Villa plot counterplot, p.3
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 3
For all his forty or so years Harper was like a child. “I’ll speak to Bellamy. I don’t want to run up expense.”
Alistair Duncan rose to his full height and walked to the door. He shrugged. “It’s your choice. Don’t leave it too late. I might still be able to help.”
“If I get stuck I’ll come back. Meantime, keep this photo of Bellamy. It was taken in the Juanita Night Club.”
LONDON, W.1.—1st FEBRUARY
FRIDAY
“Delighted to see you, er, Paddy,” said Grummett. He felt uneasy. For all his money he was out of place in Brown’s. In contrast, Bellamy was languid, comfortable.
“Scotch?”
“Always! Ice. No water.”
Grummett looked his forty-two years, His face told of battling through Secondary Modern, followed by the sudden rise to a big income after hard work and sharp grafting. The lined face, the deep-set eyes, the harshness of the mouth, emphasised the struggles which were bringing in £20,000 a year and the same again tax-free on the side. It was the face of a fighter who expected to win. But the suit, whilst expensive, was cut from material and in a style which spoke of upstart. Such a breed is easily spotted in Brown’s.
“So what’s your problem?”
“To tell the truth Paddy, I’ve just changed my mind. I’d prefer to go for somewhere a bit bigger.” Grummett was taking it by stages. “Have you anything larger?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“So, like I said, can I have my money back? Tear up the contract and I’ll see you right on expenses. Y’know, I’ll pay for the flight.”
“You probably think that’s fair,” said Paddy reasonably. “But it isn’t. I’ve lost a sale. I’ve lost the profit and so just paying me for the flight is no recompense.”
“So what’s your profit?”
“That,” Bellamy chopped his hand across the table, “is my affair.”
“But if you want to keep back some profit from my money then . . .” Grummett stopped as Bellamy interrupted.
“I didn’t say that I wanted anything. I’ve got what I wanted. I’ve got your money. You’ve got your contract. By October you’ll have your villa.”
“Meaning?”
“No deal. No way.”
Grummett looked about him. His confidence was returning. He tried a different tack. “Look, I’ve seen my solicitor and he tells me that this contract stinks.” It was bluff.
“Balls! Sue me. I’m not parting with any money. There’s nothing wrong with the contract. And you know it.”
“So you won’t let me off the hook?”
“No. And if you sued me, you’d regret it.”
“Meaning?” Grummett’s lower jaw jutted defiance.
“You’re a family man. A divorce would be financial ruin; everything, including your business, chopped in half to pay out your wife.”
“What the hell are you on about?” The narrow face looked narrower. The evasive eyes flickered.
“You didn’t exactly behave like a family man in Benidorm, did you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and that girl. Erica, wasn’t it?”
There was silence. Then. “You’ve got nothing on me. I’ll deny everything.”
“Of course you will, er, Peter. Of course you will.” Bellamy shook his head, apparently in sorrow. “But no one will believe you.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
“Try me. Orange bra and pants with black frilly trimmings—and certainly no missionary!”
The listener’s face dropped and then clouded with fury. “You filthy bastard. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing.” Bellamy shook his head. “But I should keep your voice down if I were you.”
“Don’t you start mucking me about, Bellamy. I’ll make you regret it.”
“I doubt it. Just one step by you out of line and you’re in trouble. I’ve got sworn statements from the chambermaid and room service at the hotel. And photos.”
“Photos?” Grummett’s face frowned in recollection. “So you were the sod! I thought it was one of the others—a joke.”
“Not a joke, I’m afraid. Just business. I hope Erica was worthwhile.”
“You’re a bastard, Bellamy.”
“But not, I think, a stupid one. Listen; you’ll get your villa. But you’re not getting out of my agreement.”
“And the photos? The other evidence?”
“I’ll hand them over when you pay the balance of the purchase price.”
Grummett drained his glass. “You win, Bellamy, even though I don’t give a damn about my marriage. But you’re right. A divorce would be pretty inconvenient at the moment. Financially, that is.”
“I knew you’d see sense,” Bellamy nodded. “Divorce is costly.”
“Don’t you go soft-soaping me, Bellamy. You may have won this time. But I’ll get you. I don’t forget. I’ll get you. When it suits me.” His burly, 5′ 11″ frame looked down at the agent. “And that’s a promise.”
BATH—6th FEBRUARY 1980
WEDNESDAY
Harper waited whilst Mandy brought Bellamy to the phone. “Hello. Is that Patrick? Good. How are you? Martin Harper here.”
“I’m well. And you? Looking forward to long, hot days in your villa, no doubt.”
“Well . . . yes . . . and no.” Harper sounded uneasy. “You see, I’ve seen my solicitor. You know what they’re like. Says that I need a proper contract or my money back.”
“Trying to justify his extortionate fees, I suppose.”
Harper laughed. “No. He’s good. So I’m being serious. I need a contract which meets his approval—or my money back.”
Harper felt the drop in temperature. “Come off it, Martin,” replied Bellamy. “Work starts in April. That contract’s perfectly alright. I’m not changing it. Be reasonable, Martin. If everybody carried on like you, I’d spend all my time playing with words. I’m far too busy selling villas for that.”
“O.K. then. Could I have my money back?”
“No. I’ve finished selling at Calpe. I haven’t got time to make a special trip there to sell one-off. Uneconomic. Totally.”
“And if I insist on money back?”
There was a warning note in Bellamy’s voice. “I shouldn’t if I were you.”
Harper noticed the receiver was now damp in his hand. “Why not?”
“Because someone might just tell the taxman that you paid for the villa in cash.” There was silence. “You still there, Martin? Good. I shouldn’t want you to misunderstand.”
“You tell the taxman. I don’t care.” The tremble in Harper’s voice gave him away.
“And that’s not all. Someone just might send a certain photograph of you, in Benidorm, to your wife. And to your mother. Now, I shouldn’t like to do that. Do you see what I mean?”
“Christ! What are you on about?”
“If you think about it, you’ll know what I mean.” That foxy smile was on Bellamy’s face and he winked at Mandy across the room. “So just be sensible. Sit it out. You’ll get your villa.”
“O.K. I’ll leave it over.” Harper put down the phone. He knew that he was cornered.
GATWICK—8th FEBRUARY 1980
FRIDAY
“11.45 flight to Paris, sir?” The girl at Gatwick check-in smiled.
“Yes.” Ill-at-ease, Bellamy handed over his ticket. In his small case was £170,000 in cash. It was risky. Whilst it was now legal to take money out of the country, hot money was still hot money. Somone might just like to know from where the money came, why it was being taken out. Questions, awkward questions, unanswerable questions.
Looking more nonchalant than he felt he went through Passport Control. No problems there, nor with the frisking for weapons. But it was the X-ray machine. That was the danger. Four people in front of him. Then three. Quite a number of the bags were been opened after passing through the X-ray. Why? The queue was down to two. It clicked. Any hard, metallic objects attracted attention.
“Your bag, sir.” The man started to take the case from Duncan’s hand. He found himself resisting.
“Wait a minute. I’ve got a camera in there. I want it out.”
For a fleeting second the Security man looked puzzled as Bellamy waved on the next person. Then he eased out the camera so that there was nothing inside which would show up.
He handed back the case. “That’s better.” It passed through and he picked it up. There was no tap on the shoulder. No one asked to look inside. He was through. But it was far too amateur.
As he sipped coffee at 28,000 feet he thought what a fool he’d been. He’d have to think of something more suitable, for soon his life would be always on the move. He’d need money with him. Quite large sums, possibly. Easily transferable and yet not obvious to customs or Security. He’d have to think of something.
As the plane made its approach to the modern catherine wheel of Charles de Gaulle Airport he still hadn’t found the answer.
TRING—8th FEBRUARY
FRIDAY
The telephone rang. It was not the first time since Bellamy had left for Paris earlier that day. It was 6.30 p.m. Friday evening. Outside a freezing fog was descending. The red brick buildings across the street were silhouettes only, with blurred patches of light, vaguely seen.
“Padon Intercontinental, Mr Bellamy’s secretary.”
“Working late, are you, Madam?” The voice was harsh, the accent Welsh. “Is Mr Bellamy there, please?”
“No. I’m afraid not. He’s abroad on business. Won’t be back till after the weekend. Can I give him a message? Who’s calling?”
For a second Mandy waited for a reply. Then the line went dead. She stood alone in a seedy, first-floor room in Tring and stared at the receiver. She suddenly felt very alone. Irrational really. But then it couldn’t be a wrong number. No. Perhaps he’d been cut off. Yes. He’d ring back.
But he didn’t.
After a supper of Yoghourt and crispbread she went to bed. But not before she’d locked the office door. And all the windows. And double-checked. She lay in bed, intensely aware of every sound in the two-storey building. The stillness of the night was an amplifier to every creak, every rattle, every sound explicable or inexplicable.
She fell asleep at 2.00 a.m., exhausted by fear.
PARIS—8th FEBRUARY
FRIDAY
“Alain?” Bellamy was speaking from the Air Terminal.
“Oui.”
“Patrick here. You O.K.?”
“Patrick! Yes. Yes.” The voice was doubtful.
“I’m in Paris. I must see you tonight.”
“Yes. Shall we meet here?”
“No. You know my rules about that. Meet me at La Cloche d’Or. 8.00 p.m.”
“Where are you staying?”
“That is my business.” Bellamy put down the receiver and went in search of a taxi.
*
Looking entirely English, Bellamy sat at a corner table. His pin-striped suit, elegantly knotted silk tie and well-groomed appearance gave him the air of authority which he wanted. Maitrise was ten minutes late, arriving looking slightly breathless, haunted and somewhat unwell. As the Frenchman was ushered to the table Bellamy studied his partner. The features were latinate, the moustache thin and mean and the black hair above the sallow complexion was thinning. Perhaps, to the French, he looked like everybody’s favourite uncle but he reminded Bellamy of black-hat baddies in countless Westerns.
The two men shook hands.
“What would you like?”
“Vichy water, please.”
Bellamy looked surprised. “Not your usual pastis? Nothing stronger? I am paying, you know,” he joked.
“No,” Maitrise paused. “No. No, thank you.” The English was strongly accented.
Bellamy gave him a look which was more than quizzical. “Hangover?” he probed.
“No. Just looking after myself a little better than I used to.” As far as it went, it was true, but he was anxious not to reveal a recent diagnosis of a duodenal ulcer. The pains had only started after getting involved with the Spanish scheme. Deception, theft, receiving, he’d coped with for years but dealing face-to-face with victims was more than his nervous system could stand. He was no less of a hypochondriac than any other Frenchman and inevitably one of his best friends was a chemist. At home his wardrobe was stuffed with sprays, pills, tonics and suppositories for application onto and into every part of his body. But he sometimes wondered whether he felt any better for it.
“Surprised to see me?”
“Yes. I thought we’d meet in Geneva tomorrow.”
“I decided to travel via Paris. I wanted to avoid a direct flight to Geneva. I have a certain amount of money with me. You can see why now?” Bellamy watched the Frenchman nod. “But anyway, I wanted to talk to you. About your sales.” Bellamy broke a chunk of crunchy bread.
“I’ve had difficulties.”
“Which is why I’m here. If I’m satisfied with what you’re doing, then I can protect you from Kurt. If not, then . . . well, you know Kurt.”
The meagre frame of the Frenchman seemed to shrink even further into the roll-necked sweater and brown suit. “I suppose he’s done well?”
“I think so. Anyway—let’s order. But first, how many sales have you achieved?”
“Eight. And you?”
“Eighteen,” replied Bellamy. “That’s over four trips. Two good ones, one O.K. and one a disaster. On one trip I had no sales. A retired stockbroker had slipped our net. Asked all sorts of bloody questions.” Bellamy laughed. “I laugh now. But at the time!” He ran his fingers across his throat. “I can tell you; Mandy tightened up her enquiries after that trip.” Bellamy studied the menu. “You’ll agree that your financial incentives are very generous. You and Kurt get 10% of my sales whilst I get 40% of yours. You’re in for £57,000 already towards your share of the action in Phase Two. So I don’t want complaints about difficulties. If it were that easy then there would be no profit.”
“About Phase Two?” . . . started Maitrise.
Bellamy interrupted. “Forget Phase Two for the moment.”
“Why?”
Bellamy gazed at his Fruits de Mer. He’d heard the question but his mind was elsewhere. “Magnificent! And the Muscadet at just the right temperature. Yes—about Phase Two. If you’d sold another ten properties we’d have raised enough money. But I think we’re going to be short. We’ll know more when we’ve met Kurt tomorrow.”
“Can you tell me anything more about Phase Two yet?”
“No. I’ll tell you when it’s all buttoned up. It’s so delicate, so confidential that I cannot risk any leak. But I can tell you this. This deal is so big, it’ll rock the Italian Government. Not difficult, I grant you, but it will, nevertheless. The size of the deal, the size of the profits is so vast.”
“And so confidential that you cannot tell your partners?”
“If our scheme leaked out, then my informant would be dead within an hour. I would be dead before the end of the day and, if you knew, then I wouldn’t give much for your chances either. You may think it’s better not to know.”
Maitrise looked uneasily at the rare steak which was just arriving for Bellamy. He’d never been keen on blood and, in deference to his own stomach, he’d chosen sole duglère.
“Do you want me to come to the Bank in Geneva?” Maitrise changed the subject.
“No. Not really necessary on this occasion. Monsieur Coupeau is scarcely exciting company, is he?” Bellamy was thinking of Monsieur Albert Coupeau of the pink and well-scrubbed appearance, who was the Account Executive at the Bank in charge of their affairs. He was a man trained to listen a lot and say little. Everything about him was so immaculate, so fastidious, that Bellamy had felt uncomfortable meeting him. Making friends with a computer would have been easier.
On the first occasion when Bellamy had met him to set up the banking arrangements, even the good lunch, whilst overlooking the Pont du Mont Blanc, had failed to mellow the man at all. The bill, at £40, had seemed rather extravagant in the circumstances. But at least Bellamy had learned something of Swiss banks, had learned that cheques weren’t really their function. Coupeau had explained that their job was to receive money, securities and valuables in conditions of utmost secrecy. ‘We are not here to pay standing orders on your gas bill’. Whether said as a joke or as an insult Bellamy had never been certain but Coupeau’s remark had certainly stuck in his memory. But the man had left on good terms, with an agreement reached for an account to be opened, once Bellamy had obtained the specimen signatures from Wernhorst and Maitrise, so that all instructions to the Bank could be authenticated by the three men’s signatures.
“A dull little man, Coupeau, as I remember,” said Maitrise.
“Yes. I was forgetting you had met him when he finalised the account details.” Bellamy watched Maitrise push away his plate, half finished. “Had enough?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“Are you alright, Alain? Perhaps you’re not happy to be in our partnership?”
“Yes. And no. If the sales had been better I’d have enjoyed it more. I’m worried about Kurt.”
“We’ll analyse your sales. If I’m satisfied, then you’ve nothing to worry about.”
*
When he got back to his hotel, Bellamy spared a thought for Mandy. For a brief moment, as he climbed into bed, he missed her. But it was very brief.
GENEVA–9th FEBRUARY
SATURDAY
A prosperous-looking Kurt Wernhorst entered the hotel foyer. He was immaculate in a crisp cream suit, brown shirt and matching tie. He stood 6′ 2″ tall, slim build, bronzed face and fair hair, in a style and appearance which never varied. Although thinning, there was no hint of baldness. The German’s lips were too narrow to give warmth unless he broke into a smile and it was a face which commanded respect rather than affection.
“Kurt! You’d like to wash and change, I expect?” Bellamy’s greeting was friendly. “Shall we meet in my room at say 3.45? I’ll have tea laid on.”
