“Your documents.” He handed them across. “And now I’ll show you out.” He opened the door.
Slipping the cheque into an inner pocket, I stuffed the rest of the paperwork into the briefcase and went through that door walking on air.
Some people were in the corridor outside. I wouldn’t have given them a second glance had not one of them said, “Mr Michael Hawkins.”
My own name? I froze.
“I’m DI Cavanagh, of the Serious Fraud Squad.”
I didn’t hear the rest. I believe I fainted.
Three months into my sentence, I was transferred to an open prison in Norfolk. There, in the library one afternoon, I met Arthur, and we talked a little. He seemed more my sort than some of the prisoners. As you do, I asked him what he was in for.
“Obtaining money by deception.”
“Snap,” I said.
“Only I was caught with the cheque in my pocket,” he said.
“Me, too. I was caught in a Swiss bank, of all places.”
“How odd,” he said. “So was I.”
It didn’t take long to discover we had both been talked into the same scam by Willy Plumridge.
“What a bastard!” I said. “And he’s still at liberty.”
“Waiting to find another mug to tease some money out of the bank,” Arthur said. “I bet I wasn’t the first.”
“Well, he got rich by doing it himself, I gather,” I said.
“True, but with less risk. In the early days of this racket, he traced the families and advised them. They made the approach to the bank, and it worked. They paid him well for the information. Later, he was left with the account numbers he couldn’t link to a family, so he thought up this idea of finding people to pose as executors. Maybe it worked a few times, but banks aren’t stupid.”
“So I discovered. What I can’t understand is why they haven’t pulled him in. He’s Mr Big. You and I are small fry.”
“They won’t touch him,” Arthur said.
“Why?”
“He’s the man who jumped for England.”
That again. “Give me a break!” I said. “How does that make a difference?”
“Don’t you know?” Arthur said. He glanced to right and left to make sure no one could overhear him. “One of those account numbers he got from his father belonged to someone pretty important. A former prime minister, in fact.”
“No! Which one?”
“I never found out, except they’re dead. Supposed to have been a model of honesty when in fact they were salting away millions in bribes. Willy got onto the family and offered to liberate the money without anyone finding out. The next generation had some heavy expenses to meet, so they hired him. The bank, of course, was utterly discreet and totally duped. Willy pulled it off and was handed the cheque. Then I don’t know if his concentration went, or he was light-headed with his success, but he slipped on the stairs at Bank tube station, fell to the bottom and suffered severe bruising and concussion. He was rushed to hospital and no one knew who he was.”
“Except that he was carrying the cheque?”
“Right. And various documents linking him to the family. The police called them. They panicked and said they knew nothing about Willy. He had to be an impostor and all the documents must be faked. After a night in the cells, he was charged with obtaining money by deception and brought before the magistrate at Bow Street. They put him on bail, pending further investigation. Only it never came to trial.”
“Why?”
“The secret service intervened to avert the scandal. If it had ever got to court it would have destroyed a prime minister’s reputation. They decided the best way to deal with it was for Willy to jump bail and go into hiding. No attempt was made to find him and the matter was dropped. The family cashed the cheque, Willy got his commission, and the good name of a great prime minister was saved from disgrace. That’s why you and I are locked in here and Willy Plumridge is sitting in the Nag’s Head enjoying his vodka and tonic. He did the decent thing and jumped for England.”
Second Strings
Mr Small was Mr Big, and that was no joke. It isn’t wise to make fun of an underworld king.
“This is in confidence, right?”
“Goes without saying, Mr Small,” Bernie said. Bernie wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’d survived by being respectful of men of violence. He didn’t much care for blood and guts. Crime didn’t have to be messy. By nature he was a gatherer, rather than a hunter.
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“Thanks,” Bernie said, hoping it didn’t involve murder.
“You’ve still got that Transit Van, I hope.”
“Er, yes.” Maybe a bullion job, Bernie thought, looking steadily into Sly Small’s lizard eyes.
“I want you to collect something for me.”
“No problem, Mr Small.”
“You haven’t heard the rest. This is a sizeable item. I’d say it weighs as much as you or me and is about your height. What are you — six feet?”
“Just over six.” Oh, no, it’s a corpse, Bernie thought. He wants me to collect a stiff.
“It’s an instrument.”
Bernie’s mind switched to torture and his mouth went dry.
“A Horngacher.”
It sounded excruciating.
“A musical instrument.”
Now Bernie doubted if he was hearing right. What on earth would Sly Small — a man of brutal tastes — want with a musical instrument?
“You’re a man who likes music, aren’t you? I mean serious music. Beethoven and stuff.”
Bernie listened to Classic FM on the car radio sometimes. It was scary how much Sly Small knew. “I suppose.”
“This is in confidence,” Sly said for the second time. “I’m only telling you because of your high taste in music. I sent my boy Rocky to one of them posh schools thinking it would help him when he steps into my shoes. Cost me an arm and a leg and after ten years of it, he’s still pig ignorant. The only thing he can do is music. They sent him for an interview at the Royal College and he’s in.”
“Top result,” Bernie said.
“Are you being sarky?”
“No, Mr Small. No way.”
“If I thought you was being sarky I’d nail you to the wall.”
“And you’d be right to do it,” Bernie said.
Sly Small gave Bernie a long look. “I don’t want this to get around. Rocky is getting a Horngacher. From me.”
Bernie nodded.
“Don’t look as if you know what a Horngacher is, you thick berk. I didn’t know myself until a couple of days ago. It’s a harp, a bloody great harp. Have a good laugh. My son and heir plays the harp. That’s his instrument, okay?”
A harp. Bernie understood Sly Small’s problem now. The criminal world would fall about laughing if it learned that Sly’s son had turned into a harpist.
“He’s flesh and blood,” Sly said. “What can you do? If the boy had asked me for a Harley-Davidson I’d have given him one. He doesn’t want a Harley, he wants a Horngacher. There’s one called the Meisterharfe Horngacher. It’s the Harley-Davidson of harps he says, worth fifty grand, easy. Your job is to pick one up for me.”
“From a harp shop?” Bernie said.
“I didn’t say buy one. What do you think I am? I’ve made inquiries, and there are only two Meisterharfe Horngachers known to be in Britain. One is in the Museum of Music in Winchester, and that’s as secure as Fort Knox. But the other is out there being played. It’s coming in tomorrow.”
“Coming in where?”
“The Albert Hall, for some concert. It was being played last weekend in Prague, with the Royal Philharmonic. They use a big furniture van to drive the instruments across the continent. Should be arriving around mid-day. That’s when you pick up the harp.”