There were no incriminating documents anywhere: Charlie Muffin had been too conceited. Always had been. So now there wasn’t a thing he could do to prevent his own destruction.
Johnny frowned.
‘You know him, then?’
Again the hand came up to the disfigurement.
‘Oh yes,’ said the man. ‘I know him.’
It had been worth it, decided Snare. Every gut-churning minute had been worth it.
The Aeroflot freight carrier touched down precisely on schedule and taxied to the north side of London airport, where maximum security could be guaranteed. Ignoring the rain, the diplomats from the Russian embassy insisted on standing next to the ramp, ticking the numbered boxes against the manifest as they were unloaded on to the ground and then into armoured cars.
‘These sort of jobs frighten the piss out of me,’ said a Special Branch inspector, huddled in the doorway for protection.
His sergeant looked at him quizzically.
‘It’s only jewellery,’ he said. ‘And copies at that.’
‘Fabergé copies,’ corrected the inspector. ‘Lose sight of one piece of this and our feet won’t touch the bloody ground.’
TWELVE
Because two film actors and an M.P. were named among the victims, a single-column story on the bank robbery was even carried in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, where Charlie read it first.
From the international news-stand in the foyer of the Dolder Hotel, he managed to buy that day’s Daily Telegraph and The Times. Both led their front pages with it; the Telegraph even had a diagram, showing the thieves’ entry. The work of complete professionals, a police spokesman was quoted as saying. Until all the safe deposit box-holders were contacted, no positive assessment could be made of the value.
‘The bastards,’ said Charlie. ‘The cunning bastards.’
He paused on the Kurhausstrasse outside the hotel. He was trapped, he recognised objectively. In a way he’d never foreseen. He prolonged the hesitation, then made his way to a pavement café to consider it fully before going home to Edith. She’d panic, he knew. Especially so soon after the cemetery business. And panic was the last thing he could afford. Not any more. So what could he afford? Very little.
‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘You’ve made a balls of it, like everything else. And now they’ve got you.’
The waiter who had served his coffee turned enquiringly and Charlie shook his head.
The involvement of the civil police – and the restrictions it would impose upon him – had been the one thing he had never envisaged, he realised. The one simple, obvious thing that took away his freedom to react in anything but a predictable way. So who was it? Wilberforce? He was devious enough. Or just bad luck, the chance-in-a-million he could never insure against? And why this way? To let him know he’d been found, and then watch him scrabbling for escape, like an animal in a trap of which they had the key? More than that, he decided. What then? He didn’t know. He’d need more clues. And they’d be sure to prevent that.
‘Never run,’ he reminded himself. ‘Basic rule never to run.’
He put some francs on the table and began walking back to Edith. He went directly to the apartment, making no effort to evade any possible surveillance. If they knew enough to have learned about the Brighton bank account, they would know about his Zürich home.
Edith looked up, smiling, as he entered. The expression faltered when she saw Charlie’s face.
‘What is it?’
‘The Brighton bank has been robbed,’ he reported. ‘The safe deposit room.’
The fear was immediate. She rose up, without thought, then remained standing in the lounge like a rabbit caught in a poacher’s torch, not knowing which way to flee.
‘So it’s all over,’ she said, very softly.
‘It could just be coincidence,’ he tried, hopefully.
‘Don’t be damned stupid,’ she said. ‘You can’t believe that.’
She moved at last, going towards the bedroom.
‘What are you doing?’
She stopped at the question.
‘I’m going to pack, of course.’
‘What for, Edith?’ he said. He spoke calmly, trying to reduce her apprehension.
She sniggered, control slipping again.
‘To get out … run … what else?’
‘We can’t run anywhere, Edith.’
She turned fully, to face him.
‘What do you mean, we can’t go anywhere?’
‘Just that.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m not being. I’ve got to go back to Brighton, today.’
‘Charlie! For God’s sake!’
He went forward, taking both her hands in his. Fear was vibrating through her. Poor Edith, he thought, studying her. Poor frightened, abused, trusting, faithful Edith. She’d suffered a great deal because of him, Charlie realised. And never once complained, not even during their most bitter rows. The evidence wasn’t overly visible, not physically. Her body was still firm enough to be exciting; the figure of a woman ten years younger, he often assured her. And meant it, quite sincerely. It was in her face that the anxiety had settled, defying the efforts of successive and increasingly more expensive beauticians, lining the pale blue eyes and around her mouth and furrowing the forehead that had once been so smooth and unworried. It would have shown in the greyness of her hair, too, if she hadn’t constantly had it disguised during those weekly visits to the beauty salons.
‘Edith,’ he said, his voice even and deepened by the sadness. ‘The one thing we could never sustain is any detailed investigation by a civilian police force …’
‘But …’
‘Listen to me, Edith. There’s been a robbery estimated at upwards of a million pounds. What would happen if I don’t go back, the one box-holder they can’t locate? I’ll be the prime suspect, the man who rented the facility to obtain access to the deposit room, to plan the robbery.’
‘But it’s an assumed name,’ protested Edith, desperately.
‘Which would unquestionably establish the guilt,’ he insisted. ‘A box-holder who fails to turn up and is then discovered to have taken out the rental under a phoney name …’
He paused, waiting for the acceptance to register. Her face remained blank.
‘… an assumed name,’ he resumed. ‘That we are currently using on the passports legitimately obtained on forged birth certificates. It would be normal police routine to check for passports, if I don’t show up. From the application forms, they would get our pictures …’
She went to speak again, but he raised his fingers to her lips, stopping her.
‘I know we’ve got other passports, in your vault here. But the photographs are the one thing we can’t alter. If I don’t return to Brighton, our pictures will be circulated by Interpol distribution within forty-eight hours and there won’t be a passport control through which we could pass without identification …’
She sagged, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
‘Oh, God,’ she said. The lines on her face seemed to deepen.
He led her back to the chair, sitting her down.
‘I’m taking no risks, going to the police,’ he attempted to reassure her. ‘I’m not wanted for anything … not by them, anyway…’
She shook her head.
‘I’m confused, Charlie.’
To a degree, so was he, he thought. How soon would he be able to understand completely what was happening?
‘It’s quite simple,’ he said. ‘All I have to do is return to Brighton and answer whatever questions the police will want to ask.’
‘But the money …’
‘… will be gone,’ he cut in. He hoped, he thought. If it had been left, it would need some explanation.