Villa plot counterplot, p.2
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 2
Claire readily accepted Duncan’s invitation, for not only had he acquired the trappings of a successful solicitor but his divorce had added some interesting rough edges. Claire knew that she was on a short list but then she also sensed that the solicitor had no intention of reducing its length. Ever.
TRING—29th OCTOBER 1979
SUNDAY
“How did you get on?” asked Mandy, as Bellamy entered the first floor office-cum-flat.
“£70,000! Harper and Squires paid cash. The rest by cheques, payable to Padon Intercontinental.” He squeezed her tightly. “And I got some photos too.”
“I wish we could get out of here.”
“Patience, my love.”
“This place gives me the creeps.”
“Enough of that! I picked up a smart little bottle of wine at the Duty Free; Chambertin ’69 and some Guerlain perfume.”
She smiled. “Mm. And I’ve cooked something different. We could make it a special evening.” They both knew what she meant.
*
Bellamy raised his glass. The Waterford crystal sparkled pretentiously in the drab surroundings but Bellamy refused to drink Chambertin from anything less. The stained cutlery and chipped plates, which came with the rented accommodation, were a reminder of the bridge between two contrasting lifestyles which they were crossing.
“Tell me all about it.” Her eyes sparkled and the medallion around her neck danced as she leant forward intimately.
“It was a doddle. You were right. You said all publicans were fools. We had a right one.”
“Harper?”
“Right! But they were all pretty stupid. Eliminating all lawyers, bankers, accountants, and anyone about whom we’re doubtful works well. Scarcely an awkward question. Obviously the best ones are those with untaxed income or inherited wealth.” Bellamy smiled. “So keep up the good work, vetting the applications, weeding out the troublemakers.
“Thanks. And now?” Mandy’s oval face reflected her sensitivity.
“I’ll clear the cheques in the morning. They think they’ve got to pay the other £8,000 when the property’s finished.”
“Mucho long wait, Señor,” she pouted. “But seriously—were there no problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. I told them how cheap it was to buy since the Dollar Premium has gone.” He paused. “But the best selling point seemed to be that they could have bank accounts in Spain without anyone knowing. Least of all the Taxman.”
“Encouraging tax evasion, were you?” She looked magisterial.
“Just pointing out the advantages of storing money in Spain, away from the Revenue.” He sipped the wine appreciatively. “My sales patter finished with a little plea for confidentiality. ‘Don’t you think that’s the one luxury which we really ought to have?’”
Mandy’s smile was open-mouthed. “Quite agree!”
“But the mugs didn’t realise that, with me knowing what they’re up to, they haven’t got confidentiality at all. Just the reverse. Plenty of chances for a little arm twisting if any of them were, shall we say, difficult.”
“I just hope Kurt and Alain are selling well.”
“I expect they are. More difficult for Alain selling in France. So bloody small-minded, the French. Much prefer to go back to the same fly-blown campsite every year. But they’re good partners. I’ve chosen well.” It was the empty bottle of Chambertin talking now. He continued, almost to himself. “Difficult decision bringing in partners though.”
“Trebling the risks?”
“Trebling the profits,” he countered.
*
When Bellamy awoke it was nearly five. Mandy was lying sensuously close to him. But he found he was thinking about his two partners. Bellamy had been in prison because too many people had been involved. Perhaps he should have played this one closer. But no. This was the big one. The jackpot. The risks were worthwhile.
*
Kurt Wernhorst he’d known for several years. He’d been a driver with a German Works Team struggling to make Formula One. They’d become friends at a party after a Formula Three race, which Wernhorst had won with ease. Bellamy had enjoyed the man’s company. Bellamy could see Kurt even now; classically Teutonic, determined, tough, handsome and with an appetite for food and women which had not yet spilled over into the sluggish obesity of German middle age. In the early days Bellamy had hoped that one day he could bask in Kurt’s reflected glory, hoped that he would have a friend who was a World Champion. But it never happened. Good results in practice had been marred by his single-minded ruthlessness when the real race started. There were complaints from other drivers. At first it was put down to the impetuosity of youth but too many scrapped cars had shattered that excuse. Off the course he still commanded some respect and, when finally told that he would never make Formula One, he had taken a job in Liaison work for the Monaco Circuit.
This was his job when Bellamy had fixed the meeting “for old time’s sake.” By then the Spanish plans had been shaping nicely. Wernhorst was in his second year as an onlooker and his conversation, over a steady flow of Scotch, had convinced the Englishman that his friend was ripe for an approach. There was disdain and bitterness in Wernhorst’s criticism of the other drivers. He saw in himself the man who should have been at pole position. After a long dinner and brandies on the terrace, Bellamy looked over the tiered buildings of Monaco.
“I’m moving into Spanish property. I’m tired of making other people rich. I’ve got a large development plot lined up, not far from Benidorm. A bit expensive but the prospects are enormous.”
“I’m not surprised.” The German’s English was good, with a tang of mid-Atlantic. “Spain seems to be a good choice.”
“Yes—I’m expecting to making a killing!”
“Sorry?” Occasionally, slang was beyond him.
“A pile of money, my dear Kurt! Great chunks of Pounds, Deutschmarks, Swiss Francs, money.”
“You’ve been lucky?”
“Careful planning, I would call it.” Bellamy’s lips rounded and the eyes flashed out a self-satisfied smile. “But I need two partners to maximise the potential.”
“English?”
“No. Not English. I can sew up England in no time. I want to tap a different market. I’ve got a pal in Holland. The Dutch are mad keen for Spanish property.”
“Yes.” Kurt spoke slowly. The German turned his steadfast nerveless eyes to his companion. It was as if he were judging a chicane. “And so are the people of Germany.”
“Meaning?” Bellamy fixed his friend with a surprised stare. He rose from the table and leant against the balcony. Wernhorst joined him.
“Are you looking for a German partner?”
“I hadn’t thought of that specifically,” Bellamy lied. “But wouldn’t it be a good idea? Perhaps you can help me. Would the Germans be interested in Spanish property?” Bellamy knew the answer full well.
“Sure! The Germans buy lots of property. They have the money to do so, you know!” There was a boastful rasp in the German’s voice. “If you want a German partner, I could be interested.”
“You, Kurt! But you’re tied up with all this razzmatazz here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but a change would be fine. I have no contract. No ties.
“Sorry, Kurt, but you’ve taken me by surprise. I’m talking about a full-time job. You’d have to be based in Germany and travel to Spain. It would be goodbye to all this.” The two men gazed at the thousands of lights which bobbed and flickered across the seafront down below. “And you’d need money. A third share would cost, say, £12,000 Sterling.”
“Difficult—but possible. I just might be interested.”
“We’ve drunk too much tonight. Give me a call tomorrow if you’re interested.”
Next evening the two men had met again. “And so you see, Kurt, that’s simply Phase One. I think you’ll agree it’s pretty attractive.”
“It’s well thought out.” Kurt nodded admiringly.
“But Phase Two—there’s two million dollars in that—maybe more. But Kurt, don’t bank on that. Only Phase One is certain at the moment. Even that will make you rich.”
The German’s heart pounded at the figures which the Englishman had mentioned so casually. It was as if these big amounts were part of his day-to-day routine. It was hard to believe that he was being offered a partnership in a spectacular fraud. So O.K. He’d be expected to work—but that was alright. With such rewards it would be more exciting than Monaco. Watching another win a Grand Prix had proved as empty as watching blue movies in substitution for sex.
“Count me in.”
As a milk float trundled past the launderette in Tring, Bellamy wondered what Kurt was doing. He would be in Germany. Probably with a woman. But in the daytime he’d be working, selling. No doubt about that. Kurt would give one hundred per cent commitment to success.
The third partner had been more difficult. The Dutchman had turned down the opportunity and no other name had sprung to mind. You could hardly walk up to a stranger and say “Join me in a fraud. I’ll make you a million.” They wouldn’t believe you. But then Kurt had suggested a Frenchman called Alain Maitrise. They’d interviewed him at La Coupôle Restaurant in Montparnasse. It had been a good choice, for it was full of bustle, full of scurrying waiters and far too noisy for eavesdropping.
“Your age, Alain?”
“Thirty-nine, célibataire. I live in the Rue Debucy.” The English was halting.
He explained that he had been a fence. But it was not that simple. He could turn his hand to theft, had been a pickpocket, had been involved in company frauds in Marseilles. For a time he’d specialised in stealing passports from foreigners on the Autoroute du Soleil. Best of all, he’d dabbled as a legitimate property agent in Bandol. Bellamy sighed as he swung his legs out of bed. Yes. Maitrise had been a fair risk. He’d shown consistent good sense. On paper he was ideal. But there was still something.
Bellamy strutted round the shambles of the unfinished meal from the night before. He poured a glass of orange and felt better for it. As he climbed back into bed Mandy was still heavily asleep, her naked shoulders uncovered by the sheets. But he gave her no thought. His mind was on the cheques which he would present that morning. Eventually he’d be taking the money to Werdoma’s Swiss bank account. Werdoma was a Liechtenstein company, floated with the aid of a lawyer in Vaduz. Bellamy had made all the arrangements, leaving his partners to concentrate on their sales drive. Bellamy, too, had set up the purchase of the land, taking title under Spanish law in the men’s own names but, on copies of the deeds, Bellamy had been careful to insert the names of Werdoma Investments.
And it was working! If Maitrise and Wernhorst did their stuff; if Mandy kept her cool with the customers. If she eliminated the troublemakers. That was the problem. There were too many ‘ifs’. Every ‘if’ was a weak link.
He said to himself. “Sod them all!” Mandy stirred slightly.
BATH—9th JANUARY 1980
WEDNESDAY
Maureen Harper flourished an article in the newspaper about property frauds in Majorca. “I’m fixing an appointment to see Alistair Duncan. That’s final.”
Harper hedged. “My contract’s O.K., anyway. Alistair’s a busy man; very busy. Granted, he’s a good solicitor. He’s not cheap. Can’t be with that cottage, the antiques and a wine cellar as big as the Cheddar Caves. Secretly Harper was worried about what Duncan would say. “I don’t want to run up a bill just for nothing.”
“Nothing being the value of that bloody useless contract.”
TRING—31st JANUARY 1980
THURSDAY
“Alright, then, Mr Grummett, Let’s meet in the bar at Brown’s, in Dover Street, at 12.15 tomorrow, 1st February. I’m lunching there anyway. We shan’t be long, I trust?” Bellamy guessed otherwise.
“Perhaps.” The listener sounded doubtful. He’d come back from Calpe a fortnight previously, the third Englishman to pay a deposit to buy Plot Six.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr Grummett.” It was said breezily, designed to wrongfoot the listener again. “See you then.”
Bellamy put down the receiver. “How did I sound?” he asked Mandy.
“O.K. But what did Grummett want?”
“He wants to be freed from his contract. Wants his money back.”
“And?”
“And he can go to Hell!”
“I remember checking on him. Family man. Two children. Wholesale business. Toys. Self-employed. Risen from nothing. A hard case. Not a push-over by any manner of means.”
“I can handle it.”
‘Look. If he wants out of the contract, I should let him go. You might regret it.”
Bellamy crashed a fist on the table. “I said I can handle it. We don’t give in. Anyway, he was one of my star performers on photograph.”
BRISTOL—31st JANUARY 1980
THURSDAY
“Come in, please, Lucy.” Alistair Duncan’s voice crackled over the internal phone. He listened for the pert footsteps in the corridor, wondering in what mood he’d find his extrovert secretary today. The solicitor’s grey-green eyes flickered over the mounds of files. Every one was urgent; yet he was relaxed, haloed by a haze of tobacco smoke which eddied around the lights. Outside, the hum of traffic affronted the dignity of the terraced building looking over Queen Square.
The brass plate outside the impressive entrance showed the names of Wyatt, Hebditch and Co., Solicitors. Alistair Duncan, LL.B. was third partner out of six.
The arrival of Legal Aid, bringing floods of new clients, had also given birth to a new breed of solicitor like Alistair Duncan, who preferred cut and thrust to the tedious graft of conveyancing.
Lucy smiled as she entered, her eye-catching figure neatly clad in a white jumper, red skirt and black seamed stockings. Her face told no secrets of her age, which was rumoured to be anything between twenty-eight and thirty-five. Lucy admitted to nothing. The zany lifestyle which she pursued had washed over her delicate features instead of leaving them ravaged with the battles of a thousand reminiscences. Duncan accepted that she was the only person who could persistently wrong-foot him and she was able to tread irreverent paths from which even the senior partner fought shy.
“Morning, Lucy. I see Martin Harper’s coming.”
“Yes. How are your castanets these days?” She grinned, her right eyebrow adding the innuendo.
“Sorry?”
“Castanets! Spain! Black bulls! Hot nights and sultry señoritas! Mr Harper has bought a villa plot. Maureen Harper says he’s been conned.”
“Oh yes! I remember something about that. If Maureen’s right, then you can steel yourself for the sight of wall-to-wall blood. Even when she smiles Maureen kills at five paces.” His craggy features creased knowingly and the nose, broken in a game for Western Counties, twitched.
“Oh, by the way,” Lucy changed tack. “You gave that T.V. interviewer hell the other night.”
“Cocky little bastard, wasn’t he? But he had a bad brief.”
Lucy fingered a jade statuette. “But I thought the colour of my set was wrong. Your face was like a scalded bottom! If I didn’t know you better I’d have said that you’d done rather well in the hospitality room.” For a second their eyes met and each knew that their relationship could overflow into something rather different. Someday.
Duncan put on a display of aloofness. “Was there anything else?”
“Not till 4.00 p.m.”
“Right. Coffee, please, before the Wife of Bath and the prize ram arrive.”
*
“Martin! Good to see you—and you Maureen! Have a seat.” He wished Maureen’s was electric.
“Keeping well, Alistair?” replied the publican.
“Yes. Thank you. Now let me see. I haven’t seen you since that fracas about after-hours drinking, have I? It’s a long way since that Industrial Tribunal.”
Harper nodded. “You sorted that T.V. interviewer out the other night.” There was considerable respect in his voice.
“Thanks. By the way, did you think that I looked . . . flushed?” Duncan looked at his two clients.
“No. Not at all. Why?”
“Oh nothing. Never mind. Just a thought. Now, you tell me how I can help. Do I hear you’re the new Don Quixote?”
“More like the donkey!” interrupted Maureen, making her presence felt for the first time. “Martin’s paid £10,000 for a bit of useless paper.”
“O.K. I get the picture. I’m not an expert in Spanish law but we’ve handled several villa purchases through the office. They all went very well,” he concluded pointedly.
Duncan wrestled with the crude English translation of the documents produced for him. “It looks like a con job. This type of contract’s the one which features in most frauds.”
“Why?”
“You’re in a vicious circle. It doesn’t give you ownership of either land or villa. What it says is that once the villa is built, Werdoma will execute a deed to pass title. Not before.”
“So?”
“If the villa is never built, then you will never own anything. The classic con.”
“And so?”
“You could take Bellamy to Court if he is a fraud.”
“Court! I don’t want to go to Court!” Harper grinned sheepishly. “You’ve warned me before. Any publicity and the Taxman will want to know how I could afford a villa. You see, the money was cash which had never passed through our accounts at all.”
“In that case, I could try to get a better contract from Bellamy for you. It should be possible if he’s genuine.”
“Would that help?”
“Yes. Under Spanish law it’s first come, first served. If you can register your ownership before the next person, then it’s yours. But if the land’s been sold to someone else and they’ve registered already, then you’ve had it.”
