That Will Do Nicely (14 page)

"You're sure?"

"Yes. Quite sure. This morning went like a dream and if you had no problems at the office, then we're home and dry."

Sam reached for him and hugged him close. He tasted salt tears on her face.

"You're crying, darling. What's the matter?"

"It's because I'm happy
," sobbed Sam. "I'm so happy." Her mascara had run and ruined her make up.

"I think you'd better rescue your face before we get to Bromley."

The car was just where Pascoe had left it and apart from having to use a lot of choke, it started without too much trouble. Although the roads in Bromley were strange to him, he had little difficulty picking up the signs for the M 2 motorway. Sam was asleep within minutes and dozed for the first 20 miles and only woke up after they had joined on the actual motorway.

"Didn't you mention
something to me about Paris?" she asked as soon as she stirred.

"Typical of a woman to remember something like that."

"Then why didn't we go straight to the airport and fly."

"Two reasons. If we had left the car at the station longer than I had bought the tickets for, it would have been noticed and secondly, what would we have said if French customs had asked us to open the briefcases?"

"I understand about the car, but surely there isn't a problem taking the money into France, is there?"

"Unfortunately, they don't have the freedom from exchange controls that we have and it's necessary to declare amounts over 10,000 francs."

"Is that very much?"

"Not in terms of how much you have in your case, but it’s about £800 or so in sterling. It's best not to take the risk."

"Does that mean that I've said goodbye to my trip to Paris?"

"Of course not
. We'll take the ferry from Dover this evening."

"Won't we have the same problems with the customs there?"

"Not if we arrive in Calais after six o'clock."

"Why?"

"Because the port customs officers work 9 to 5 hours and only keep a couple of officers on after that, to handle the freight traffic and the coaches and motorists."

"But that means us.
"

"Not
if we travel as foot passengers.., they never check them!

They arrived at the flat in Canterbury shortly before five o'clock to be greeted by a motley collection of milk bottles on the doorstep. On the doormat lay an assortment of letters and bills
... mostly bills.

"Is there anything here which needs dealing
with before we go?" he called out to Sam as he picked them up.

"No,
I don't think so.., I'll just leave a note for the milkman to cancel until further notice."

"How long will it take you to get ready
.., remember, we're travelling light."

"Twenty minutes."

"Make it ten if you can."

"O.K
." She said, moving towards the bathroom.

Pascoe was worried about the money; they had a little over £300,000 in their luggage and he didn't want to risk taking it all with them and yet at the same time couldn’t chance leaving it in the flat, so while Sam was freshening up, he removed the money from the briefcases and packed it into the two flight-bags, keeping £50,000 for the trip to France. He took the flight bags out to the car, emptied the boot of its contents, raised the carpet and lifted the spare-wheel from its compartment. Then with a little effort, he managed to wedge the bags into the space where the spare had been and replaced the carpet, laying the wheel on top of it with the rest of the boot's paraphernalia scattered about. As a long-term hiding place, it would fool no one, but for the week or so that they intended to be away, it would suffice.

Once under way, Pascoe drove to a garage near the West Gate Towers in Canterbury, where he remembered seeing lock-up garages for rent on a long-term basis. The man at the garage assured him that the car and its contents would be quite safe, as there was always somebody on the site. Pascoe paid up front for a month's rent and asked the proprietor to call a taxi to take them to the East Station.

"Why the lock-up?" Sam asked on the way to the station.

"It was the safest place I could think of for the money," he whispered.

"You mean you left the money in the car?" She asked incredulously.

"Best place for it. It's hidden in the boot, under lock and key; they have somebody looking after the garage 24 hours a day and it certainly won't get searched by police or customs!" Sam's face showed just what she thought off the idea.

The trip to Dover was tedious, if short, except for the memory it triggered of the journey to London that had started it all. One day he would tell Sam all about it. They left the train at the Priory Station
, a desolate place for foreign visitors to arrive. No one would ever guess from its appearance that it was one of the world's busiest railway stations. Sadly, it reflected England's worn out, down-at-heel character and they were pleased to leave it.

A short journey by courtesy bus took them quickly to the Eastern Dock Booking Hall, where they bought their Foot Passenger tickets. At Immigration their passports received only a cursory check.

There were only a few people on board the ferry, mostly coach passengers. Once the ship was under way, they made for the dining room and enjoyed a relaxed meal for the first time in a week. Over coffee and Armagnac, Pascoe handed Sam her security cards and key for the safe deposit.

“What is it?" She asked, looking at the curiously shaped key.

"It's the key to your future. I placed the bulk of the money in two safety deposit boxes in London, one for each of us. You'll need this card to get into the strong room, and this key, together with theirs to open your box.

“Thanks, it feels nice to be financially independent!"

The crossing was as smooth as silk and they dozed for most of the way. At Calais, there were no customs or immigration officers on duty at the port and for all the authorities knew, they could have been smuggling guns or heroin. From the reception area at the port he dialed the number of the local taxi company and requested a taxi to take them to a hotel in the town. His command of the French language was so complete that within the first micro-second of speaking to the telephonist in the taxi office, she switched to English.

At the hotel he was welcomed as an old friend
, he had been a regular visitor to Calais and had stayed at the same place on his regular visits over the last ten years.

"Salut mon vieux," came the expected greeting. He shook hands with his host and asked for his usual room, explaining that Sam was very tired and needed to sleep straight away. After taking her to the bedroom, he returned to the hotel’s bar, for what he knew would become an exhausting drinking session
and exchanged pleasantries and too many glasses of pastis until well after midnight. Pascoe knew he'd pay the price for his over indulgence, because he had reached an age where his kidneys, liver and stomach readily reminded him when he had had too much. In bed, his last conscious thoughts as he drifted into a heavy sleep, were 'c'est la guerre!' For the moment, a smile played briefly on his lips.., whether it would still be there in the morning only time would tell.

The best laid plans of mice and men…

They slept the sleep of the dead until they were eventually woken by the hotelier's insistent knocking on their door. It took Pascoe several seconds to work out where he was. Sam merely stirred, turned onto her other side and drifted straight back off to sleep.

"C'est l'heure," came the call from through the door.

"O.K." Shouted Pascoe, wondering if the expression meant the same in French. His watch, showed
it was 10.30 a.m., and he realized how tired he must have been from the exertions of the previous week. After a quick shave, he went down to the bar to breakfast alone.

"Nom de dieu. Quelle heure a-t'il?" His friend ribbed him, looking at his watch.

"Onze heures moins le quart," Pascoe replied.

"Onze heures moins le quart?
Regard," said his friend Delangue, pointing to to the clock above the bar, "c'est presque midi!" Pascoe had forgotten the time difference which meant that they had slept in until nearly mid-day. The hotelier, Gilbert Delangue, put his arm around Pascoe's shoulder and walked him toward the bar, switching to English, which he spoke like a native.

"She must have given you a hard night
.., that new woman of yours. She is delightful, yes?"

"You could say that." Pascoe didn't want to get into a conversation which would inevitably lead to discussing the split with his wife, so he allowed the Frenchman to fantasize.

"It is almost mid-day, my friend, time for a glass - it will for you be breakfast!" Delangue poured from the bottle of Pastis they had started the previous evening. Pascoe knowing it would be futile to protest waited until after the second glass before he excused himself and returned to Sam.

Because they had overslept, it was past five o'clock when they finally reached Paris by train. Pascoe made straight for a place he knew of old in the nearby Rue des Petits Hotels. Across the Channel events had been gathering pace.

Luck had finally ran out for the American who had called himself O'Hara. He had chosen to work Heathrow airport again, on the same day that one of the special police anti-pickpocket squads had concentrated on the international arrival lounge. By the time he'd been arrested it had been too late to do anything except brazen it out. Too late to run. Too late to protest his innocence as the police had captured the whole episode on video. Even the 'victim' he had selected turned out to be a plain clothes detective and they also had the evidence of two earlier incidents.

He was formally cautioned before being taken to the interview room in the police station buried deep beneath the airport complex. There, he was searched by a uniformed member of the airport police and the contents of his pockets and other possessions were placed on a Formica topped table, described and recorded by a second officer before being placed into an appropriate property bag. O'Hara was left in the company of a silent policeman, while the senior officer took the property bag through to the arresting detectives who turned out its contents onto a similar table.

They sifted through the evidence with their biros, pushing and prodding bits of O'Hara's accumulated pocket debris. The yield was three passports and wallets and two sets of travelers’ cheques, plus the assorted junk that any self- respecting man assumes vital for his very existence. Two of the passports and wallets matched. The third had no matching wallet, but bore the same name as appeared on one of the sets of travelers’ cheques, which left one set of travelers’ cheques on its own. As the special squad had kept O'Hara under observation for most of the morning's activity, they had been able to intercept the victims after their encounters with O'Hara and had detained them in a separate interview room, where their statements as to what had been stolen, were taken.

A comparison of the property listed as stolen, with that listed as found on O'Hara's person, was conclusive enough for the police and as they had their man cold, with the evidence on him and the video tape, they prepared only specimen charges against him. This meant that the bulk of the property could be immediately returned to its owners, as to have kept all the che
ques and passports would have been to impose an unjustifiable burden on the victims of the crime.

Accordingly, the victims were thanked for their co-operation and given back their stolen property and with a suitable admonition as to be more careful in future, the officer in charge wished them 'bon voyage'.

In the interview room, O'Hara awaited the return of the detectives with trepidation. The constable who had stayed with him had not uttered a single word since the others had left. The room itself was somber. Windowless, with bare green walls; its floor covered with rubberized tiles and a plain Formica-topped table was bolted to it by each leg. The chair was similarly secured - to deny a prisoner any chance of using it as a weapon. The whole room was functional. No frills - no details to fix attention on; no bricks to count. Even the overhead light was covered with fine mesh to deny access to the bulb or wiring. The last thing O'Hara surveyed was the door. It was constructed of grey painted steel, without even a key-hole and could be opened only from the outside.

O'Hara heard the spy hole in the door slide aside before the door opened and the two detectives entered the room. The constable was dismissed and asked to wait outside the room while the interrogation began.

The taller of the two detectives was the first to speak.

"Good afternoon, Mr
... "

O'Hara did not fall into the trap and let the silence hang in the air. The detective continued.

"Let me introduce myself. I am detective sergeant Willis and this is my colleague, Detective constable Collins. Now, I expect you know why you are here?"

O'Hara stayed seated and said nothing. It was the first time he had been arrested by the British police and he was determined they would get nothing out of him. D.S Willis continued probing,

"I can see you are what we refer to as the 'Greta Garbo type'. No matter, you'll talk sooner or later. All that is important now is for you to listen to what I have to say. You were caught earlier on today, 'dipping' or exercising your 'light fingers' in the International Arrival Lounge at Heathrow Airport. Our search revealed that you had in your possession, three passports, two wallets containing different currencies to the value of several hundred pounds, various credit cards and travelers’ cheques in excess of $17,000. None of which seem to belong to you. I can see that you're wondering how we know all this... it's quite simple... we have all the victims you have robbed today in the other interview room and they have been most co-operative in describing their losses. The good news, as far as you're concerned is that you've finally come of age; finally made the grade, as they say. You see, this little lot lifts you out of the category of petty larceny and places you in a higher league altogether, with appropriately higher penalties. Now, you can either co-operate with us and come clean and describe all your petty nefarious little activities and have all your other heinous offences taken into consideration; then you can do your porridge and still be out in time for the next Olympics if you're lucky, or you can play the hard man. In which case, we will throw the proverbial book at you, because, my son, the last person you picked on this morning happened to be a police officer and that incident and two others this morning are all on video-tape. So it's open and shut and it’s up to you.”

“You'd better give some careful thought as to what you want to tell me. The ball really is in your court. Before you give me your answer, D.C. Collins and I are just going along to the canteen for some light refreshment. Perhaps we could bring you something back?"

"No thanks." O'Hara realized his mistake as soon as the words slipped out.

"Suit yourself, we'll be back in a little while," said Willis, crossing to the door. He banged on it with his fist. The spy-hole slid back, permitting the officer guarding the interview room to check the room before opening the door. The detectives left the cell and were replaced by a uniformed constable.

"What did you think?" asked Willis as soon as they were outside.

"Open and shut really. He must know we've got him bang to rights. Just a question of time."

"I agree with you on that, but what puzzles me are the travelers’ cheques."

"Why's that?"

"They weren't signed."

"I'm sorry sarge' you've lost me."

"It's simple. Whenever you are issued with travelers’ cheques, you have to sign each of them in the presence of the issuing clerk. Now whoever those cheques originally belonged to didn't do that and I'd like to know why. Also, there was no receipt with them."

"Come again."

"You usually get some paperwork with the cheque numbers listed on it and a pamphlet to tell you what to do if you lose the cheques. We found none of those on him and the cheques are American. You noticed his accent just now?"

The two of them mulled it over during a leisurely lunch, letting O'Hara stew before tackling him again.

In Paris, Pascoe and Sam enjoyed a splendid lunch at the Café du Chalet, a typical bistro opposite their hotel where secretaries and business men mingled with traffic wardens and working girls from the Rue du faubourg de St. Denis. They had taken the 'plat du jour' at 40 francs, a bargain at the price. Pascoe had discovered the bistro several years before and was treated as an honoured guest.

"You know, you amaze me, Tom," said Sam, "I had no idea you were such a Francophile. When did it start?"

"You really want to know?"

“I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

"I'll tell you some other time when we've an hour or two to spare. For the moment, just enjoy the atmosphere. It's the main reason I come here."

"Une soupe, une paté
... ," announced their waitress, thrusting two plates of scalding soup onto their table. Sam was ravenous and tucked into the most delicious soup she had ever tasted, supplemented by great chunks of aromatic French bread. Pascoe ordered a carafe of red wine to accompany the main course of pepper-steak which was also unbelievably good. It made him realize just how long he had been away.

Most of the lunch-time crowd had disappeared by the time his coffee and calvados arrived and he chatted for nearly twenty minutes with the patron and his wife, exchanging the usual gossip. Afterwards, he explained to Sam that the patron had arranged for them to see the show at the Lido de Paris that evening. Sam, under the misapprehension that it was a strip-show didn't seem too enthusiastic until he explained her mistake. Before leaving the bistrot, Pascoe slipped out to the market on the corner and returned moments later with a bouquet for the lady of the house and a single red rose for Sam.

“I never figured you for a romantic, Tom. Now I'm going to have to work you out all over again, but thanks for the rose and for Paris."

It was late afternoon when detectives Willis and Collins returned to O'Hara in the cell at Heathrow. Willis sat opposite the prisoner and studied his file. Collins perched himself on the edge of the table and pushed a cup of stone-cold tea in front of him. For what seemed an interminable length of time to the American but in reality only five minutes, the detectives merely referred to the file, exchanging opinions, comments and smiles about its contents. O'Hara was completely ignored as if he no longer existed. When the detectives left a short time later, they still hadn't addressed a single word to the American. They repeated the performance twice more that afternoon. It was on the third such visit that O'Hara spoke at last.

“O.K. I'll tell you anything you want to know." The detectives continued to ignore him, chatting to each other instead, of an inter-division darts match later in the week.

“I said I'll tell you what you want to know!" shouted O'Hara.

“And just what could we possibly wish to know about yo
u that we don't already know?" retorted Willis.

"The pick-pocketing. Passports; money; everything," he offered lamely.

“We've already got all that in here, son," added Willis, tapping the file. "What more could you possibly tell us?"

"I
... I... don't know," replied O'Hara, somewhat puzzled.

“Are we to understand that you wish to co-operate with us, Mr?"

“Freiburg, Steven Freiburg."

“Now that didn't hurt, did it?" Willis added.

“All right Mr. Freiburg, how long have you been enjoying our hospitality in England?"

“About six weeks
... "

“Are you willing to make a statement?"

“Yeah, I guess so."

"Collins." He addressed his colleague, "get a stenographer down here to take Mr. Freiburg's statement and organise some tea for him."

“Sir."

When the stenographer arrived, Willis extracted a meaningful statement from Freiburg.

“You're quite sure you don't want to add anything to what you've just told us, Mr. Freiburg?" Willis asked him before getting the American to sign the document.

“I've told you everything I can."

“Not quite. What about these travelers’ cheques? $15,000 drawn on Dallasbank, Texas?"

"They're mine
... I didn't steal them!" Freiburg exclaimed in frustration.