Including your own, I thought. Not bad.
I said, “I guess some of this money is ill-gotten gains.”
“I never enquire,” he said. “If Great Uncle Edward was a train robber, or painted fake Van Goghs, it’s no concern of mine. The way I see it, the family has more right to it than the bank. Are you with me?”
“I think so,” I said.
“I’m only mentioning this because I think you can help me.”
I hesitated. “How?”
“Well, I still have details of a few accounts I haven’t been able to follow up, and time is running out. The twenty-year rule means that the banks will scoop the pool if something isn’t done. I begrudge them that. I feel I owe it to the memories of my old Dad and his friend — who also died about the same time — to recover that money. These are families I haven’t traced yet. I’ve found the wills, but the beneficiaries are more elusive.”
“You want someone to do the research, track them down?”
He shook his head. “There isn’t the time. What I need is someone I can trust to approach the bank and show them the documentation and claim the money for the estate.”
“What — go to Switzerland?”
“That isn’t necessary. They have a City of London branch. I’d do it myself, but they know my face from a previous claim.”
“You want me to pretend I’m acting for the family?”
“Pretend? You will be acting for them, Mike. I’ve opened an executors’ account. You show them the copy of the will and the death certificate and they verify that the names match. You give them the account details, which they confirm with Zurich. They write you a cheque, and bingo!”
“Why should they deal with me?”
“To keep them happy, you say you’re one of the executors.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll give you proof of identity.”
“No, this isn’t right.”
“Would five per cent make it right?”
I didn’t speak.
“Think it over,” he said. “Let me know tomorrow, or the next day. No sweat.”
Plenty of sweat. Another night of disturbed sleep. This time I was wrestling with my conscience. It was a scam and a clever scam. But the only loser would be a bank that was about to get a fortune that didn’t belong to it.
Much neater than pointing a gun at a cashier. This was beating them at their own game, with account numbers and cheques.
Could I trust Willy Plumridge? He had the lifestyle that backed his story. Good suits, a Porsche, usually parked outside the pub. I hadn’t seen his house, but Sally had told me he had two, and they were both big places.
In the morning my credit card statement arrived. I owed them three grand and some more.
“If I did this,” I said to Willy, “how much would I make out of it?”
He took out a calculator and pressed some buttons. “Give or take a few pence, fifty-five grand.”
I tried to sound unimpressed. “So it’s a sizeable inheritance?”
“You can work it out.”
“And there won’t be any problem with the family?”
He grinned. “The beauty of it is that we don’t know where they are. And when we trace them — if we do — they’re going to be so delighted by this windfall that they won’t begrudge us our commission. Believe me, Mike, this isn’t the first such deal I’ve negotiated.”
I had my doubts whether Willy’s efforts to trace the family would yield a quick result. Maybe, like the bank, he reckoned the money should come to him after a passage of time.
Fifty-five grand would set me up for a couple of years at least. I could do some real painting for a change, get off the treadmill of cute teddy-bears and badgers dressed as postmen.
“Would this be a one-off?”
“Has to be,” Willy said. “I couldn’t use you again. I have to find some other guy I can trust.”
“So we can draw a line under it?”
“You’ll never hear from me again. It’ll be as if we never met.”
“I’d prefer the money in cash, if that’s possible.”
“No problem.”
He was efficient. He’d done this before. A packet arrived at my house two days later. Inside were the details of the Swiss bank account of the late James Alexander Connelly, standing at £1,106,008, his death certificate and his last will and testament, including the names of two executors, Harry and Albert Smith. I was to be Albert. There was a letter from Harry giving me authority to act on his behalf, and another from an English bank confirming that an executors’ account had been opened. A birth certificate in Albert Smith’s name was included as proof of identity.
Willy had told me to make an appointment. Banks don’t like people coming in off the street and making big withdrawals. I was to say I was an executor for James Connelly’s estate enquiring about the possibility of a bank account in his name. No more than that.
I called the bank and spoke to someone who listened without much show of interest and invited me in the next morning at eleven-thirty.
After another uneasy night I put on the only suit I owned, dropped my documents into a briefcase and took the train to London. Sitting there shoulder to shoulder with the business-men who commuted daily, I felt isolated, one of another species about to venture into their territory.
The bank was right in the City of London, a massive building with grey pillars. Unlike my own suburban bank, this one had a security guard and a receptionist. I mentioned my appointment and was shown to a seat. The decor was intended to intimidate: marble, mahogany and murals. Don’t let them get you down, I told myself. They’re the crooks.
They kept me waiting ten minutes, and it felt like an hour. “Mr Smith.”
I almost forgot to respond.
“This way, please.”
The young woman showed me upstairs, where it was Persian carpets and embossed wallpaper. She opened a door. “Please go in and sit down. Mr Schmidt will be with you shortly.”
Schmidt. One of the family? I said to myself, trying to stay loose. I sat back in a large leather chair and patted my thighs. I wasn’t going to cross my legs in case I looked nervous.
Schmidt entered through another door. He looked younger than I expected, dark, with tinted glasses. “How can I help?”
I gave him the spiel, stressing that Uncle James had repeatedly spoken about his special account with the bank. After his death there had been a delay of some years before we — the executors — found his notes with the account details. “His filing system was non-existent,” I said. “We came across the note in a book of handwritten recipes. We almost threw it out. As a cook, he was a dead loss.”
“May I see?”
“I didn’t bring the recipe book,” I said. “I copied the figures.”
“And do you have other evidence with you?”
I removed everything from the briefcase and passed it across.
Schmidt spent some minutes studying the documents. “It seems to be in order,” he said. “Would you mind if I showed the papers to a colleague? We have to verify anything so major as this.”
“I understand.”
When he left the room I found I’d crossed my legs after all. I took deep breaths.
The wait tested me to the limit. Just in case there was a hidden camera, I tried to give an impression of calm, but pulses were beating all over my body.
When Schmidt returned, there was a cheque in his hand. “This is what you were waiting for, Mr Smith, a cheque for a million and just over two hundred thousand pounds. The account accrued some interest. All I require is your signature on the receipt.”
Resisting the urge to embrace the man, I scribbled a signature.