‘Looks like an interesting article,’ said Marcus watching her. A ray of sunlight was beating on the woman’s hair, making her look almost like an otherworldly creature.
Domino was from Birmingham; she grew up in a tenderloin surrounded by drunks and violence. She left school before age and even if she wanted to work, unemployment was rampant, and at most, she would have found a waitress job in a restaurant. She was an attractive and bright, and soon realised at a young age that with a face like hers, people rarely said no. People remained enchanted looking at her, and she understood soon enough that she could ask anything to a man and get it.
In the early years, it was enough for her to borrow a few pounds from the people she met in the pub, while they tried to pick her up. Asking an attractive girl to give the money back? It would never happen. And often the awareness of being scammed by an angelic face passed into the background in front of her beauty. Then came the card games, small scams to raise enough money for the rent. Without realising it, she’d aimed higher and higher, mesmerising jewellers and chief executives of industry. It was a grey winter’s day when she met Marcus. She had gone to a fancy restaurant, and a nice gentleman in a pinstripe suit looked just right as her next victim. She would have worked him in about ten minutes. Instead, it was Marcus who made the first move, approaching the girl. He approached Domino in a roundabout way, saying that there were different ways to deal with life. Alone, wasting talent for a few hundred pounds at a time, or with others, where planning and long cons were brought to the extreme, often yielding enormous sums of money.
Domino was not convinced, she worked alone, but she also realised she had limits. That the nice gentleman was dedicated to scams seemed impossible to her. But there was something that drew her into it, not being restricted to the usual deception, seen over and over again a hundred times, the ability to learn new things from experience.
Marcus gave his telephone number to the brunette, who wouldn’t have looked out of place as a model at the London Fashion Week, and since then they had always worked together. Ten years had now almost passed.
‘There are people in this world who take possession of entire banks,’ said Domino without lifting her eyes from the newspaper.
‘My dear, nowadays you are either a genius with computers, or you steal money from others, or you make your fortune by inheriting the family fortune. Come to think of it, it has been so for millennia. Apart from computers, of course. I don’t want to say that my profits have been obtained illegally, of course, it’s a purely academic discourse. Who’s the lucky guy?’ Marcus would never admit to having done something illegal, despite having been caught red-handed, not even when he was in the company of his associates.
‘The lucky gal. A certain Amelia Mortcombe of Brighton,’ said Domino showing him the article.
‘She is a beautiful woman. And how come you’re interested in the social life of Brighton, may I ask?’
‘I don’t know, in the last few days newspapers do nothing else but talk about her. First an article in the Daily Mail, then I find her in other articles in various newspapers online and also today in the Sunday Times. She is getting worse than the Kardashians, they don’t write of anybody else, apparently.’
‘And how much would this fortune amount to?’ asked Marcus getting up off the couch. He paced around the room for a few moments and then stopped to carefully admire a painting by Rembrandt. It was apparently a fake, like the Picasso and everything else hanging on the walls. Lenny had made them, who was the forger of the group, among other things. There was no object he couldn’t reproduce faithfully. An ancient Roman vase, paintings from the best artists, old bottles of wine. Everything was within his reach, having studied for years with Gavin Neil Tiddington. They were fortunate to have him in the gang.
‘It’s hard to tell. It is a private bank with accounts for several billion, so I guess it’s considerable.’
‘Let me read … Oh yes, the father is in a coma, and our young lady is set to take the reins of the family bank. Sounds like an American TV series. Are you getting the Robin Hood syndrome? Stealing from the rich and to give to the poor … meaning us?’ laughed Marcus.
‘Something like that. We have always operated in London, and there aren’t many suckers left.’
‘I would disagree on that one. With all the Arabs buying half the town, not to mention the Russians, it seems to me that this is a good country of sheep. London is not over yet, you know? There’s always room for another scam.’
‘Yes, but we have been looking for the right one for years. The one that will sort us out for the rest of our lives,’ said Domino.
Hank, hearing the two talking about of money came up close.
‘Lenny, take a look on the internet and browse about this Amelia Mortcombe,’ said Hank, ‘you never know, we might find something useful.’
The man turned on the laptop in front of him and started typing on the keyboard. A couple of minutes of anxious waiting passed by before he gave an answer. At first sight, she seems to be everywhere. ‘Damn it’s almost worse than Paris Hilton. Some party, lots of stories on the bank. The father is in a coma in hospital. She is single apparently.’
‘What’s her occupation?’ asked Marcus.
‘Hard to say,’ continued Lenny, ‘maybe she is Beauty without the beast … no, here it is, she is a lawyer. She has a studio in Brighton centre.’
‘I wouldn’t scruple to scrub a lawyer,’ said Hank.
‘Considering the one defending you in the last process, it seems to me that the category is long due a lesson,’ said Marcus. The man noticed the excitement in the eyes of his cronies, as when blood is thrown overboard in the presence of sharks.
‘From what we read, the father is in hospital in a coma. A car accident. The bank is worth billions, and she should take charge of it shortly. In the meantime, she seems to live a worldly life. I’m looking at her on Facebook and LinkedIn; she has a sister who doesn’t seem to do anything in life, aside from being committed to going shopping and going from one party to the next. The brother-in-law works at the bank and looks like a big shot, he is in charge of investments. He looks like an asshole.’
‘What makes you think that?’ asked Marcus. Any information they could find at that point would facilitate the engagement if they wanted to con them.
‘Well, he is spitting life, death, and miracles of his work on LinkedIn. It sounds like a lot of big words to explain to the world that he is more important than he actually is. He doesn’t have a Facebook profile, but his wife posts enough pictures to get an idea. An expansive house, even for an executive, a sporty BMW, typical of those assholes…’
‘Hank has a sporty BMW,’ said Domino.
‘Exactly!’
‘Guys, let’s not digress,’ said Hank, as if stung. He had always had a passion for fast cars, although often he drove under the speed limit so as not to attract the attention of the police.
‘There is nothing, however, leading us to believe that this Amelia is eager for money,’ said Marcus. That was a pivotal point to locate a good target.
‘What do you think, gentlemen, is it worth sending a couple of our teammates to test the waters?’ asked Hank.
‘A few days break in the lovely town of Brighton?’ said Marcus laughing. ‘Can I bring one of the guys with me?’
‘Of course,’ said Hank, ‘we still have a lot of money from the previous scam, this Mortcombe is worth the investment.’
‘Before going though, a little lesson on slyness for Chaz,’ said Marcus. Chaz was the youngest of the group and often the target of taunts. ‘Do you want to bet a beer that I can tie a napkin without letting my hands leave the edges?’
Chaz thought it over. For knotting a towel, he would have to remove a hand. ‘OK, I’m in. But if you lose you buy my cinema tickets for a week.’
Marcus placed the napkin on the table and formed it into a triangle. Then folded his arms and using his fingertips grabbed the two extreme sides of the
napkin. He straightened his arms, and in doing so, the fabric knotted, leaving the young man in dismay.
‘You owe me a beer, boy,’ declared Marcus, but it was time to leave the apartment and go to Brighton. They couldn’t formulate a precise plan until Marcus gave the OK. Studying the victims on paper was not sufficient, in their craft they had to understand the personality of the victim, what motivated a person. Only an inspection in the field would give those answers.
And all those millions were an incredibly strong incentive.
CHAPTER 11
It was a gloomy day in Brighton, and the drizzle made the outlines of the buildings indistinct. It wasn’t the first time they had met at Café U Týna, they had already seen each other on previous days, and a few times they had also exchanged a few quick words about the weather and the hordes of tourists invariably gathered to explore The Lanes. Having lived in Brighton quite some time, Amelia hardly even noticed them while for Anders it was still a novelty. Both were waiting for a gap in the rain, and when Amelia looked around to find a table, Anders did the same, albeit more slowly. ‘May I sit down with you?’ he asked, after observing other tables and their occupants. The man was standing with his cup in hand, uncertain about the answer he would get.
The woman was very classy, in a grey suit and heels. She had carefully folded her coat and stowed it on the chair beside her. The man, a few years younger, looked like a model. Not only due to his beautiful facial features and physique, but also because of the clothes. He wore a dark suit and a bright shirt that looked like one often seen in fashion magazines.
Amelia still had an hour before her appointment at nine a.m., and she did not want to be alone. Small talk with a stranger, was more appealing than spending a whole hour thinking about what would happen later so she nodded at him to sit.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his slight accent catching her attention. ‘What are you doing in Brighton?’
‘I’m a local, lived and worked here all my life and every Saturday morning I try my best to entertain handsome tourists in this café. I can’t seem to place your accent, though?’
‘That’s funny! Well, I’m not really a tourist, let’s say I like changing venue and live my life in a less conventional way. And yes, my father is Swedish and my mother English, so with my time spent abroad, I do have a less then easy to identify accent. I’ll take you up on the entertainment offer. Tell me something about yourself that I wouldn’t guess easily.’
‘OK, my father is in a coma at the hospital, and today I have to take charge of a private bank.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Anders wanted to say something different. He felt the falsehood in its reply, a sorry thrown there, for an unknown woman, about another unidentified individual. He wanted to add something else, but nothing came to mind.
‘No reason to be sorry. The old man is a jerk,’ said Amelia unperturbed, without showing the slightest glimpse of emotion.
‘I meant I’m sorry you own a bank now. Bankers are pricks.’ Amelia’s laughter came after a brief moment of astonishment, making the heads of some of the other occupants of the café turn their heads. The waiter also threw a furtive glance in their direction, perhaps he was checking if they had finished the coffee yet. Shortly after that, the café would be filled to the brim, and he would want them to either leave or at least to order breakfast. He passed a wet sponge along the marble counter and resumed his chores.
‘And you, what are you doing to Brighton, tell me more about your “unconventional” way of living?’ Amelia asked in turn, her retort to that first question.
‘I’m travelling around Europe, for the time being. I work as a model, catalogues, nudes for some local artists, and I paint too. Maybe you have a job to offer me, in that bank of yours?’ Amelia’s hand ran down to the bag she had between her legs as if fearing that it could disappear into thin air all of a sudden.
‘It’s not mine, and I don’t think I want it either. I’m expected to sign some paperwork today. Jesus Christ, I don’t even know where to begin.’ The absurdity of the situation did not escape Amelia, sitting in a café with a stranger talking about her private affairs. Whatever, she thought, rather than make me think about what awaits me. And the idea of offering him a job? So out of hand, without even knowing what experience he had. Ridiculous. This wasn’t what she’d learned at the Imperial College in London, surrounded by books on economics and marketing. But Anders seemed like the only friendly face she’d seen in a while, and that gave her something to think about.
‘Maybe there is an opening. Do you have a phone number?’ she asked; if she’d thought about it further, she would find a thousand reasons to ignore that meaningless request. Especially with what was happening in her life.
Amelia looked at her watch knowing she was running out of plausible excuses to linger more. She would willingly have drunk a glass of wine; maybe even something stronger. Amelia wondered what they would think at the bank if the new owner arrived a little tipsy. She seriously considered it a second time, she smiled to herself and almost ordered a glass of whisky, when Anders jotted down his number on a paper towel. He pushed it toward Amelia as quickly as you might pass a bribe.
‘If there is anything, I’ll let you know,’ said Amelia and stuck the napkin in the expensive purse she’d bought the day before, just to give herself confidence and to play the part once in the bank.
‘You can call me even if you don’t have a job for me,’ remarked Anders unperturbed. He looked her straight in the eye as if he were trying to extract a secret, making her even more uncomfortable.
‘Show me where your bank is,’ said Anders, he had no desire to stay there any longer. He had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. ‘You don’t have to let me in and introduce me to the Board of Directors,’ and then added, as an afterthought, ‘if you don’t want to.’
‘Well … no, I mean, yes … I mean, I’d like it if you could accompany me. It’s not very far.’ The idea of going to face her destiny suddenly made her less afraid, knowing that maybe she could go with someone, even a stranger. They stood up, and Amelia wobbled for a moment, sudden dizziness caused her to falter and rest her hands on the table, the stress had gripped her for days now, as the night was consistently plagued by insomnia. Anders was next to her in a flash and, supporting her by the arm, he made her sit again. Removing a handful of pounds from his wallet and leaving them on the table without counting them. When Amelia seemed to have recovered, he helped her to get up. There was something in the way Anders spoke that made her feel secure, comfortable. She hardly opened up to strangers, but there was something different about him, that she could not explain. He made her feel at ease and nervous at the same time.
‘Come on, you need some fresh air. You are as white as a ghost.’
They sauntered slowly, Anders supporting her, and when they reached the café threshold, he threw one last look at the bartender who was busy washing glasses. He didn’t look at them nor saluted.
‘I’ve heard many excuses for not paying for a coffee, but that takes the cake,’ said Anders while they walked in the general direction of Kingsway, he had pulled a wool cap out of his pocket, letting go of her arm for a moment.
Amelia laughed to cover up her slight embarrassment. ‘I’m inviting you for lunch soon, to reciprocate.’
‘Who knows what you’re going to invent than to avoid paying, I’m curious.’
They had just reached the waterfront when Amelia checked her wristwatch and said, ‘I need to make a phone call. Do you mind waiting a moment?’ Anders shrugged and walked away from her a few steps, unsure what to do.
‘Ryan,’ said Amelia, ‘anything new on the Bradley dossier?’ Amelia spoke with authority, but often it was just part of the façade she wanted to present to whoever was around.
‘No, Amelia. I guess it will take a couple more days. Are you there yet?’ asked the interlocutor.
‘No, I’m still walking, I will let you know. I’m tense.’
‘Don’
t worry, everything will be fine.’
The two talked for a few more minutes, then Amelia closed communication and put the phone in her purse before reaching Anders.
Ryan Logan would work until late as usual.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Anders.
‘Yes, it was my colleague Ryan.’
‘He’s at work early.’
‘He doesn’t go anywhere else. When I leave the office, he is still intent on working, and the next morning I find him already there. Sometimes I think he sleeps in that study.’
Without a specific reason, Amelia began to tell Anders about Logan. Procrastinating on worrying about the appointment in the bank was perhaps the only loophole that was left to her.
‘You know, Ryan is a bit like an uncle to me. For a time he was one of the best-known lawyers in London in the financial sector,’ said Amelia.
‘How come he is not anymore?’ The two had stopped on the Boardwalk near a bench. Amelia thought for a moment if she wanted to sit. It had stopped raining, but the seats were wet. She looked at the horizon in the direction of the French coast, not visible, and continued.
‘Ryan has always been self-effacing about what happened during that time. I don’t know much else about him. He reappeared a few years back and an old family friend, Albert Romanov, did everything he could to convince me to bring him into my firm. He said, “Just make sure of two things, that he doesn’t turn to the bottle, and that he doesn’t work more than forty hours per week.” The second is a lost cause.’
‘Sometimes working helps. You can bury yourself in work and forget other things,’ said Anders thoughtfully.
‘That’s what I also believe. There isn’t work enough to justify those hours, but probably it’s a habit that’s hard to break. I’m not complaining, I give Logan the worst cases, divorces, which I hate, cases from Legal Aid and everything that I don’t like in this profession. We live in love and harmony.’
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