing perfectly well that Jesse was the driver of the hit-and-run van, but pretending ignorance so as to shock him at the last minute.

  "Easy when they're running right," he said. The sweat on his face felt cold.

  "Well, you've done it now. On your way, you're blocking the road."

  Like a sleepwalker, Jesse climbed into the cab and started the engine. Where was the copper's car? Did he have his radio switched off? Had the overalls and the trade plates fooled him?

  If he were to walk around to the front of the van and see the dent made by the bumper of the Marina--

  Jesse eased his foot off the clutch and drove slowly along the service road. He stopped at the end and looked both ways. In his wing mirror, he saw the policeman at the far end getting into a patrol car.

  Jesse pulled into the road and the patrol car was lost from view. He wiped his brow. He was trembling.

  "Gawd, stone the crows," he breathed.

  21

  Evan Jones was drinking whiskey before lunch for the first time in his life. There was a reason. He had a Code, and he had broken it--also for the first time. He was explaining this to his friend, Arny Matthews, but he was not doing too well, for he was unused to whiskey, and the first double was already reaching his brain.

  "It's my upbringing, see," he said in his musical Welsh accent. "Strict chapel. We lived by the Book. Now, a man can exchange one Code for another, but he can't shake the habit of obedience. See?"

  "I see," said Arny, who did not see at all. Evan was manager of the London branch of the Cotton Bank of Jamaica, and Arny was a senior actuary at Fire and General Marine Insurance, and they lived in adjoining mock-Tudor houses in Woking, Surrey. Their friendship was shallow, but permanent.

  "Bankers have a Code," Evan continued. "Do you know, it caused quite a stir when I told my parents I wanted to be a banker. In South Wales the grammar school boys are expected to become teachers, or ministers, or Coal Board clerks, or trade union officials--but not bankers."

  "My mother didn't even know what an actuary was," said Arny sympathetically, missing the point.

  "I'm not talking about the principles of good banking--the law of the least risk, the collateral to more-than-cover the loan, higher interest for longer term--I don't mean all that."

  "No." Arny now had no idea what Evan did mean. But he sensed that Evan was going to be indiscreet, and like everyone in the City he enjoyed the indiscretions of others. "Have another?" He picked up the glasses.

  Evan nodded assent, and watched Arny go to the bar. The two of them often met in the lounge of Pollard's before catching the train home together. Evan liked the plush seats, and the quiet, and the faintly servile barmen. He had no time for the newer kind of pub that was springing up in the Square Mile: trendy, crowded cellars with loud music for the longhaired whiz kids in their three-piece suits and gaudy ties, drinking lager in pints or Continental aperitifs.

  "I'm talking about integrity," Evan resumed when Amy came back. "A banker can be a fool, and survive, if he's straight; but if he hasn't got integrity . . ."

  "Absolutely."

  "Now, take Felix Laski. There's a man totally without integrity."

  "This is the man who's taken you over."

  "To my everlasting regret, yes. Shall I tell you how he got control?"

  Arny leaned forward in his seat, holding a cigarette halfway to his lips. "Okay."

  "We had a customer called South Middlesex Properties. They were tied up with a discounting outfit we knew, and we wanted an outlet for a lot of long-term money. The loan was too big for the property company, really, but the collateral was vast. To cut a long story short, they defaulted on the loan."

  "But you had the property," Arny said. "Surely the title deeds were in your vault."
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  "Worthless. What we had were copies--and so did several other creditors."

  "Straightforward fraud."

  "Indeed, although somehow they managed to make it look like mere incompetence. However, we were in a hole. Laski bailed us out in exchange for a majority holding."

  "Shrewd."

  "Shrewder than you think, Arny. Laski practically controlled South Middlesex Properties. Mind you, he wasn't a director. But he had shares, and he was employed by them as a consultant, and the management was weak . . ."

  "So he bought into the Cotton Bank with the money he'd borrowed and defaulted on."

  "Looks like it, doesn't it?"

  Arny shook his head. "I find that very hard to credit."

  "You wouldn't if you knew the bugger." Two men in solicitors' stripes sat at the next table with half-pints of beer, and Evan lowered his voice. "A man totally without integrity," he repeated.

  "What a stroke to pull." There was a note of admiration in Arny's voice. "You could have gone to the newspapers--if it's true."

  "Who the hell would publish it, other than Private Eye? But it's true, boy. There is no depth to which that man will not sink." He took a large swallow of whiskey. "You know what he's done today?"

  "It couldn't be worse than the South Middlesex deal," Arny goaded him.

  "Couldn't it? Ha!" Evans face was slightly flushed now, and the glass trembled in his hand. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "He has instructed me--instructed, mind you--to clear a rubber check for a million pounds." He set down his glass with a flourish.

  "But what about Threadneedle Street?"

  "My exact words to him!" The two solicitors looked around, and Evan realized he had shouted. He spoke more quietly. "My very words. You'll never believe what he said. He said: 'Who owns the Cotton Bank of Jamaica?' Then he put the phone down on me."

  "So what did you do?"

  Evan shrugged. "When the payee phoned up, I said the check was good."

  Arny whistled. "What you say makes no difference. It's the Bank of England who have to make the transfer. And when they discover that you haven't got a million--"