Book Read Free

Scammed

Page 17

by Ron Chudley


  “He won’t. I’m sure Jay just wanted to scare us. He made his point.”

  Thinking of Hatch, Greg hoped he was right. But he couldn’t afford to let himself dwell on that. Only action would suffice now: getting the money as fast as possible, and being especially careful that Jay had no other reason to be provoked. He once again apologized to Lucy, and asked her to say the same thing to her mother. As he prepared to leave, Lucy gave him a fast, fierce hug. The contact caused an unexpected glow, but it didn’t last.

  The back door of his house was hanging open, just as he’d left it. Exhausted, mind in a turmoil, he found himself pacing up and down the living room. There was nothing to be done until the morning, he knew, but the idea of waiting until then was torture. His watch showed that it was only 9:30 PM, which he scarcely believed; it felt like days since he’d arrived.

  Sergeant Tremblay had provided his cell number, and Greg considered using it to carry out his first promise, telling the policeman that he was at the house but Jay had not appeared. He wanted to get that task out of the way. But calling at such an hour, without an apparent emergency, would seem strange. If the police got the slightest suspicion of what was happening, they’d have no choice but to get involved. Jay had made it clear what he would do then.

  Greg wished he could at least talk to his sister. After all, half of the money being extorted belonged to her, and later he would have to find a way to repay it. But none of what was going on could be explained to her right now. Nor could Jill be expected to keep quiet. So there was no comfort to be had there.

  In the end, he went to bed. He tossed and turned for most of the night, lost in endless loops of guilt and recrimination, relieved only by dire scenarios of what would happen if anything went wrong. This ground on for hours until, as dawn was breaking, he fell at last into a fitful slumber. But instead of respite, all this brought was disconnected dreams, images of blood and money and the dark depths of the river.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Waking, he discovered that it was nearly 9:00 AM He got up, feeling as though, even without benefit of booze, he had a rotten hangover. He showered, shaved and had coffee, but couldn’t stomach the idea of breakfast.

  But now he could perform his first task for ensuring the women’s safety. He put through the call to Sergeant Tremblay, waiting apprehensively while it rang, hoping that his nervousness wouldn’t show. The phone rang several times and then, just as Greg was about to give up, the policeman answered. He sounded in a hurry, which was all to the good. Greg made his report, saying that he was at the house and—truthfully—that Jay had never arrived. Tremblay, mind obviously elsewhere, thanked him, told him to hang tough and, by inference, not to bother him again unless there was something to report. That was that. By 10:00 AM, Greg was on his way to the bank in Duncan.

  With no appointment, he had to wait half an hour to see Herb Wilshire, the manager, but he didn’t mind. It gave him time to settle, assuming the serious but relaxed demeanour necessary for the business in hand. Not that he expected any problems. As executor, he had a perfect right to transfer any sum of money he chose from the estate’s account, and in any form he chose—including cash. Though his request might occasion surprise, it could hardly be refused.

  When he entered the office, to be greeted by Herb, with his big smile and bigger handshake, Greg had the feeling that he had almost been expected. After the customary small talk, beneath the familiar decoration of the Walter Lothian seascape, Wilshire leaned back and said, “Well, Greg, what can I do for you?”

  From his pocket, Greg produced a cheque, drawn on the estate, which he’d already prepared. Trying to sound as if this were the most natural thing in the world, he passed it across Herb’s desk and said, “I’d like to get cash for this, please.”

  “Of course,” Herb said, picking up the cheque. “But you needn’t have bothered waiting to see me about . . .” He stopped, as he realized what he was looking at. His eyebrows went up almost comically. “Oh—I see . . . You did say cash?”

  “That’s right.” Greg tried for a casual smile. “Under the circumstances, I figured I’d better not just walk up to the teller, if you see what I mean.”

  Herb’s eyebrows had not yet descended. “Seven hundred grand in cash,” he breathed. “What do you . . . I mean, why would . . .” He coughed and adjusted his face. “Of course, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t . . . Big payrolls used to be done regularly this way. But I can’t remember when I last . . . What about a cashier’s cheque? It’s just like actual money, you know, and much safer.”

  Greg shook his head. “I understand. But it has to be cash.”

  Herb scanned the cheque, blinking, as if he were having difficulty in taking it in. Then he said, “Greg—I hope . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, this is so unusual . . . I mean, are you at liberty to tell me why you need so much cash?”

  “Not really. Sorry.”

  “It’s just—there are so many scams around these days. Temptations for gambling. Criminals using every trick to get their hands on people’s precious assets. I can’t help remembering what happened to your parents.”

  Greg shook his head brusquely. “Thanks for the concern, Herb, but it’s nothing like that. Now—it’s my guess a branch this size doesn’t have that kind of cash on hand, right?”

  “Er—correct.”

  “How long will it take?”

  Pulling himself together, Herb shrugged. “I could have it in by tomorrow, probably. What would you like?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Denominations.”

  “Oh—hundreds would be best, I should think.”

  “Hundreds, all right.” Herb made a note on the cheque, grinning weakly. “At least getting it home won’t need a moving van.”

  Greg smiled politely in return. “Quite. When tomorrow could you have it ready?”

  “Would noon be satisfactory?”

  Greg rose, looking directly at his father’s painting, a reminder of the historic sale, whose proceeds were in the process of being high-jacked. “Noon would be fine,” he said resignedly, and left the office.

  THIRTY-THREE

  When he got back to the house, he changed his clothes and felt suddenly ravenous. Only then did he realize how much tension he’d been under. Should something have prevented his quickly obtaining the cash, he dared not think of the consequences. But that hadn’t happened. His main task now was to make sure that Jay was reassured, to apprise him of progress and the timetable. Surely the guy would be glad to know he only had to wait twenty-four hours, rather than the two days Greg had envisaged. And with the news that everything was going as planned, Jay would relax and not be tempted to harm anyone.

  It would have been a relief to deliver the message by phone, but Greg had been instructed to bring it personally. So, having crammed down a hasty snack, he set off through the woods in the direction of the Lynley house.

  Reaching the place where in the past he’d been greeted by Hatch, he was assaulted by morbid images from the night before. The more confident mood, brought on by his earlier success, evaporated. For a moment, he’d been lulled into thinking that, though frightening, this was, after all, just a business transaction. But it wasn’t. He was now operating in the jungle, where nothing in his background or character was likely to help. There was no fairness here. No rules. And although Jay was getting what he wanted, this didn’t mean things would necessarily be okay. To say the very least, Greg was going to have to keep his wits about him.

  Coming in sight of the house, he saw that Lucy’s car was still there, but the van was gone. What did that mean? Probably only that it had been hidden, out of sight of any casual callers. Jay was certainly shrewd enough to have thought of that. There was a big double garage to one side of the house, which Greg remembered had been used as a workshop. One of the doors was ajar and when he got closer, sure enough, he glimpsed the van inside.

  Mercifully, the front stoop of the house had be
en cleaned. The bloodstains were gone, as was the dog. But this probably hadn’t been done for reasons of sensitivity. More likely, as with hiding the van, it was simply to make the place look normal.

  Only after he climbed the steps did Greg realize that his arrival had not been unmonitored. Trev was in the hall, arms folded, as immobile as a Coast Salish carving, regarding him through the window, and he opened the door smartly, like a concierge. It might have been amusing—except that it wasn’t.

  Lucy and her mother were nowhere to be seen. Jay was alone in the living room, lounging in the chair into which he’d plunged his knife. “Hi, partner,” he said amiably. “How’d it go?”

  Greg took a breath. “Where are the women?”

  “I asked you a question,” Jay replied, amiable no more.

  “And I asked you one. Look, Jay—we’re not talking until I’ve seen they’re all right.”

  “And you’re not seeing a fucking thing, buddy, till you’ve told me what I want to know.”

  Stalemate. Standing up to Jay was satisfying, but it was childish and dangerous. “Tomorrow,” he said heavily. “I’ve arranged to pick up the cash at noon.”

  Jay grinned, unconsciously rubbing the dent in his head. “Sweet! How hard was that, eh? The bank bastards give you any grief?”

  “No. It’s my money. Why should they?”

  “Okay. Get it here pronto tomorrow, and maybe I won’t give you any either.”

  Jay nodded to Trev, who was standing behind Greg. The big native backed off, motioning Greg to follow. They moved along the corridor to the door of Shirl’s room. Greg knocked. There was no reply, but he opened the door anyway. “Hello, it’s Greg,” he called, and went in.

  The older woman was in bed, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. Her daughter, fully clothed, was lying on top of the covers beside her. A tray with the remains of a meal was on the bedside table. As Greg entered, Lucy got up hastily. Though her face was calm, her eyes were dark and hollow.

  Greg felt an unexpectedly powerful surge of emotion: partly relief, partly guilt, but largely a sensation of such tenderness that it brought an embarrassing blurriness to his vision. The need to hide this caused him to speak more brusquely than he intended. “Hello, Lucy, how are you? How’s your mum?”

  “We’re okay,” Lucy said.

  Shirl opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile.

  “Good,” he said quietly. “I just wanted you to know I’ve made arrangements to get the money.”

  Lucy’s relieved look included a quick glance at her mother.

  “And sooner than I expected. I’m picking it up tomorrow at noon. I’ll bring it straight here—and then all this will be over.”

  “Thank God.”

  Lucy went to the bed, talking softly to Shirl, who nodded, lifting her hand toward Greg in a gesture of what appeared to be thanks, but so weak he felt freshly worried. When Lucy returned, he whispered, “She’s not good, is she?”

  Lucy sighed, shaking her head “But she’s worse since . . . Does she need a doctor?”

  Lucy gave him her straight look. “Is there any chance of that happening?”

  Greg lowered his eyes. “I shouldn’t think so. Not till—you know.”

  “Then stop asking dumb questions. Please, just get back with the money as quick as you can.”

  Greg nodded glumly, then noticed a flutter of movement on the bed. Shirl was beckoning. With a glance at Lucy, he went to her mother. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lynley,” he said.

  Shirl shook her head, the action small but determined. “Never mind, dear,” she replied. “And take no notice of Lucy. She’s just worried about me.”

  “I know. But it’s my fault . . .”

  “No, dear. It’s no one’s. Not even that greedy young man’s, really. The world makes us what we are, long before we do foolish things. Anyway, don’t worry about that. What I wanted to ask you is about Hatch.”

  “I’m so sorry . . . ”

  “No, listen—this has been on my mind, and they won’t let Lucy out to do it. Greg, please—would you bury our poor dear guy?”

  • • •

  After some hunting, he found a spade. Hatch’s body was where it had been callously tossed, behind the shed. Greg hadn’t asked where they wanted the grave, so he followed his impulse, which was to dig it in the place that he most associated with the joyous beast; hefting the spade, he headed in the direction of the river.

  This was fifty yards from the house and screened by a grove of trees. Passing through these, he came to a sandy bank leading down to the water, the sight of which induced a feeling of déjà vu. Staring at it for a while brought the answer: this was where he’d come ashore after his wild plunge into the river, and where Hatch had discovered him, likely saving his life.

  The perfect place.

  He set to, digging a hole big enough in a spot well above high water. Then he rooted in the workshop where the van was hidden and found an old carpet. Mindfully, trying to avoid looking at the dreadful wound, he wrapped Hatch in his improvised shroud. The sad body felt pitifully light. Having secured the bundle, he carried it from behind the shed, only then realizing he was not alone. The big native, Trev, in his usual totem-like posture, was standing nearby. Greg stopped and their eyes met. Then something unexpected occurred: without changing expression, Trev gave a quick, almost formal nod. Then he turned and walked into the house.

  Bearing his burden, Greg returned to the river. As gently as he could, he placed the still-wrapped dog in the freshly dug grave. While he shovelled back the earth, the words Shirl had used earlier came back to him. “Sorry, poor dear guy,” he muttered. “Yeah, sorry, poor dear guy.”

  As he put down the spade and turned away, he saw something he hadn’t noticed earlier. A short distance from the grave, sitting upright and half hidden by brush, was a green canoe. Greg remembered Lucy’s father being a keen outdoorsman, but surely it couldn’t have been there very long. Then, remembering the recent storm, he figured it must have been washed up. Observing the water, deceptively calm in the bright afternoon, he remembered his own ordeal with awful clarity. God, he thought, I hope some poor sod wasn’t in this when it went over. He glanced about, half expecting to see yet another mouldering victim of the river’s caprice, but there was nothing. Of course there was nothing. The turmoil that—due to his own actions—had invaded his once peaceful existence was now providing its final insult: paranoia.

  Not wishing to see the Lynley house again, until he could set its prisoners free, Greg followed the riverbank back to his own property.

  • • •

  The rest of the day, the night and the first hours of the following morning passed at a pace that, on Greg’s internal clock, felt like a slow year. But at last, showered and dressed, and as physically calm as possible for a man half mad with suppressed anxiety, he was in the car, heading into Duncan. Beside him was a gym bag, old but solid, big enough for the job at hand.

  He parked in the bank lot at five minutes before noon and headed inside. Apparently, he was expected, for after introducing himself, he was ushered immediately into Herb Wilshire’s office. It was empty, but he was told that the manager would be joining him momentarily.

  Greg seated himself, trying to stop his feet from tapping with impatience, eyes turning inevitably to his father’s painting. Wow, Dad, he mused. If only you could see this. Seven hundred grand of your hardearned cash in exchange for Lucy Lynley. What would you think of that?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Herb Wilshire. The manager was followed by another bankerly looking man in a sober suit, presumably some kind of security person who, once Greg had his money, would be charged with seeing him safely off the premises.

  “Good afternoon, Greg,” Herb Wilshire said, his smile and handshake even more determined than usual. “Right on time, I see.”

  “Of course,” Greg said. And then, too excited to indulge further in formalities. “Do you have the money?”

  “Yes, yes. It
’s all ready for you to check and sign for. But—er—before you do that . . .”

  He turned to other man, who had been standing quietly in the background. With surprise, Greg realized that the manager’s face had gone bright red.

  “Greg,” Herb Wilshire said, “this is Sergeant Doakes of the RCMP. It seems that he’ll need a few minutes of your time.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “I’m sorry to cause you any embarrassment,” Herb Wilshire said. “It’s so long since I’ve disbursed such a large cash sum, you see. Until you’d left yesterday, I didn’t realize how much the rules have changed.”

  “What rules?” Greg said numbly. “I don’t understand. This is my family’s money. I have a perfect right to . . .”

  The man who’d been introduced as Sergeant Doakes cleared his throat. “Your rights are not an issue, Mr. Lothian. We know the money’s yours. I’m only here to save you the trouble of coming to the station. And to ask a couple of questions.”

  “Really? And what would they be?” Greg said woodenly, though he knew where this was going.

  “I should leave you two alone,” the manager said.

  “No, stay, sir,” the sergeant said. “You need to hear this too.” He turned back to Greg. “What Mr. Wilshire said about rules amounts to this: particularly since 9/11, when terrorism became such a factor in our lives, but also because of the war on drugs—not to mention money laundering and income tax evasion—we need to keep track of large sums of money. To know not only where they came from but also—as in your case—where they are going. Do you understand me, sir?”

  Greg just stared.

  “Of course, there’s nothing, legally, to prevent a citizen possessing as much cash as he or she desires,” Doakes continued. “But in the world today, where there’s increasingly little need for banknotes at all, the main users of cash are, unfortunately, the criminal or radical elements. Knowing your family, Mr. Lothian, Mr. Wilshire was certain your own reasons for wanting so much paper money must be legitimate. But he also realized it was his duty to contact us—so that everyone could rest easy. Am I making sense here?”

 

‹ Prev