by Verner Jones
“You shouldn’t be too damning of the man, Marta. Maybe he has thought of a way to help us to get us out of his way. It was his frigging girlfriend who stole our money after all.” Toni looked at Marta sharing the same expression of disbelief.
“Nah, he’s planning something,” said Toni.
“Well at 7 o’clock we’ll find out. Let’s go back and wait for him.”
Seven o’clock arrived like a Fridays pay check on a Monday morning. Henrick let himself into the apartment; it was, after all, still his and surprised the expectant trio with his entrance. Their startled expressions made him realize that he should have knocked first.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise anyone.” He took his coat off and exchanged cordial greetings.
“Here, read this.” Henrick tossed a magazine over to Stipe. It was a supplement to one of the English broadsheets.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Page 46 I think it’s on. Read the main heading.” Stipe followed Henrick’s lead. At the same time Marta and Toni positioned themselves either side of him, necks craned, curiosity high. There was a picture of a demure looking debutante in a white ball gown dancing with a swanky looking young man wearing tails. Another picture had the same woman, now in her mid fifties, presenting an award to a group of school children. The heading read, ‘Last Curtain call for Helen Lamont.’ The article was a tribute to the life of the actress who had died recently in a skiing accident in the Austrian Alps. Helen Lamont was a role she played in a Hollywood movie and had won an Oscar for.
“What has this got to do with us, Henrick?”
“Maria Stavell, the woman the article is about, was a very close friend of mine. We were at school together. She married a millionaire property tycoon whose only pleasure in life it seems was to shower gifts on his beautiful wife. Over the years I sold her countless pieces of expensive jewellery. She would always put business in her friend’s directions whenever she could. It was a loyalty thing with her. Her husband when he married her promised to give her the world and in later life he did in the shape of a 18 carat gold statuette depicting the known world in Columbus’s day; each continent having an emblazonment of jewels to depict it. Just before her tragic death she called me, that after having suffered a spate of break-ins at their home in Surrey, she was worried about having her prized possession stolen and had decided to have a paste replica made and the original locked away in a bank vault until she could decide what to do with it. When her will was read she had bequeathed the majority of all her goods to be auctioned off and the proceeds given to her favourite charity. What I am getting at is this. We four in this room are the only people alive who know that a replica, in everything but value, of the statue exists.” In the hush that followed you could almost hear Stipe and Toni’s minds whirring.
“How much is this statue worth?” asked Stipe.
“About £3,000,000. It is a very distinctive piece. It caused a furore in the press when it was revealed. And being the possession of a famous actress, I would have thought would make it worth a lot more. If we could get our hands on the original I know where I could locate a buyer who would probably pay £2,000,000 for it. That’s the challenge if you think you can rise to it.”
“Where is the original now?” asked Toni.
“Before her trip she put it in her safety deposit box in London. I know because that’s what I advised her to do.” Stipe dropped the magazine that was resting on his lap onto the floor, thinking how Henrick's greed could numb the remorse of his friend’s recent death. His own needs too influenced his decision to dismiss the sordid aspect of Henrick’s plan. He rose off of the sofa and paced the boards. His eyes caught Marta’s and Toni’s, looking for their reactions. Marta had her lips pursed and chin squeezed. He wasn’t sure if she was inwardly debating for or against Henrick’s proposal. Toni had the glint in his eye that stemmed from scheming brain cells. If there were a way to pull it off he would be in. Stipe faced Henrick who adjusted his posture to face him.
“Yea, but it’s in a bank you say. You can’t just walk up to a bank and say ‘can you give me the key to box number so and so as we want to swap a bloody statue with this fine beauty I have here,’ can you now?” Stipe paused. “Unless… unless that is, you have official business to be going to her box like the executor of the will would have, so they could wind up her affairs.
“Or the auction house maybe if all possessions are to be sold off,” injected Marta.
“Good thought, Marta,” said Stipe, knowing now which way her thoughts were spinning.
“If all her possessions are going for auction their value would have to be assessed. If you could be the one to assess their value, Henrick then that would put us with a legitimate reason as maybe your assistants to be in the vicinity of the statue and be in a position to swap it.”
“It doesn’t work quite like that, Toni. The auction houses usually have their own people or at least tried and trusted contacts that they use on a regular basis for valuations. And to answer your question, Marta, before the bank would release the contents of her accounts or holdings, they would need some official paperwork from her estates executors. Probably her will might have to go through the process of probate for all that to happen.”
“Yes of course it would in normal circumstances. Maybe there is a way we can circumvent these proceedings and implement our own. How long to the auction date?” asked Stipe.
“I read somewhere that it is to take place in the middle of September, about four weeks away.” Interest had focused on Stipe. His dynamo was sparking.
“What have you got planned?” said Toni.
“Nothing concrete yet, but listen to this idea and see what you think.” Stipe started to explain his flash of inspiration to his attentive audience. Toni and Henrick became enthusiastic interjecting with their own ideas, strengthening and refining Stipe’s original proposal. Marta separated from the group in silence and walked towards the kitchen. Stipe raised his head and watched her slip away, still outlining the details; his attention divided.
Marta took a glass from the cupboard and ran the tap looking deeply into the liquid as it filled the tumbler. Her thoughts, unlike the liquid clear and pure, were a broth of troubled indecision. She drank the water and locked both hands onto the edge of the sink and rested her weight on them. All she wanted was to be with Stipe and settle into quiet domesticity with the occasional spur of excitement like a holiday or a trip to the cinema or a special event; normal things that normal people did. Things that people in love do together, things that were within arms reach only days ago and now were hiding in some dark corner teasing her to find them again. But no, they have to go and play at being James bloody Bond in some master plan that her love was concocting, and forced by their circumstances to accept. We could just walk away from everything. Surely another solution would present itself where we could live without being criminals. A pair of hands clasping on her shoulders closed the doors on her reverie. She turned to face the reason for her anxiety.
“Is there something a matter, Marta?” The tension in Marta’s shoulders softened. She scanned Stipe’s features wanting to tell him that she didn’t care about the money anymore and that if they tried, they could make a life together that could be every bit as fulfilling as the one they had talked about a few nights ago. Instead she heard herself agreeing with Stipe who was reassuring her about the plan they had devised having interpreted her countenance as concern about the validity of its success. Once again she was going to be the unwilling but committed conspirator in another heist. Her appearance mellowed, her will succumbing to his. Stipe’s enthusiasm was like a swarm of hungry locusts that devoured the leaves of doubt and then vanished. A picture from Cullen Castle flashed into her mind of them tying the chords to descend onto Stella’s roof and the flush of excitement she had felt as Stipe had climbed out of the window and gave her one of his disarming smiles as he disappeared. They walked back to the others. Life with Stipe woul
d never be dull, she thought.
19
Good surveillance and a thorough knowledge of your enemy were the keys to success, backed up with efficient firepower and if possible the element of surprise. That at least was what his superior officer had taught him during his basic military training, and Zoran had forgotten none of the rules he had learnt. From his vantage point in the café adjacent to Henrick's store, Zoran sat patiently watching the coming and goings of the patrons of the Magna Plaza. It had occurred to him the previous night after he had devoured his steak dinner in his hotel room that the relationship between this Henrick van der Meen and Popovic and his crew might be more than met the eye. If he had more time with him alone he would have extracted all the answers he wanted before he dispatched Popovic. That pleasure was still to come. But there remained niggling irregularities and a strong gut feeling that Popovic’s business with this man was not fully concluded. The short-fall in the pay off for the diamonds convinced him that maybe a second deal had been made which required a certain amount of financing. A lucrative deal which that crooked storeowner had planned, but not implemented until the right people were available to do the job. Probably he saw the right candidates in Popovic’s cronies; certainly that bitch girl was capable of anything. So, from his window table, Zoran decided to keep a tab on Mr. not-so-clean, van der Meen and see what turned up. His patience was soon rewarded.
Zoran had been in the café for twenty minutes. The remnants of a liver sausage and Edam breakfast and three cigarette stubs extinguished on the plate were still in front of him, when he saw Henrick approach the shop and unlock the door. Minutes later the rest of his staff appeared. The mall was springing into life. The waitress came and gave Zoran a disgusted look as she cleared his plate away.
“We do have ashtrays you know,” said the waitress, venting her distaste at Zoran's neglect to use the provided receptacle. Zoran ignored the girl’s remark giving her only a sideward glance and ordered her to bring him another coffee. His coffee arrived and was unceremoniously placed at the edge of his table, the spoon clattering in the saucer. Zoran took no notice of the waitress, instead his attention was drawn to the shop entrance and Henrick who was leaving the store; his steps hurried and his coat half on. He decided to follow.
His first stop was a house in the red light area where he stayed for less than five minutes, too quick to be doing any business there. Then it was a cab ride to an apartment block in what seemed a very select area. Zoran, keeping his distance, followed him into the building and watched him take the lift to the third floor. Zoran choose the stairs taking the treads two at a time to the same level. There were only two apartment doors on the third floor. Zoran listened at the first and heard nothing. At the second he was more fortuitous. In the muffled conversation that was in progress he could hear Henrick’s voice sounding frantic and a females voice that sparked an image of a fire extinguisher crashing on his head. It was an excellent opportunity to strike, only he hadn’t brought his weapon with him and he was outnumbered, it was ill advisable to confront all of them alone. He listened hard at the door. Unable to make out any of the conversation, he scurried back to a point of observation outside the apartment block and waited. Henrick re-emerged about thirty minutes later and as if by some pre arranged signal a taxi appeared from nowhere and Henrick flagged it down and was gone, leaving Zoran cursing his luck at the unavailability of any other transport. He started to walk in the general direction of his hotel to collect his gun and his thoughts.
London was experiencing one of those glorious summer days that makes an English man glad to be British and not seeking to venture off to a warmer climate to escape the usual bleak mornings and the threat of rain. The air was charged with opportunity and vitality that only a capital city can impart. Marta picked up on it immediately as she left the terminal of Heathrow airport, and it had the immediate effect of giving her an adrenalin rush. She linked her arms through Stipe’s and Toni’s and led her weary companions towards the tube station, her feet feeling two inches off the ground. Stipe made general inquiries at a kiosk then directed his friends towards the Piccadilly Line. A change at Acton onto the District line and thirty minutes later they were in Richmond. A taxi took them to the Bingham Hotel, an 18th century country house that dated back to George 111's reign, and the reservations he had made back in Amsterdam.
Marta dropped her case onto the divan and parted the curtains at the window revealing a constable type view over the river Thames with lush green carpeting rolling down to the embankment. This should be a honeymoon vacation, thought Marta and promised herself that if that magical day ever arrived, she would insist that they spend it somewhere very similar to this, with rooms that hummed of love trysts, and gallant swordsmen.
After settling in, Marta said,
“What’s first on the agenda?” Stipe took a leaf of notepaper out of his attaché case and Marta drew alongside him. A knock on the door prompted a ‘Come in.’ from Stipe who expectantly saw Toni and beckoned him to join them. Their attention reverted back to the A4 Stipe was holding.
“The executors of Maria Stavell’s will are Stalwart and Granger solicitors on Lothair Street. You call them, Marta and see if you can arrange an appointment for late this afternoon.” Marta readily obliged and though they had rehearsed their prospective roles back in Amsterdam, Marta felt the jelly start to wobble, the tightrope becoming slack. She reached the phone and stared at it.
“Right. Deep breath, calm voice. You’ re going to do legitimate dealings, remember that.” She picked up the handset and direct dialled the number.
Stipe and Tony were looking at the bottom half of the paper and a short list of estate agents.
“ You had better take all of these with you just in case you don’t find a house that we can rent immediately. Remember take anything in this area that is readily available and don’t forget the phone line.” Stipe handed the sheet of paper to Toni who secured it in his trouser pocket. “I have to collect a few items from a hardware store and…” Marta rejoined them, interrupting Stipe’s conversation.
“The man who deals directly with wills and probate is Mr. Simon Botham, and with a little feminine persuasion, has kindly agreed to see me, making me his last appointment for the day.”
“Excellent!” said, Stipe. “Well, we all know what we have to do. I’ll see you back here later, Toni.”
“Sure thing, Stipe. Take care, Marta.”
“You too.” Toni left them. Marta crossed to the windows and drew the curtains. “I had better get changed. My, our appointment with Mr. Botham is in three hours. It would be good to familiarize ourselves with the area before the meeting.”
“You’re right.” Stipe sat in an armchair as Marta started to undo her blouse. She paused halfway and waited, looking expectantly at Stipe.
“We might be sleeping together , but I’m not getting undressed with you watching me. Go in the other room.” Stipe reluctantly stood up.
“You’re weird,” he said, and left for the bathroom. When he was allowed to emerge, Marta was wearing a tailored black trouser suit, minimal makeup and an air of refinement.
“Very impressive.”
“Thank you darling.” Stipe collected his things and with a last look around the room they left for their appointment.
The building that housed Stalwart & Granger Solicitors stood centrally in a row of neat, white painted Georgian houses. Stipe noticed a blue light above the door signalling an intruder alarm was fitted. They entered the reception area and were directed to the first floor and a second waiting area with several ornately panelled doors along a corridor that had deep moulded skirting boards and heavily contoured cornicing; a ‘gentleman’s’ house in its day. A man half-stepped out of the third doorway along and gave a practiced smile and indicated for Marta to join him. Stipe took a seat and watched Marta disappear into the office. A secretary passed him and descended the stairs and left the vicinity he was in vacant. Stipe stood, eyes and ears alert, and walked t
he length of the corridor. At every door he could hear conversations. They were no use to him. He turned back to the waiting area. There were no doors there. A second flight of steps led to the third floor. Stipe took them. At the top the coast was clear, only faint audible tones came out of an office to his left. Of the only other door on that landing, there was only quiet. Stipe placed his ear to the panelling. No sound emerged. He tried the handle and the door opened. Inside were a set of chairs around a conference table and two overcoats on a stand. No good. Two people at least would be coming in for those later before the office closed. He left the room disappointed, the need to find solitude becoming urgent. The landing and stairs remained motionless. He stood in the centre, as obscure as a plum in an apple orchard, thinking where he could go. A third flight of stairs led to a fourth floor only the staircase opening had been boarded up unsympathetically with plywood sheeting; a scar on the character of the building. In the ornate panelling under the stairs, in almost clandestine concealment, Stipe noticed a brass handle. He pulled on it and a closet door opened revealing cleaning materials and an upright Hoover. Stipe entered the storeroom, flicked on the light switch and shut the door behind him. He found a broom stave and slipped it through the handle preventing the door from being opened from the outside. Then he sat quietly on a mop bucket, switched off the light, and waited.
Marta was in the final stages of her meeting with Mr. Botham.
“Well that concludes the formation of your will, Mrs. Spencer and may I say that it is a wise decision you have made.”
“Thank you Mr. Botham. I was wondering, would it be possible for me to leave the document in your safekeeping? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.”
“Yes of course. That will be no problem.” Marta stood to leave. They shook hands and Simon Botham ushered Mrs. Spencer to the door and bade her farewell, another satisfied client for Stalwart & Granger.