by AJ Kirby
Don leaned over the car-lot office desk, his great beer belly dislodging piles of papers in front of him. He pulled out a catalogue and showed Hunter the exact colour.
‘So, can you find out where exactly this paint was bought recently?’
Jim was hoping against hope.
‘As it happens mate, you can. Police started a new scheme a while back, you might not have heard about it since you’re off the force, and it’s all very hush-hush.’
Don rubbed his filthy black hands down his overalls, grabbed a tea bag and threw it in a mouldy mug. ‘Tea? Or maybe you’d like something a bit stronger?’
He opened the bottom desk drawer to reveal a bottle of Famous Grouse.
‘Think I’ll pass. So, what’s this scheme that you’re talking about?’ asked Jim. He was trying to perch on the cleanest spot of the entire garage, the filing cabinet, but still a wet oily rag had slipped onto his trousers, leaving a large dark stain.
‘Right. Well, it’s called Operation Picasso; it’s all to stop the massive amounts of stolen cars in West Yorkshire. Any time a garage does a paint-job, we have to record the registration of the vehicle, and the colour painted. The pigs, ahem… police, sorry Jim, want to be able to track the cars far more easily.’
Don lit up a cigarette, which was already turned black by his hands. He erupted into a series of hacking coughs, before he finally righted himself and waved the packet over at Hunter.
‘No thanks. I can see what they do to you now those little death sticks… So, there’s obviously a lot of garages in West Yorkshire, can you help me narrow it down? So I don’t have to make three thousand phone calls. I need to find out the ones that do Magenta blue.’
Don waddled over to a decrepit computer in the corner, waggled the mouse around a bit and then the screen jerked into life.
‘Believe it or not, I’ve already done it. I got the suppliers to send me the list on email. I’m not a Luddite like you, you know. Now, one little click and I’ll have these printed out for you.’
Jim was astounded. If there was one lesson he’d learned over and over again during his time as a detective it was that you should never, ever underestimate anybody. It seemed that he had seriously underestimated his mechanic friend. Within two minutes he was presented with a list of thirty garages in the region, their telephone numbers, and the owner’s details. He had the real feeling that this lead was going somewhere.
Jim Hunter spent the rest of the morning on what felt like a wild goose chase. Maybe there was something in his tone of voice which made him sound like a policeman, but people clammed up when they heard his voice on the other end of the phone.
He lost count of the number of garage owners who claimed they weren’t in, when he could hear them very well shouting over to whoever had answered the phone: ‘tell him I’m not in…’
But Jim also learned patience and perseverance when he was a policeman. He clung to the conviction that the next call he’d make would break the case. Finally, he did make that call. It was a garage in the South Leeds town of Wortley, and yes, they did remember spraying a transit van Magenta blue.
‘Last week, as it happens sir. I can give you details, just let me make a note of your name and contact details.’
For once, he was speaking with a competent person; the secretary at this particular garage was clearly efficient.
Lying once again, Jim gave his name, ‘It’s D.I. Jim Hunter; Millgarth Police Station; West Yorkshire Police. Now, what’s the information I need?’
‘The van had an SA52 registration. It’s five years old; the owner’s name is a Steve Elton, although he might have been lying. We never got any ID from him, I’m sorry.’
‘Steve Elton? Now that name rings a bell…’
Jim hung up and felt that old familiar excitement rising in him. He now had a name. What should he do with it? Should he inform Merton? Or should he just make sure that he was right, first, to save any more embarrassment?
He’d had various dealings with Steve Elton when he was in the police. The man was a small-time crook; surely he wasn’t capable of being involved in anything like the heist at Edison’s? But then, Callum Burr had struck him as a bumbling gorilla of a man, and he’d seemingly been involved with the Wardle crew.
You should never underestimate anyone in this life…
Money, money, money
Chris, Danny and Mark checked into the Midas Hotel in the afternoon. After finally persuading the staff at the hotel that they were good for the money to pay for the five-star accommodation, they then retired to their rooms to wash away the weariness of their travelling. They planned to reconvene in one of the rooms later to count the money.
Mark staggered into his room after an almighty struggle with the card-key access system at his door. He dragged his bag after him along the marble floor, as though it was a particularly reluctant dog on a lead. It contained all of his worldly possessions which meant anything to him. It was a sad little bundle, he thought.
But then he saw the room. Or the suite, as it actually should have been described. The suite resembled a film-set; Mark had only ever seen such opulence in films. The entire wall down the right hand side of the room was filled with a tapestry of scenes from the history of the island; there were pictures of men fishing, hunting… there was the short, stocky, alien-looking Dodo, right in the middle, a sad look in his eyes. The other walls contained ornately carved wooden artefacts which were magical in their craftsmanship. In the centre of the room lay a gigantic King Sized bed which was covered with deep blue silk sheets and crawling with small cushions. French windows at the far side of the suite opened out onto a superlative view of the hotel’s palm-flanked swimming pool, and in the far distance, there was the sea.
Mark slumped onto a beautifully carved wooden chair and winced as he tried to take off his shoes. His ankle had now swelled enormously and sores were weeping over the top of his socks. Gritting his teeth, he finally overcame the pain and wrenched off the shoe with one lung-busting push. He gingerly returned his bare foot to the cold stone floor and then dragged himself to his feet again. He had to clean the ankle; he had to stop it from crippling him. He hobbled towards the bathroom door and peered round it, gripping the door handle for support.
The bathroom was almost as spacious as the bedroom; the marble glistened its hard, snooty welcome to him. The extravagant bath was as big as a small swimming pool, with gold-plated taps; when Mark turned them he almost expected liquid gold to trickle out, but no, rich, pure water nonchalantly streamed out, as if it somehow thought that it was an improvement on natural water. Mark almost fell into the bath in his eagerness to get in…
Later, when they gathered in Chris’s room, Mark noted that it was, if anything, even more decadent. It seemed that he had booked himself into the largest, most palatial suite in the Midas Hotel. In addition to the majestic bedroom and bathrooms, there was also a further meeting room area, which contained glorious kaftan rugs on the walls, and a huge mahogany table. The table’s legs were elaborately carved into the ubiquitous, cartoonishly plump figure of the Dodo.
Mark contemplated the strange looking bird as he waited for Chris to fetch the bag containing the money. As far as he knew, this would be the first time that they had taken it out of the bag since the heist at Edison’s Printers which seemed so long ago.
They sat around the huge table and Danny poured the contents of the bag into the middle of the table. Once again, just like when they were on the beach, Chris and Danny’s eyes opened wide in awe at the sight in front of them. Mark, though, set about counting up the money. He wanted to get his share sorted as soon as possible in order that he could send some home for his mother. At least one good thing could come from the situation.
It took Mark an hour to count the money, by which time Danny and Chris had ordered room service; six bottles of champagne and a silver-plated tray full of delicate, melt-in-the-mouth pastries. The high life had started.
Chris had turned on MTV o
n the meeting room’s majestic plasma screen and was disrupting Mark’s carefully constructed piles of money, throwing handfuls into the air. Danny was jumping up and down on the bed, ruffling the blue silk sheets. He was doing the cliché-ridden money dance, pouring bucket-loads of champagne down his throat. Mark finally got his own pile of money sorted and placed it back in the bag.
Sickened at the scene which was developing, he knew he had to get out. The two of them were behaving just like they did in Leeds; the only thing that had changed was the quick fix of money.
‘You two,’ he said. ‘I’m off to the Foreign Exchange. I’m going to change a load of this money back into sterling and send it straight back over for my mam.’
‘Do that tomorrow Mark! Enjoy the moment,’ cried Chris, already slurring his words.
‘I can’t do that; I need to do this so at least I can feel a little less guilty.’
And with that, Mark was out of the door.
Chris suddenly sobered up, he checked that Mark really had ambled away down the corridor and then clicked his fingers.
‘Get off that bed Danny, you prat. The Precisioner’s under there. Let’s see if we can get it working…’
Danny almost fell off the bed in his haste to get off. Chris lifted up the silk sheets and retrieved the laptop-sized piece of machinery. It really was an amazing piece of equipment; cold grey metal formed the skeletal outer shell of the kit, with a small LCD screen in the centre. It was compact, and heavily armoured, like a small, tough mollusc. Inside, there was an almost organic heart beating life into the instrument, and the tray at the bottom, for the distribution of the notes, resembled a cavernous mouth.
‘I read up about the Precisioner,’ said Chris, concentrating on powering up each of the switches on the underside of the printer. ‘It’s one of these new technological devices which relies more upon the software than the hardware. Because decent printers are getting so cheap nowadays, they had to come up with something that would beat the forgers. It used to be that the commercial printing hardware was so expensive that forgers couldn’t compete, but we live in more inclusive, democratic times. The ability to forge bank notes is now available to everyone. What they did with this machine is take the software to a new level. With this machine, we can print our own notes which we’ll be able to use anywhere in the world.’
‘So we don’t have to stay in Mauritius?’ asked Danny. He was becoming impatient. Chris had still not powered up the machine.
‘No Danny, we don’t. We can stay on the run, across the world, wherever we want to go - just find out what the currency is for the country we fancy, and then print out as much as we need… The ultimate in freedom; this little beauty is our skeleton key to open every door which has previously been closed to us.’
With a final flourish, Chris finished off booting up the unit and an image of a bank note appeared on the small LCD screen.
‘What do you do now then?’ said Danny. He couldn’t see any keypad on the smooth sides of the printer; how would they access the files?
‘I think it’s a touch-screen. Hang on,’ said Chris, prodding his finger at the screen.
Nothing happened. He picked the Precisioner up again and turned it upside down, searching desperately for something to unlock the printer. The outer shell was stuck-fast to the interior as though linked through some kind of an umbilical cord. How could they tame this animal?
‘Where are Mark’s bags? There must be a screwdriver in one of them.’
Beads of sweat started to appear on Chris’s brow. He picked up one of the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket and rolled it across his forehead. Maybe they would have to let Mark in on this part of the plan anyway.
‘The Edison’s security is built-in to the Precisioner; it must be. We must have to break some code…’
‘Wait a minute though, chief. Maybe we don’t have to involve Mark at all. He seems to be wasting his share of the money right now… I have another plan.’
Danny had already thrown Mark’s bag onto the table, scattering some of the piles of money all over the floor. He unzipped it and delved into its hidden secrets, searching for the tool which would be the key agent in his strategy; his mobile phone. He’d not turned it on since the flight, deeming it surplus to requirements, but now he realised that the mysterious BBC-voiced man had probably been trying to contact him. He’d probably know how to get the printer working. After all, it was why he wanted it in the first place.
When he turned on the cheap, brick-like object – it was only a pay-as-you-go that he’d picked up after discarding his EyeSpy phone – there was an answerphone message waiting for him. Stealing a quick lance at Chris, he called his voicemail.
The message could have been left by the Mauritius tourist board, such was its propriety. Danny almost smiled at the thought, until he heard the rest of the message.
Welcome to my beautiful island paradise, said the voice. A place where all of your dreams may come true. But not yet; remember your promise to me.
At the moment, the Precisioner printer which you have in your possession is set to print only Mauritian Rupees. Only I have the code to change this. Call it my insurance policy. I needed to make sure that you came to Mauritius and you stayed in Mauritius. Money does strange things to people; you might have thought you could simply go out on your own.
Bring the printer to me in Rose Hill. I will know when you are here and I will contact you directly. And Daniel? Do not turn this into another of your disasters. I will be watching. I know all about how you nearly screwed up the heist and left that man for dead. Come quickly, and come unarmed. This is my number if you have any problems; --
Danny listened to the message and tried to make his face as impassive as possible. Nevertheless, Chris looked at him strangely as he finished listening to the message.
‘Who was that?’
‘Oh, only Cheryl, wanting to know where I am. Nothing important,’ said Danny.
Mark’s trip to the bank had not been entirely a success. When he had tried to hand over such a large amount of cash, the Bank Manager had to be called from his office in the back.
‘I’m sorry sir,’ he politely tried to explain; ‘but it is our policy that we cannot make transactions of this particular amount of money all at once. It is too much money sir! We cannot handle all of this money in its entirety…’
Mark did manage to change a small amount of the money, about five thousand pounds-worth, and then was allowed to wire it across to his mother’s bank account. He then tried to undertake another, separate transaction, trying to bypass the rules, but the bank was about to close - the manager was virtually shooing him out of the door - so Mark vowed to go back the next day and send more money.
What Mark wanted more than anything else now was oblivion. He knew that sleep would be impossible, so he promised himself that he would get drunk. It was the only thing for it, and after all, Chris and Danny would be half-cut by now. He dragged himself back to Chris’s room, where it was clear some kind of an argument had taken place between the two of them. They sat in stony silence on the balcony aggressively tipping more champagne down their necks, leering down at some of the bikini clad girls in the hotel pool.
‘Get your money changed? Sent home to mummy?’ snapped Chris abruptly.
‘They let me change it, and wire about five thousand. It might be enough to cover her rent for a while somewhere better than Daffodil Acres; but they wouldn’t let me send any more and then the bank had to close. I’ll have to go back and wire some more tomorrow, maybe from a different bank.’
Danny wordlessly passed Mark an open bottle of champagne, and was surprised when Mark took a long, head-back swig from the bottle.
‘So where’s the rest of your money now? You didn’t show the bank all of the money in your bag did you? Did they ask you any questions?’ Chris was very persistent in his own questioning of Mark, who simply sat, supping at the champagne bottle. ‘Still got the cash on you? In your bag is it?’
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br /> ‘Why, Chris? Why are you so interested?’
Mark was beginning to feel a little light-headed from the drink, and the lack of sleep. He felt anger building up inside him. He glared across the plastic balcony furniture at Chris, who was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. Chris met Mark’s glare with an amused look; his white teeth sparkled in the afternoon sun.
And then suddenly his mouth began to twist and contort into a blurred snarl, and the balcony was moving.
Chris’s shirt with its black writing on white linen suddenly spread into a gigantic chessboard. Chris seemed as though he was squawking now, like a demented bird - a magpie.
Was he hallucinating? Was this sun-stroke? Was he on drugs? Mark had to run away, but the energy had drained out of his legs. He tried to stand up, to block out this fearful sight… and then he was falling down, his head hitting the plastic chair as he fell.
He heard the echoes of a distant cruel laughter, and then he blanked out.
Mark awoke to the dull throb of pain from his head, and from his ankle. He could feel cold tile on his back. He had had hang-overs before; this was not one. It felt different, like he had an out-of-body experience which he could no longer comprehend. He struggled to move to a half-sitting position, moving his head was agonising.
Was this karma? Was the pain he had inflicted upon Callum Burr being revisited on himself? He unscrewed his eyes and saw that he was shrouded in darkness. But where was he? He couldn’t recollect anything.
It was the constant chirping of the crickets and something intangible about the thickness of the air which alerted him to the fact that he was in a foreign country. Gradually he remembered; he was in Mauritius. He saw, through the gloom, numerous empty bottles of champagne littering the balcony, and the upended plastic furniture.
