Villa plot counterplot, p.8
Villa Plot, Counterplot, page 8
“None. Beer only.”
“O.K.”
The two men weighed each other up. Lloyd was a recommendation from a contact. Neither knew the other and in the way of these things, neither wanted the other to know too much too quickly. It was like the first rounds of a boxing match. Neither was going to give much away to start with but it was Lloyd who did so in the end.
“So you want to fix a contract?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it.”
“Man called Bellamy.”
“Well known?”
“No.”
“Local?”
“Near Aylesbury. But I don’t think he’s there. You may have to go to Spain to find him.”
“Risks?”
“None.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Are the Police after him?”
“No.” Lloyd just sensed that Grummett wasn’t being quite straightforward. He said nothing; simply added the feeling into the figure which he intended to quote.
“Why not fix this Bellamy yourself?” The uneven teeth appeared from the small mouth.
“Look, mate—I’m clean. I want to stay that way. But I want this Bellamy eliminated. You do it. I’ll pay.”
“Right. We’ll talk some more. But, just so you know the size of the game, I want £5,000 down. And another five when I succeed. On top of that I want my expenses.”
Grummett poured the rest of his beer into the pewter tankard. He’d expected as much. It was ridiculous really. For a second he thought back to where it had all started. Just a villa in Spain. But things were getting out of hand and then he thought of Paul and the agony of his death. It’d be worth it to fix the bastard. Police enquiries were continuing. It had to be Bellamy. Right. Get him. The least he could do for his kid brother.
Grummett looked at Lloyd. “You’re on. Let’s sort out the details.”
“Got a photo of him?”
“No.”
“That’s a bleedin’ good start then.”
TRING—8th MARCH
SATURDAY
In the raw greyness of dawn, Charlie Wilkinson, yet again, climbed the time-worn stair treads. Then he examined the tell-tale fixed on the office door. It was undisturbed. The launderette down below had not yet opened. There was another hour before the steamy hurly-burly of the washing machines would commence. All was quiet. It looked as though Bellamy was away for the weekend at least. He’d try again tomorrow night. But he was not hopeful. The notice of the Application to the Court against Bellamy’s bank still lay untouched where he had served it the previous day.
SPAIN—8th MARCH
SATURDAY
Alain Maitrise swung the crowded Seat off the Barcelona road and headed seawards to the patchwork of scrub, hotels and villas which dominated modern day Calpe. Old and new blended about as comfortably as ill-fitting dentures. He was nervous. His ulcer was nagging. The Gitane cigarette was never still, sometimes clenched in his taut lips, sometimes between the stained fingers which gripped the wheel.
He knew it. Bellamy probably knew it. Wernhorst had guessed it; he was chicken! He’d regretted staying in the scheme. His health was deteriorating. The lies and the deceit, when face to face, were too much. To him, property thefts were fair game but these were people, decent people, just like his four passengers about to lose their money.
Another dagger of pain shot through his stomach. What he’d give for that money which Bellamy had offered in Geneva! But it was too late now. He steeled himself for some hard selling.
“You’ll see the site around the corner.” He waved his arm at the sloping hillside down below. His glance became a second look, the second look became a stare. Spasms clutched his throat. He swallowed hard, unable to speak.
“There’s the site,” said Monsieur Buzite, the self-appointed foreman of the passengers. It was a wild and inaccurate guess.
Maitrise fought to control himself. Even so, his voice sounded thin, almost strident. “Probably. Look, I have a couple of calls to make in Calpe. I’ll drop you in the centre. You can soak up some atmosphere and a brandy or two. I shan’t be long.” He shot past the turning to the site.
The steering-wheel was wet in his grasp, his nylon shirt stuck, limpet-like, to his back. He swung the car into the synthetic nastiness of the main street, scattering unevenly matched dogs, which were squaring up for an exchange of fleas.
Without proper ceremony he emptied the car and revved away, leaving the men behind in a cloud of dust.
As he swung into the unmade road, he tried to rationalise what he had seen, hoping that he’d been mistaken. But his worst fears were justified. He could read a number plate at twenty-five yards, so that reading the huge white hoarding presented no problem. It stood at least fifteen feet high and ten feet across, firmly entrenched on the site. Thank God, he’d seen it from the road!
Written, in Spanish, German, English and French, Salvador Gomez and his Associates announced that they were the owners of this “prime” site. Building work would start in September on a restaurant, motel and night-club. An artist’s impression showed the future development in all its glory.
“Merde!” he muttered, cursing Bellamy for his greed. So much for the assurance that the site would remain untouched until June. Alright, there was no building on it, but a hoarding was just as bad! The large, red letters danced before his eyes as panic gripped him. He got out and lit a cigarette, wondering what to do. Tell the men the site had been sold? But suppose they wanted to see it? Suppose they cut up rough? Risky!
He looked round. He was alone. He ran to the notice and rocked it gently at first and then more fiercely. It didn’t budge, its tripod base firmly set in concrete. Frenzied shaking only produced a ripple of movement.
Run! Run! Run anywhere, was the message! Forget Wernhorst and Bellamy! Forget the big time. But the mocking face of Wernhorst returned, the taunt of cowardice. Alternatives? Yes—buy a saw, an axe perhaps. Anything violent. Anything was better than a Spanish prison. He raced the car into town and minutes later was back on site with the freshly-purchased implements.
By swinging the axe like a madman he achieved several irregular notches in the four-by-four legs. His shirt was dank, evil smelling and ruined. His face was smeared with mud and dust. His white trousers were beyond redemption. But he was winning! After the second leg had been severed, the sign wavered and then toppled.
Like the attack of a stoat he set about the sign, hacking and tearing to reduce its size. In his haste he had no time to look about him and certainly not to notice the car parked on the crest of the hill, high above him.
BENIDORM—8th MARCH
SATURDAY
The bread rolls were like grenades; the apricot jam so watered down that it trickled up his sleeve. “Can’t think what Lucy was doing, booking us into this dump,” muttered Duncan over breakfast.
“My bill perhaps?” returned Harper. “But you’re right! Maybe lunch will be better.”
“My lunch will be better. We are not . . . positively not eating here.” He pointed his sticky hand at the tablecloth, spattered with several seasons of Paella and Daddies’ Sauce. “Let’s get out of here! We can have a coffee on the way over to the site.”
*
The road running North from Benidorm was quiet. It was still low season and they were able to make good time in the hired Renault.
“You’ll see the site over there.” Martin pointed down below. “If you pull in you’ll see the whole bay.” The air was warm, the sky blue and a gentle breeze wafted in from the sea. But for the tiers of development, circling the old town, the view would have been stupendous. Now there were cranes, scaffolds, tiny villas, large villas and modern blocks straggling in all directions.
“Which is yours?”
“That one,” pointed Martin.
“That one with the man on it and the car?” It was about six hundred yards away and a couple of hundred feet below. “Now you mention it—yes. That’s part of Bellamy’s land. What’s he doing?”
“Putting up a notice, I think. I’ll get my binoculars.” He came back. “No. He’s taking it down. Using a saw. Take a look!”
“That’s bloody odd! There wasn’t a sign before.” They saw the hoarding fall to the ground and the man could be seen attacking it with an axe.
“Let’s take a look,” said Duncan. It took less than two minutes to zig-zag to the junction with the site road. The Renault didn’t enjoy the potholes in the narrow track and progress was frustratingly slow. Then they rounded the bend and saw the Seat parked about seventy-five yards away. It was at the point where the track dwindled into nothing. To its right was the unknown man, bending over his work.
As he heard the approaching vehicle he looked up. With no second thought he abandoned his task and started to run down the slope, dodging the boulders. He reached his car just as Duncan was pulling up.
“Stop him!” cried Duncan.
“Right,” said Harper, as they both jumped out. Maitrise got his car started just as Duncan was close enough to feel the blast of the exhaust. The Seat leapt forward and rocked violently, as the driver fought to turn it round. In a remarkably tight circle he did so and the new arrivals blocked the only exit. Maitrise could see that they were big men. Who they were he had no idea. At a guess, they were the Dutch owners or friends of Señor Gomez. There had been no time to think but he knew that the choice was to stop and face it out or to press on. He accelerated the car violently.
“Look out!” cried Duncan, immediately sensing the danger. The small car was almost on them as Harper jumped clear. Duncan sidestepped and grabbed at the driver’s door as it passed. Instantly he was whisked off his feet and found himself being dragged along in a cloud of dust. But his left hand had a good grip on the frame of the open window.
As the car lurched and rocked down the narrow track, at an absurd speed, Duncan fought to get a second hand on the frame. Above him, he could just see the side of a ferrety moustached face, heavy with perspiration. The journey towards the main road seemed endless. He knew that, if he could hang on till then, the man might have to stop. That would be the moment to strike!
As he gyrated helplessly, his legs banging, sometimes against the ground, sometimes against the car, he saw the “T” junction ahead. His hopes rose, only at once to be shattered in a shriek of pain as Maitrise thumped a heavy torch against his hand. His grip went at once. He was rolling, spinning and bumping along the ground and then there was nothing.
For how long he was unconscious he wasn’t sure. When he came round, Harper was bending over him.
“You alright?”
“Help me up and I’ll tell you.” He stood, shaking, before sitting down on a boulder.
“That’s what you hit, old son.” Harper pointed out a patch of blood on the rock which matched the gash on Duncan’s left temple.
“My fingers aren’t so hot either! The bastard hit me across the knuckles. That’s why I had to let go. He’s disappeared, I suppose.”
“I saw his car roaring up the hill but whether he headed north for Valencia or south for Benidorm we’ll never know.”
“Give me a couple of minutes. Then I think we ought to take a look at the notice. After that, I’ll have to go back to the hotel for a bath and a change of clothing or I’m going to ache all over.”
The splintered remains of the sign were quickly reassembled. They studied the words. “Doesn’t look promising, does it?”
“Not exactly,” replied Harper.
“After lunch we’ll make some enquiries about Señor Gomez. Whoever the man was, he didn’t care for Señor Gomez putting up this hoarding. Maybe it cramped his style.” Duncan studied the brand-new axe and saw. “But I’ll bet you a Fundador to a Spanish flea that you’ve lost your money. This man wasn’t just removing the notice. He was annihilating it!”
“It wasn’t Bellamy.”
“I was going to ask that. You’re sure?”
“Yes. That chap looked Spanish to me.”
“Me, too.”
*
Patched up and in clean clothes, Duncan looked spruce except for the lump on his head, which he had covered with a plaster.
“Sure you won’t have lunch here?” enquired Harper.
“Get lost!” Duncan sniffed the hot air wafting from the dining room. “If I try their Rissoles Flamenco I’ll suffer a permanent relapse.” The clatter and chatter of plates, cutlery and false teeth made his head ache. “There’s a particularly fine restaurant down the road. How about some lobster? That, and a bottle of chilled white wine. There’s a lot of dust to remove from my throat.”
*
After a leisurely lunch they visited a property agent in Calpe. Fighting off his attempts to sell them a villa had made them thirsty and so they stopped at a bar by the sandy beach. It was Duncan who spoke first. “If that agent’s right, then this Dutch syndicate, with Salvador Gomez, will have registered a title to the land so that they can build the nightclub.” He added the Coke to the rum. “And you know where that leaves you.”
“You’re paid to advise me. What next?”
“Not easy. You blighters who fiddle the Taxman bring it on yourselves. Customs and Excise are after you for V.A.T. You can’t go to the Police and you can’t stand the publicity of litigation in case the Taxman is watching. According to your accounts, you can’t afford to eat, let alone own a villa in Spain.” Harper grinned sheepishly. “The Vatman cometh,” Duncan concluded.
“The short and curlies?”
“Yes. Did you know the Revenue has a department scanning newspapers for titbits suggesting tax evasion? One sniff of publicity and you’ll have someone checking how many bottles of whisky you’ve watered down; how many cash sales you’ve pocketed; how many bottles of whisky you’ve bought for cash and sold by the tot, without passing through the till.”
“Oh hell! I’m going to get very drunk tonight!”
Duncan ignored the remark. “But I’ve set up a Chambers Application against Bellamy’s bank for Tuesday. That’s in private. It’s . . . a long shot.”
“Why?”
“We might just find out something about Bellamy. And his money. If we do, then it’ll be a job for Charlie Wilkinson to do a bit of leaning. He’s good at that.”
Alistair Duncan stretched luxuriously. “I’m getting to enjoy myself out here.” The beach down below was pleasantly full of bikini-clad figures, soaking up the sun and sleeping away the afternoon before the evening’s entertainment. “But there’s still one or two things I want to do before I leave.”
“Letting yourself go at last, are you?”
“Business, all in the course of business. I’ve had an idea and I think it’s a good one.”
“You should get a bang on the head more often.”
Duncan heard the remark and smiled in appreciation but his thoughts were already elsewhere. It was a good idea. Not for the first time he found himself working harder for success than his own client. It was fairly usual. He thought about it for a few moments and then glanced to his right. Harper’s eyes were shut, his feet high off the ground in a reclining chair. The third brandy had done it. Duncan left him snoring gently on the balcony of the café.
BENIDORM—8th MARCH
SATURDAY
“How can I help you, old boy?” The voice spoke of generations of breeding, topped generously with whisky. And not too much water thank you.
Alistair Duncan smiled. He was in the offices of Searle Harcourt & Co., Property Agents in Benidorm.
“Thank you. Mr Harcourt?”
“Yes.” The smile was extrovert in the almost Pickwickian face, complete with its round, rimless glasses and sandy coloured hair, which lay like flotsam on the man’s pinkened head. Inside the linen suit was an overweight body, which would have tested the strength of the best of deck chairs.
“My name’s Alistair Duncan. I’m a partner in a firm of solicitors in Bristol.”
“My dear chap! Bristol!” Then the face clouded. “But not the centre of Bristol, I trust. No, of course not. Dare I hope from the Gloucestershire side?”
“Sorry to disappoint you. Pensford. The old Somerset side.”
“Could be worse. Could have been,” he paused “Weston-super-Mare. I’m from Cheltenham. I’ve a little place outside there at Cleeve. I just came out here for fun. And it is fun, you know. Such de-light-ful people you meet down here sometimes. As you’ll see in a minute. I’ve an appointment with a Scandinavian lady. Absolute cracker. She’s interested in a little property just up the Coast. Anyway, how can I help?”
“I think one of my clients has been caught by a property fraud.”
“Plenty about, old chap. Not quite as much as there was. But still enough. So . . . tiresome. Gets us true-blues a bad name.” He drew on his cigar. “Plenty of money in this game, without cheating, old chap. Have a drink, my dear friend. The sun’s well up, after all.” He poured two large whiskies. “Who do you fancy for the County Championship this year? That’s one thing about Spain. No damn cricket out here. Not even on television. What I’d give for an afternoon at the County Ground. Still. It’s help you wanted.”
“Do you know Salvador Gomez’ site at Calpe? There’s going to be a night club there.”
“Know it well, old chap. I’m selling just by there. Nice little plot.”
“Right. I need to know the Title history to that land. I want to know when Salvador Gomez bought, who the sellers were, what company he used, who the owners of the company were, who signed the documents. Get it any way you like. I’ll see you right.”
“Don’t want money. Got plenty of that. Delighted to help. Sorry you’re not from Gloucestershire though. It won’t be easy. But I do have certain contacts out here. This is my fifth year, you know.”
Alistair Duncan thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you what. You get me the information I need and then be my guest at Lords for the Centenary Test at the end of August. I’ve got tickets for the Warner Stand for the five days.”
