It was obvious that his first and most important requirement was to get money but he was a stranger in Edinburgh with no idea when his memories of the world he once inhabited had started to diverge from the world he presently lived in. That was something he needed to know since, only then would he know which people he could regard as friends. That was always assuming the man he now was had any. Even if he found any, how would he know they could be trusted?
In the other dimension he had a younger brother, Peter, who was married with two small children. Now, as he wondered where Pete might be, another horrible thought occurred to him. What if, in his current world, Pete did not even exist? Was the same also true of Jeannie? It truly was a horrifying thought.
In the other dimension, Pete lived in Newcastle and was a successful academic at the University. With pride, he recalled that Pete was an international authority on global warming and its effects on world weather. Pete was the brains of the family although, in fairness, he, Zachary, had not done too badly either. Whereas he went to Bristol University to study Mechanical Engineering, Pete had gone to King’s College, Cambridge where he took a first in Physics before going on to get his Ph.D. He then quickly rose to become Professor Storie. Zachary wondered if he still lived in Newcastle?
Zachary tried to force himself to think positively about the future, but it was difficult when he was so short of money. Also, as far as he could see, there was no way he could get any unless he won some on the horses. Even as the thought entered his head, he was surprised that such an idea should occur to him. He never gambled. Still, in his present circumstances, it was an idea worth further investigation and he only need risk the odd pound or so. Again, he shook himself. These were ideas that were completely alien to him. It was almost as if, momentarily, someone else had taken control of his brain. Was the other Zak a gambler as well as a smoker, and was that why he was on the run from the police and that fellow Sinclair? That was something else he needed to find out. The idea of gambling a few pounds to try to secure an amount that would get him out of his present predicament once more popped into his head. After all, he could probably afford to take the chance, the voice argued. In any case, there was no other way, and no real harm would be done, would it?
Ignoring the nagging voice, he tried to think rationally about his predicament. He was friendless in Edinburgh and his appearance was now so changed, it was his most fervent hope that no one would recognise him. The most sensible thing was probably to ring his wife and hope she could remember his pin number. If she did, he would take as much as he could from the machine and immediately leave Edinburgh. That way, if the police were monitoring his use of his bank accounts, the trail would be cold by the time they arrived. On the other hand, if she did not know his PIN, which was probably the case, he would ask her to send him some money.
He did not like dragging her into his mess but could see no other alternative. In any case, he persuaded himself, she was probably just as much to blame for his present predicament as was his other self. She would have to be careful, though. The last thing he wanted was for her to lead the police or that Sinclair fellow to him. After finishing his unappetising breakfast and having run out of ideas, he went to find a telephone.
He recognised her voice straight away. ‘I’m in Edinburgh,’ he said in answer to her query. ‘The thing is, I’m running short of cash; I’ve broken my Visa card and I’ve forgotten the Pin for my charge card. Can you remember what it is?’
He was startled when she burst into peals of laughter.
‘You really are a caution, Zak, and that’s the gawd’s honest truth. I don’t know how you manage to keep so cheerful, what with all the trouble you’re in.’
Tentatively, he said, ‘Do I take that as a no?’
Again the chuckle. ‘Even if I knew it, there’s nothing there to take, as well you know, unless you’ve gone and had a big win on the gee-gees. You haven’t, have you?’ There was a hint of anxiety in her voice.
‘No I haven’t. The thing is, I really am running out of money and I was hoping you might have an idea how I might get my hands on some.’
‘Oh, Zak, I thought the few hundred we managed to scrape together before you left would have lasted longer than this. What have you done with it?’
‘I’ll tell you what I haven’t done with it and that’s gamble any of it,’ he replied, anger mixed with fear in his voice.
‘I’m sorry, Zak. I didn’t mean to … ’ her voice trailed off helplessly and immediately he felt guilty. This was his mess and it was up to him to get out of it. God, he wished he knew her name.
‘Don’t worry. I shouldn’t even have asked. I’ll manage somehow. But how are you bearing up?’ It had come to him in a flash. He was being so selfish thinking only about himself. As the wife of a possible double murderer, the stigma must surely be having a dramatic effect on her life as well but, unlike him, she had nowhere to hide. The entire world would be pointing a finger at her. It must be awful.
‘Not good, Zak. The police are watching the house and there are gangs of reporters camped outside all the time. Whenever I try to go out, they’re all around me yelling questions and sticking microphones in my face so I’ve given up trying. Now I know what it’s like being a prisoner in my own home.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve brought all this down on you,’ he said, horrified when confronted by the reality caused by the actions of his alter ego. ‘But I’ll try to make it up to you eventually, you see if I don’t.’
‘I know you were only trying to do your best, luv. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s that ‘orrible Sinclair man.’
‘I don’t think we can lay all the blame on Sinclair. He’s just a businessman, after all.’
‘I can’t believe you said that, Zak. You’ve been calling him all sorts of things, including rat and scumbag, but never businessman. Are you going soft in the 'ead or something?’
‘We mightn’t like his line of business, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is, a business.’
‘But you can’t believe the interest rate he charges is fair? You’d have paid off your debt to him long ago if his rate was anywhere near normal. As it is, you’ve paid back far more than you ever borrowed but you still owe him even more than when you started. It’s not fair.’ She sniffed disconsolately into the mouthpiece.
She was probably right but there was nothing he could say to change things. ‘Look, dear, don’t worry if you don’t hear from me again for a while. I’ve decided to go into hiding so I won’t be able to call you until things are more settled. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Just promise me you’ll be careful.’
‘I don’t want to lose you, Zak. I love you so much and, don’t forget, we’ve still got the house. If the worse comes to the worse, we can always sell up and go away somewhere, just the two of us.’
‘Don’t do anything hasty, dear. And, don’t worry, I love you too. But as you just said, you’re a virtual prisoner down there at present. It really will be best if I disappear for a while. That way I might be able to find a solution to this mess. Now I’m going to have to ring off before I run out of change. Goodbye, dear. I’ll contact you later.’
‘I want to help, Zak. I feel so useless stuck here. I’ll see if I can scrape together some more money so give me another call if you really get stuck and I’ll send it to you. I love you.’
As Zachary put the phone down, he realized he was now well and truly alone.
Back in Croydon, Chief Inspector Derek Connolly sat back in his chair. He had a quiet smile of satisfaction on his florid face. Because it was a case of a double murder, the previous day he had received permission to tap the Stories’ phone and had just received the first fruits of the tap. Minutes earlier, Storie had telephoned his wife and, in addition to telling her where he was, he had spoken just long enough for the telephone engineers to trace the origin of the call. Storie had been telling the truth; he was indeed in Edinburgh and had called from a public phone box in the Haymarket di
strict, just west of the centre. A squad car happened to be cruising in the area at the time and Storie was now in police custody.
Like the con man he was, Storie was pretending he was someone else but not for one moment did the Lothian police believe him. Hadn’t they caught him red-handed? Still, for completeness sake, the police in Edinburgh had asked for a photograph of Storie to be faxed to them. Again, Connolly had reason to smile. There were always ways and means. Jean Storie had done her best to impede his progress by destroying all the photographs she had of her husband but he, Connolly, knew better than that. She had certainly destroyed most of her photographs, but what woman would willingly destroy the last remaining photograph of a loved one, and by all accounts, the Stories were a very loving couple. It needed a thorough search but eventually they had found a small stash of her most precious photographs hidden under a floorboard in the kitchen.
Connolly picked up the phone to make arrangements to go up to Edinburgh with his assistant, Detective Sergeant Roy Fitzpatrick. He would interview Storie there before bringing him back to Croydon to stand trial. He sat back pleased with his progress.
As Zachary put the handset down, and even before he began walking away from the telephone, a man who had been waiting impatiently nearby barged past him. With a muttered oath, he simply pushed Zachary out of the way. At any other time Zachary might have objected to such treatment but not wanting to attract attention, he had walked away without giving the fellow another look. If he had looked behind moments later, he would have seen the man being bundled into the police car that had skidded to a halt next to the pay phone. As it was, he continued on towards the city centre blissfully unaware that the police were now hot on his heels.
A hundred yards further on, on the opposite side of the road, he spotted what looked like a betting shop. Responding to the devil that kept speaking to him and who kept trying to persuade him that this was the only way out of his present predicament, Zachary crossed over and stood outside the door where he hesitated while wondering whether to go in. He was still blocking the doorway when a group of men arrived all keen to place a bet and they literally pushed him in as they shoved forwards
The smoke that immediately assailed his nostrils as he stepped across the threshold did not repel him as it normally would have done. Instead, it made him wish yet more strongly for a cigarette of his own. As he looked around he could see about twenty other men standing aimlessly about, presumably waiting to see the results of the many races that intermittently were displayed on one or other of the television screens dotted around the inside of the shop. In addition to the televisions, there was a variety of drinks and food dispensers to encourage the clientele to stay once they were inside. A raised desk surrounded by steel bars, behind which a young man in spectacles sat, dominated one end of the open-plan room. That, presumably, was where you placed bets and collected your winnings. Zachary, of course, had no idea what to do. He stood, uncertain, in front of a copy of the most recent edition of the Racing Post that was open to display the races taking place at various racecourses throughout Britain and the world that day. Uncomprehendingly, he stared at the vast quantity of unintelligible information he saw written there.
‘You’ll just do yer he’ed in trying to pick a winner frae that lot,’ a friendly voice with a strong Scottish accent said in his ear. Turning, Zachary saw an old man grinning at him.’
The old fellow continued. ‘I havenae seen you here before. Are you local?’
‘No, I’m just visiting.’
His new acquaintance seemed happy to accept this and asked if he had any tips.
‘No, I haven’t. To be honest, I’m just in here looking for inspiration. How about you?’ Have you got one?’
‘Nah, not really. Ma brother-in-law gave me what he called a real hot tip for the twelve o’clock at Tichfield, but he’s a real wanker is Alex so I wouldnae believe anything he says.’
‘What was it?’ Zachary said as nonchalantly as he was able.
‘I think it was called “Jen can do it,’ or something daft like that. Stupid name if you ask me, and probably as useless as ma bleed’n brother-in-law.’
Was it an omen? Jen was his wife’s name and for a moment he wondered how the other Zak was getting on with her. He had a feeling she was beginning to suspect that he and Naomi were involved with each other and he sighed with nostalgia. He’d had it all and now look where he was. If the only problem the other Zak had was juggling two women, he must think he’d died and gone to heaven, especially after all the troubles he’d left behind. And that was when a funny feeling washed over Zachary. He was not a religious man but if the other Zak was now in heaven, was he in hell? Was this what heaven and hell were really like? And when you stopped to think about it, wasn’t it much more likely than everlasting fires or bands of out-of-tune angels? But if this was some form of divine retribution, was this his sentence for having an affair with Naomi? If that were the case, it didn’t seem fair that someone who was wanted for murder and embezzlement should do quite so well by the exchange. Then he shrugged. The other man who was now wearing his shoes might discover they were not entirely a comfortable fit, either. He would discover that his marriage was shaky and that the business deal he was on the point of completing really needed some outside expert to give it the all-clear before he put his signature to it. He couldn’t explain why, but he had suddenly developed an uneasy feeling about it, which was why he had visited Ibbotsons yet again.
Shaking his head, Zachary turned to look at that day’s Racing Times and leafing through it, eventually found the runners for the twelve o’clock at Tichfield. And there it was, Jenkundowit. He asked his new friend for confirmation that it was indeed paying out at fifty-to-one.
The little man scanned the entry with an expert eye. ‘It’s just what I said. It’s a real long shot and I wouldnae waste my money on it.’ Then, seeing the look in Zachary’s eyes he added, ‘You’re no going to bet on it are you?’
‘Since I can’t think of anything better, I thought I’d chance a fiver on it,’ Zachary apologised.
The horse won, of course, and Zachary found he was £250 pounds the richer. Interestingly, a similar stroke of good fortune had started the downwards slide his other self had experienced so many years earlier. But Zachary was wise enough to realize that one small win, while welcome, was not about to change the entire course of his life. It was still only £250 and hardly enough to retire on. That said, it would provide him with a roof over his head and some food for a few days more as well as, possibly, a bus fare to wherever he wanted to go.
In the exciting flush of doing something new and slightly disreputable for the first time in his life, Zachary had forgotten to use an assumed name when he made out his betting slip. If he had stopped to think about it, he would have realized that people who run betting shops have private arrangements to help each other. Not only is it useful to recognize punters who are bad risks, there are others who disappear while owing money. Indeed, Sinclair had already posted his request about Zak to the industry at large and the moment his name came up on the local system in Edinburgh, a warning message flashed on the screen. Within minutes of the bet being placed Sinclair was notified and an hour later his two best enforcers were dispatched with orders to get back the money Storie owed. Should he not have it, the enforcers knew they could use their best efforts to persuade him to get it, even if that meant persuading their victim steal it from his mother.
Sinclair's talent was in knowing his customers. He knew they were the sort of people who needed the constant buzz offered by a big gamble and they could no more do without their daily flutter than the rest of the population could do without food and drink. Once hooked, their addiction was like a drug habit and was just as difficult to break and he had correctly guessed that Zak Storie would be unable to keep away from his favourite pastime for very long. Not many of Sinclair’s debtors ever dared do a runner on him because he always quickly caught those foolish enough to try. Severe and us
ually permanent injury followed as surely as night followed day. Few tried to swindle once, even. None did it a second time.
Leo Snell was a well-known hard nut from South London and at six feet four inches and sixteen stones of solid, sculptured muscle, he was difficult to miss. He was also a black belt at Judo and he regularly pumped iron. Nor did his loose-fitting jacket hide the massive rippling muscles he had developed with the aid of the odd tablet or three. He was the sort of man you tried hard to avoid even in broad daylight. Where Leo provided the muscle, his partner, Bill Hancock, provided all the brains and meanness the pair needed. Some claimed Bill might have a screw loose, but no one was foolish enough to make such a comment in his presence. He was sadistic and completely without scruples and he and Leo made a formidable pair. Indeed, as they moved through the concourse at Gatwick Airport, it was amusing to see the way the other passengers hastily made way for them.
There is a direct connection between Gatwick and Edinburgh Airport and by late afternoon that same day, Sinclair’s enforcers were sitting in the back office of the Edinburgh betting shop watching that part of the daily video showing Zak placing his bet.
‘The stupid sod’s only gone and dyed his hair,’ Bill Hancock chortled. ‘If he thinks that’ll hide him, he’s a bigger fool than I thought he was.’
SWITCHED: The man who lost his body but kept his mind. Page 10
