Loose Ends Read online

  ‘Precisely. And I for one won’t stand for it.’ He grinned ferociously, causing Jefferson to smile back, though he wasn’t entirely sure what the joke was.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said knowingly.

  ‘Now, after consultation, Jefferson, we – that is to say, I – have come to the conclusion that you are far and away the best man to handle this. Quite apart from your considerable expertise, you have . . . erm . . . perhaps fewer ties than some of us. It’ll require going down to head office in London for a month or so – naturally we’ll cover all expenses – and looking into the matter. It’s fraud, to be frank with you. We are in the process of being fleeced.’

  This last statement, coming so soon after the one about wool being pulled over eyes, had Jefferson so hopelessly lost in the remembrance of things past – a holiday in Australia, to be more specific, and a trip to see a demonstration of sheep-shearing, the smell of Antipodean sweat, the batting away of flies, corks dangling on the end of strings, coarse male laughter, the overpowering stench of frightened sheep – that he hardly knew how to respond.

  In the end, ‘I see,’ seemed to cover most of the bases, although he didn’t, but by now he had gathered that the firm was in some way being defrauded, though how and by whom, he had yet to discover.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Mr Pritchard said heartily.

  ‘I’ll need a full dossier, of course,’ Jefferson said, pulling himself together inside his good suit, straightening his silk tie, standing more upright. ‘List of current personnel, an itemized rundown of all the details in our possession. Are the police involved?’

  ‘I knew you were the right man for the job, Jefferson. Hit the nail fair and square on the head.’

  How had he done that? ‘Good . . .’

  ‘The thing is, it’s an inside job and the last thing we want is the police butting in. There’s the firm’s reputation to consider, absolutely top priority, so I want you to be circumspect, discreet. When we have the proof we need, then we can pounce.’

  Two and a half weeks later, Jefferson did indeed pounce, almost literally, on the floor manager who had been trying to pull a Leeson, and lining his own pockets in the process. While the sums involved were nothing like Leeson was playing with on behalf of Barings, if left undetected they could have caused considerable damage to the prestige of Jefferson’s own bank. The job had not been difficult, but it had entailed many long hours poring over financial reports, fitting two and two together and coming up with seven or eight. After some intense discussion (shades of his schooldays) with the pseudo-Leeson, most of the money was repaid, and the bank’s reputation remained unsullied.

  Since then, he’d found himself involved in other matters requiring the kind of logical putting together of fractured pieces of information, one involving more missing funds at the bank, a second involving the disappearance of a Rolex Oyster watch from a meeting of the French club.

  By now he had acquired a flat and a decent car, was able to afford foreign holidays, had built up a substantial portfolio of shares. Pain from the loss of both Mary-Jane and Felicity had begun to grow less fierce, though as yet, no-one else had taken the place of either. There had been a few one-month stands, once even a girl he’d thought of asking to move with him, until he’d seen her collection of Lladro figurines and realized that whatever he felt about living with the girl, it would be impossible to live with them.

  Kate

  Ten

  This was to be Kate’s final night in Magnus’s house. They had spent the previous weekend filling his ancient car with her suitcases, the pink dog with the lolling tongue which she’d given Annie on her eighth birthday and packed into her luggage after The Accident, some favourite bits and pieces, and driving them across town to Janine’s flat. Janine herself was away, but she’d given Kate a key and told her to settle herself in.

  ‘Nice place,’ Magnus said, prowling about on the Sunday night. ‘Bit different from ours.’

  ‘Only because your house – thanks for calling it ours! – lacks a woman’s touch.’

  As I do myself, Magnus thought. ‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate the things you do,’ he said. ‘Flowers and cushions and things. I do notice.’

  ‘Your house is full of lovely things: you only need to dust it occasionally – and for goodness sake buy some new curtains, something light and bright. They’d transform your sitting room.’

  ‘Perhaps you and this Janine person – where is she, by the way?’

  ‘Gone down to London for the weekend. I think she might have a Man down there, though she’s never said.’

  ‘Oh. Oh well . . . that puts paid to my little idea that the two of you might come with me into the city one Saturday and choose some curtains. I could take you both out to lunch afterwards.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘Not if she’s got a . . . a boyfriend.’

  ‘You can’t believe that having someone in her life means she never speaks to another male again, do you?’

  ‘Maybe not, but she’s unlikely to want to spend time in the company of an old fogey like me,’ he said, looking hopefully at his sister.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Kate frowned at her brother. ‘You don’t really think that’s how you come across, do you?’

  ‘A bit.’ Magnus looked down at himself. ‘I’m never going to be asked to pose for those glossy magazines about men’s fashions, am I?’

  ‘But you do scrub up well, darling. Maybe you just need to scrub up more often. And get a haircut now and then. A good one. And your eyebrows are getting a bit . . . overgrown. Maybe you should buy a hedge-trimmer.’

  ‘That’s more than enough about me, thank you.’ Magnus handed her a small package. ‘This is a house-warming present.’

  Kate tore off the paper. ‘Oh, how lovely she is.’ She held the little painted box in her hand, tilting it to left and right to catch the gleam of mother-of-pearl behind the Snow Princess in her fur-trimmed hat and coat. ‘Is it really for me?’

  ‘With love from me to you.’

  ‘I’ll treasure it more than you can imagine.’

  The two of them looked at each other, both remembering the family they had lost, the beautiful Ecuadorian woman who had been all the mother they had really known, the little long-gone sister, their Dad.

  After so many wasted months, Kate was feeling buoyant, almost light-headed: as though she’d finally thrown off the depression caused by Brad’s departure and the subsequent divorce, and was on her way to starting an independent life again. She was looking forward to sharing with Janine: her flat was light and roomy, the middle floor of a large converted Victorian semi, set opposite a park. If there was a downside, it was that Janine appeared to be excessively orderly: when Kate had gone round to view the place, the brightly coloured silk cushions were plumped up, the bathroom was immaculate, the kitchen counters were tidy and shining – no half-empty teacups in the sink, no jars of marmalade with the top left off, no bread crumbs congregating round the toaster. But with any luck, Janine was as much a slob as Kate, and had just tidied up in order to make a good first impression.

  She got off the bus much later than usual: Janine had suggested they go to the restaurant round the corner from TaylorMade Travel for some quick dim sum, which had included two pitchers of warm sake. ‘Tomorrow,’ Janine suggested, ‘we’ll have dinner at my place – ‘our place,’ corrected Kate, giggling a little – ‘our place,’ agreed Janine, ‘a celebration, a bottle of something nice,’ she said, ‘I’ll have something ready when you arrive.’

  Standing on the pavement as the bus lumbered away, Kate wondered if Magnus had remembered to buy fresh milk, decided he almost certainly hadn’t, then recalled that in any case, Magnus wasn’t there, having flown off to Boston to do some research at Harvard and then attend a conference in California on some piece of Romanov esoterica or other. There were still lights on in the mini-market on the corner, so she walked along the pavement, past three or four shiny yuppie cars, a white van, M
r Radsowicz-across-the-way’s small red Fiat, a parked taxi. She exchanged a few words with the tall black figures of the two Somali brothers who stood like hieratic statues behind the till, tucked the carton of milk into her big leather shoulder bag and turned back towards home.

  Afterwards, it was the suddenness of it all that she remembered most clearly, the smoothly efficient process of her abduction, kidnap, hijack, as though they’d practised the moves over and over again until they ran like clockwork. A figure stepping out from between two cars, an arm round her neck, a hand covering her mouth, her helplessness as she was lifted off her feet and bundled like a roll of carpet into the back of the white van she’d noticed earlier. Then a masculine presence – she wrinkled her nose against the smell of some cheap aftershave overlaying a body not washed often enough – kneeling beside her in the darkness as the van lurched into movement and took off down the street, tape over her mouth, hands secured behind her, legs fastened together with rope. A blanket shoved under her head, some kind of mattress under her body, another blanket thrown over her, stinking of stale onion bhaji and motor oil.

  The van slowed, turned a corner, then came to a stop while whoever had tied her up got out, slammed the rear doors closed and climbed into the front. The whole operation took fewer than ninety seconds.

  There were no windows in the van, and only a thin band of light where the two doors met. She lay in the darkness, trying to piece together what had happened, though it was obvious really: she’d been abducted, taken hostage, and the person responsible had to be Stefan, it was far too much of a coincidence if it wasn’t. The bastard. My God, she thought, I’ve got proof enough for the police now, all right. Oddly enough, she felt very little fear. Stefan was such a loser that she was sure she would come off best in any encounter they had, as long as the driver, whoever he was, wasn’t included in whatever plan sodding Stefan had for her, in which case, the odds of her coming out on top were considerably lessened.

  Magnus had called her ‘enterprising’. Dad had advised her to keep a stiff upper lip. OK, guys, that’s what she would do. She would be enterprising and stiffly upper-lipped, though she’d often wondered why it wasn’t the lower lip that was mentioned in trying circumstances, since she’d noticed that was the one which usually quivered. Stiff lower lip, Katie . . .

  She dragged herself into a sitting position by working her back against the side of the van, then tried to pull her taped wrists under her bottom so that she could bring her ankles through the circle of her arms. At first she got nowhere. She kept falling sideways, and the movement of the van made her feel nauseous, so that she needed to lie down until her stomach settled. Too much dim sum and warm sake on an empty stomach, since there hadn’t been time for lunch.

  At last she was able to contort her body sufficiently to achieve a sitting position with her freed legs out in front of her. She lifted her taped hands to her mouth and tore off the duct tape, wincing as what felt like half the skin of her face came with it. Then she gnawed at the tape around her wrists with her teeth until she succeeded in pulling it off. Finally she bent towards her feet and worked away at the rope until it fell away from her ankles.

  So far, so free. She had no idea how long it had taken, but now what? She had no idea where they were, though the fact that the van kept slowing down and idling indicated that they were still in an area of town controlled by traffic lights. There was a screen between the back of the van and the front seats, but she could hear male voices and occasional laughter, and once, the throaty concupiscence of Mick Jagger singing the opening lines of ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’, quickly cut off as one of the men in front answered his mobile, barking incomprehensible responses to his caller. When he’d finished his conversation, the other one said, ‘You want to be careful, mate, you know they’ve got their eye on us, don’t you?’

  ‘You always say that,’ said the first one, laughing.

  ‘I say it, you little twat, because it’s bloody true.’

  ‘Who is it who has the eye on us?’

  ‘The cops, just for starters. But don’t think your dad hasn’t got enemies, so watch it, that’s all I can say, don’t draw attention to yourself, don’t drive that stupid car of yours over the speed limit, don’t get drunk or diss a cop, don’t do anything – they’re just looking for a reason to bring us in, doesn’t matter what for, any excuse will do, so for Chrissake keep your nose clean.’

  ‘I always do, don’t I?’ The disdainful tone was definitely Stefan Michaels’, and she was fairly sure she recognized the other voice as belonging to his friend with the pseudo-gentlemanly accent. Mick, wasn’t it?

  While they talked, she was edging over to the rear doors. The darkness inside the van was almost total as she felt around for some kind of release mechanism. Halfway up she found a spring-loaded lever which she was able to manipulate up and down. Carefully she pushed at it and found that the steel rod which held the doors closed moved. Would it open the doors? Next time the van slowed down, she would try it and see.

  A small interior voice told her it couldn’t be that easy. A slightly louder voice asked why the hell not? She leaned the side of her head against the doors: she could hear almost nothing except a murmur of what she took to be traffic, and the creaks and groans of the metal sides grating against the bed of the vehicle. She thought of Magnus, soaking up the Californian sunshine, sitting outside some Mexican restaurant and scarfing down fajitas or burritos slathered with jalapeño sauce. She remembered Jefferson Andrewes’ good-natured face, his kindness, the holiday – no, the fact-finding mission – he intended to book. She wished she could join him in watching the turtles make their slow progress up the beach while the waves hissed on the sand and seabirds mewled and screamed.

  The driver stepped on the brakes and slowed the van down. Traffic lights! Breathing through her mouth, terrified that at the last moment everything would go wrong, Kate bore down on the lever and pushed at the doors. They opened but as she prepared to climb out, the van suddenly accelerated, throwing her back into the interior.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Through the open swinging doors, she could see they were driving along a shopping parade in one of the seedier parts of town, shuttered storefronts, a dimly lit fish-and-chip parlour, closed for the night, shops which during the day sold cheap jewellery, saris, takeaways, carpets. Two or three bookmakers. A cheapjack’s, windows stuffed with orange plastic buckets and cubes of foam covered in hideous green or purple plush. In the half-light from the street, she looked around for her shoulder bag but it didn’t seem to be there; maybe it was still lying in the gutter and someone would find it, call the police, use her mobile to speed-dial someone – one of her friends, or Janine. And maybe not.

  At this time of night, nobody seemed to be about. They were travelling so fast now that she dared not jump out, though sooner or later the two men in front would realize that the doors had opened and she would be trussed up again. She prayed for more traffic lights. A police car. A taxi. Another vehicle to appear behind them so that she could signal for help. But the street was deserted and if there were traffic lights, her captors were driving straight through them without slowing sufficiently for her to risk the jump.

  And then, once more, the van slowed. She didn’t wait for it to come to a full stop but got a leg over the sill and felt for the tarmac before tumbling awkwardly into the road, hanging on to the back until the last moment, but nonetheless hitting the ground with a thump which painfully jarred her shoulder. The van remained still, engine idling, and for a moment, she thought they must have realized that their prisoner had escaped. She took a nanosecond to memorize the number plate – hopeless at maths, brilliant at numbers – then she was up and running, as fast as she could, heading for a pub where there were still lights showing.

  Damn and blast! The doors were locked. Peering through the ornately etched glass of the door, she could see tea towels draped over the porcelain beer pulls, scruffy vinyl seating mended with duct tape,
small round tables with laminated tops scarred with cigarette burns. Behind the bar, the lights were turned low, causing translucent reflections in the mirror of green bottles of gin, red Campari, whiskys in various shades of brown, blue Curaçao. It was difficult to believe that in a neighbourhood like this, anyone drank Curaçao.

  Behind her, she heard a car squeal to a stop. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the white van, by now some distance away, making a U-turn and then roaring back down the street towards her. She opened her mouth and screamed; at the same time, she ran round the corner of the pub and right-turned down the alleyway behind it. Still screaming at the top of her voice (‘Help! Help me!’), she found herself in a maze of narrow bisecting passages at the back of the close-packed houses. She turned left, turned right, ran straight when she saw street lights shining ahead.

  Her screams did not seem to have had any effect on the neighbours. Were they all watching television with the sound turned up? Or asleep in their beds wearing earplugs? Someone must be able to hear her. On the other hand, in a run-down area like this, they were probably used to drunken girls shrieking, and had learned to take no notice.

  It occurred to her that screaming was not only useless, but might be giving her pursuers some idea of where she was. She ran on, looking at the houses for a passage into a back garden, a lighted front window, a doorway where she could conceal herself while – with any luck – the owners responded to her frantic knocking.

  But she was in a part of town where the houses were terraced and front doors opened straight off the pavement. Looking at the mean little houses, her heart sank: nobody here was likely to take her in and help her. She ran on, looking for more side passages she could duck down, back alleys where she could lose herself. If she could find a rear garden to climb into, she might be able to get into a tool shed until daylight came, or find a bush to cower behind. Either way, she’d probably freeze to death before morning, but it would be preferable to being in the hands of Stefan and his sidekick. But there were no obvious gardens, and in any case, these were back-to-back dwellings with courtyards bounded by high walls which she would have no hope of scaling.