Crime Writers and Other Animals (28 page)

I must say his game was pretty rusty. He said he hadn't played since school but in the interim he seemed to have forgotten most of the rules. I mean, granted they are pretty complicated – if you don't know them, I haven't got time to explain all about penthouses and galleries and tambours and grilles and things now – but I thought for anyone who had played a bit, they'd come back pretty quickly. Not to poor old Roland Puissant, though. Acted like he'd never been on a Real Tennis court in his life.

Still, I suppose he was preoccupied with money worries. Though, bless his heart, he seemed to be much more concerned about my sixty grand than his own one point two million. I think he was just an old-fashioned gentleman who hated the idea of being in debt to anyone – particularly a friend of long standing. The idea really gnawed away at him.

The game seemed to come back to him a bit more by the end of the booking and, when our time was up, we'd got into quite a decent knock-up. Enough to work up a good sweat, anyway, and dictate that we had showers before we got stuck into the sauce.

It was when Roland was stripped off that I noticed how tanned he was. Except for the dead white strip where his swimming shorts had been, he was a deep, even brown all over.

‘I say,' I joked as he moved into the shower, ‘you been spending all my money lying about sunbathing, have you, Roland?'

He turned on me a look of surprising intensity. ‘Damn, I didn't want you to see that,' he hissed.

‘Why? My suggestion true then, is it?' I still maintained the joshing tone, but for the first time a little trickle of suspicion seeped into my mind.

‘No, of course not,' Roland replied impatiently. ‘This happened when I got captured.'

‘You got captured? You didn't tell me.'

‘No, well, I . . . No point in your knowing, really – nothing you could do about it now. And I . . . well, I'd rather not think about it.' He looked genuinely upset now. I'd stirred up some deeply unpleasant memories.

‘What did they do to you, Roland?' I asked gently.

‘Oh, they . . . Well, they stripped me off down to my boxer shorts and left me strapped out in the sun for three days.'

‘Good God.'

He gave me a brave, wry grin. ‘One way to get a suntan, eh? Though there are more comfortable ones.'

‘But if you were strapped down . . .' I began logically ‘. . . wouldn't you just be tanned on your front
or
your back? . . . Unless of course your captors came and turned you over every few hours.' I chuckled.

Roland's eyes glowed painfully with the memory as he hissed, ‘Yes, they did. That's exactly what they did. So that I'd have to have the pressure of my body bearing down on my sunburnt skin.'

‘Good heavens! And those scratches on your back – were they part of the torture too?'

‘Scratches?'

I pointed to a few scrapes that looked as if they might have been made by clutching fingernails.

‘Oh yes,' said Roland. ‘Yes, that was when they . . .' He coloured and shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, I'd really rather not talk about it.'

‘I fully understand, old man.' I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Still, you escaped with your life.'

‘Yes.' He gritted his teeth. ‘Touch and go on a few occasions, but I escaped with my life . . .' He sighed mournfully. ‘Though sadly not with your money.'

‘Don't worry. We'll have another go. We'll get our revenge on Felicia Rushworth one way or the other.'

‘Hope so,' said Roland ruefully as he ducked in under the spray of his shower.

At that moment his mobile phone rang. It was in the clothes locker he had just opened. ‘Shall I get it?' I asked.

‘Well, perhaps I should—'

I pressed the button to establish contact. The caller spoke immediately. It was a voice I recognized.

I held the receiver across to Roland, who had emerged from the shower rubbing his eyes with a towel. ‘Felicia Rushworth,' I said.

He looked shocked as he took the phone. He held his hand over the receiver. ‘Probably better if I handle this privately,' he said, and moved swiftly from the changing room area to the corridor outside.

I sat down on the wooden bench, deep in thought. The words Felicia Rushworth spoke before she realized the wrong person had answered had been: ‘Roland, is the idiot still buying the story?'

Now, I'm a pretty shrewd guy, and I smelled a rat. For a start, Felicia's tone of voice had sounded intimate, like she and Roland were on the same side rather than ferocious adversaries. Also, if one was looking round for someone to cast in the role of the ‘idiot' who was hopefully ‘buying the story' . . . well, there weren't that many candidates.

Roland's wallet was in the back pocket of his trousers, hanging in the locker. Normally I wouldn't pry into a chap's private possessions, but, if the ugly scenario slowly taking shape in my brain was true, then these weren't normal circumstances.

Nothing in the wallet had the name ‘Roland Puissant' on it. All the credit cards were imprinted with ‘R. J. D. Rushworth.' In the jacket pocket I found a book of matches from the Sunshine Strand Luxury Hotel, Montego Bay, Jamaica.

I heard the door to the changing room clatter closed and looked up. ‘Roland' was holding the phone, and had a towel wrapped round his waist.

‘God, she's got a nerve, that woman – bloody ringing me up to taunt me about what she's done.'

‘Oh yes?'

He must've caught something in my tone, because he looked at me sharply. ‘What's up, old man?'

‘The game, I would say, “Roland Puissant.”'

He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Look, I'm sorry. I told you I haven't played for a while, bit rusty on the old—'

‘Not that game. You know exactly what I mean.'

‘Do I?'

I hadn't moved from the bench. I'd curbed my anger, not even raised my voice while I assessed how I was going to play the scene.

I still didn't raise my voice as I said, ‘I've just looked in your wallet. All your credit cards are in the name of “R. J. D. Rushworth.”'

‘Yes,' he replied in a matter-of-fact way. ‘I only got back last night. I haven't got round to changing them yet.'

‘What do you mean? Aren't you R. J. D. Rushworth?'

He looked at me incredulously. ‘Of course I'm not, Nicky. For God's sake – you know I'm Roland Puissant, don't you? But you surely never thought I was going to travel to Jamaica under my own name, did you? I didn't want to advertise to Felicia what I was up to.'

For a second I was almost convinced, until another discordant detail struck me. ‘But why, of all the names in the world, did you choose her name – “Rushworth”?'

‘Well, I had to get to see her, didn't I? Felicia's got her security pretty well sorted out. I had to pretend to be her husband, so that they'd let me through
to
her.'

‘But the minute she saw you, your cover'd be blown.'

‘That was a risk I was prepared to take.' He winced. ‘An ill-advised one, as it turned out.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'd been hoping that I'd get to see her on her own, but a couple of her heavies took me in. Well, I had no chance then, had I?'

‘That's when the torturing started?'

He nodded, then shook his head. ‘I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind.'

My heart went out to him. Poor bugger, not only had he lost all his money and been tortured by Caribbean thugs, now one of his best friends was suspecting him of . . .

Just a minute. Just a minute, I said to myself, hold your horses there, old man. The way he'd accounted for the credit cards was maybe feasible, but it didn't explain the words with which Felicia had opened her telephone call.

‘When I answered your phone,' I began coolly, ‘Felicia, presumably thinking she'd got through to you, said: “Roland, is the idiot still buying the story?” . . .'

‘Yes,' he agreed, totally unfazed.

‘Well, would you like to explain to me what she meant by that, because I'm not much enjoying the only explanation my mind's offering.'

Roland looked torn. At last he sighed and said, ‘Well, all right. I suppose I'll have to tell you. I wanted to keep it a secret, but . . .' He sighed again. ‘Nicky, you've heard of Jeffrey Archer?'

‘Hm? Yes, of course I have, but what the hell's he got to do with what we're talking about?'

‘Well, you may know that he lost a lot of money in an investment that went wrong . . .'

‘Yes. I've heard the story.'

‘. . . and then he fixed the situation by writing his way out of it.'

‘Mm.'

‘He sold books and ideas for books and made another huge fortune from that.'

‘Yes, I still don't see—'

‘That's what I've been trying to do, Nicky. I've felt so absolutely lousy about the way you've lost money over this – and all because of me – that I've been trying to sell a book idea so that I can pay you back.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. I've worked out a synopsis for this story about a conman and – touch wood – it's looking good. There's a publisher who's expressing interest – strong interest. Trouble is, I was stupid enough to mention this to Felicia when I was in Jamaica, and now of course she'll never let me hear the end of it. She's tickled to death that she's driven me to try and make money as a writer.'

‘So what she said . . .?'

‘Exactly. She was talking about this publisher . . . for whom she doesn't have a lot of respect. That's why she said, “Roland, is the idiot still buying the story?”'

I couldn't think of anything to say.

‘And the answer,' Roland went on, ‘is – please God – yes. Because if the idiot
does
buy the story, then I have a chance of paying back at least some of the money that my foolish advice has cost one of my best mates – Nicky Foulkes.'

I felt very humbled, you know, by the way Roland was taking my troubles on himself in this way. And to think of the suspicions I'd been within an ace of voicing about him. Well, thank God some instinct stopped me from putting them into words.

Even a nature as generous and loyal as Roland Puissant's might have found that kind of accusation a bit hard to take. Sort of thing that could ruin a really good friendship.

Roland's back in the country again. Called me a couple of days ago. He's been having a dreadful time. Well, we'd both agreed after Felicia managed to escape him in Jamaica, he should have another go to try and retrieve our money. He went on again about mortgaging his house, but I said, don't be daft, we're in this together, and stumped up a bit of ante for his expenses.

Trouble was, when he got to Jamaica, he found Felicia'd moved on. To Acapulco. So he's had to spend the last month down there trying to find her and put the pressure on. Poor bugger, rather him than me, I must say. But one can't but admire his dedication. I'm lucky to have someone like him out there rooting away on my behalf.

Anyway, we've fixed to get together next week. Roland's a bit busy at the moment. But he's making time to meet up with me. Letting me take him out for dinner at Bibendum. Expensive, I know, but it'll be a small price to pay. Roland never stops, you know. Always grafting away on some new scheme or other. He's got a whole lot of new investment opportunities he's going to put my way. If I play my cards right, you know, I think I could be on to another good thing.