The Borough

by Steve Dockray

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Once they were back across the estuary bridge, it was pretty well the reverse of the start-off procedures.

  They drove the van back to Sally's car to retrieve it, and then she followed him to the deserted road. Without the trestle for a stand, Sally had to sit on Winner's shoulders to pull off the fake Council logos. The false number plates came off easily and went in a plastic bag with the screwed up logos.

  In the back of the van they took turns holding the torch and keeping watch while the other got changed out of the black clothing. Then Sally paced about, nervously watching for any cars or pedestrians while Winner quickly sorted out their equipment. It was a big relief when they were able to drive out into the anonymity of the busier roads. Ten minutes after leaving the changeover site they were parking the van among some others in the road where they had left it before, the suitcase and incriminating rubbish already transferred to Sally's car.

  Winner climbed into the passenger seat and she drove them to the Town Hall, circling round the block a couple of times to make sure there were no lights on and nobody who would know them walking about. Sally turned into the side road and parked near the rear door. When they were sure that the place was deserted, Sally unlocked the rear entrance and Winner staggered into the building with the suitcase.

  Fifteen minutes later they emerged again, still carrying the suitcase, but easily now that it was empty.

  In a store in the Town Hall basement, three cardboard cartons that had previously contained washing-up liquid bottles and tins of baked beans were now stacked along with piles of other ageing Council papers. Stuck on top of each firmly taped-up box was a label that said: 'Do not destroy. Personal papers of D. Winner, Chief Accountant.'

  Away from the town centre, Sally parked in a side street near a public telephone box. Winner hurried across and dialled Farrier's number. It rang several times and Winner was beginning to wonder whether he was too late to catch him before he left to see Cavendish.

  "Hello. Farrier."

  "Ah Mr Farrier," said Winner. "I'm so glad you're at home. You are the Mr Farrier involved with the superstore development?"

  "That's right. Who are you?"

  "That's not something you need to know. Listen carefully. Miles Cavendish has no intention whatsoever of paying you any money. My information is that he quite possibly intends to kill you and keep the cash. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  There was a pause while Farrier digested the news. "Why have you told me this?"

  "You're not exactly an innocent party, but I don't see why Cavendish should get away with murder. I suggest that you call off any deals and take great care about your personal safety."

  "How do you know about this?" Farrier asked, but got no reply, as Winner had broken the connection.

  Taking a long route home, Winner and Sally stopped several times to dispose of the clothes and other bits and pieces in various litter bins. The suitcase ended up in a builder's skip on the north side of Sharmouth. Despite the detour, it was barely eleven o'clock when they arrived back at Winner's flat. They drove around the area before stopping, but there was no sign of anyone watching.

  Back in the flat, everything was just as they had left it. They flopped down onto the sofa, exhausted by the tension of the evening.

  "You know I have to go back," said Winner. "The only way I'm going to find Toby is by letting Cavendish lead me to him."

  "I'll come with you."

  "No, one of us has to stay here in case they phone. If Cavendish works out that it's us who've taken the cash, he may try to do a deal. I'll call you and let you know what happens."

  "I'll make a flask of coffee. Get something to eat before you go."

  "Check it's me before you open the door when I come back. It's just possible he might think we've got the money here and try to retrieve it."

  "I'll keep the knife by the bed. I don't know if I'll manage to get to sleep, not knowing what's going on."

  Twenty minutes later, Winner was back at River Heights. He cruised round the full circle of Waterview Drive and past Cedar Park, which was now a blaze of lights. There was no guarantee that Cavendish had not gone out, but it seemed far more likely that he would still be there. It had probably been a few minutes before the loss of the suitcase had been discovered and Cavendish would have wanted some time to find out how the security had been breached. There would have been a search and Cavendish would have taken time to grill his staff. No, he must still be there.

  Winner parked in the cul-de-sac where they had waited in the van. It would have been more satisfactory to be positioned somewhere where he could see the entrance to Cedar Park, but that would have made him too vulnerable. It would be hard enough to think of a reason for being parked up at River Heights if his car number should be reported to the police.

  If nothing else, this winter was going to be memorable for the variety of places where Winner had got frozen from waiting around. As the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the car faded away. It wasn't as bad as being out in the wind, but he had to keep the windows slightly open to avoid fogging them with his breath. He munched away at the cheese sandwiches that he had hastily made before leaving, hoping that they would provide his body with the means to generate some warmth.

  Even the late dog walkers must have done the rounds by now. There was no sign of anyone about. Winner slumped down low in his seat as a car turned into the cul-de-sac and drove past where he was parked. He pulled the travel rug off the back seat and wrapped it around himself. It could be an all-night vigil.

  Miles Cavendish was seated at his desk in the study, his knuckles white as he gripped the wooden edge. He desperately needed to think, but his mind refused to function properly. The pounding in his veins was starting to recede, but he was still suffering the effects of over indulgence at the dinner. Shouting at his staff hadn't been very productive. At first it had seemed that they must have been involved, but once he had calmed down a bit and they had started a proper search of the house, it soon became clearer how he had been robbed. What had seemed like a totally secure intruder prevention system had turned out to be easily dealt with. It was still something of a mystery how the burglar had managed to get into the study. There was only the tiniest scratch on the door frame.

  What about the land deal? He could possibly still pull it off if Farrier didn't insist on seeing the money beforehand. What would he do if Farrier turned up now? Who had taken the money. Not Riggs, he would have had much easier opportunities. Farrier? He had no reason to suppose he wouldn't get the money anyway. Why go to the trouble of stealing it? The staff in the house didn't know anything about the suitcase. They hadn't even been there when Riggs had carried it in. Think. Nobody else knew about the money.

  Unless perhaps there really had been an eavesdropper that night on La Mouette.

  Of course. That could be the reason for the Town Hall investigations as well.

  Winner.

  He was the only one who could have figured it all out, a persistent nuisance who had caught hold of a few random bits of information and now wouldn't let go. But did he have the talents to break in to Cedar Park? Perhaps he had been driven to it by the abduction of his son, maybe even to give himself a bargaining card to get his son back. If that was the case, there was a good chance of retrieving the cash and then dealing with him.

  It couldn't be anyone else, it must be Winner. He would have heard a rumour, there would have been clues, someone would have said something if there was anyone else after him.

  The phone on the desk rang. Cavendish looked at it blankly for a minute and then picked it up.

  "It's Michael Farrier. I'm sorry to call so late, I hope I didn't wake you?"

  "No, I'm still up, though I was about to go to bed. I'd assumed you weren't coming tonight."

  "No, I couldn't get away. I'd still like to see the money if possible. Would you be up at, say, half past seven."

  "I suppose I could be. I
t's not terribly convenient, though. I promise you the money's here."

  "I think a million pounds makes it convenient, don't you? I must admit I'm getting a little bit nervous about all this. Someone rang me out of the blue and suggested you weren't in a position to proceed. I thought we were the only people who knew about this deal?"

  "Everything's fine, don't worry. There is somebody trying to interfere in our business, but I promise you I'll deal with him."

  "What do you mean, deal with him?"

  "Pay him off or discredit him, that sort of thing."

  "It's worrying. Are you sure you still want to go ahead?"

  "Yes, of course. You can depend on me. I'll see you in the morning."

  Cavendish put the phone down and slumped back in his chair. More interference from Winner. Had he told Farrier more than Farrier had said on the phone?

  There would have to be some money to show Farrier in the morning. Too late for Riggs to arrange it. Anyway, he had to stay on La Mouette to keep an eye on the boy. Vale would have gone home by now. There was no way to replace the suitcase that had been taken, but at least he had a few thousand pounds in the safe that Winner hadn't found. With a bit of work through the night, it might be possible to make up some dummy bundles of cash with real notes on top. He was thinking about starting work on it when the phone rang again.

  It was a man's voice. "I've just slipped out from a meal break. I'm taking a risk calling you. They're going to raid your house and office in the morning. They've had Councillor Parker, Councillor Martin, and a few others in as well for questioning. They'll be looking for anything that connects you with any dodgy deals or the death of that man Stewart. It doesn't look good."

  "What time?"

  "Eight, or just before. I've got to go. I'll expect some compensation for this information."

  The line went dead. Cavendish got up and paced up and down the room. A police raid in the morning. Everything was falling apart. Would he be able to stonewall their questions, or was there solid evidence against him? He had a choice. He could stay and hope to get away with it, or he could make a run for it. There was enough in the Swiss account to last a lifetime. He carried on pacing up and down for a further ten minutes before he made his decision and picked up the phone and dialled.

  A sleepy sounding Riggs answered.

  "Is La Mouette fuelled and provisioned for a trip?" Cavendish asked.

  "The tanks are low."

  "How soon could you get them topped up? We may need to leave urgently."

  "The pumps are open at seven."

  "Do it then. I'll call you early in the morning to let you know what's happening."

  "What about the kid?"

  "He goes with us, if necessary."

  That was it then. In the morning he would pay an early visit on Winner to retrieve the money, then get away in La Mouette before the police started looking for him. The kid could be dumped over the side on the way. In the meantime, there were documents to destroy and a safe to empty.

  Cavendish worked on through the night, packing a small suitcase with cash, passport, a few personal treasures and some clothes for the next couple of days. Only one more nasty surprise hit him before the break of dawn. The envelope so carefully hidden away from the business papers was missing.