Villa plot counterplot, p.11
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 11
“You sound unconvinced. You’re not still worrying about Grummett, are you?”
“Yes.” She walked up the sloping path towards the door. “And the Police, too.”
Bellamy grabbed her roughly by both shoulders till they were face to face. “For God’s sake, forget it! No one knows we’re here. No one’s going to come looking for us. We’re not due in Geneva for another fortnight.” He patted her reassuringly but she felt patronised. “Just relax.”
“Isn’t that you and Kurt in that photo?” she commented. By now they were standing in the hall.
“Yes. That was before a big race. And that photograph there . . .” he pointed “. . . shows what happened.” There was a burnt-out car beside the track. “That was the last time they let Kurt behind the wheel.”
“I’ve never liked him. I’ve never understood what you see in him.”
“Mandy! Kurt’s done very well for us. You shouldn’t be so ungrateful.”
“Maybe! But don’t expect me to like him.” They stood in the small living room and gazed through the French windows. “You know what your trouble is, Paddy?”
“No.” Bellamy did not want to hear.
“You’re too greedy. You could have kept this so simple. Paid off Harper for a start. Given Grummett his money back. O.K., you were unlucky killing the wrong person. But it all goes back to greed. Pig-headedness, too.”
Without a second thought, he lashed out with a violent, backhand slap across her cheek. “Shut up, you stupid bitch. Don’t forget you’re in this up to the hilt.” He crashed out of the room, ignoring her sobs of distress. More than ever now he was convinced. Mandy had served her purpose. But he could fix it. He wasn’t sure how yet. But he would.
ENGLAND—11th MARCH
TUESDAY
The District Registrar of the High Court sat behind his spacious desk, dapper in grey suit, cream shirt and Paisley patterned tie. The lawyers’ Bible, the Rules of the Supreme Court, lay in front of him. Protruding were markers where Alistair Duncan had referred him to particular points of law.
“Do you wish to say anything more, Mr Duncan?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you. Now Mr Wade.” The Registrar half turned to the other solicitor. Kenneth Wade had been instructed by Bellamy’s bank. “I am instructed to oppose this application to inspect the bank’s records. I urge upon you the contractual confidentiality as between Banker and Customers. My friend’s argument, cogent and superficially attractive, goes far beyond what Parliament ever intended. In short, you are being asked to take a giant leap down a road which will strike at the very bastion of banking practice. I submit that the position is similar to that of the priest in the confessional.”
“I am sorry to interrupt you, Mr Wade, but I can see Mr Duncan having apoplexy. I think I know why! A recent decision appears to have even eroded the privilege of the confessional. Isn’t your difficulty this? That Parliament has made documents, previously thought confidential, available in the interests of Justice and open litigation? I am thinking, for example, of General Practitioners’ Notes and Hospital Records.”
“I sense, sir, that you are against me.”
“Your antennae, Mr Wade, are as finely adjusted as ever!”
“In that case I’ll take my second point. Is it proper to make an Order today? Admittedly you have a discretion under Order Twenty-two because service of the notice of the application was made within the precise letter of the law. But is it not dangerous when Mr Bellamy has no chance to object, no idea that his confidential affairs may be exposed by your Order, of which he is unaware? Where,” he stopped to heighten effect,” is the justice in that?”
“You’ve read the Affidavit sworn by Mr Duncan this morning; the stripped premises, the site belonging to someone else. Mr Bellamy appears to be a fugitive from the very justice which you pray in aid. I am sorry but I must grant the application. It is within my discretion. I doubt whether the ripples of my decision will disturb the Judge in Chambers or even Lord Denning, come to that. Appeal me if you like but my sympathies are with Mr Harper.”
“Sir, In that case, I ask for costs of this application.”
“No, Mr Duncan. No icing on the cake. Costs in Cause.”
Duncan rose to leave. “Been in the wars?” The District Registrar looked at him.
“I come from Bristol. They don’t call it the Wild West for nothing.”
“Gun law is it, down there?”
“Sometimes . . . it can be worse.” Duncan smiled, not wishing to explain the bruises and abrasions down his face.
Outside the Court it was Kenneth Wade who spoke first. “The Bank has made its point today. It won’t appeal. You can see the documents. Frankly, I hope you get Bellamy. He sounds a right bastard.”
In the manager’s office the documents showed that Padon Intercontinental had a balance of £35, from a maximum of over £90,000. Money had flowed through the account like an arithmetical problem of time taken to fill a bath without a plug.
There were frequent withdrawals of foreign currency. Usually, it had been pesetas but in January it had been Swiss and French francs. Last week had been the same.
“Hey! What’s all this?” Duncan was looking at the Manager’s interview notes.
The banker’s face was conspiratorial. “You shouldn’t have seen them really, Mr Duncan, but Mr Bellamy had a property in the South of France which he transferred to Miss Williams. That’s a copy of our notification to the Bank of England.”
“Interesting. Did Miss Williams usually accompany Bellamy on trips abroad?”
“Cox, on the till, says not. She stayed behind. He fancied his chances. We always joked that his till never balanced after she’d been in. Not the usual run at all. Mainly we get elderly women with smelly dogs. But Miss Williams! Maybe twenty-nine years old, a wiggle which she made no attempt to hide and a voice so husky it made you want to bay at the moon!”
“Funny! I’d always put that noise down to squeals from overdrawn customers. It’s nice to know you’re human.”
“So human that I wonder whether it would be unethical for us to have lunch together at the Beehive?” asked the Manager.
“I’m happy to be seen with you if you’re happy to be seen with me.”
“But don’t expect any more secrets.” The Manager’s blue eyes twinkled beneath the greying hair.
*
After lunch, a picture in a daily paper caught Duncan’s eye. It was of a man, looking like Bellamy, who called himself Simmond. Wanted by the Police for enquiries into a murder in London. Christ! He’d better warn Martin Harper at once. Dealing with a fraud was one thing; mixing with a murderer was another.
BENIDORM—11th MARCH
TUESDAY
It was 2.40 p.m. From several verandahs away could be heard the sound of Martin Harper’s snoring. The previous night had been long but the promised land with Miss T-Shirt had proved unattainable. By a mile. After a lingering lunch he had dozed off and, when the telephone rung, his dreams had been of a world without Maureen. “Hello!” croaked a dry mouth in a tone more suggestive of ‘goodbye’.
“Martin! How are you? Not an awkward moment?”
“Yes. Bloody awkward. Well-earned kip.” The words came slowly but full of innuendo.
“Fantasy?” joked Duncan.
“I jest not.” The publican was almost alert. “Remember Miss T-Shirt?” Harper gave a low whistle. “Some of the tricks she’s learned!”
“Surely not more than you!” The sarcasm was wasted. “Anyway, I’ve got some news for you. I think you should abandon chasing Bellamy. Leave it to the Police or Charlie Wilkinson.”
“Why?” The publican sounded resentful.
“Because Bellamy may be a murderer. The Police want him to help with their enquiries into a murder in London last week. His photo’s in all the papers today but the Police call him Simmond.”
“You’re joking.” There was silence for a moment. “But I can cope. Don’t forget I’ve done Singapore, Beirut and all those years in the Merchant Navy. Never needed a chucker-out at my pub. When I throw them they don’t hit the deck until they’re the other side of the road.”
“Sure, sure!” Duncan was unmoved. “I’ve got your Will in the office.”
“What about the Bank? How did you get on?”
‘Well, I got an address out of it. There’s no money in the account. Bellamy had put a little cottage called Le Petit Arbri at Le Tholonet, just outside Aix, in the name of his mistress, Mandy Williams. There’s a chance they may be there. I’ve got Charlie Wilkinson standing by to take the next flight to Marseilles.”
“No. I can’t afford that. I’ll go myself. I can leave in the morning.”
“Even today may be too late.” Duncan made his irritation plain.
“But there’s a little matter between me and a divorcée from Leeds to sort out. I can do her a big favour.”
“That’s your affair!” Duncan was angry. Clients who didn’t help themselves were a raw point. “You do what you like! But if you take my advice then this cottage should be checked out at once.”
“It’ll keep. It may be a wild goose-chase.”
“That’s your sex-life!” Duncan slammed down the phone. It was only when the line had gone dead that
Harper realised that he had said nothing about Mr Edward Coate. Now, that was a thought. Perhaps they could go to Le Petit Arbri together.
LONDON—11th MARCH
TUESDAY
The telephone on Halkett’s overcrowded desk had scarcely stopped ringing all day. The first call had been timed at 9.12 a.m. and now, eight hours later, thirty-seven calls had been logged, with fifteen callers identifying Simmond as Patrick Bellamy of Tring.
“I want a statement from every caller by tomorrow. I want the names of everyone who went on these property jaunts to Spain. I want Padon Intercontinental checked out. Perhaps the Spanish Police can help. There may have been a property fiddle going on.”
Det. Con. Pitman nodded. “Anyone any idea where we can find Bellamy?”
“No. But a Bank Manager at Tring has been on. Something about a solicitor’s been nosing around today. Bellamy was one of his customers. So you had better set up the procedure to inspect the bank records at once.”
BENIDORM—12th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
Martin Harper awoke with a hangover. The room took a long time coming into focus. The wall lights danced such a fandango that he shut his eyes again.
His head hurt. His mouth was cracked and dry. It was 7.20 a.m. And he regretted the night before. Indeed, as his thoughts started to take shape, he even regretted that he hadn’t taken Duncan’s advice. To Hell with Benidorm! To Hell with the bloody, lousy women! His line of chat had failed again and he’d ended up spoofing with three Americans until far too late.
He staggered into the evil-smelling claustrophobia of the bathroom and, after a sluice of cold water, regretted that Coate wasn’t still with him. In the Capri, they’d have made Aix quickly. It was a pity that Coate had decided that he’d have to go back to England; that he hadn’t got time to get to Aix. Nice man, Coate.
He had breakfast alone, by the swimming pool. The fresh air, coffee and orange juice were a help and, by the time he had finished, his mind was made up.
“Is there a flight to Marseilles?” he asked in Reception.
“If you check out now, you’ll get a flight to Barcelona. Change there and you’ll be in Marseilles in time for a late lunch. Here are the times.”
“Make me the reservations, can you, please?”
As he flung his clothes into the suitcase he wished he had done this the day before. A change of scene would be welcome. He’d had Benidorm. Right up to there! It was time to try his charm in the South of France. And make his peace with Alistair Duncan by flying there. Catch up on lost time. But it was a pity that Coate was heading for England. He hadn’t sounded too surprised that Bellamy was probably a murderer. Could have been a useful man in a tight corner. Still, he could look after himself.
LE THOLONET—12th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
Since the stinging slap of the previous day the atmosphere at the cottage had been frosty. The blow had stood for a great deal. They both knew that. It was a culmination of Paddy’s increasing ego, coupled with her open recognition of his inadequacy. Such bridges are not easily repaired, not least when the only remaining adhesive was a love of money.
After breakfast Mandy decided to go for a walk whilst Paddy went to Aix. There he sat in the crowded colour of the Market Place, sipping a beer, sifting the jumble of facts till a harsh, logical conclusion emerged. He looked at his watch. 10.30 a.m. There was little time to lose and so he paid his bill and set off for the Cours Mirabeau.
FRANCE—12th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
Since leaving the bank the previous day Maitrise and Wernhorst had barely spoken. It was unbelievable! Yet, in the absence of explanation, it had to be believed. They’d been duped. The reactions of the two men had been different. Maitrise had grown even more shifty and sallow. Pain was the only certainty, for the medicine seemed increasingly ineffective. The other reality was the gun which Wernhorst lovingly caressed in the privacy of the hotel bedroom. The German had been calm, nerveless, malignant, while making a mass of phone calls, checking, cross-checking and enquiring where Bellamy might be found. The breakthrough had come late the previous day, but by then, Maitrise was almost too unwell to care.
Rudi Dehnke had worked with Kurt in the Pits. He had recalled a party, just before the Monaco Grand Prix, a few years previously, when Bellamy had introduced him to a girl he’d called Scotch Annie. Didn’t Wernhorst remember? No!, Well, she was French. Worked at the Carmen Hotel in Nice. Smart. Small. Eurasian appearance. Jet-black hair, pouting lips. Age? Early thirties. Sly dog, Bellamy! Hadn’t said anything to anyone but she’d later told him that they’d gone to some cottage in the back of beyond, near Aix. Yes. Bellamy owned it. Why Scotch Annie? Something to do with her name. O.K. Thanks, anyway, Rudi. No, I didn’t know about this place. Auf Wiedersehen!
At first Wernhorst had reached for the telephone yet again to ring the Carmen Hotel, but the crushing confines of the bedroom and the long hours of inactivity changed his mind. Sweeping the Frenchman along like so much flotsam he’d checked out.
On the journey Maitrise clutched the map in one hand, the medicine bottle in the other. Annecy, Chambéry, Grenoble, Digne and then down to Nice. Hardly the quickest of journeys. “Having trouble still?”
“My stomach.”
“Not my driving?”
“No. Nothing wrong with that. Pity you never made it to the top.” Wernhorst did not appreciate the reminder. It killed small talk for the rest of the journey.
At the Carmen Hotel no one on night duty seemed to know Scotch Annie. But next morning was different. The day staff arrived and the porter recalled a person of Eurasian appearance. She’d worked in Personnel.
“What was her name?”
“Annick Bourbon.”
“Annick Bourbon,” repeated Wernhorst, thinking about it. Right! It clicked. Scotch Annie. “Where can I find her?”
“She used to live at 32 Rue Rossfino.”
Wernhorst went there and found terraced buildings lining both sides of the cobbled street. He entered Number 32 through an archway of crumbling stucco. The whole building smelt of stale cooking which hung heavily in the gloom. The flat was on the third floor, at the back. Repeated knocking brought no response.
He met the concierge at the foot of the stairs. “You’ve just missed Mademoiselle Bourbon. She won’t be back till seven.”
NICE—12th MARCH
WEDNESDAY
It was 7.15 p.m. For the third time that day Kurt Wernhorst climbed the stairs to the flat belonging to Annick Bourbon. This time he was lucky. She opened the door, matching her description to the letter. Her smile was friendly, though quizzical. Despite the fact that she had been caught in the bath and was clad only in a flimsy dressing gown, she seemed relaxed. He introduced himself, making out that they had met. She thought it possible and led him into the plain comforts of her main room. Kurt placed her at about thirty-six and the obvious curves of her figure were well preserved.
“And you say that we met at the party of ‘The Society of Professional Chauffeurs of Monte Carlo and Beausoleil.’ Peut-être.” She shrugged. “I go to many parties. I have meet many people. Excuse my English. Is it really better than your French? German I have not.”
“English is best.”
“Excuse me my undress. I have just finished work.” She lit a cigarette. “How do I make help?”
“Easy!” Wernhorst gave a politician’s plastic you-can-trust-me smile.
“So?” Her face was expressive, eyebrows and lips alert, to emphasise any change in her voice.
“I am looking for an old friend—Patrick Bellamy. But I spoke to Rudi recently. You remember him, of course? He mentioned that you knew Paddy. Said that you knew the address of his cottage.”
“Yes?”
“You went there.”
“It was long time. But I cannot pretend.” She looked away and lit a cigarette.
Kurt sounded contrite. “I’m sorry. There were many women in Paddy’s life.” He stopped. “Excuse me. I did not wish to be unkind.”
“Ça va. Ça va. It’s true. He said we would marry.”
“Marry!”
“At the cottage. He told me. But I have never marry. With Paddy?” She shrugged and turned away. “It was possible.”
Wernhorst tried hard to conceal his impatience. “And this cottage? Where was it? Do you remember?”
“Le Petit Arbri? Bien sûr! Every room, every rose, every view . . .” her words came slowly.
“Is it far? Can you draw a map? I’m sorry to distress you.” He watched, cynically uncaring at the hurt, concerned only with the woman as a means to an end. Even the expanse of thighs, as she bent over to stub out her cigarette, left him completely unmoved.
