Dying for Millions (19 page)

I'm not generally keen on being paired off, even by my friends. But you never know when you'll need a solicitor, so I prepared to charm and be charming. And thus passed a delightful evening.

Arun appeared promptly at eleven. It seemed that working parents needed early nights. And Afzal and I went our separate ways.

I wish I'd been that owl, watching from the sycamore tree opposite.

He'd have witnessed a small woman, insistent that she didn't need any help to get out of a D-registered blue Datsun; and a tall, broad-shouldered Asian man, driver of the car, equally insistent that she did. And as she struggled out, he seized her by the arm.

OK. Tame so far. But then another man rushed up, scrabbling for a grip on the icy pavement, and cannoned into the others, knocking them both off their feet. The Asian was quicker to recover. Soon on his feet, he was braced for unarmed combat: braced until he fell over. Each time the woman made an effort to join him in an upright position, she was knocked back down by a flying male foot. Soon, all three were in a sprawling heap. What a pity they weren't voles, or rats! They'd have been easy pickings.

‘
No
! Stop it, the pair of you! Here, pick me up.' I stuck up my arms. ‘Chris, this is Arun: Arun, this is the police. The
police
!'

Arun was first on his feet, having crawled off the path and on to the grass. He leaned over to me, but by now Chris was vertical enough to want to help. So an ungainly procession staggered to the house: end of owl's entertainment.

And at this point I got frightened.

I always drew my living-room curtains and left on the lights: elementary burglar precautions. Sometimes I left the radio on a talk programme though I couldn't remember doing so this time. But this didn't sound like a radio voice. It sounded like someone having a row. In my living room.

The door at least was undamaged, so whoever had got in had done so with a key. Chris's was poised in his hand; so was mine. Cocking an eye at Chris, who nodded sternly to Arun, I inserted it. The men shouldered their way in, the senior policeman and the Afghan warrior. I followed.

He was no match for them, of course. They brought him down easily, but not before he'd unloosed a stream of invective that startled even me.

‘Andy? What the hell d'you think you're doing? Chris – Arun – this is my cousin Andy.'

Chris extended a disdainful hand; Arun stood by, suspicious, then extended his in turn.

‘You all right now, Sophie? You just call me if you have any hassle – right?'

‘Right. Thanks very much, Arun. Sorry for all this – trouble. And thanks for making the evening so splendid.' I saw him to the door.

It took no more than a couple of minutes to wave him off. Then I came in, via the kitchen, to poke the central-heating into another hour's life. I filled the kettle and fished out the Jameson's – each to his own. I took the whiskey and three glasses through: anyone wanting coffee could make it.

‘Sophie, what the hell are you doing out at this time of night?'

Had they had time to rehearse it: this simultaneous interrogation? I shrugged, being deliberately obtuse. ‘It's only just gone eleven.'

‘You know what I mean,' said Andy.

‘And with
that
guy? Drugs have been wanting to nail him as long as I can remember. Jesus, Sophie—'

‘You sound just like Ian Dale,' I said.

‘Why didn't you tell me where you were going?' he continued, as if I hadn't spoken.

‘You moan at me for not taking care of myself,' Andy chimed in, ‘and then you go out with that bastard! Your latest bit of rough, is he? Chris, can't you get some sense into her?'

‘Gave up trying. What the fuck are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were safely down at Rose Road.'

‘I told Stephenson where I'd be staying. She didn't object – in fact, she had me delivered here, and a couple of kids checked the place over to make sure it was safe. Don't see how she
could
object, anyway – I'm not under arrest. I've co-operated fully, my stuff has been searched, I've even handed over my keys so they can search my home. They've already given what was supposed to be a safe house the spring-cleaning of its life. I did offer them my passport, but I had to change my mind about that – I'm due at the White House next Saturday.'

Did he
really
say that? Or had I imagined it?

I poured a couple of fingers' worth of Jameson's for myself, and waved the bottle at the other glasses. Both men nodded absently, but two hands reached eagerly for the tots when I'd poured them.

‘So what are you doing here?' Andy made the question less offensive than it could have been.

‘Trying to keep an eye on Sophie, of course. So where the hell
were
you?' Chris turned to me. ‘I tried phoning you,' he said, thoroughly aggrieved.

‘Out for supper at Shahida's. Wonderful meal.' Oddly, though, my stomach was protesting; since I was always on excellent terms with it, I didn't know how to react. With contempt, I decided, and swigged the Jameson's. I did, however, sit down.

‘Sophie? Sophie?' The chorus effect would have made me laugh if I hadn't been fending off a spear of pain.

‘Spot of indigestion, that's all,' I gasped. That was
all
? I hadn't so much as a peppermint in the house to ease it.

‘Whiskey should be good for that,' Chris said anxiously. ‘Shouldn't it?'

‘Perhaps brandy instead? In the cupboard, chick?'

‘Add some water – she usually sloshes it down neat.'

Had it not been for the pain, which doubled me up if I sat anything other than bolt-upright, I could have found the whole business entertaining. Andy went rooting round my kitchen, and then headed upstairs; he came back clutching a packet of antacid tablets. ‘Corn in Egypt,' he said, passing one to me. ‘Had a spot of bother in Canberra. These worked. Don't half make you fart, though.'

Chris inspected them. ‘I can get some more from the rota chemist tomorrow.'

‘Today,' I said, swallowing gungy peppermint and begging it to work.

‘Have you got a hot-water bottle? That might help. Ruth swears by hot bottles.'

Revolted, I stood up. ‘Never needed one. Night, night. Finish my whiskey, someone.'

So I had a police escort after all. At bed-time it was my stomach's fault we didn't bonk: next morning Chris was up harrying duty pharmacists before I even woke.

As days of rest went, Sunday wasn't very restful. After their initial bonding, Andy and Chris rapidly came unstuck. The process began with the news, accelerated with ‘Letter from America' and was full-blown by the time we discussed lunch. Andy was in awkward though not vegetarian mode again, and was loudly unhappy about eating beef in the form of steak from my freezer. Chris cited government advice, and eventually I threatened to send Andy off on my bike to inspect the ORGANIC sign in Brown's window for himself.

Chris, full of conscious virtue, peeled and sliced potatoes.

What I couldn't understand was why Chris was hanging on. And on. What on earth was he getting from our relationship – if that was what it still was?

And then I remembered Ollie. We were supposed to be lunching! So how would the four of us get on? My stomach kicked at the thought of it. What I would dearly have liked to do was simply go on my own, leaving Andy and Chris to fight it out; I had, after all, a very strong suspicion that Chris would disapprove of the list I hoped Ollie was finding for me. And, as I chomped another antacid, I wondered what on earth I'd wanted the list for anyway. Why couldn't I leave well alone?

In the end, we all four sat down to a variety of roasts – nut roast for Andy – in a carvery that purported to be posh and specialised in cleverly-disguised cardboard. Chris, spare to the point of asceticism, tried not to sneer at Ollie's encroaching paunchiness and silly curly hair, while doubtless fulfilling the worst of Ollie's expectations of what a policeman should look like. Andy was in bland host mode. It was all very dull and depressing.

Ollie slipped me the list when – eventually – Chris went to the loo. ‘God, that man's bladder capacity,' he muttered. ‘There! Put it in your handbag, love. Hey, Andy, remember that time we doctored that geezer's handbag?'

‘Supporting act,' said Andy, in parenthesis. ‘Bloke had a handbag before they were commonplace. Some of the lads thought it would be funny to fill it with condoms.'

‘Not what you lot'd call politically correct, of course,' Ollie chuckled. ‘Close your bag, sweetheart – Laughing Laddie's on his way. Bags it isn't me tells him his flies are undone. Now, drink up, Sophie:
A glass of wine for your stomach's sake
. That's what it says in the Good Book.'

White wine couldn't do any harm. Could it? One sip and a red-hot poker plunged neatly into the place the whiskey had found last night. This was no longer in the least entertaining.

I've never played chess with anyone older than five, though I do have a very impressive set, which I keep as an ornament. I'd never have expected it to be a life-saver. Chris and Andy fell on it, pushing all my rubbish to the end of the dining table to make space for their confrontation: my preparation and I were relegated to the sofa. Since they appeared to be vying with each other to see who would take the longest time over each move, I judged it safe to examine Ollie's list. I knew one or two of the people, of course, including Phiz, but in general they were just names. Ollie had also listed nicknames and the field each man specialised in: sound, lighting, general dog'sbodying. And addresses and contact numbers – home and mobile. All very clear – and no use at all.

Silence from the chess-players.

At seven Andy broke it. ‘If you've got a bad stomach, chick, you should eat something.'

Before I had time to be touched by his thoughtfulness, he added, ‘And Chris and I could manage a sandwich.'

At nine, Chris pushed away from the board. ‘Shit! I'm going to have to concede. I should have been on the road hours ago. Back to the grindstone.'

He lingered long enough to use the lavatory and pick up his bag – I later found yesterday's socks, pants and shirt his side of the bed – and was off. A warm handshake for Andy. A distant peck on the cheek for me.

Andy returned to the board, reliving the moves he and Chris had made. ‘You know, he shouldn't have conceded.' He muttered something about rooks. ‘I reckon he'd have had me on the ropes. Good bloke underneath it all.'

‘He's OK. Andy, why are you down here without Griff? It can't be safe. There's room for him here—'

‘I'd rather he kept an eye on Ruth.'

‘One of his henchmen, then.'

‘Oh, the police are so keen to make something stick, I can't wipe my arse without them knowing,' he said, so airily I could have strangled him. He strolled over to the front window, pulling back the curtains to look out.

‘Get away from there, for Christ's sake!' I pulled him away and drew the curtains tightly.

‘I was only looking—'

‘You don't, when someone's after you, “only do” anything,' I said, furious with my voice for cracking.

‘Poor old thing,' he said, stroking my hair as if I were a particularly bedraggled stray cat. ‘I'll make you a cup of tea, shall I?'

‘What you ought to be doing is looking at Ollie's list. See if there's anyone you've ever beaten at chess.'

‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.' He took the list from me, and his eyes ranged over it, but he put it down without comment. He went over to the phone. From the number of digits it was long distance. And although he didn't say her name, it was clear he was speaking to Ruth.

I gathered up the mugs and plates. Might as well wash up.

I was drying the last teaspoon when he breezed in. ‘They're moving her,' he said. ‘Now. To another safe house. Another friend of Griff's. Why don't you leave that to me and go to bed?'

There was no doubt about it: someone was committing fraud. And it seemed as if it might be on quite a large scale. Gurjit moved the cursor inexorably down the screen, scrolling on to other, equally damning pages.

I had gone to the airport on the earliest evening I could, Monday – to satisfy either her or my conscience, I wasn't sure which – and was now peering at her computer.

‘Any idea where it's all going?' I asked.

‘I haven't had time even to contemplate that. My job, after all, is a clerical one. I have to complete the requisite amount of work each evening I come here. Goodness knows I've more than enough! Look at that pile – that's the backlog I've got to deal with. Mark said to send them all out together. And when I go home there are my college assignments. I dare not get behind in those. Mr Jagger thought I might obtain As if I continued to work well.'

‘Good for you! Look, can you print some of this material off while you continue with your routine work? Then I could have another look without disturbing you.' What I wanted to do was see if a regular pattern emerged: then Gurjit could present her findings to Mark with appropriate recommendations.

She hesitated, then switched on the printer. It purred into life, and a stream of paper emerged, gentle as a caress. I thought about our dot matrix at work. I unwrapped a sandwich. A fire-alarm – false, it transpired – had cut short my lunch, and though I'd promised myself another meal at the Italian place, Richard had called a tea-time meeting about our retention rates. Under the new funding rules the college had to recruit eight per cent more students than the previous year, keep the students whatever their behaviour or aptitude, and make sure it maintained its traditional good exam results. It didn't take a genius to realise that these goals were mutually incompatible, so it was a resentful and frustrated group of people who gathered in an empty classroom. I'd started to chomp surreptitiously on plain biscuits in an attempt to appease my stomach, but had so clearly irritated Richard that I tucked most of the packet into my bag. At least I now had a second course.