Just a few punches to the head, when he’d tried opening the car door at a set of lights. After which Peppard had held him tight, forearm around neck, watching the face redden and the eyes turn tearful.
Now, three hours after leaving Heathrow with their cargo, they sat in Jarman’s kitchen and emptied everything out.
Cash: two hundred pounds, four hundred dollars, four hundred euros. Three credit cards. A Rolex watch. Laptop computer, mobile phone, Kindle. One pair of gold cufflinks. Fountain pen...
“Not bad,” Peppard commented.
“Not good,” Jarman sighed, rubbing a finger across his forehead. “I thought we might get more than this. I hoped we would.”
“It’s the luck of the draw.”
“Would it have hurt if he’d been a jeweller or something? A nice big bag of cut diamonds? A couple of dozen watches?”
“We got a Rolex.”
“One Rolex.”
“That’s one more than I had before. I know what you’re saying though — there were some costs involved and we can only do this one or maybe two more times. But at least now we know it works.”
Jarman nodded slowly. “You know what? Right from the off, the guy wasn’t a good enough bet — you should have sussed that, told him you were waiting on another Bullimer. Sometimes the first fish you hook, it needs to be tossed back.”
“So it’s my fault?” Peppard was glaring at his partner.
“Okay, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But when it’s your turn, you’ll land a bigger fish? That’s what I’m hearing.”
“I said I’m sorry.” Jarman picked up the Rolex and checked the time. “We need to get to the pub, offload these cards before they’re cancelled.”
“And the rest of the stuff?” Peppard was checking the inside pocket of a suit-jacket. It was empty.
“Tommo will take it.”
“This is a nice jacket.”
“Lose two or three stone and it’s yours...”
They bided their time for a few days. If Bullimer had spoken to the police, it hadn’t made it to the news. They’d left him, for the most part, in the clothes he was wearing and with his passport in his hand. They’d treated him pretty well, considering.
Now it was Jarman’s turn with the clipboard. He was wearing the chauffeur outfit, cap included — he liked that it screened him at least a little from the security cameras. Peppard sat in the driver’s seat, running his hands up and down the steering wheel. You couldn’t loiter. Best thing to do was just drive a circuit of the airport. That way the parking attendants and uniformed cops didn’t give you any grief. When the lights turned green, he followed the exit signs until the first roundabout, then started back in towards the terminal building again. It was early evening — Jarman’s choice. He’d argued his case, though Peppard could not remember what those arguments had been. The car radio was tuned to some classical station — again, Jarman’s choice.
“Music to soothe the savage beast,” he’d said on the drive in, which didn’t stop it sounding like squawks and squeaks to Peppard’s ears. What was wrong with a bit of Springsteen — music to get the blood pumping? For the tenth time, he checked his phone for a missed text. Jarman was taking his time. Cars had their lights on now. Not that darkness was necessarily a bad thing — maybe that had been one of his partner’s arguments.
It was a further half hour before the amplified chime told Peppard he had a text.
COME GET US.
“Don’t you worry,” Peppard told the phone. “I’m on my way...”
Twenty minutes later, they had the cargo on board and were speeding away from Heathrow. The man on the backseat next to Jarman looked wealthy enough — a lot wealthier than Bullimer, anyway. Chunky gold wristwatch, immaculately groomed hair. His suit was shiny and his shoes brand new and bespoke. Tanned face. Maybe in his late fifties. Tall and broad-shouldered. Peppard had hesitated for a moment — if it kicked off in the back of the car, would Jarman be able to take this guy? The peaked cap sat on the passenger seat along with the clipboard. The name was still there: VOLLERS. The name looked German but the man himself spoke with an American burr. So far he had offered no resistance. His gloved hands were on his knees. Gloves! You didn’t see them much these days — not when they were for show rather than to keep out any actual chill.
“This is a mistake,” the man called Vollers repeated.
Jarman was busying himself with the briefcase. It looked metallic. It was also locked.
“Open it.”
“There’s nothing inside that would interest you.”
“Mind if I decide that for myself?” Jarman was giving the man the stare.
It was a combination lock. Vollers took the briefcase and laid it on his lap. Peppard’s eyes met his partner’s in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t help smiling.
With the case open, Jarman snatched it back. He tossed a paperback novel onto the passenger seat. The toiletries bag was the sort of thing they gave you on airplanes. It fell into the footwell.
“This is everything?” Jarman was asking. He was holding up a large brown envelope. There was just the slightest hesitancy in his voice. He had chosen Vollers, maybe turned down one or two possibles, waiting for the jackpot.
The envelope didn’t look like a jackpot.
“What’s in it?” Peppard asked.
“Photo and a bit of biography.” Jarman was sounding even less enthusiastic. “You interviewing this guy for a job or something?”
“I told you you’d be disappointed.”
“Sod that — we’ve still got your suitcase to go. And that watch — what make is it?”
“I’m afraid it’s fake. Seventy-five dollars in Hong Kong.”
Vollers had removed it and was handing it over. “Feel the weight.”
Jarman did so and cursed under his breath. He could no longer meet his partner’s eyes.
“I have about a hundred US in cash in my pocket,” Vollers was saying, “plus a credit card with a two-fifty limit.”
“We need more,” Jarman barked at the man. “Or else I swear to God we’re going to do you in. Someone you can call — someone local you can get money from.”
A moment’s thought, then: “That might be possible.”
“It better be.”
Vollers nodded slowly. “Do I use my phone or yours?”
“I’m not paying for your sodding call!”
“That’s a fair point. Do I do it now?”
“We’re stopping soon. Wait till then. And we’ll take a look at that suitcase of yours while we’re at it.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“You better believe it.”
“Good — I’d hate to think I was dealing with amateurs.”
“We’re not amateurs,” Peppard assured him.
“That’s reassuring.”
Jarman gave a cold chuckle. “Some balls on this old bastard.”
“Thank you,” Vollers said.
The same piece of waste ground — a calculated risk. Even if Bullimer had reported the crime, no way the cops had the resources for a stakeout. Time had passed, the crime unit would have moved on.
Even so, Peppard drove past, just to be sure. Then he did a three-point turn and parked at almost exactly the same spot as before. You could hear the motorway and see that glow in the sky that was Greater London. But there were no buildings and no hiding places. He wondered where Bullimer was. Probably back home, vowing never to travel anywhere again.
“Out,” Jarman ordered.
Peppard opened the boot and hauled out the case. It was big enough for a few days’ stay in a new country. Metallic casing, probably the same make as the briefcase. Vollers knew what was expected of him. He laid the case flat, unlocked it, and flipped it open.
“There’s a little clock radio,” he said, reaching beneath the neatly folded clothes for it. “It’s digital — tells the time in different countries. You might be able to sell it.”