Smart Moves

by Adrian Magson

  I ordered a drink and waited, wondering how furtiveness would go down in this plush joint. On the other hand, maybe some of the world’s most sensitive deals were hammered out in places just like this, where they were least expected. In between sips I scanned the people already there to see if anyone was watching me. Clayton had told me to wait until Heysens made the approach, which meant the man must have a good description of me. Then I recalled the camera above Clayton’s front door. He’d probably been sent a photo. It put me at an uncomfortable disadvantage, but at the rate I was being paid and as a way of getting out of London for a while, I was happy to go along with it.

  Ten minutes after I arrived, a tall, slim young woman breezed up the stairs and walked in my direction. She was dressed in tight, black leather trousers which squeaked rather fetchingly with each stride, and a leather jacket which set off her long blonde hair. The way she sashayed over on high-heeled boots raised the temperature in the place by several degrees, and more than one male diner was brought abruptly back to earth by a sharp comment from a female companion. Even the pianist managed to hit a bum note as she passed by, which warmed me to him no end.

  ‘Are you Jake Foreman?’ she asked me. Her accent came as a surprise: Newcastle through and through.

  ‘That’s me,’ I said, and stood up. She still topped me by at least an inch.

  ‘Rik says you’re to meet him at this place in thirty minutes.’ She handed me a slip of paper with the name of a hotel on it.

  ‘Why the change, pet?’ I asked amicably and felt a twinge of apprehension. So far I had never been asked to go anywhere other than the locations stipulated by Clayton. This was a change of plan, albeit small.

  The girl shrugged elegant shoulders. Up close I could see she had brown eyes and that blonde wasn’t her original hair colour. ‘No idea – sorry. It’s a ten-minute walk down the other end of the promenade. You can’t miss it. Room one-eight-two.’ She glanced at her watch, which looked as if it might have set her back a few hundred euros or sterling. ‘I make that eleven on the dot, so don’t be late… pet.’ Then she turned and squeaked away, leaving a faint aroma of perfume hanging in the air.

  I sat down and finished my drink. I was now the focus of attention for everyone in sight, and wondered whether Rik Heysens had intended to draw attention to me in this way or whether he was simply careless. Or innocent. I went outside and down onto the sand, and strolled towards the far end of the resort, turning occasionally to see if I was being watched from the promenade. If there was anyone there, however, they kept themselves well out of sight.

  There were a few people taking the air and stretching their legs with earnest vigour, and I wondered what it was about the Dutch that made them so different. If this had been Scarborough or Margate the place would have been infested with screaming kids and stressed-out mothers smoking their lungs into a state of wrinkled leather, while the dads would have been propping up a bar or chucking their money across the counter of the nearest bookies.

  The hotel the girl had indicated was sitting high over the promenade with a prominent view of the beach, and just beyond the busy area which included the seafront boutiques and cafes. I walked up a concrete ramp and found the reception area busy with several men in suits all chuntering quietly to each other and getting in everyone’s way. Since none of the reception staff seemed available, I decided to go up to the room unannounced. I skirted the crowd of business types and took the back stairs. It might not be good protocol or whatever Clayton and his types might call it, but it was better than being late.

  I was just coming up to the third floor and breathing heavily when I heard shouting from above, followed by the slamming of a door and the clatter of footsteps coming down the stairwell. Whoever it was seemed to be in a hurry.

  I flattened myself against the wall as a large, red-faced individual flung himself round the bend in the stairs, using his hand on the rail to slingshot his body in a 180-degree turn, his feet barely touching the treads. When he looked up and saw me there, his eyes nearly popped from his head and he ran past shaking his head and mumbling, ‘No. No. No!’

  Then all hell broke loose as more footsteps sounded behind him, and a man’s voice bellowed down the stairs in Dutch. Something told me it wasn’t his personal fitness coach telling him to keep his knees up and not to forget to breathe.

  I turned and followed the runner, betting on my instincts and hoping they were right. By the look on the man’s face he had recognised me, which put him down as Heysens or someone closely connected to him. Quite what the fearful shaking of the head was all about was a puzzle, bearing in mind we were supposed to meet any time now. Maybe if I kept on his tail I’d find out.

  He hit the bottom door like a torpedo and burst into the reception area, scattering visitors like ninepins. Two of the men standing in a huddle near the check-in desk promptly turned and jumped on him, waving badges and proving that the Dutch police force encourages its officers to watch too many American cop shows.

  Fortunately, they were so busy with their prisoner they failed to notice me following him stealthily out of the stairwell, and I was able to sidle up to the check-in desk and buttonhole one of the staff, who was staring transfixed at this slice of life going on under his nose.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘I thought this was a quiet hotel.’

  He nodded, staring between me and the wrestling match, now augmented by the pursuer from the stairs, a short, stocky man in a suit who pitched in with flailing handcuffs and helped subdue their prisoner.

  ‘It is, sir,’ the receptionist said eagerly, switching into PR mode. ‘This is most unusual, I promise you. We are not having this kind of thing going on here. Not at all.’

  ‘So what’s he done – stolen some towels?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment, cocking an ear to something the stocky cop was saying to the prisoner. Then he shrugged and looked back at me, a fatalistic expression on his face. ‘He has been arrested, sir. For forgery. You know – making bank notes? That is a very grave crime here in the Netherlands. This man’s name is Heysens. He is being asked where is the–’ He searched for the correct word, then clicked his fingers. ‘–Where is the film of the templates he was waiting for to be delivered here at the hotel.’ He listened some more and looked shocked. ‘But the man is not telling them, sir. No, he is not a happy man, I think. He is saying they should all fuck off to bloody hell!’ He looked pleased with himself at being able to give me such a literal translation, then remembered he was supposed to be shocked as any good citizen would be. ‘Now, sir, what can I do for you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Thanks. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll find somewhere less exciting.’

  As I stepped out of the front entrance, Heysens was being loaded into a cop car, with a surprising number of ‘customers’ clapping each other on the back in a ‘Nice one, mate’, sort of way. It reminded me that I had in my possession, if the receptionist was correct, film copies of some banknotes which would be enough to have me join Heysens in the back of the police car if he said anything.

  Discretion being the better part of valour, and not wishing to give Susan the pleasure of hearing I’d added international financial crime to my list of offences against womankind, I beat a quick retreat and headed for the nearest taxi rank.

  Clayton had some explaining to do.

  TWENTY-ONE

  By the time I made it back to London my nerves were fried. I was constantly looking over my shoulder expecting to feel the heavy hand of Interpol, Europol, HMRC, MI5 or the Salvation Army. If not them, it would be someone brandishing Basher’s credentials and a return invitation to his house for another party which I knew wouldn’t be as much fun as the last time. I had a sense of what it was like to be a double agent, used by both sides, trusted by neither and eventually buggered by both.

  I drove round to Clayton’s place and handed him back the package, and described what had happened. He seemed fairly nonplussed and merely tossed the e
nvelope into a drawer.

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ he said casually. ‘It’s the kind of business Heysens is in.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Clayton gave me a look which said ‘do me a favour’.

  ‘It’s up to the client what they want us to do next. As long as you weren’t implicated you have nothing to worry about. Leave it with me and I’ll sort it out.’ He flicked through a small book, then gave me a keen look. ‘I know what you’re probably thinking: that we transport stolen, illegal or otherwise prohibited goods between certain individuals. Well, we certainly transport goods in the way of papers or electronic data, but there’s nothing illegal about what we do, you can take my word on that. Now, you’ve been to the States, I believe?’ The speech was over and it was back to business. Oddly enough, I felt relieved. Whether I believed him or not was another thing altogether.

  ‘Several times. Have you got a trip there?’

  He nodded. ‘Coming up any time. But you’ve got to be clean. No past misdemeanours on American soil, I take it? No unpaid bills or charges for possession of toxic substances?’

  I confirmed I had never misbehaved on US soil, which promptly set me thinking about whether it would have made any difference to Susan’s view of me if I had. Probably not.

  ‘Good. Their immigration people only need a whiff of something and they’ll have you listed and be waiting for the next time you hop back over there.’

  The queues for ordinary, innocent visitors waiting to go through immigration in the States were legendary. Their officials were so rigorous in their form filling it seriously made you wonder if they really wanted anyone to go back there. Polite, though, I had to give them that. When they wished you to have a nice stay, they actually sounded like they meant it.

  ‘Can you hang loose for a couple of days?’ said Clayton. ‘I’ll call as soon as I have the package and details.’

  ‘I think so,’ I said, and decided I needed to go to ground somewhere. Preferably somewhere quiet and remote from London. I looked at his desk and had an idea. ‘Do you mind if I use your PC for a second?’

  ‘No. Go ahead. I’ll be back in five.’ He strode out, leaving me to slide behind his desk and pull up the keyboard to his computer.

  Half an hour later I pulled up outside my house and sat there for a while, watching my rear mirror. Immediately after leaving Clayton’s place, I’d got a distinct feeling of being watched and, after a few tentative Bond-like turns down back-doubles, I realised I was being followed by a small, dark anonymous car of Japanese design which had now nosed into the kerb at the end of the road. I sighed, recognising a familiar silhouette. It looked like the man from Nice had come back. I wondered if he’d had his trouser leg repaired.

  I looked at the house. It felt an age had passed since I’d last been there. The community bus had gone, leaving a deep imprint in my border, and the front door still needed repairing properly, but otherwise it was pretty much as I’d left it. There was no sign of Mrs Tree and her aged posse, although I didn’t doubt she had me in her sights and was logging my arrival.

  In the end I walked up the drive and knocked on the door. The only way of avoiding her was to skulk along a footpath at the back and hop over the rear fence like a thief in the night, but I was damned if I was going to let her inhibit my movements. If the old biddy decided to come out, so be it.

  A wan girl of about fifteen opened the door in answer to my knock. She was dressed in baggy trousers and jump boots, and her upper body was wrapped in what looked like half a sari of the most vivid orange. She stared at me with big eyes for a moment before holding the door open in invitation.

  ‘You must be Jake,’ she said simply, her accent the same as Dot’s. I wondered if her father was a lawyer, too.

  ‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘How do you know?’

  She shrugged. ‘I just know things.’ Then she walked ahead of me into the kitchen and picked up my mug from the sideboard. It was full of hot coffee. Freshly-made, too, by the smell of it.

  ‘Did Dot tell you about me?’ I was trying to recall what I’d said last time I was there, and wondered whether this girl was on something. She certainly seemed a little odd. Maybe she was psychic.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she reached into her sari top and fished out a key on a silver chain. ‘You’ll be needing this to get your things. Oh, and there’s this.’ She opened a drawer next to the sink and handed me a pile of mail bundled together in a rubber band.

  I must have looked at the key with dumb blankness, because she rolled her eyes. ‘You sent an email to Dot saying you wanted to get some clothes? She had to go out, so she asked me to look after you.’ She giggled and disappeared, so I went upstairs to the bedroom, where I found a large padlock and chain on the wardrobe, guarding my possessions.

  I grabbed more socks, pants and a couple of shirts, then checked through the pile of mail. There was one thick, expensive-looking, cream job which instinct told me was the result of Mr Sweaty’s threat at the tapas bar. I could do without reading that right now. The rest were bills and reminders, junk mail and flyers. I noticed there were none for Susan, and concluded she must have put an intercept on them, leaving me with all the brown stuff. Surprise, surprise.

  I stuffed everything in the wardrobe and went back downstairs, where I found Dot sitting on her perch in the kitchen, grinning her wide open smile. She was wearing a long, shapeless smock with Batik flower motifs, and the customary big boots.

  ‘Hi, you!’ she said, and jumped down to give me a big kiss. It was as if I were her long-lost brother come back from the wars, instead of someone of very recent acquaintance and decidedly differing background.

  ‘Hi, yourself,’ I said, and felt pleased at being on the receiving end of such open affection. ‘Thanks for looking after my stuff.’

  ‘No sweat.’ She looked at my coffee mug. ‘I see Miz looked after you all right, then?’

  ‘Miz? Oh, you mean… yes, she did, thanks. Even down to the coffee being just the way I like it. You’ve got a good memory.’ I handed her the key and chain Miz had given me.

  ‘Memory?’ Dot looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t tell her. She has this thing… you know. She knows things without anyone saying. Didn’t she mention it?’

  ‘I thought she was pulling my leg.’

  ‘No way. She’s serious. But, hey – a pity she wasn’t here the other day when your wife came round. Jeez, what a snooty bitch! Can that lady yell up a strop, or what?’ She looked sheepish and touched my arm in apology. ‘Heck, I’m sorry, Jake – that wasn’t nice of me. I guess you still love her, and here’s me badmouthing her.’

  I thought about it for a few seconds, like I’d been thinking about it on and off for a while, ever since Susan had stormed out of the tapas bar. ‘I do a bit. But there’s no need to apologise. And if it’s any consolation, you’re right – she can yell up a storm when she gets her temper up.’

  A shadow loomed into the room, thankfully ending that particular topic. It was Dash.

  ‘Hiya, mate,’ he said cheerfully, and slapped me on the back, re-arranging one or two vertebrae. ‘How’s it hangin’? Did Dot tell you about your wife comin’ round and slaggin’ us off? Boy, is she a screamer? I tell you–’

  He grunted as Dot elbowed him in the ribs, then looked crestfallen as he caught the warning look on her face. ‘Oh, mate, I’m sorry. Christ, I’ve got a mouth. No offence, huh?’

  I shook my head and smiled, wondering how it was I’d managed to get through life without having forged some friends like these. Whatever their lifestyles, I couldn’t fault their honesty and good intentions, and it struck me that I’d become closer to them in just a couple of meetings than I was to many people I’d known for years.

  ‘No problem.’ I told him. ‘But there’s a way you can help me.’

  ‘Name it,’ he said fervently. ‘Anything.’

  I took him to the front of the house and pointed towards the car at the end of the road. ‘See that car? He’s b
een following me around all day. When I leave here I’d rather he didn’t.’

  Dash gave me an excited grin, as if I’d just proposed setting fire to the Houses of Parliament and introducing a new World Order. ‘Sheesh, mate – what’ve you been up to? Sorry – my big mouth again. I didn’t ask that.’ He clapped his big hands together and thought for a second, then nodded and produced a mobile phone. ‘It’ll take me five minutes. Can you wait that long?’

  ‘No worries. But no violence, understand? I just need you to get in his way until I’m gone.’

  ‘Easy-peasy. He won’t even know it’s happening.’

  I left him to it and went to say goodbye to Dot and Miz and finish my coffee. Then I went out to the car and waited for Dash to give me the thumbs up.

  A few minutes later the familiar shape of the community bus ground round the corner and chugged along the road, laying down a curtain of exhaust fumes that would have choked a cow. As it drew level with the waiting car carrying my follower, there was a loud bang and the front wheels suddenly veered sharply to one side. It skewed across the road and wheezed to a halt, completely blocking the car from our sight… and more importantly, us from his. It was neatly done and looked nothing like the deliberate act it obviously was.