Villa plot counterplot, p.10
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 10
“Thank you, yes. I never swim against the tide. I never complain. I keep well. The three go together, don’t you think? And you?”
“Yes. Very well. Some ski-ing over the weekend near Crans Montana. That mountain air! That’s where you’ll find me when I retire! And today I’m ready to face any problem. But you I’m sure have none. Coffee?”
“Thanks.” Coupeau continued talking while he poured coffee from a silver jug. “And Herr Wernhorst and Monsieur Maitrise? They are well?” The banker’s English was almost too perfect.
“Yes, they are well. I wish they had been here. But they are both working on the project. We shall be seeing you again at the end of the month. Your secretary has told you the date?” Bellamy saw the manager nod his head in agreement.
The two men started to light cheroots, produced by the customer. The wine-red curtains were already heavy with years of cigar smoke. “You will remember our previous conversation? Have you been to Reggia Calabria yet? Go soon, Monsieur Coupeau, before it’s spoiled with huge developments. I think I told you something of my plans?”
Coupeau checked his notes of the previous meeting. Even the most casual comment had been recorded. “Yes. And it’s going well?”
“Kurt Wernhorst is doing fine. Alain rather less so.”
“I think I am not surprised.” The banker gazed across the Rue Corraterie. “I only met them briefly but my impressions were that Herr Wernhorst was a businessman, Monsieur Maitrise rather less so. But,” he wagged his finger to lecture himself, “I must not speak of my customers! And how can I help you?”
“In two ways. Firstly, for the Italian project, we must transfer most of the money which you hold to a numbered account in Liechtenstein. For twenty-one days our account here will be almost empty. But our return from Italy will change all that. Perhaps one of your assistants can deal with the transfer now. Here’s the letter of authority.” He handed over the document which the banker studied before pressing a buzzer on his desk which produced a dumpy-looking man of thirty who received instructions in rapid French.
“That’s that. And the second thing? Is that as straightforward?” enquired Coupeau.
“It’s rather delicate. No. That’s not the right word. I think intricate would be better. I mentioned the question of lunch to your secretary. Is that possible?”
“A little early, but then why not . . .? Thank you.”
“By my calculation, after you have transferred this £590,000, we should have a balance of £2,000 with you. Is that right?”
“I’ll check.” Coupeau pressed the buzzer and waited. Bellamy knew almost exactly how much had stood to the account’s credit. Since the three of them had last met, Wernhorst and Maitrise had been transferring their deposits paid straight to the account. Bellamy had not done so, preferring to keep as many options open as possible. “After that transfer, your balance is £2,725.”
“Better than I thought! We can eat well.”
During the taxi journey towards the Parc des Eaux Vives they talked of trivia, of English trade union trouble and of the Monarchy. But in the bar at the Restaurant de La Truite Bellamy had expanded his theme over Camparis.
“Yes. I was going to explain, wasn’t I? Let’s go to our table. The menu looks tantalising—and anyway, I don’t want to be overheard.” They were directed to a quiet table in a corner. Once seated, Bellamy continued. “That transfer is to pay for Werdoma’s new plot of land. Rather overpriced for its size.”
“So? You are no fool, Mr Bellamy. Is it oil? Or uranium?”
“Better! Calabria is unspoiled. Now, there are just the pioneers—both holiday-makers and speculators. They’re the winners. The losers come later. Paying too much for the land and sitting in the litter of their predecessors. I was lucky. I met Signor Alberto Virtose. His old father owned a plot which is the key to the biggest, yet most beautiful, stretch of coastline capable of development. There will be villas, hotels, a night-club and two golf courses. But without access to this land, there is nothing. So I am buying this land very cheap. And the rest is for a share of the action in the development.”
“You’ve checked on Signor Virtose?” Coupeau looked cautious, in the manner beloved of bankers.
“You’re ahead of me, Monsieur Coupeau,” Bellamy laughed. “My enquiries have been exhaustive. Signor Virtose is clean but I want enquiries made as to the syndicate who are doing the development. That is where you come in. In Italy there are certain people with whom one must be friends. I need say no more? We are dealing with the south of Italy. I shall not release the money from Liechtenstein until I am satisfied about the syndicate.”
“This is dangerous?”
“I believe so. But I prefer not to think about that.” Bellamy enjoyed the rôle of phlegmatic Englishman talking of death so lightly.
“But the profit remains worthwhile?”
“The front loading will be three million dollars. To follow we have a share in the development profits. Enough, I think, to top up Werdoma’s account. Perhaps we could maintain a Fiduciary Account with you?”
“Delighted.”
“Then it’s up to you. You have ways of making these enquiries, I have no doubt. I shall ring you in fourteen days’ time. Positive clearance—and the money will go through from Liechtenstein to another account, the details of which have not yet been disclosed to me.” Bellamy glanced across the table. “And now let’s really enjoy our meal.”
BENIDORM—10th MARCH
MONDAY
Even with the Ford Capri swallowing the long miles effortlessly, Benidorm had seemed a long way—a very long way.
Lloyd Westby had stolen the low mileage car from near West Ham football ground at 2.00 p.m. on the previous Saturday. Within minutes the number plates had been changed and, having checked the car over, he’d set off for the Channel. By the time the luckless supporter was out of the ground, his car was in Dover, and, by nine o’clock that night, it was parked outside the Hostellerie le Clou, fifty miles south of Paris at Héricy.
Sunday’s drive had been worst. Optimistically he’d hoped to make it to Benidorm that day but, in the end, had contented himself with another overnight stop at Barcelona.
There had been moments when he wished that he had flown but he preferred the anonymity and flexibility of car travel. Moreover, concealment of the gun was no problem and, anyway, now it was all different. Now it was midday on Monday, with the sun scorching down and the sound of crickets all round him as he gazed at Calpe down below.
His instructions had been clear. Check-out Tring. That had been abortive. Then the hotel in Benidorm and the Juanita nightclub. If nothing, report back.
*
By Monday evening his expenses on beer had been big but progress had been small. Then he had spoken to the Hotel Manager where Bellamy had stayed with Grummett. Yes. The Manager knew Bellamy. No. He wasn’t staying here now. Hadn’t been down for a week or two. No. He didn’t know when he was next expected. There were no reservations. But there was a man staying over the weekend. He’d been asking about Bellamy. Yes. An Englishman. Two of them in fact. One had checked out that very morning. But the other? Yes. He was still resident. Name? Martin Harper. No, there is no one answering from his room. Certainly. Yes. I’ll take a message. Tell Mr Harper that Mr Edward Coate would like to meet him in the bar at 11 o’clock tomorrow? Certainly sir.
ALICANTE—10th MARCH
MONDAY
The Boeing 707 soared from the shimmering heat of the Alicante runway to that point of acutely angled no-return. Alistair Duncan always felt uneasy on take-off. Then the seat-belt sign was extinguished and he relaxed, stretching his long legs as far as he could.
Down below he saw Benidorm and thought of Tanya. It had been a mild flirtation, made better by the unwritten agreement to that effect. He’d never see her again.
During the morning he’d searched in vain for the lawyer who had acted for the night-club speculators. Without knowing Folio, Volume or Day Book Number of the Land Title, the chances of tracing the Registration had been nil. Yet he had to know it. So it was all down to old Harcourt now for, although Martin Harper had stayed behind, there was no chance of his doing anything to help himself. Reluctant to face Maureen, he’d decided to stay on in the hope of bedding a seventeen-year-old who had arrived on a night flight from Birmingham. “Hope springs paternal” had been Duncan’s parting shot.
The air hostess arrived with brandy and dry, and he lit his pipe, convincing the passengers behind him that the port engine was on fire. Perspective seemed easier at 32,000 feet with a pipe and a drink. The conversation with Charlie Wilkinson that morning had been disconcerting.
“I’m alive. That’s something!” Charlie had opened.
“Trouble then?”
“Knocked about by some German. He’d ransacked Bellamy’s office. I heard him talking to someone in France. Said he’d meet him in Geneva today. Seemed concerned about Bellamy. The flat’d been stripped and it seems that Bellamy’s done a bunk. So I tackled this German. I’m getting too old for this nonsense. He laid me out.”
“See him?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“Bellamy’s been advertising villa plots for about five months. Soon there’ll be plenty of people after him. First come, first served, I’d say. The slightest publicity . . .” the agent’s voice trailed off.
“Thanks, Charlie. Leave it there. I’m flying back today.”
GENEVA—11th MARCH
TUESDAY
“An unexpected pleasure, Herr Wernhorst, Monsieur Maitrise.” Monsieur Albert Coupeau ushered them into his office. “A good journey?”
“Not very.” Kurt was not in the mood for small talk. “Have you seen Patrick Bellamy?”
“Why yes! He was here yesterday. He was telling me of the plans for Reggia Calabria.”
“Wass!”
“Why the surprise? Perhaps you did not know he was coming to Geneva?” Monsieur Coupeau was slightly concerned. Doubts formed in his mind like a giant cumulus but he retained the unruffled calm common to good poker players and good bankers.
“What did Patrick want?” The German’s voice was hard, assertive. The banker became aware of the proximity of Wernhorst’s face; the smooth, bronzed skin, the chiselled nose and the eyes which never blinked. The man smelt of cigarettes and after-shave. Coupeau eased back from the table into the depths of his chair.
“He told me your business was going well and of arrangements for the purchase of the land in Italy. Phase Two he called it. He wanted enquiries made about a certain syndicate who are involved in the deal. That, I am now doing.”
“Go on.”
“And he transferred sufficient funds to a Liechtenstein acount which will be the medium used for the job in Reggia Calabria.”
“Did he! How much?”
“Nearly £600,000. In effect, the entire account.”
“Wass!” Again Wernhorst broke into his native language in his anger and, with the shock of the revelation, he stood up and leant forward, placing his hands firmly on the desk, to get closer to the banker. “But I have signed nothing. Neither has Monsieur Maitrise.”
‘Sit down, will you.” Coupeau spoke sharply and with authority. Although in two minds, Wernhorst obeyed. “Thank you. May I explain?”
“Make it good. Or you’re in trouble.” Wernhorst had learnt so much of his English from American films.
“I authorised no payment without all three signatures. Indeed, I checked them myself. They were in order.”
“Well, I didn’t sign.”
“So you now tell me, Herr Wernhorst. But, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t accept your word. Even if the signatures were proven to be forged you have no redress against the Bank, unless the Bank have been . . . shall we say, negligent.”
He reached into a drawer. “May I remind you of General Condition Six of the Agreement which you signed when the account was opened. Let me read it to you. ‘A loss resulting from any failure to detect forgeries is borne by the customer unless the Bank has been grossly negligent.’”
Coupeau put down the document. “Can I continue at once by saying two things? Firstly, if the signatures are forgeries, do not doubt that you have my sympathy. The Bank will co-operate with the Police on your instructions to do so. On the other hand, I must say to you that you will never prove that the Bank have been grossly negligent.”
“Get the document which Bellamy produced.” Wernhorst continued to make the running whilst Maitrise sat back, a bewildered frown on his face, his left hand clutching a handkerchief. With a shrug Coupeau pressed the buzzer and gave instructions. While they awaited production of the mandate, Coupeau produced a blank sheet of paper. “Sign here, each of you, please.” The messenger put the letter of authority before them. Next to it Coupeau displayed their specimen signatures obtained when the account had been opened. On the other side lay the signatures just written.
“Well,” said the banker. The gauntlet was thrown. The three sets of signatures were identical.
“They certainly appear alike,” said the German, albeit grudgingly. Maitrise, who had only vague notions of what had been going on, nodded.
“Identical. I am, by no means, convinced that the signatures are forged. If they are forged, then they are the work of an expert. If they are the work of Patrick Bellamy, then it may be that his intentions were honourable. If not, then it is with Mr Bellamy that your remedy lies—not with my bank. But by all means get some legal advice. There are many good lawyers here in Geneva. But they are expensive.”
“We’ll think about it.” The bravado had gone. “Which account was credited?”
“Look at the letter. It’s a numbered account in Liechtenstein. Totally anonymous. That is what one would expect, for the transaction in Italy is very sensitive. I believe you are aware of that.” Even Wernhorst had to nod his head in agreement. He recalled the warnings given by Bellamy when they had last met. “You can have a copy of the letter,” continued the banker. “If you allege fraud, the Police will be interested.”
“Come on, Alain, they’ve got us by the balls!” Maitrise, only half understanding, got up. After restrained goodbyes they stood in the Rue Corraterie. A cold blast of reality hit them. If Bellamy were a crook then they were no longer rich. Maitrise appeared even more shrivelled than usual. Wernhorst stood fixed, rigid as if frozen by the wind which whipped along the street.
“What now, Kurt?”
“Find the bastard.”
“What about the Bank?”
“Forget it! Do you want an investigation? Police asking ‘where did the money come from’?” The German strode off angrily, the Frenchman in his wake. They got onto a tram. The cost of a taxi seemed a luxury.
“I think you have misunderstood. Maybe we should wait for our meeting here in Geneva.”
“No. We must find him.”
BENIDORM—11th MARCH
TUESDAY
“Mr Harper?”
“Yes.” Harper looked up at the balding figure of Lloyd Westby.
“Edward Coate. From London. Nice to meet you.”
“You too”
“Drink?”
“Beer, please.”
“Shall we sit outside?”
“Sure.”
They sat down and gazed at the hooting and shunting traffic two floors below.
“You’ll wonder what I’m after?”
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
‘Well, I’ll come straight to the point. It’s Patrick Bellamy I’m looking for. And I gathered you were as well?”
“You’re well informed. Yes. That’s right.”
“So we have a mutual interest,” said Westby. He sipped a beer before continuing. “I paid Bellamy £10,000 for a villa plot but I’ve changed my mind. But I can’t get hold of him. Never seems to be at the office in Tring.”
“You’re out of luck, old son.” Martin Harper looked smug.
“Oh?”
“Firstly, because he’s not here. Secondly, because he’s a fraud, anyway. My solicitor’s just proved that Bellamy never did bloody own the land.”
“What!” Lloyd Westby’s surprise was genuine.
“Right!” Harper was pleased to be in the driving seat. “And I can tell you this.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “My solicitor’s doing some Court case against him, I gather. We’re trying to find out where he’s disappeared to; where he’s stashed all the money.” Harper leant forward even closer. “But I don’t want this spread about. It could be first come, first served, y’know.”
“Of course.” Westby did his best to look discreet. “Look, er, Mr Harper. Let me buy you lunch. Least I can do. Then perhaps we’ll get together again tomorrow. See what your solicitor’s got to say. Two of us might get on better than one.”
“O.K. You’re on. First, it’s my round, Mr Coate.”
“Call me Ed,” replied Lloyd Westby.
LE THOLONET, PROVENCE—11th MARCH
TUESDAY
“So this is your love nest.” Mandy gazed at the cottage, set deep in the heart of the Provençal countryside, yet only a few miles from Aix.
“Yes, this is Le Petit Arbri. But it’s yours now. You remember I put it in your name. I thought it better under the Exchange Control Act. At the time, the Bank of England allowed only one property abroad per family unit. It seemed tidier for you to own it.” He put his arm around her shoulder as they gazed up at the gold and orange tiling on the roof. “You weren’t family.”
“Just another scalp on the wall, I suppose.” There was an edge to her voice. Bellamy ignored the remark.
“You can see why I wanted to come here.” He flourished an arm at the rows of poplars, olives and pines which abounded in all directions.
“Sure. Just great.”
