They packed their small suitcases and cleared the room of the pens, papers, and personal possessions they had left around. Mitch took a towel from the bathroom and wiped the telephones and the shiny surfaces of the furniture.
″The rest doesn′t matter,ʺ he said. ″The odd single print on a wall or a window will be no use at all to the police.″ He threw the towel into the sink. ″Besides, there will be so many other prints everywhere by the time they cotton on, it will be a life′s work sorting them all out.″
Five minutes later they checked out. Mitch paid the bill with a check on the bank where he had opened the account in the names of Hollows and Cox.
They took a taxi to Harrods. Inside the store they separated. Anne found the ladies′ and entered a cubicle. She put her case down on the toilet, opened it, and took out a raincoat and sou′wester-style hat. When she had them on she closed the case and left the cubicle.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The coat covered her expensive clothes, and the inelegant hat hid her dyed-blonde hair. A wave of relief swept over her as she realized it no longer mattered whether anyone recognized her.
That possibility had kept her on edge right throughout the operation. She did not know any of the people in that stratum of the art world: Peter knew them, of course, but she had always kept out of his relationships with them. She had gone to the odd gallery party, where nobody had bothered to speak to her. Still, her face—her normal face—might have been vaguely familiar to someone.
She sighed, and began to clean off her makeup with a tissue. For a day and a half she had been a glamorous woman of the world. Heads had turned as she crossed the street. Middle-aged men had become slightly undignified in her presence, flattering her and opening doors for her. Women had gazed enviously at her clothes.
Now she was back to being—what had Mitch called it? The ″dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter.″
She would never be quite the same, she felt. In the past she had never been much interested in clothes, makeup and perfume. She had thought of herself as plain, and she had been content to be a wife and a mother. Now she had tried the high life. She had been a successful, beautiful villainess—and something hidden, from the depths of her personality, had responded to the role. The ghost had escaped from its prison in her heart, and now it would never go back.
She wondered how Peter would react to it.
She dropped the lipstick-stained tissue in a waste-paper basket and left the powder room. She left the store by a side entrance. The van was waiting at the curb, with Peter at the wheel. Mitch was already in the back.
Anne climbed into the passenger seat and kissed Peter.
″Hello, darling,″ he said. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
His face was already shadowed with bristles: in a week he would have a respectable beard, she knew. His hair fell around his face and down to his shoulders again—the way she liked it.
She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat as they crawled home. The release of tension was a physical pleasure.
Peter pulled up outside a large, detached house in Balham. He went to the door and knocked. A woman with a baby opened it. Peter took the baby and walked back down the path, past the sign which said ″Greenhill Day Nursery,ʺ and jumped into the van. He plunked Vibeke on Anne′s lap.
She hugged the baby tight. ″Darling, did you miss Mummy last night?″
ʺAllo,ʺ said Vibeke.
Peter said: ″We had a good time, didn′t we, Vibeke? Porridge for tea and cake for breakfast.″
Anne felt the pressure of tears, and fought them back.
When they arrived home, Peter took a bottle of champagne from the fridge and announced a celebration. They sat around in the studio drinking the sparkling wine, giggling as they recalled the worrying moments of the escapade.
Mitch began to fill out a bank deposit slip for the checks. When he had added up the total he said: ″Five hundred and forty-one thousand pounds, my friends.″
The words seemed to drain Anne′s elation. Now she felt tired. She stood up. ″I′m going to dye my hair mouse-colored again,″ she said. ″See you later.″
Mitch also stood up. ″I′ll go to the bank before they close. The sooner we get these checks in, the better.ʺ
″What about the portfolios?″ Peter asked. ″Should we get rid of those?″
″Throw them in the canal tonight,″ Mitch replied. He went downstairs, took off his polo-necked sweater, and put on a shirt, tie, and jacket.
Peter came down. ″Are you taking the van?″
″No. Just in case there are small boys taking car numbers, I′ll go on the Tube.″ He opened the front door. ″See you.″
It took him just forty minutes to get to the bank in the City. The total on the deposit slip did not even raise the cashier′s eyebrows. He checked the figures, stamped the check stub, and handed the book back to Mitch.
″I′d like a word with the manager, if I may,″ Mitch said.
The cashier went away for a couple of minutes. When he came back he unlocked the door and beckoned Mitch. It′s that easy to get behind the bullet-proof screen, Mitch thought. He grinned as he realized he was beginning to think like a criminal. He had once spent three hours arguing with a group of Marxists that crooks were the most militant section of the working class.
The bank manager was short, round-faced and genial. He had a slip of paper in front of him with a name and a row of figures on it. ″I′m glad you′re making use of our facilities, Mr. Hollows,″ he said to Mitch. ″I see you′ve deposited over half a million.″
″A business operation that went right,″ said Mitch. ʺLarge sums are involved in the art world these days.″
″You and Mr. Cox are university teachers, if I remember aright.″
ʺYes. We decided to use our expertise in the market, and as you can see, it went rather well.″
″Splendid. Well now, is there something else we can do for you?″
″Yes. As these checks are cleared, I would like you to arrange the purchase of negotiable securities.″
ʺCertainly. There is a fee of course.″
″Of course. Spend five hundred thousand pounds on the securities and leave the rest in the account to cover the fee and any small checks my partner and I have drawn.″
The manager scribbled on the sheet of paper.
″One other thing,″ Mitch continued. ″I would like to open a safe deposit box.″
″Surely. Would you like to see our vault?″
Christ, they make it easy for robbers, Mitch thought. ʺNo, that won′t be necessary. But if I could take the key with me now.″
The manager picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. Mitch stared out of the window.
″It′s on its way,″ said the manager.
″Good. When you have completed the purchase of securities, put them in the safe deposit.″
A young man came in and handed the manager a key. The manager gave it to Mitch. Mitch stood up and shook hands.
ʺThank you for your help.″
″My pleasure, Mr. Hollows.″
A week later Mitch telephoned the bank and confirmed that the securities had been bought and deposited in the safe. He took an empty suitcase and went to the bank on the Tube.
He went down to the vault, opened his box, and put all the securities in the suitcase. Then he left.
He walked around the corner to another bank, where he arranged to have another safe deposit box. He paid for the privilege with a check of his own, and put the new box in his own name. Then he put the suitcase full of securities in the new box.
On the way home he stopped at a phone booth and telephoned a Sunday newspaper.