That Will Do Nicely (4 page)

Next morning, Pascoe started checking Sam's background by telephoning the College,

"Hello
, is that the Technical College? DHSS Newcastle here. Can you put me through to someone in your personnel department please...thank you." Apart from having butterflies in his stomach and normal first time nerves, he quickly overcame his natural reluctance of impersonating a DHSS officer. He remembered having occasionally received such calls himself in his studio days; the odd inquiry from the Inland Revenue, VAT office or Registrar of Companies. The college would have as much chance of querying the call as he had had then, and at the very worst he could always hang up. Once he was connected with the right office, he explained that the DHSS's main computer was "down" and that his office needed a few details on a Miss S. Lynx. Within a few minutes he had received her curriculum-vitae; thanked the college secretary and was able to sink back into his chair with a sigh of relief. It was the first dishonest move he'd actually made. From the details he gleaned, it appeared that Sam was some twenty-eight years of age and had been married for three years before her divorce in 1982. There was nothing in her college record that anyone could possibly use against her.

He repeated the performance with the local tax office and was again surprised at the ease with which they parted with the information. Later in the day, he spent some time visiting the street where she lived and made some door to door inquiries. He checked with her neighbors, explaining that it was just a check on her credit worthiness, but by evening he had only built up the vaguest picture of her. Only two sources had been helpful at all, and then only in a negative sense. Firstly, her milkman, who for a couple of pounds had not only told him her weekly order but also that she lived alone and kept herself to herself and secondly, a friend of his in the garage trade had had her credit references checked. Unfortunately, as with the DHSS there were still no skeletons rattling around in her closet
... nothing he could use to pressure her into keeping quiet, if need be. She seemed as pure as the driven snow.

The rest of the afternoon he spent visiting a local art shop which stocked "Letraset" and the other graphic art products he would need to produce the artwork for his che
ques. He left the shop with the current "Letraset" catalogue and price list. Satisfied that he could easily obtain all the supplies he would need, he returned home to continue the design stage of the cheques.

In the privacy of the cottage, he perused the catalogues at length, comparing type-faces and choosing filigree designs for the borders of the che
ques. Even in the few years since he had left the trade, vast improvements had been made in the variety of materials available. Inserted in the catalogue was an information sheet, detailing the availability of the products. From it, he learned that all their stock was computer controlled and that a request for the most obscure product requirement could be met within minutes. The firm also offered a twice daily delivery service on a cash-and-carry basis. Having solved his graphic-art material supply problem, Pascoe set himself to the task of designing the chques themselves.

With the size of the che
ques already determined, the next thing to consider was a color scheme. Although he didn't want to forge the cheques, he intended to design his own in similar colors; after all, the more confusion they caused in the banking system, the better. He based his choice on the colors of the three main American Travelers' Cheques; the bold blue and gold design of the "Visa" system, the green design of "Citicorp" and the more subdued coloring of "American Express". It was difficult to name a color for the latter as it used its name, repeated in myriad microscopic fashion against the background color of the paper. As a model for his own cheques it seemed far too original in design for him to produce anything remotely similar, which left him with the two other choices. He favored the blue and gold combination as being the most distinctive and chose accordingly.

He had noticed from some of the dollar che
ques he had bought, that some of the cheque manufacturers used a color-graduated paper, similar to the color graduated skirts fashionable women had worn a year or two previously. The skirt material darkened in color from top to bottom or from one side to the other. He thought it too complex a process to carry out himself and to obtain supplies of paper already prepared in this way would be too dangerous. Reluctantly, he settled for the bold design in blue and gold against a plain background and reckoned that if he printed the details of his cheques thermo-graphically, he would achieve a quality product. It would certainly be effective to the sense of touch.

By the time he kept his rendezvous with Sam that evening, he had almost completed the design stage of the che
ques except for the choice of type-faces, inks and paper. As he could do no more until he had found premises and installed his equipment he now turned all his attention to the tutor. He knew a lot more about the lady than when he had got up that morning, but the basic problem still remained; how far could he trust her? Early in his planning he had realized that he would need the use of an office in the City and that it would need to be staffed with a suitable secretary-bird. Sam, if she could be trusted, would be an ideal choice; if only he could find some way to persuade her to help, he could involve her further in the scheme of things.

By the time he arrived at the flat for his date he was a bag of nerves
and afraid that the rapport established between them the previous evening might have disappeared. He felt edgy not only because he didn't know how far he could trust her but also because he didn't altogether trust himself in her company. He also knew that if she managed to push the right buttons he might tell her everything. At dinner the previous evening he had found in her most of the qualities he looked for in a woman. She was not only attractive and intelligent, but also supremely confident in her own abilities. While he could think of some men who might find the same qualities daunting, he cherished them and that made him vulnerable to her charms. She had also made him laugh on several occasions, both at her own jokes and at himself and he hadn't met many women who could do that.

Pascoe straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his thinning hair before ringing the door-bell. He heard the sound of scurrying footsteps from within the flat and then suddenly the door was flung open and by the time he had crossed the threshold, he had time only to glimpse a vague figure disappearing into the dark recesses of the of the flat’s interior.

Background checks

"Come in
... I'm doing the oven...," Sam called out, evidently from the kitchen. He set down the two bottles of wine he had brought, and then foraged further into the flat, heading in the direction of the voice. Apart from the dark of the hallway, the rest of the flat was a blaze of light. The lounge-diner he found himself in was decorated in the modern style but with enough potpourri and mementos to give it some character and a lived-in look. He hated places that were overly tidy.

On top of a bookcase he recognized a multi-colored sand garden from the
Channel Islands and a beer stein from an Oktoberfest. On the left side of the book-case stood the sideboard with a small built-in cocktail cabinet... on the right a stacked mini hi-fi system which was currently being attacked by the first tendrils of a 'busy-lizzie' climbing plant standing beside it. ‘Soon,’ he thought, ’if nothing was moved, it would be difficult to tell whether the hi-fi or plant was playing the supporting role.’ Somehow, he couldn't imagine Sam talking to plants. The lounge furniture reflected her taste; the armchairs each side of the hi-fi and the chesterfield opposite, were quality pieces, upholstered in matching maroon leather. Although the room was in no way over-furnished, what was there was top quality. The dining table and chairs made of hardwood, and none of the flat’s furniture was of the cheap High Street flat-pack variety.

"The drinks are in the sideboard cabinet
... help yourself and make mine a dry sherry," Sam’s voice sounded from the kitchen, interrupting his brief tour of inspection. While he poured the drinks he scanned the titles on the book shelves to see what she read. He had read somewhere that you could tell more about a person from the books they read than by living with them for a lifetime. He wondered if the same theory applied to Sam. Apart from several books on computer languages and novels from Steinbeck to Solzhenitsyn with the odd thriller thrown in, he could only deduce that she had fairly catholic tastes... whatever the experts might have said.

He picked up the drinks and wondered where to sit. From what he could remember of his early dates, a lifetime ago, the question of where to sit had always caused him problems. He never knew whether he should take one of the armchairs and possibly deprive his hostess of her favorite seat, or sit down on the chesterfield - obviously built for two, which perhaps could be taken for being too 'forward'. So finally, he compromised and remained standing with a drink in each hand, feeling rather foolish while he awaited her re-appearance from the kitchen. She didn't keep him long and when she finally appeared, he saw that the wait had been worthwhile. She looked stunning, in a little black dress of the sort that most women keep somewhere, ready for the odd special occasion. For the first time since he had met her several weeks before, he noticed her legs, backlit by the light from the kitchen, silhouetted through the sheer silk of her dress
... seeming to go on forever.

"You look great", he told her, trying hard not to stare, "except for two things." He took his handkerchief out of his pocket, beckoned her closer and wrapping the handkerchief around his right index finger, licked the cloth and wiped a smudge of flour from her nose.

"Thanks... it gets everywhere... but you did say there were two things."

"That's right, but the second is far more strategically placed", he added, pointing to a large patch of flour on her rump. She tried to look over her shoulder at the mark but was unsuccessful, then repeated the movement pulling the skirt of her dress from behind her to see better
... to no avail. She went back to the kitchen only to return with a towel which she gave to him.

"Could you?"

"If you trust me." He took the towel and gave her backside several flicks and then a little more delicate attention to remove the mark completely. Although he wasn't touching her directly, he felt a thrill shudder through his own body.

"Thanks
... " He handed her, her glass of sherry.

"Cheers!"

"Cheers!" she echoed. "The dinner needs another five minutes, we'd better sit down." She sat down first on the chesterfield leaving him with the same problem, but in reverse. He followed her lead and sat at the far end of it, giving her plenty of room and hoping he'd made the right move.

"You seem to do a fair bit of reading." He commented, pointing to the book-case.

"When I have the time, which these days is hardly ever."

"What sort do you prefer?"

"A good ‘thriller’ really. I can read the high-brow stuff when I have to, but I prefer somebody like Forsyth for relaxing. The shrill bell of the oven timer stopped further conversation. Pascoe made his way to the table at the far end of the room and found it beautifully set with cutlery and crystal cut glasses .If she was trying to impress him she was certainly succeeding.

"I brought some wine
..." He called out, retrieving the bottles from inside the front door. "Red or white?"

"Red please
..." Which was just as well as the white would be getting warm. While he drew the cork, Sam emerged from the kitchen carrying a golden crusted pie on a tray. Carefully, she set it down in the center of the table on a thick mat. Next she brought in two separate dishes, one with sautéed potatoes and another with mixed vegetables.

"Sorry it's nothing fancy, but I wasn't sure what you liked and I thought steak and kidney pie was a fairly safe bet."

"Fine with me... I've missed home cooking the last few weeks... come to think of it, I missed it before we split up as well. My wife was a lousy cook."

"Please, help yourself." He did so, slowly at first, not wanting to appear greedy, but after sampling the pie, re-served himself several times. Sam slipped away from the table briefly to put some music on and shortly afterwards the haunting music of Mozart's theme for Elvira Madigan seeped into the background.

"What sort of music do you like Tom?" she asked, her eyes flitting from his eyes to his lips then back to his eyes again.

"This is fine
... Mozart I believe... I remember it from the film." He avoided meeting her gaze, as her eyes seemed capable of reading his innermost thoughts, which was the last thing he could afford.

The conversation continued throughout the meal, with each of them gently probing the other's background, work, likes and dislikes. All the time, Sam's eyes drank him in, devouring him in ever increasing gulps. Although they were still talking by the time she served the coffee, they were by then more comfortably ensconced at opposite ends of the chesterfield with a sort of ‘no man's land’ between them. It was Sam who finally resolved Pascoe's dilemma of how fast he should proceed with his intended seduction.

"Do you mind if I speak my mind," she asked somewhat coyly.

"Please.”  She reached along the couch, took his hand and covered it with her own. Pascoe quivered at her touch.

"I don't bring home many friends, especially men. I've been hurt too often."

"I understand."

"No, Tom, I don't think you do. I'm twenty-eight years old, divorced and standing on my own two feet. I'm no longer a silly little virgin with blinkers on. I know my own mind and for the first time since my divorce, I think I've found a man I enjoy being with and I think you feel the same way about me. If I'm wrong, forgive me. We'll call it a day here and now and go our own separate ways. On the other hand, if you feel the same, perhaps you can answer a very important question that I've been dying to ask for the last few minutes?"

"I'll try."

"If you aren't queer and I don't think for one moment you are, why are we sitting on opposite ends of the couch as though we were two pubescent teenagers frightened of our parents gate-crashing our private party?" Pascoe choked as he sipped from his glass, his laugh at Sam's question catching in his throat at the same time as the wine.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing", he spluttered, regaining his breath, "It's just the way you put it. You sounded so serious. You don't know how relieved I feel... I didn't say anything before because I was afraid you'd turn me down and at the moment, more rejection is the last thing I need."

"I know. It
’s the way I felt when I split up with my husband. I've been there... remember?" They moved along the couch towards each other until their hands touched then suddenly, without any deliberate moves from either of them they found themselves in each-other’s arms, kissing passionately.

"T
hanks for making it easy for me," he said to her and this time he made the running, enveloping her in his arms, pulling her on top of him, his mouth seeking hers, his tongue worming its way inside her mouth. The kiss lasted nearly a full minute. When it had finished, they both sat there shocked at the depth of feeling they had just experienced, scared of letting their passion carry them any further.

"I think we'd better have
a drink. What would you like?" said Sam, trying to regain a little composure.

"Make mine a scotch, please." He replied, aware of the strange electric atmosphere that now existed between them. He knew instinctively that he was on the point of losing control of his emotions. He was glad of a breathing space and tried desperately to keep everything in check. Sam returned with the drinks, sat at his end of the couch and toyed with her glass encouraging him to lean and rest his head on her breast.

"Here's to us." She made the toast. "Now tell me about this book of yours. We never seemed to get round to it last night." She leaned forward and kissed his head, as if to encourage him and her free hand played with his hair.

"You've got great hair
... a lovely natural curl to it..."

"What's left of it
... I always hated it curling…" Pascoe explained at length about his ideas for the crime, substituting his own life for that of the character in the book. While he explained, she busied herself stroking his head and caressing his body, undoing his tie and running her fingers through the hair on his chest. If he hesitated in his story or seemed at all reluctant to explain something, she would encourage him for a few seconds, caressing whichever part of his body fell to hand, until he had explained everything.

"Another drink?" s
he asked a little later, pushing herself away just when for him, things were getting interesting. Typical bloody woman, he thought, but kept the opinion to himself,

"Scotch, thanks. Single malt if you've got it
," he added, glad of the chance to regain some of his lost composure.

"You know, I do like men with taste
... you and I could go far," she said, gliding back from the sideboard bar with his drink before nestling back down with him on the chesterfield.

"Now you've told me about the book, what about you? Tell me all about you." From that moment, Tom Pascoe knew he was trapped.

Pascoe had already given her his life-story as the book's main character. It was impossible to invent a fictitious one on the spur of the moment. The previous night at the restaurant he had found it difficult to remember where his story ended and the book character's began.

"Let's just say the book's a little auto-biographical."

"All of it, including the crime?" she asked, gazing deeply into his eyes.

"I only had two choices
... commit the crime or write the book... and as I am a devote coward, I chose to write the book... "

"There are a couple of things that spring to mind but I've only one question left really."

"And what's that?"

"You're going to do it for real aren't you?"

"Would you expect me to tell you if I was?"

"Let's just say that that's what I'd do if I were in your position." Her hand rested on the inside of his thigh, gently caressing it.

"Would you?"

"I don't see that you've got any alternative. The way your wife's screwed things up for you. You've got nothing to lose by having a go. So what are you going to do about it? Write the book or do it for real?"

Her hand slowly inched its way towards his groin. "Stop it Sam! I'm ticklish there!" he yelled in an entirely unconvincing manner. Of course once she knew of his weakness, she concentrated on it, slowly driving him mad. Gradually he could stand it no longer.

"O.K. Enough! I'll tell you the truth." Pascoe cried.

"Tell me..." she cooed... "Tell me everything ".

And so he did. He told her everything
- his plans from conception to execution; what a bitch his wife had been and the debts she had hung about his neck; how he intended to defraud the company which was responsible for his dilemma in order to pay them back with their own money. Now he was completely in her hands.

"So now you know everything, what are you going to do about it?" He asked wearily. She turned and looked him straight in the eye. "I think it's a brilliant scheme
... so brilliant in fact, that I've got a proposition for you... I want in; 50-50; straight down the middle... ".

"Hold on. What have you got to offer this partnership?"

“Somewhere to live, some expertise and little old me. Lots of little old me".