Kevin had wondered why George might have made that deposit. He wasn't what you would call a nice man to deal with, so Kevin had come up with some not very nice theories. He had decided that George had murdered his wife, then dug up what was left of her from under the patio. His two sons were planning to build him a lean-to so old George was bringing in her body piece by piece before they started. His deposit box was one of the larger ones. That was because it contained a black box, about the size of a briefcase, in which George kept nearly £100,000 in fifty-pound notes.
George had boasted to Kevin about his cash when he came into the bank one afternoon to pay some money into his current account. He always came in at the same time each month and paid in the same amount — two hundred pounds. He had had quite a lot to drink that day and couldn't stop himself spilling the beans.
Apparently he had cheated the VAT man when he had had his own building firm, and this little nest egg was the result. He had to put it in a deposit box, he said, because if it ever got nicked he wouldn't be able to report it. He was proud to say that he'd never looked inside the money box from the day he had put in the cash. He'd never touched it, and never would. He had more than enough money going into his current account to last him the rest of his life. Not even his wife and two sons knew about the secret stash.
That seemed a shame to Kevin, because George's wife had died of cancer two years ago. Maybe she could have spent it on better care. He had gone to school with George's two sons and had kept in touch with them over the years. He knew that they helped out their dad with any spare cash they had. He wondered if that was where the two hundred pounds came from each month.
It didn't seem right to Kevin that stingy George took money from his kids and never let on that he had all that cash of his own. He was keeping it for a rainy day, he said. And he wasn't going to let anyone else have a penny of it. Certainly not those useless sons of his — the wasters. Kevin knew it was none of his business what George did with his money. His job was to open the first lock on the deposit box for George and that was it.
Kevin took the lid off the jumbo-sized Nescafé jar that was sitting on the table.
When Symington had lost his diary last year, the names of customers who had deposit boxes had been written on the back page. Kevin had been saying for months that they should put the records on to the computer, and so had Head Office, but Symington refused. He didn't do computers, he said.
The day the diary got lost, Kevin had never seen Symington in such a state. He ran round the office like a headless chicken, checking every desk, every filing cabinet, every waste-paper bin. He twirled his moustache, as he always did when he was upset. Kevin would have found it very funny if the bank hadn't been expecting a visit from Head Office that day. They had phoned in the morning to say they were coming down later for a safe-deposit system inspection. Symington was likely to lose his job because the records weren't on the computer.
When the man from Head Office came in, Kevin had lied. He said the computer was down. He had saved Symington's arse again and maybe all of their jobs too. Since then, Kevin had pieced together which deposit box belonged to whom and finally put everyone's name on the computer. Symington had never thanked him. Just like he wouldn't on Monday when Kevin sent off the monthly report as if Symington had done it himself.
Kevin made his boss a cup of coffee. He'd ask for next Friday off now. He couldn't wait to see the smile on Linda's face when he told her he'd swung a long weekend for their wedding anniversary.
He headed for Symington's office, careful not to spill the brew on the carpet. He felt himself tense up. He knew it was stupid to be nervous of the old git, but he couldn't help it. 'Come on, Kevin,' he muttered. 'Think tough. Think mean. Think killer shark. You can do it.' He started to hum the Jaws tune. He felt tough. He felt mean. He was that killer shark.
'Mr Symington, I wonder if—'
The coffee leaped out of Kevin's hands and splashed over Symington's neat pin-striped suit. Symington jumped out of his chair and pulled at his shirt to keep the hot liquid off his skin. 'Can't you even walk past a wastepaper basket?' he roared
'So sorry, Mr Symington. I didn't see—'
'You clumsy oaf. You'll get the dry-cleaning bill on Monday.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't see the bin and I—'
'What is it you want anyway?'
Now Kevin felt less like a killer shark and more like a beached whale. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Can't remember.' He stumbled out of Symington's office. At least it was the end of the week and he wouldn't have to see the man until Monday. Maybe he would have calmed down by then and Kevin could have another shot at asking him for next Friday off.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kevin sat on the top deck of the bus, with his briefcase on his lap. He normally sat downstairs because he hadn't far to go. Today he had helped an old lady and she wouldn't stop thanking him so he had come upstairs to escape. He could see the whole of the high street through the rain-stripped windows. Lots of men with briefcases and umbrellas struggled up the hill to the car park. Office girls huddled in the doorway of Boots, smoking.
A woman with a pram tucked a new mop under one arm as she pushed with the other hand. Then she lost her grip on the pram, which started to roll down the hill. She dropped the mop and grabbed the pram. The baby was safe. For a moment, Kevin saw himself as Superman, in red cape and blue tights, smashing the bus window to fly after the runaway pram.
The bus drew away from the stop. He pulled out his phone and texted Linda that he was on his way. This was the best part of the day, going home.
As usual, Symington had been too idle to put in the CCTV videos that recorded the bank overnight. He knew it was a sacking offence but he didn't understand the machines. The bank wasn't insured if the security devices weren't working, but Symington thought he was above the rules. Every night Kevin put new tapes into the machines before the bank closed and replaced them in the morning.
He could hear two women laughing as they climbed up to the top deck. He recognized one of their voices, and turned, slipping his mobile back into his coat pocket.
He hadn't seen Debbie Robinson since he had left school, almost fifteen years ago, but she had hardly changed. She still looked great and he felt shy, like he always had at school with her. She wore a black mini-skirt, biker boots and jacket. Her hair was jet black and punky, and she had the biggest blue eyes he had ever seen. She was chatting with her mate as they walked past him and took the seat in front. She didn't notice him. Just like at school, really.
Her mate's phone rang and she was soon talking about what pub to go to that night. Debs checked her hair in a compact mirror and caught Kevin looking at her in its reflection. She swung round. 'What the fuck d'ya— Hang on, I know you. You're Kevin… Kevin something or other. I remember you from school. You had one of those pogo-stick things, didn't you?'
That was Kevin Logan. I'm Kevin Dodds.'
'Yeah, right.' She thought hard. 'Got it. The podgy one, basin haircut, always in the back row.'
Kevin was sort of pleased she knew who he was, but he was still a little nervous talking to her. 'So, what are you up to, Debs? Married with kids and a poodle?'