‘Can I take your name?’ the hospital worker said. ‘And a contact number, please.’
‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’ Wendy picked up the phone, covered the mouthpiece, and appealed to me with a phoney tone of dilemma: ‘She wants me to leave a name and number to pass on to the police. Shall I? It’s your call.’
‘No!’ I sank to my knees. ‘Hang up, please!’
Two sets of eyes did not move from me until, at last, Wendy looked at Mike for a signal.
She uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘No name. Please pass on my best wishes for her recovery.’
She ended the call.
‘That was despicable,’ I said, my breathing tight. ‘Saying you have information and then . . .’ My voice cracked.
‘Bless him,’ Wendy said to Mike. ‘I’m sure Karen Rutherford would be touched.’
‘How do you know their names? They haven’t been released to the public.’ Quite apart from the stress of this latest stunt, the exposure of the victims’ names was unwelcome to me: Karen and Ellie, they could be a mother and daughter at the boys’ school gate. I wished I could unlearn them.
‘Unofficial channels, mate,’ Mike said.
The same channels he’d used to discover my financial assets, my assault conviction and God only knew what else.
‘Bram, I think you need to understand how serious this is,’ he went on, his manner suddenly gentle, paternal. ‘Like I say, we’re ready to get the process underway and there’s plenty to get on with while we wait for the insurance money.’
‘Yes, you said. The insane and not at all traceable act of stealing a house by impersonating me and my wife.’
‘Oh, there’s no need for anyone to impersonate you,’ Mike said, chuckling. ‘Even if I had the acting skills, I couldn’t hope to match your matinee idol looks. Fading matinee idol. No, you can play yourself, mate.’
‘Get your plot straight,’ I snapped. ‘You just said I’m going to need a new passport. Which is it?’
‘Well, you’ll be yourself for the transaction, but when it’s done, like I said, you’ll have a bit of explaining to do and you’ll probably want to move on with a nice new identity.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Interesting choice of words. Just so long as it’s yours and not little Ellie’s. I hear she’s hanging on by a thread, poor thing, getting new infections all the time.’
I gaped at him. ‘You’re evil.’
His shrug was casual, a single shoulder, his gaze cold. ‘Not evil, just practical. You need to understand that you’re not going to get your hands on the picture or the recording until we complete on the house. Meanwhile, there’s always a chance the victim’s memory will improve, especially if Wendy here gives her a call.’
As I buckled at this confirmation that Wendy had indeed recorded our morning-after exchange, he steamed on: ‘So you see, time really is of the essence here. The faster we work, the faster you can escape. As I understand it, if we get the place on the market now, we should be able to do it in under three months.’
‘Three months?’ I laughed, grimly. ‘I’ll be arrested long before then, with or without your sidekick’s tip-off.’
‘I was getting to that,’ Mike said. ‘If the police do come calling, then so long as you co-operate nicely I’ll help you out with an alibi for the night of the crash. We got talking in the Half Moon in Clapham Junction, how about that? I assume it would need to be a train station, eh? Since you’re not meant to be on the road.’
I could feel my right fist itching to smack him, fought to keep it by my side. ‘Fuck your alibi and get out. I won’t ask you again.’
For the first time his manner edged towards annoyance. ‘You know what? I’m beginning to find these knee-jerk outbursts of yours a bit tedious. Don’t go wrecking another phone, will you? If you do, we’ll have to contact you on your work phone. Better still, leave a message with your boss. Neil Weeks, isn’t it? I imagine he’d be very interested to hear what you’ve got yourself involved in. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already a bit dismayed by your performance lately. Sales figures down this quarter, are they?’ His hand fell on my shoulder, bony fingers grasping powerfully. ‘So what I suggest is that you have a proper think. I know you’ll reach the right decision.’
Wendy was slower to stand, taking a moment to scope the room. Her gaze came to rest on the bed and, noticing this, Mike said, ‘Shall I go on ahead, give you two some time on your own?’
A flash of memory of bare skin and groaning, the names she’d urged me to mutter in her ear. The thighs splaying and then gripping.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
‘Shame.’ She was right next to me, letting her fingertips touch my arm, before following Mike from the flat.
‘Don’t forget about the twenty K, Bram,’ Mike called.
I watched them leave in the same way I’d watched them arrive. Judging by the easiness between them, I felt sure they’d known each other for years. Was I one in a line of victims or were they first-time grifters? Certainly, this could only be a crime of opportunity: first, at the scene, Mike had taken the photo to protect himself, and then, once establishing both my assets and liabilities, had despatched Wendy to the Two Brewers to collect any admissions of guilt I was foolish enough to make. If she fancied sleeping with me in the process, then that was her call. To them, sex was cheap, easy to give and easy to take. What was worth something was property. A house on Trinity Avenue. A once-in-a-lifetime scam.
But it was a reckless plan by any standards. What did they know about counterfeit passports and bank accounts in Dubai? How had they intended meeting their expenses before I’d blundered in yet again with an offer of cash? They were amateurs. Clowns.
The fact that they seemed able to run rings around me only meant I was even less intelligent than they were.
Seriously, I should have just hurled myself off the balcony then and there.
27
Friday, 13 January 2017
London, 2.30 p.m.
‘The police are on their way,’ Merle announces, and Fi falls silent, concentrating her energy on not trembling. The kitchen where she has cooked and eaten thousands of meals with her family and friends is no longer hers to command, but she prefers Merle over either of the Vaughans as its new ruler.
The prospect of the arrival of the authorities has not stopped David Vaughan from continuing with his private investigations and he now ends a call to the Lawsons’ solicitors shaking his head in disbelief. ‘The guy we need to speak to has got his phone turned off while he’s at a hospital appointment. He’ll be back this afternoon.’
Merle raises an eyebrow. ‘Let’s hope he’s getting his vision fixed. No, his whole brain.’
The absent lawyers are becoming not only the missing links, but also the group’s scapegoats.
‘Well, it certainly looks like we’ve got a fraud on our hands,’ Merle goes on. ‘This will kill Bram. He’s not as strong as you, Fi.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ David says. He is not having this, this tendency of Merle’s to speak as if Fi’s position is the rightful default. He addresses Fi directly: ‘If you’re so sure your husband knows nothing about this, then who was the guy we met? The one who was here with the agent? I’m sure he was introduced to us as the owner. If he was some sort of impostor, then where was the real Mr Lawson? Tied up in the playhouse?’
‘What?’ Fi says, startled.
‘What does he look like, your husband? I’m serious, have you got a photo on your phone?’
‘Wait a minute!’ Merle pre-empts any heedless co-operation on Fi’s part: ‘You tell us what the man you met looked like.’ There is little trust in this room; all they have in common is the object of their claim.
‘He was good-looking, mid-to late-forties, about six foot two, dark curly hair starting to go grey,’ Lucy says. ‘He was quite restless, I thought – you know, pacing about a bit. He went to have a cigarette, didn’t he, David? He had quite an intense way of looking at you.’