The Debt
Page 37
I guess that’s where Johnny and I differ. His hatred’s focused directly on Jim, straightforward, simple and absolute, whereas mine keeps shifting, rolling through the family, laying blame wherever it might stick. And that doesn’t exclude myself. If I’d been smarter, if I’d done things differently, then maybe . . .
I sink down on the sofa and bury my face in my hands.
Can I really go through with it?
For a moment I think about retrieving my bag, sneaking out through the front door, and taking off. I could jump in the car and turn my back on the whole damn mess. I could be miles away before anyone even notices I’m gone. Why not?
But I know why not: because I’d be taking the easy option, because I’d be landing Johnny right in it. And for all our differences, I’m not prepared to do that. A promise is a promise.
And anyway, he’s not the only one with a score to settle. I’ve been trying to pretend that I’m not the same as him, that I don’t have the same instincts – but it’s not true. I’m angry too, bitter and resentful. I want to beat my fists against the wall. I’ve been hurt and I want some retribution.
And Johnny was right – it is all to do with love. What Marc loves most, what he’s always loved most and valued even above our marriage, is the thrill of the forbidden. On that golden altar he’s been prepared to sacrifice everything.
Slowly, I take off my wedding ring and place it on the table.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Johnny
The clock’s chiming three when I creep softly down the stairs and slip into the Buckleys’ living room. The curtains are still drawn. It’s pitch black. And shit, she almost gives me a heart attack as I flash the torch around. Sitting perfectly still, curled in a chair in the corner, she emerges from the shadows like an enemy sniper.
‘Simone?’
Slowly, she uncoils.
We agreed to meet at three thirty. I’m early – and she’s even earlier. How long has she been waiting here?
Tilting my head, I listen for any sound from the room above. Hopefully, they’re both so blitzed they won’t wake before morning, but it pays to be cautious. We won’t get a second chance. Should I leave the door open or close it? Perhaps best left open, just ajar, in case one of them stirs and wanders down for a glass of water.
She rises and comes to stand beside me. In one hand she has an empty bag, in the other a scrap of paper. She silently points towards one of the paintings on the wall. Excellent. A couple of minutes and we should be out of here.
I swing back the picture to reveal the safe behind.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ she whispers.
‘What?’ Fuck, this is all I need. Her and her bloody conscience.
She’s grasping the piece of paper even tighter now. ‘It’s stealing, though, isn’t it?’
‘You think it’s theft?’ I try to keep my voice low and steady. ‘Personally, I view it more as compensation. How much do you reckon eighteen years is worth – ten grand, fifty, a hundred? What kind of price would you put on it?’
‘They haven’t got that kind of money.’
‘Well, you don’t have to worry then, do you?’ If we carry on like this we’ll be here all night, still debating the issue when Jim and Dee wake up.
She takes another moment to think about it and then, somewhat reluctantly, passes over the numbers. It’s a good thing Marc writes everything down – and even better that Simone knows exactly where.
Before she can change her mind again I pass her the torch and get stuck in. The light wavers a little as she shines it on the dial. It doesn’t take long. And there’s nothing so gratifying as that tiny click of success. Well, perhaps one thing – the sight of a healthy pile of cash.
Bingo!
There must be a hundred grand at least, neatly stacked in bundles of fifties.
Simone gasps. ‘Where did that come from?’
I start pouring it into the bag. Still whispering, I reply, ‘I believe they’ve been liquidizing their assets.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘For that quick getaway to Spain.’
She glares at me. ‘You knew this was here, didn’t you?’
I shrug. ‘Let’s call it inspired guesswork.’
Simone’s getting cold feet again. She wasn’t expecting me to find more than a couple of thousand. She could just about square that with her conscience but this . . . this is robbery on a grander scale.
‘We can’t take all that,’ she hisses.
‘We’re not taking it, sweetheart – I am. Did I say I was offering to share it?’
Which shuts her up for a couple of seconds. She hops nervously from one foot to another. ‘I’m still helping you,’ she retorts. ‘I’ve given you the bloody number. What if they call the police?’
I throw the last of the cash into the bag, close the safe, and replace the picture. ‘That’s not very likely. They’ve got Carl to think about, remember?’
The mention of his name makes her shiver.
Playing on her fears, I quickly add, ‘So, come on. Let’s get out of here before the little shit crawls home.’
That gets her moving. We walk on our toes, quickly through to the kitchen. While she sorts out the alarm, I hold the bag to my chest. Lying against my heart, it creates a pleasantly warm sensation. It’s hardly a fortune but it’ll do. At least for starters. Jim hasn’t paid his dues, not by any means, but the rest can wait . . . he won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.
In the silence of the night, the low bleep from the alarm sounds as fierce as a siren. I cross my fingers that even if it does penetrate their semi-comatose brains, they’ll imagine it’s just Carl returning. Straining my ears, I try to discern any hint of movement from above. Was that a creak of floorboards?
I hold my breath.
No, it’s just one of those noises that all sleeping houses make, a bricks and mortar equivalent of a snore or a groan.
We slip outside. Simone closes the door with a resounding rattle. Shit! Standing back a step I gaze up at their unlit bedroom window.
All quiet, thank God. No sign of life.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers.
I put a finger to my lips.
The car’s unlocked. I open it on the driver’s side, throw the bag on the back seat, release the handbrake, and start to roll it gently along the drive. It’s too risky to switch the engine on. Even through deep sleep, that’s likely to rouse them. Although, God, the crunch of the tyres against the gravel is hardly peaceful.
Would it be a complete disaster if they discovered us now? Not really. I’ve already got what I want. We could jump in and be away before they could stop us. But being a few hours ahead of the game is always useful. And anyway, I like the idea of them waking up in the morning, smugly self-confident – and finding us gone. It kind of adds to the magic.
She leans against the passenger door and pushes too. We’re making pretty good progress, almost halfway to the gates, when something suddenly springs to mind. I stop and peer across the roof. ‘Simone, where’s your stuff?’ She’s either travelling light or she’s forgotten it.
She looks up, startled.
‘Your things,’ I remind her.
And I’m just thinking Hell, no, we’ll have to go back, when she shakes her head. ‘It’s okay,’ she whispers, ‘it’s in the boot. I put it there earlier.’
Christ, why is it that women never listen to a word you say? How many times did I tell her – five, ten? Specific instructions not to take any unnecessary risks, not to take any chances, and especially not to go hauling suspicious amounts of luggage round the house. We had an arrangement, an agreement. It wasn’t that bloody complex was it, not too hard to understand?
‘What?’ I snap at her. ‘What if you’d been caught?’
She snorts. ‘Well, I wasn’t, was I? You were all so pissed, you wouldn’t have noticed if the 10.23 from Liverpool Street had come crashing through the house.’
Which might be true but I’m n
ot about to admit it. ‘That’s not the point,’ I say weakly.
She makes one of those derisive female noises.
Scowling, we put our heads down and start pushing again. Now our silence is dictated more by irritation than necessity. We’re far enough from the house to talk freely but we don’t exchange a word.
At the end of the drive, we change places. She walks round the bonnet to the driver’s seat, and I stroll round the boot to the passenger’s. As the electric gates open, she takes one last lingering look in the mirror. What’s she thinking? I don’t know. Hopefully, that she’s well rid, but there’s no accounting for the female psyche.
She starts the engine and we exit on to the street. There’s not another car in sight. Turning right, she takes our usual route towards the City. I can tell she’s itching to put her foot down, to make a quick escape, but instead she stares stolidly at the speedometer, keeping to the requisite 30 mph.
She doesn’t ask where I want to go.
And I don’t tell her.
We’re at the first junction before I realize I’ve been holding my breath again. God knows what I’ve been anticipating – perhaps for Dee to run screaming, naked, after us. That’s not a pretty thought. But then nor is the prospect of a fleet of flashing blue lights. Although if it came to a confrontation between Dee or the cops, I’d opt for the latter – at least I might stand some chance of survival.
I dig out my cigarettes. In a spirit of reconciliation – and relief – I light one and pass it over to her.
‘Thanks,’ she murmurs.
It’s another mile or so before she opens her mouth again. ‘I still don’t understand where all the money came from.’
‘Jim’s sold The Palace.’ That was one piece of useful information that I picked up on my aimless jaunts around the City. ‘Some of it’s in the bank but . . . well, you know what your husband’s like when it comes to creative accounting. Let’s just say this was a nest egg the taxman wasn’t going to get his hands on.’
‘So they won’t be completely bankrupt then?’
I sit back and smile. Jim’s got a serious load of debt and the house is mortgaged up to the hilt. Hoping he’d soon be on his way to Spain, he’s sold the club for a damn sight less than it was worth – and now he’s about to find out that he isn’t a diamond millionaire after all. Still, no point disturbing Ms Morality’s conscience with the details. ‘Course not.’
She nods. ‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘Sure.’
‘Speaking hypothetically,’ she says, ‘what would you have done if the kidnap had been for real?’ She pauses. ‘I mean, if it had all been for real, if you’d actually had the pink diamonds and Marc had really been in danger and . . .’
She stops short, her fingers gripping the wheel.
Now’s probably a good time, maybe the smartest time, to lie – especially if I don’t want to end spread-eagled on the pavement with a bagful of notes drifting in the wind. But then again, what’s the point? I could lie through my teeth but she’d still know it was bullshit.
‘Speaking hypothetically,’ I reply, ‘what do you think?’
She frowns while she considers the answer. Her eyes narrow and her mouth slides into that familiar sulky pout. I suspect she’s going to produce one of her smart-arse comments – but she doesn’t. Instead, she just sighs.
I count my blessings.
She asks, ‘Can you wind down your window?’
I glance outside. It’s the middle of the night. It’s freezing and the rain’s just started to pour again. ‘It’s pissing down.’
‘Just do it,’ she insists.
‘What for?’
Simone turns to look at me. ‘Because you stink of bloody whisky.’
Fuck, sometimes she really gets on my nerves.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six