by Graham Hamer
Claire nudged him. “I thought you were Manx, not British?” she whispered, loud enough for everybody to hear.
“Manx we are, and proud of it. But, at the airport, you suggested you were in England, which you are most definitely not.”
“So you don't come under the British Parliament?”
“No. The island accepts the monarchy, rather like the Channel Islands. But we're independent of the British Parliament, so we've got our own laws and taxes.”
“And your own Members of Parliament?”
“Sort of. They're elected the same as in any other organized hypocrisy. The parliament is called The Tynwald. It meets on a large grass mound once a year. It's a good day out and a long-standing tradition.”
“It all sounds so interesting,” she said, sipping her coffee. “What other traditions do you have?”
“Well, you can always go and meet the Moddey Dhoo,” Denise said, in a deep, mysterious voice, “a great black dog that haunts Peel Castle. Or there are the 'Little People' who live next to the Fairy Bridge.”
“Is that where Ian told us to say 'Hello' on our way from the airport?”
“You've got it,” Denise said. “And if you don't greet them, something awful will happen, like your knickers will fall down.”
Claire's laugh sounded like a stream trickling over mossy rocks. “I'm looking forward to finding out more while I'm here.”
“So, what are your plans for the week?” Nancy asked.
“Nothing planned for tomorrow or Wednesday,” Philippe said. “Just show Claire a bit of the island. On Thursday afternoon I have to meet with the Fund Manager of Celtic Cross Investments for an hour or two of office business, and on Friday night Ian and I have the Old Boys' Dinner at College. Saturday is free, and we head back on Sunday morning.”
“Well it doesn't sound too hectic a schedule. Ian, are you taking any time off this week?”
His smile faded as he remembered his meeting with Tweedle earlier in the day. “There's some urgent work that I must get started on tomorrow and Wednesday, but I'll take Thursday off and see how things go Friday. Since Philippe's got business to attend to, why don't you and I show Claire round on Thursday?”
Nancy brushed some crumbs off the tablecloth. “Er —. I don't think I can make it Thursday morning. I've got a hairdressers appointment and, if I cancel, I may not be able to get in again very soon. What about you Pete? And you Denise?”
Pete's mouth tightened in a facial shrug. “I'd love to but we're going to be concreting at Three Leggs on Thursday, and we'll need all the hands we can get.” He looked at his girlfriend. “Sorry Den.”
“Can't be helped,” she said, leaning on his shoulder with both hands and kissing his cheek.
“So, it looks like Ian and Claire will have the day to themselves,” Philippe said.
Ian nodded. “I'll tell you what, Claire, I'll give you a 'folklore and legends' tour - Peel Castle, the Witches Hill, the Fairy Bridge, stuff like that.” He looked into the excited, steel-blue eyes of his lady guest. “We can have a look at Cregneash Village and the Loaghtan sheep.”
“What are Loaghtan sheep?”
“They have four horns and are very rare,” Philippe said. “They breed them on the island.”
“Yes, but they're not as rare as the famous Moddey Dhoo,” Ian said, pleased with the arrangements and the opportunity to get to know his guest better.
SATURDAY 20 APRIL
Richard was not used to socializing with his father. Old Jack's invitation, the first for many years, had been as unexpected and as unwelcome as the sound of jackboots coming up the garden path. The only other time his father and he had been to a restaurant together, it was he, Richard, who had found himself clutching the bill at the end of the evening. But, harbouring deep suspicions, he'd turned up anyway; after all, how bad could a day get?
It was a mediocre, plastic-coated restaurant where the air tasted greasy and stale. Only basic food featured on the menu and Richard ordered the least expensive item in case of a repeat performance.
“Are we having a drink?” Jack asked, as the gingham-topped waitress finished taking their order.
“I don't know,” Richard answered, eying him with caution. “What are you having?”
“Scotch - a large one. What about you? One of those fancy Martinis or something?”
“I'll have a Scotch as well.”
“A double?”
“Why not?”
The old man raised his eyebrows. “Two large Scotches,” he said to the waitress.
Richard watched as she turned towards the kitchen, her bottom waggling inside a black miniskirt. “Nice arse,” he said, turning back to his father.
“Mutton dressed as lamb. I've seen better, son.”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean, 'of course'?”
“Of course you've seen better. Been there. Done that. That's what Frank and I have heard all our lives.”
“Well I have achieved quite a lot you know.”
Richard cleared his throat. “So have I, old chap. In fact, I'm doing rather well at the moment.”
“At Frank's expense.”
“What do you mean? You know nothing about it.”
His father leaned towards him waving a bony finger in the air. “I know everything about it, son. I know your project is financed by Frank's money. I know that Garfield has had his arm twisted by you and your friend Scott, and I know that you now intend to rip off young Gidman. Have I missed anything out?”
Richard scowled.
“Apparently not,” Jack said.
“So what about it?” Richard retorted, fiddling with his napkin. “I'm doing nothing you haven't done a thousand times before.”
“You haven't got the faintest idea what I've done.”
“Rumour has it that —”
“To hell with rumour. Rumour has it that you're a pouf. What do you have to say about that?”
“What? Don't be stupid. I've had more women than you've —”
“Just joking,” his father said, giving him the knowing smile. “But ignore rumour, son. Deal in facts and you'll never go far wrong.”
“Okay, fact. I'm not queer and I've had my share of women.”
“Yes I know.”
Richard sighed and straightened his knife and fork. “You think you know everything don't you.”
“Yes.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. As she turned to leave, his father lifted his glass and downed the Scotch in one go. Richard watched then knocked his own drink back in one. It burned his throat. “Two more,” he called to the waitress in a croaky, rasping voice.
“It's not a race,” Jack said.
“So why'd you invite me here? Just to wind me up?”
“No to have a serious talk with you.”
“About what?” he asked, opening a fresh packet of cigarettes, then putting them away as he remembered he was in a restaurant.
“About what I said to you on the phone the other day.”
“The Gidman thing?”
“Let it go Richard. It's more complicated than you'll ever know.”
“So you keep saying, but you won't tell me why.”
“I have my reasons. Just trust me, will you?”
The last person in the world he would be likely to trust would be his conniving father. “All I'm planning to do is something you've probably done a thousand times,” he said. “If you were in my position now, would you go ahead or stop just short of success?”
Old Jack slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “For God's sake, why do you have to be so damned stubborn? I'm trying to save you from losing a load of money and all you can do is compare it to what I might do in the same circumstances.”
“Well? What would you do? You're always telling us what to do. So now tell me, what would you do?”
“I'd bloody well listen to my father.”
Richard grabbed his drink off the returning waitress and knocked
it back in one. She scurried away. “And that's what all this is about isn't it. Just because it's me that's about to make a killing and not you, you don't like it.”
“Jesus H. Christ. You still think I'm treating you like a child.”
“Well, you are aren't you?”
“No, I'm trying to protect your bloody interests, that's what I'm trying to do. You and Frank stand to inherit a lot of money some day soon, you don't need a few thousand off young Gidman. He's got problems enough without your help.”
“First of all it's more than just a few thousand, old chap, and —”
“Don't bloody well 'old chap' me, Richard. I'm your father, remember?”
“It would be difficult to forget. You've never liked it when Frank or I have done anything independent of you, have you.”
“Leave Frank out of this. You've used his money to set up this property development, so now you could at least heed some advice on how to protect it for him.”
“But how can things possibly go wrong?”
“I'm not saying they will. All I'm saying is that I don't like you doing it to Ian Gidman.”
Richard raised his glass to his lips before remembering that it was empty. He put it back down. “But why?” he asked. “What does Gidman mean to you? What's so special about him?”
His father lifted his own glass and sipped at his Scotch, eyeing his son over the rim of the glass. “Listen, I could offer you ten times what you're going to gain out of robbing Ian Gidman in return for you leaving him alone. But I'm not going to. Not because I don't care, but because I think it's time we understood what's at stake.”
“And just what is at stake?”
“A hell of a lot of money. Let me spell it out to you. I'm an old man and some time in the near future I'm going to die. When I do, you and Frank will share my wealth – about eighteen million all told.”
“Thank you,” Richard said. He already knew the old man's worth. The sooner he popped off the better.
“I'm not looking for your thanks, I just want you to leave young Gidman alone.”
A pause.
“Or else?”
“Just do what I ask – please.”
“Come on. What's the or else? There's always been an or else.”
Jack sighed. “Or else my inheritance will be split in a different way.”
“You mean more for Frank and less for me.”
“No. I've always treated you both the same.”
“So how do you propose to split your inheritance differently, may I ask?”
“You may ask, but I'm not going to tell you. Do what I ask and you split everything two ways. Ignore my advice and you'll get a lot less.”
“What, you'll give it to the church or something?”
His father shifted his weight but said nothing.
“You're bluffing,” Richard said. At least he hoped he was bluffing. The old bugger had always been full of threats and bullshit.
“Try me,” Jack said.
“I might just do that. You're just jealous of my success. You're afraid I'll make more money than you. You're —”
“Bloody hell, Richard, you're unbelievable at times. Listen to me. The world belongs to the strong. The chicken recognizes the cunning of the fox so runs to his coop and hides when he's about. He doesn't challenge the fox to a bloody duel. If you want to continue flippy-flapping through life, don't throw down the gauntlet: I'll eat you for dinner and spit out the bones.”
As he spoke, the waitress arrived with their meals. She dropped the plates in front of them and hurried away without a word. Richard stood up. “I've just lost my appetite,” he snapped. “Do you think I was born in a jungle to be afraid of a spider? You go ahead and eat your chicken, Mister Fox, but don't expect me to sit here and listen to your lectures.”
“Oh for crying out loud, Richard, sit down and grow up.”
“Goodnight, father.”
“Alright then, just sit down for two minutes while I tell you something you don't know.”
Richard remained standing. “Here we go again,” he said. “You know everything - I know nothing.”
His father smiled. It was a sardonic, unsettling smile. “To be conscious that you're ignorant is a great step to knowledge,” he said.
“Come on then. Spit it out. What don't I know?”
“You think you're so clever, Richard, well just you ask your friend Mister Scott what he's up to. Ask him about his niece and what they're scheming.”
“What do you mean? As far as I know, Ron doesn't even have a niece.” As far as he knew, Ron didn't have any relatives. In fact, Ron had told him so.
“As you say, Richard, as far as you know. Well, again, I know better. I'm acquainted with his niece.”
It was bluff – definitely bluff. The old man was, as usual, full of crap. “You're just making it up,” he said. “It's just one of your little tricks to try and show me you're still the boss. Well you're not. I'm a grown man now. I'm my own boss and I intend to run my own life in my own way. I can do just as well as you, you'll see. Goodnight.” He stomped away from the table towards the coat rack, lighting a cigarette as he went.
“Goodbye, son,” Jack said in a whisper.
TUESDAY 23 APRIL
“Ron Scott?” Ian bellowed. “What the bloody hell was Ron Scott doing in the office?”
Dave looked down at the floor, though he couldn't conceal the blush on his face. “He, er — he gave me a hand about a month ago. He and Richard were in the office. It was one of the days you went down to Three Leggs to finalize details with Sean about the factory extension.”
Ian's knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the desk. It wasn't Dave's fault that the previous year's time sheets couldn't be found, but he had to know what had happened to them. Without them he couldn't give Tweedle the site costings. He spoke more patiently this time. “Tell me exactly what happened, Dave. I need to know exactly what Scott did.”
Dave looked up, displaying his embarrassment. “Well, he and Richard came into my office and I was in a bit of a muddle, trying to sort out invoices and things. I'm not used to it you know.”
“Don't worry about that. Just tell me exactly what happened.”
“Well, they were all very nice, asking me how my back was and so on. Then, when they saw I was struggling a bit with the paperwork, Tweedle suggested that Scott stayed for a while to give me a hand. He was here about two hours, and then Tweedle came back and picked him up.”
“Okay. So what, precisely, did Scott do when he was in the office?”
Dave shuffled in his seat again. “To begin with, he helped me sort out the invoices I was working on. He added them up quicker than I could even read them. He filed them away for me, said it would save my back, then he —” He pondered for a moment re-visualising the afternoon. “ — then he said that the stuff in the drawers was not very well filed and offered to sort it out.”
“Go on. “
“Well he seemed to be sorting stuff out and tidying the files and so on for about half an hour. He asked where we emptied the bins, so I told him that we used bin bags, and gave him some out of the desk drawer. He chucked a load of papers in them - told me they were just old catalogues and things that were out of date.”
Ian had a look of concerned concentration on his face, though the light bulb was glowing now. “Did you see any of the papers he was throwing away?”
“Not exactly. There were some catalogues but I couldn't tell you exactly what they were.”
“Forget the catalogues for a moment. Did you see anything else that went in the bag?”
It took Dave a moment to answer. “No, boss. He had his back to me and I was busy doing something else - writing out an order I think.”
“Where did he put the bin bags?”
“He threw them in the skip. I watched him do it through the window. And before you ask, the skip's been emptied twice since then.”
Ian held his hand to his head. “Damn it. So that's what t
he cunning bastard was up to. That was your Aunt Kate's warning. Don't you see, Dave, he's dumped the old time sheets. He knew all along we couldn't give him the figures he wanted.”
Dave stared at his fingernails. “I'm sorry, Ian. They just offered to help and I was glad of the offer —” His voice trailed away as he moved his gaze to examine his feet.
“Don't worry,” Ian said. “It's not your fault. It's bloody Tweedle and Scott. I should have known they were up to something when they asked me to justify the figures.”
Dave shook his head. “What the hell are we going to do now?”
“Good question. Frankly my old mate, I don't friggin' know.”
For a few moments the office was silent as Ian stared at the long lists of invoices in front of him. Finally he pushed his chair back from the desk and jumped to his feet. “Ring Tweedle. Tell him I'm on the way over. Tell him I want that oily bastard Scott there as well.”
“Do you want me to come with you, boss? Sort of witness.”
“Don't think so. Not at the moment anyway. I'll let you know what happens.”
“Well do you want me to keep looking to see if the time sheets have been filed somewhere else?”
“You can if you like, old son, but I think you'll be wasting your time. I should think the rats at the rubbish tip have made a nest out of them by now.”
It took Ian less than ten minutes to pull up in front of Tweedle's house.
“Ah, Ian old boy, come in, come in. Dave said you were on the way down. Something about some missing time sheets.”
Ian pushed past Tweedle and marched into the living room where Ron Scott was sitting. “Okay, dog's breath, what did you do with them?”
“Do with what, Ian?”
“You know bloody well with what. With the bloody time sheets, you little shit.”
Richard entered the room behind him. “Calm down, Ian. For goodness sake, what's the matter?”
He whirled to stare at Tweedle. “Let's forget the bloody charade, Richard. All three of us know what's happened, so we might as well save ourselves a lot of time.”
“Ian, old boy, all Ronald and I know is what Dave told us on the phone, that you'd finished listing all the invoices but you can't find last year's timesheets. Now how on earth can you imagine that either of us were involved?”
