“Who?” asked Davis.
“Bongo,” Molloy replied, as though it was obvious whom he was referring to.
Inspector Davis fixed him with an uncomprehending sneer.
“PC Khan, sir,” Gemma said.
“We call him ‘Bongo’, sir. It’s ’cause his first name’s Ali,” Molloy added in an ill-conceived attempt to explain. “Ali Bongo,” he continued. “A comedy magician from the seventies and eighties.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, PC Molloy,” Inspector Davis replied with barely concealed disdain.
The three of them fell silent. Davis sat back in his chair and looked out of his office window over the station’s car park. Then he bowed his head, and slowly smoothed his temples with his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m going to be honest,” Davis said eventually. “I had some sympathy for you at first – when I read your report. You’ve been honest enough to admit what happened and, to be fair, you weren’t to know that Adam Furst’s career as a drug lord was going to be fatally undermined by his apparent inability to distinguish between a gramme and an ounce.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gemma, sensing even as she did so that Davis’ short speech was building up to a monumental ‘but’.
“But I’m not going to lie to you. Shana Backley is Kurt Backley’s daughter—”
“Kurt Backley? You can’t take him seriously, sir” said Molloy. “He practically makes his living out of suing the criminal justice system.”
“That’s exactly the point,” replied Davis, turning back and looking his officers squarely in the face. “He’s already threatening legal action. And that’s before he finds out that we were aware of Furst’s potential involvement in another fatal overdose a couple of weeks earlier. His solicitors will have a field day once they know that PC Rathbone viewed the CCTV footage on the Monday.”
“But, as I also state in my report, sir—”
“Save it, PC Rathbone.” There was a pause, whilst Inspector Davis leant forward, his fingers folded in front of him. He tapped his thumbs together. “I was hoping the two of you could help me here. I was hoping you would say something – anything – that would give me a reason to let this one slide. But what do you give me, PC Molloy? Ali Bloody Bongo. Frankly, I might as well write the cheque out now.”
“Sir, I know this looks bad—” Gemma said.
“You’re telling me!”
“But we’ve already done some work on this case. We’re in touch with a guy at the housing association who knows Adam Furst, and he really wants to help us.”
“I’m sorry, but this is serious. We had the information to do something and we didn’t do it. Bottom line – somebody’s died. I can’t be seen to ignore that.”
“But we couldn’t have known Fursty would get his quantities mixed up,” Molloy protested. “He’s the one to blame, sir, not us.”
“That’s as may be. But there will have to be an investigation.”
“You’re joking!”
“The family are demanding it! Her father’s already engaged solicitors.”
“But, sir—” Gemma said, desperately.
“Don’t worry – I’m not suspending you, but I am going to have to keep you out of the way whilst this is all looked into. I’m moving you both to traffic.”
“Traffic?” Molloy said, his eyes saucering in alarm.
“Only whilst this is looked into.”
Gemma was hyperventilating. The traffic unit was the police equivalent of the nonces’ wing in prison. “But, sir,” she said, “if I could just speak to Mr Todd. I’m sure he could explain to you. He may even know where Furst is.”
“I’m sorry, PC Rathbone. But everything’s being handed over to CID – Malford, Backley, Furst; the whole shebang. You won’t be talking to Mr Todd again, understand? Not unless you pull him over for a traffic offence.”
Little did Inspector Davis know just how wrong he would be.
Twenty-One
Barry had lots to do, but he just couldn’t get his thoughts straight; there was too much going on in his head. Sally’s call had left his mouth feeling dry with unease. His theoretical deception was theoretical no more. Now it felt all too real, and he was faced with a decision. But an open-plan office, with its apparently never-ending stream of ‘can-you-justs’ and ‘ooh-I’m-glad-I’ve-caught-yous’, was not the place to make it.
“Right. I’m going down to Chelmsley Wood, Tanee. I need to catch up with Sally about what’s happening at The SHYPP.” After Friday’s terrible tragedy, it seemed a perfectly reasonable use of his time. But Barry wasn’t intending to visit The SHYPP at all.
As he walked out of the office toward his car, he was genuinely in two minds as to whether to go back to the little mini-market with the cashpoint, or just head into town and spend the afternoon wandering round the museum and art gallery. But then he saw a brand-new Jaguar XF sweep into the car park and pull into one of the executive parking bays.
“New car, Langley?” Barry asked. His subtle attempt to suggest heavy irony in light of that morning’s conversation was obviously so subtle that it completely passed Langley by.
“Yes, just had to pop down to the garage to pick it up,” Langley said with a beaming smile. “They did ask if I wanted Karen’s old Mondeo, but I felt I wanted something with a little more… gravitas,” he added, trousering his keys with a flamboyant swirl of the keyring around his index finger.
“Nice motor. Can’t have been cheap.”
“Are you off out?” Langley said, moving the conversation along.
“Yes, off down to Chelmsley Wood. I need to catch up with Sally at The SHYPP.”
“Well, make sure you’ve got our money off her,” Langley called out, as he headed toward the office.
“Oh, don’t you worry. I will.” Barry replied. “I definitely will now,” he added under his breath as Langley strode through the autumnal chill toward the entrance to Monument’s office.
*
Twenty minutes later Barry pulled up just along the road from the corner shop. He made his way back toward the shop and was pleased to see the same teenager sitting morosely on a stool behind the till, looking as though even mustering the effort to appear bored was too much for her. He went immediately to the cashpoint and inserted Chris Malford’s bank card.
“Which service do you require?”
Barry asked for an on-screen account balance.
“Please wait whilst we process your request.”
There was a seemingly interminable pause whilst the machine considered the matter. And then, eventually, a different message appeared:
“Your current balance is: £48,591.52.
“Do you require another service?”
Barry stared at the screen for a moment before deciding that he did indeed require another service. He would like to withdraw some cash. Not because he actually wanted the money of course, but because he wanted to prove to himself that he could do it. That he could beat them. The maximum daily cash withdrawal from Chris’ account was £250, so Barry decided he would try withdrawing that. Yes, he understood that he would be charged £1.75 for this transaction. He wasn’t particularly happy about it, but, under the circumstances, it seemed churlish to complain.
There was another delay whilst the machine chuntered and whirred, and then notes began to be spat out into the little tray at the bottom. Barry picked them up and, turning his back to the CCTV camera behind the till, counted out the money: £250. He took back the bank card and put it, along with the money, in his wallet. He then let out the very deep breath that he had been holding and walked over to the till.
“Can I have a scratch card, please? The one with the leprechaun, I think.”
“OK,” the girl replied, tearing a card off the roll and handing it to Barry. “That’s two quid.”
Barry handed over £2 a
nd then scratched off the foiled area on the card that he was given.
“Have I won anything?”
The young girl scanned the card. “Not this time, no. Sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Barry, breezily. “You can’t win every time.”
But, as he turned to leave the shop, he felt, unlike the previous Friday, as though he had won a much bigger prize. It wasn’t just that he’d got one over on Monument in general, and Langley in particular, it was that something fundamental had changed. No longer would he get excited about a £3 scratch-card win. No longer would he hanker after life’s consolation prizes, as though they were all he could ever expect. Barry understood, for the first time, that he was just as capable as anyone else of securing the good things in life, if only he had the confidence to believe it. And, from now on, he determined he would have the confidence to believe it. No longer would he sit mournfully alone with his wounds in a world full of people with knives. He would pick up his own knife. He would strike back. He would actively pursue and seize those things that he wanted. His pain would matter. He wouldn’t allow it to simply be lost in the vast swarm of innominate humanity, scurrying about to nowhere very significant.
Just believing that shifted something in his universe. He had made the transition from ‘loser’ to ‘winner’. Barry Todd’s life of crime had most definitely begun.
PART 3
“We know what greatness is, but we ignore it in favour of banality.”
Frank Gehry
The Greatness of the Ages
2nd November – 4th December 2015
Twenty-Two
Barry found himself shaking as he drove away from the mini-market with £250 in his wallet – and over £48,000 more in a bank account that he controlled. And, despite his not inconsiderable bulk, he felt weightless, as though he were floating through space. He sensed that the reason for his feeling of exhilaration was the fact that he had a secret. He’d never had a secret before, not a proper one, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride that he had one now, which felt so grown up. He held it close and nursed it, like a pet.
But there was something lurking behind his exhilaration that he couldn’t quite see. Despite the fact that his plan had been executed flawlessly, Barry couldn’t shake the sense that he might be caught. It was ridiculous – he knew that – but he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that it couldn’t be that easy to steal nearly £50,000 of someone else’s money. If it was, then why didn’t everybody do it? And why, come to think of it, had he not done it before? The question flitted across his mind for the briefest of moments before scurrying off into the penumbra.
But a sense of annoyance with his employer was also spreading like a rumour within him. He was annoyed that, after twenty-two years of exemplary service, he had been denied a promotion he was clearly the best candidate for. He was annoyed too that Monument had now also denied him a fair and appropriate financial settlement to leave their employment. And, of course, he was annoyed that they were now threatening to take away his company car. So, as he drove off, he felt entirely justified in starting to think about exactly how much of the money that he had so skilfully diverted he might actually be able to access.
It would take twenty-eight days before Monument’s system would flag the invoice as being unpaid. At some point shortly after that a reminder would be sent, which would no doubt provoke a furious (and immediate) response from Sally. She would contact the bank, where staff would realise the money had been diverted and contact Chris Malford’s bank. They would freeze the account and return what money was left to The SHYPP. Given that he could only withdraw £250 in cash each day, Barry worked out that he would only have time to withdraw around £7,000 from Chris Malford’s account. The remaining forty-one and a half thousand would therefore be returned to Monument.
Barry thought for a moment. Seven thousand pounds: that wasn’t even fifteen per cent of the money he’d diverted. Fifteen per cent was the standard administration fee Monument charged its tenants on their service charges. They were allowed to; housing benefit regulations said so. So taking fifteen per cent of the money he’d diverted wouldn’t really be theft, it would simply be a perfectly reasonable administration charge for all the time and effort he’d taken to highlight the shortcomings in Monument’s financial processes. They would still get eighty-five per cent of their money back, which they’d probably be quite relieved about, actually.
Going back to the office now was out of the question, but he found himself wanting to go where there was no CCTV. He knew he needed to keep his secret well hidden, like all the other contents of his heart. But he worried that the cameras might be able to see it somehow, even through the fabric of his clothes and the folds of his skin. For the first time he could recall, his heart felt strangely insecure, as though there were another key to it somewhere in the hands of someone he didn’t know.
Having driven for a few minutes, he found himself approaching Solihull town centre. He decided to pull over and grab a coffee to calm his nerves.
There was a language and a certain ritual to ordering a ‘bespoke’ coffee that he was not fully conversant with, but that others seemed to be. This made him feel instantly ill at ease, a bit like when he walked into a church for a wedding or a funeral.
He always liked having a filter coffee back at the office, so he ordered one of those. He couldn’t be certain, but Barry thought he heard a dismissive “tut” from someone behind him in the queue. As he turned his back to grab a cup and start preparing Barry’s drink, Barry thought he might have seen the barista roll his eyes at one of the other staff.
He wanted to shout at them that he was a winner now; that he had joined their elite club. But he couldn’t. Partly, this was because it would sound ridiculous, but mainly it was because he couldn’t tell anyone what he’d done. His new-found status as a winner had to remain a secret too. In order for him to avoid detection, it was, ironically, vital that everyone still viewed him as a loser.
So far, so good, Barry mused.
In response to the barista’s promptings, Barry decided that a celebratory blueberry muffin was in order. Under the circumstances, it didn’t feel like an inappropriate extravagance.
As he took his seat, Barry’s eye fell on a small barely-toddler in a rather fetching bear onesie on the other side of the shop. His mother, deep in conversation with a friend, was trying to keep watch over him – offering him encouragement and the occasional admonishment – whilst trying to engage hungrily in the adult conversation on offer. He toddled around the shop, somehow aware of her presence, and apparently reassured by it, but at the same time almost oblivious to it.
Everywhere the little boy went the other patrons would smile at him, make faces and offer a few words of encouragement. Without really doing anything particularly stretching, the child was the centre of everyone’s attention. Somehow, there was a tacit agreement between the patrons of the shop that it was everybody’s job not just to keep the child safe but to make him feel good about himself.
Of course, Barry realised, as the child grew up this sense of obligation toward him would diminish. He would slowly have to learn the lesson that he was not, in fact, the only person whose well-being mattered; there would be other people who also had wants and needs, some of which would be in conflict with his. And Barry knew from bitter personal experience that one day that child would learn the painful lesson that, when those competing aspirations came into conflict with his, sometimes he would lose.
But, for the moment, those were thoughts for another day.
Barry watched the child exploring the world with a wholly innocent belief that it was benevolent and friendly, and would always be shaped around his needs. He wondered to himself how much of his own adult life had really just been a search for a return to those long-lost days when he was the centre of someone’s attention.
It was, quite literally, childish, bu
t there was a part of Barry that needed to feel that, somewhere in his life, there was someone who cared about his hopes, dreams and aspirations as much as he did. He wanted to feel that there was someone – not everyone, obviously, but one person – who would put those things at the centre of their concerns. And who would let him put their hopes, dreams and aspirations at the centre of his concerns too.
Barry decided that he needed to go home. He needed to have that conversation with his wife, not to confess (obviously), but to try to re-establish the connection that they seemed to have lost when Christopher died. In fact, thinking about it, Barry realised that they’d lost that connection before Christopher died; it was just that his presence in their lives had masked that fact. Their conversations had become about things on the surface, whilst carrying an undercurrent of secret meanings. And then, at some point, probably because they both got tired of arguing so indirectly, their conversations had become just about things on the surface.
But Barry wanted those old conversations back – the ones they’d had when they’d first met – and he decided that now was the time to restart them. He snaffled the last bit of his muffin, got up and strode purposefully toward the door. Tonight, he resolved, would be the night.
*
A few minutes later, Gemma Rathbone found herself alone, slumped in the same easy chair that Barry had recently vacated, miserably sipping a skinny cappuccino. Her intention had been to have a quiet conversation with Rob, her boyfriend, about what she should do now. As a fellow officer, Rob was bound to know how she should deal with Molloy; as her boyfriend, she hoped he would offer some sympathy. However, the peace of her surroundings was being disturbed by a small child in a bear onesie. He was careering around the shop whilst his mother carried on chatting, apparently oblivious to the disturbance her child was causing to the other customers. Selfish cow, Gemma thought to herself. What chance does that child stand in life with a mother like that? What kind of man will that little boy grow up into if his mother shows such casual disregard for him now? Probably one like Molloy, she concluded.
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