‘I haven’t always worked on a hotel reception. I’ve known some bad people. I know when I’m looking into the eyes of a killer. If you’d ever looked into the eyes of a killer, you’d know, too.’
I consider this for a moment. This young slip of a girl, barely – actually, I realise I don’t even know how old she is, but she can’t be any older than twenty-three – how can she have looked into the eyes of a killer? I know from work I’ve done in the past on documentaries that everyone has a story. There are children who’ve suffered the most horrendous physical and sexual abuse before they’ve even reached their second birthday. I’ve been there and seen it myself. So why not a young adult who’s seen murder?
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask.
‘No. I don’t,’ she replies, firmly enough to let me know that this subject is off limits – but only for now.
When we get to the High Street, Jessica points out the branch of Lloyds and I swing into William Street, parking up on the double yellow lines. An elderly couple sitting on a bench give me a look of reproach, but I don’t care. There are at least two other cars doing exactly the same further down the street. I get out and jog across the road and into the bank.
I already know what I’m going to do: I’m going to draw out as much as I possibly can. Yeah, it’ll arouse suspicion, but so what? In a few hours’ time I’m going to be suspected of murder, so what the hell do a few raised eyebrows in a bank matter?
There’s a queue, as there always is in any bank. I guess this is a busy time for them – lots of people have already finished work or are trying to get something done before the bank shuts for the day. I’m torn between panicking over the fact that more people here means more people might see me and the sheer desperation to get as far away from this place as possible.
Slowly, the queue moves forward. The only person left in front of me is a young mother with a screaming baby. That might not be so bad under any other circumstances, but right now my head is pounding and I just don’t need the added aggravation. I can see we’re going to be here a little while longer, though: the two clerks are each occupied serving their own pensioner, neither of which looks like they’re going to be done any time soon.
‘Sorry about the noise,’ the young mum says. ‘She’s had a right day of it.’
‘Her and me both,’ I say, trying to sound as polite as possible.
‘Can’t tell them to shut up at that age, neither. They don’t listen.’
I smile and nod. ‘How old is she?’
‘Four months.’
The first thing that pops into my head is how mothers always refer to their children’s ages in terms of months. He’s eighteen months. No, he’s a year and a half. This is my son Malcolm. He works as an insurance broker. He’s four hundred and twelve months.
‘She’s probably teething,’ I reply.
‘I bloody hope not. Don’t much fancy having to deal with that.’
Before I have to fight too hard to bite my tongue, one of the pensioners has cashed in his five hundred pounds in ten-pence pieces and is shuffling towards the door, leaving the single mother clear to land. Not long after, the other pensioner has finished, too, and I approach the clerk, trying to look as normal and comfortable as possible.
‘I’d like to withdraw some money, please,’ I say, placing my debit card into the privacy tray.
‘You’ll need to pop your card in the machine, love,’ she says, pointing at the chip-and-pin machine next to the bulletproof glass. ‘How much would you like?’
‘What’s the limit?’ I say, sliding my card into the slot at the bottom of the machine. ‘I’m buying a car and the guy wants a deposit to secure it.’ I’m impressed by my own quick thinking.
She looks at me for a moment. ‘There’s not a limit as such, but it depends on what cash we have in the branch. It’s getting towards the end of the day.’
‘Right, I see. How much do I have in my account?’ I say.
‘One moment,’ she replies, tapping a few keys on her computer keyboard before getting up and walking off behind the partition wall that presumably separates the cash desks from the offices behind. A minute or so later, she’s back, accompanied by a man in an immaculate suit who looks no older than thirty, but whose well-styled hair is already greying at the temples. I assume he’s the manager.
‘Can I help, sir?’ he says, as if he hasn’t already been briefed by the cashier.
‘Yeah, I’m looking to take some money out. I’m buying a car,’ I say, trying to make it sound like the most normal thing in the world.
‘And how much are you looking to take out exactly?’
I swallow, trying to hold back the panic that’s surging inside me. ‘Well, it depends what I’m allowed to take out.’
‘How much is the car?’ he asks, throwing me off balance.
‘Does it matter?’ My voice wobbles slightly.
‘Presumably, yes, if you’re looking to buy it,’ he replies.
‘Well, obviously I need to know how much I’ve got in my account,’ I reply.
The manager pauses for a moment. ‘This isn’t your usual branch, is it?’ he says, knowing damn well it isn’t.
‘No. I use the East Grinstead branch. I’m in Herne Bay because that’s where the car is. I came to view it.’ My voice is more confident now. This seems to placate him.
‘Do you have any ID?’
‘Of course,’ I reply, fishing into my inside jacket pocket and pulling out my wallet. I extract my driving licence and put it into the privacy tray. The manager slides the guard across, picks up the licence and looks at it, comparing me against the picture. Fortunately for me, the licence is only a few months old so I still look like the picture.
‘Did the seller not tell you how much he wanted for a deposit, then?’
‘No, I forgot to ask,’ I say, immediately regretting doing so. ‘Stupid, I know. I need to get it insured and taxed and everything, so I can’t drive it away until tomorrow. I’m staying overnight, but I just wanted to secure the car.’
‘I see. We can authorise a withdrawal of one thousand pounds this afternoon. If you have some sort of documentation or sale agreement for the car, we could look at authorising more.’
I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. There’s at least ten grand in that account. The red mist descends and I can’t help challenging this.
‘Wait a second. This is my money we’re talking about, right?’
‘Yes, sir, but we have to abide by very strict rules to protect ourselves from money-laundering regulations.’
‘Money laundering?’ I say. ‘Are you serious? I’ve been paying my money into my account for years, and now you’re telling me I can’t take it out?’
‘We have to abide by the guidance of the Financial Conduct Authority,’ the manager says. ‘If you can—’
‘It isn’t your money,’ I say, more forcefully this time.
‘I appreciate that, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t do anything more at the moment. Would you like to withdraw the one thousand pounds?’
I look at him for a moment, and then at the female clerk. I don’t want to be drawing too much attention to myself.
‘Yes, please.’