by H G White
Pamela placed the three envelopes on her boss's desk and awaited his arrival. Charles De Villiers entered the office a little after 10 a.m. He greeted Pamela with a formal ‘Morning Ms Stokes’, and went straight into his office.
Pamela immediately left her desk and made her way to a side room located to her left. This small, well-equipped kitchen was where Pamela observed the daily ritual of making coffee for the chairman. Pamela put his coffee on a tray, walked to the chairman's door and knocked softly. She was given permission to enter. He was on the phone. As Pamela put the cup and saucer down on his desk, she noticed he'd opened the first of the three letters.
She walked back to her desk. Pamela's exterior showed an icy coolness, but inwardly she was a simmering volcano, just waiting to erupt. The nervous tension was killing her. Pamela busied herself with some typing.
Less than five minutes had passed when De Villiers’ voice boomed through the office doorway. ‘Get me Lazarus on the phone, now!’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And while you're at it, tell Ian Walters to get up here as well.’
‘Yes sir.’
Pam dialled Brian Lazarus and transferred him to De Villiers, then rang Ian Walters’ extension. She told him to drop whatever he was doing and come to the chairman's office immediately. Within a very short space of time both men were in front of De Villiers. Several minutes more and both had read the letter. De Villiers looked at Ian Walters.
‘You told me categorically that the security of this system had not been breached.’ Walters felt unease. Had he got it wrong and missed something? He looked at the wording of the blackmail note. It definitely appeared that whoever was making the demand had obtained the information that he was paid to keep secure. Walters now started to question his own assessment of the security situation. He had to front it out.
‘Sir, I'm sure that no-one has been able to gain access.’ De Villiers stared at him. Walters' reply had him less than convinced. He could sense his Head of IT was unsure. De Villiers was starting to develop a severe lack of confidence in Walters' technical abilities. He looked at Lazarus. ‘What do you think Brian?’
Lazarus paused for a moment. ‘Well, I can sort it, but whether I can deal with all of them before that deadline is doubtful.’
‘How doubtful?’
‘In a word, very.’
‘So should I pay it then?’ Lazarus knew that for a man of De Villiers’ wealth, this would be small change.
‘I don't know. It's not a massive amount. There's more than a strong possibility that if you pay it, things will go quiet, at least for a while. That would give me time to teach our friends a little lesson and retrieve the pay off.’
‘Can their silence be achieved?’
‘Yes. People who usually start this kind of thing don't realise what they're getting into. Once I've given one of them a slap, the rest will more than likely lose their stomach for it.’
De Villiers stroked his chin, assessing Lazarus' opinion of things.
‘OK, we'll do it your way Brian.’
‘Don't forget, if things don't go as planned, and for some reason we are unable to retrieve the diamonds, you could always fake a robbery here and claim on the insurance.’ De Villiers smiled. He knew Lazarus had connections in the Met and could orchestrate a biased CID investigation in the company's favour. With the right paperwork, the insurance company would be none the wiser.
Getting the stones together wouldn't be a problem. With De Villiers’ South African connections he could have them in his safe by the afternoon. The task now though was to make sure De Villiers’ dirt remained hidden. Seeing to it that these bastards never did this again would have to come second for the time being.
Friday 10 a.m. South Wales
We sat in the van, keys poised, ready for ignition.
‘This time next year Rodney ...’
‘What are you fuckin’ talking about?’
I was quoting one of British comedy's most famous lines of all time, but this had obviously escaped Neil. ‘You know … Del boy ...’
‘Oh yeah? Well not if it goes pear-shaped we won't be.’
Neil was worrying. The van we'd booked was not available. The hire company claimed that its gearbox needed urgent repair. I didn't know whether this was true or not. What I did know was we were a few hundred or so kilos short of the lifting power Peachy had insisted we’d need from the tail-lift.
We just had to hope that taking the safe with us wouldn't be necessary, and that we'd be able to acquire the journals with little or no fuss from the Mansion library. If we had to put a safe on the back of this thing, we'd just have to pray that lady luck would be on our side and that there was enough grunt in the van to do the business.
‘Look Neil, don't sweat it. We're either laughing or we're crying. I know which one I'm opting for.’ He looked at me and smiled. It was a worried smile.
I tried to make him relax. ‘Let's have a bit of music.’ I turned on the van’s radio, half-expecting it not to work. Suddenly the opening bars of OMD's Locomotion chugged out of the speakers in each door. I looked at Neil and gave him a big grin. We were on our way.
Friday 11.02a.m. London
De Villiers-Moncourt (Chairman’s Office)
From his office window, Charles De Villiers stared down at the pavement below. It had been a couple of minutes since Pamela Stokes had left the office. As he watched he could see the car parked across the street. Inside – Brian Lazarus. Lazarus had convinced De Villiers that, contrary to the blackmailers’ conditions, he should follow whoever made the pick up. De Villiers had reluctantly agreed.
De Villiers took stock of the traffic crawling along outside. He could now see Pamela. He could also see her carrying the small wrapped package that encapsulated the black velvet drawstring bag containing his diamonds.
His diamonds! De Villiers’ heart began to race. This was all wrong. He was Charles De Villiers. No-one was going to blackmail him. Something inside was crying out ‘Don’t let her do it, there must be another way’.
Suddenly he grabbed his phone. Pamela’s number was on speed-dial. He pushed number 4, almost immediately there was a ringing tone. He watched Pamela put her left hand in her pocket. She was going to answer it. She lifted the phone to her ear, and pressed the answer-call button.
‘Pam, I want you to ...’ As he said the words, without warning, a cyclist dressed in fluorescent clothes complete with helmet and dark wrap-around glasses mounted the pavement.
Before De Villiers could say, ‘…Come back inside,’ the unrecognisable bike rider had ridden up to Pamela, reached down with his left hand, and snatched the package from the unsuspecting woman. He was now going at a furious pace down the street, weaving in and out of the traffic. Only another bike would have stood any chance of keeping up with him.
The cyclist rounded a corner at the end of the street and disappeared from view. De Villiers watched, stricken with disbelief. He’d changed his mind about paying the demand, but now there was nothing he could do about it. The moment had passed. Lazarus was out of his car. De Villiers seethed as Brian Lazarus slammed the car door in frustration.
Chapter 26
Friday 3.40pm Rugeley, Staffordshire
We had arrived.
There was a large Morrisons in the town centre. It was in this supermarket’s car park that we were to meet up with the criminal Superbrain. I don’t know why, but I’d always imagined Peachy would have owned some kind of ultra-stylish crash helmet and sexy leathers – looking like one of those slick dudes off an aftershave ad.
He’d got the slick bike all right but his attire let him down somewhat. His appearance was a bit nerdy. The jacket wasn’t leather; it was tweed and the helmet wasn’t full face. It was then I realised we weren’t meeting Peachy; we were meeting Frank Spencer!
Neil obviously had the same thought. ‘Betty's on the boat, is she?’ Peachy ignored Neil’s remark. It was apparent by Peach’s reaction that Neil wasn't the first person to p
oint out this frightening similarity.
I decided to change the subject. ‘Did the trip go alright?’
‘Yep.’
Neil shot me a glance. There was something in his eyes that said Don't mention the tail-lift. This was the best call, so I said nothing.
Peach looked at Neil, ‘Did you get the rest of Vaughan's gear OK?’
‘Yeah. No probs. So when are we putting the bike on?’
‘Well there's no time like the present.’
‘What? We're going to do it here in Morrisons’ car park?’ I asked.
‘No, you fucking numpty! If you follow me over that bridge, about a mile and a half. There's a short, narrow lane with a farm gate at the end of it, just off the main road.’ Peachy pointed to the road that crossed the canal. ‘I'll turn into the lane, you back the van up and then no-one will be able to see what we're doing. The front of the van will be all that's visible from the road.’
I could foresee a problem. ‘What about the farmhouse?’
‘Who mentioned any farmhouse? It's just a farm gate leading to a field. Get with the programme Will. Sort him out Neil; he's doing my head in.’
Neil looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. Peachy had done his homework. I just wasn't firing on all cylinders after the long drive. Peachy started his bike up. God it was loud!
‘Does it really need to be so noisy Peach?’ He looked at me like I was stupid.
‘It's a cruiser. They’re always loud.’
No wonder he wanted to put the bike on the van in the middle of nowhere. To me, it sounded more like an industrial lawnmower. The sort that council operatives with protective ear-wear sat on, not a bike someone would ride for pleasure on a peaceful Sunday afternoon.
Peachy sped off on his lawnmower-bike. We did our best to try and keep up with him. In the distance I could see the large cooling towers of a power station. We arrived at the narrow lane. As we backed the van up, Peach was waving us on, looking like someone on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier marshalling a jet fighter that had just landed. I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't necessary because the van's mirrors were more than adequate.
We jumped out of the van and went to the rear, dropped down the tail-lift and Peachy wheeled his bike over, coming to a stop on the tail plate. I wondered if the van would cope. I pushed the green button to engage the lift. It made a buzzing sound, then whirred and started to groan. Suddenly, Peach and his bike were moving upwards, albeit very slowly.
‘Will, this lift isn't up to much is it? I think they've sold you a dummy.’ Neil, upon hearing this, was looking away trying to avoid anyone's gaze.
‘I think it needs a bit of oil, that's all Peach.’
‘Mmm, not sure. I think it probably needs a new motor!’
‘It could be you're a bit heavier than you thought you were Peach.’ He glared at me and raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘You're full of shit’.
A loud clunk and Peach had reached the van's cargo level. With descending pitch, the tail-lift motor groaned to a halt. Peachy wheeled the bike in and, using the heavy-duty straps, began lashing it to the side.
‘What if it falls over Peach?’
‘It’d better bloody not!’ I decided that from then on Neil would be the designated van driver. I couldn't for the life of me see how Peachy's bike wasn't going to end up on the floor.
The bike secured inside and doors shut, we drove off. A few minutes later we were parking up and heading for the boat. The rest of Vaughan's gear could be taken off very close to the towpath and lifted straight on to the boat by hand without need of loud tail-lifts or hydraulic arms.
The barge had been moored between two bridges that were about one hundred or so yards apart; the mooring itself, overlooked by flats on both sides. It was amazing the amount of water traffic that was going by. Some of the boats had vintage engines that made the soothing putt-putt sound. One that came past had a steam whistle. Hearing it blow conjured up romantic images of what the canals must have been like in their heyday when they were the major freight routes of industrial Britain.
As we went to board, I noticed that something was different. I couldn't quite work it out and then it suddenly dawned on me. The livery was different. Give The Devil His Due had become Betty. I looked at Neil who was smiling.
‘Nice!’
Then I looked at Peach who wasn't.
‘I take it you're referring to the name?’ Neil nodded timidly, not knowing what was coming next.
‘Phil and I have already had words about it.’
Peachy's hostile face when Neil had made a reference to Frank Spencer's missus now made sense. I was sure that Phil must have had some serious grief off the Peachster over the previous couple of days.
I had a flashback to the reunion and Peach’s photo albums. Phil–I’ll make a note of that–Simms had obviously seen a picture of Peach in his bike gear and had decided to use the information accordingly, much to Peach’s annoyance.
We boarded. Vaughan was sitting in one of the easy chairs engrossed in The Times. Phil was in the galley, making what looked like a pot of coffee. I couldn't resist having a pop at him.
‘I thought you said coffee is the drink of eunuchs?’
‘You are correct. It is the drink of eunuchs, which is why I have hastened to prepare this pot for your imminent arrival.’
I thought You lying bastard! You were just about to have a cup on the sly. I'd never get Phil to admit it, so played along. ‘I'll have one sugar in that case.’
‘And you Neil? Do you have any specific bevergerial requirements?’
I wasn’t going to let him get away with that one. ‘Er, excuse me Phil, but “bevergerial” is not a word.’
‘Language evolves. Unfortunately as an ignoramus you will be blissfully unaware of the fact.’
I looked at Vaughan, hoping that he would fire off an academic salvo in Phil's direction. He just smiled. ‘Neil will have two lumps of sugar if you please Philip.’ Neil nodded his approval of Vaughan’s answer.
‘What about you Frank … I mean Peach. Are you having a cup?’
Peach stared at me daggers then said, ‘Yes I will.’
I decided at that point to stop the Frank and Betty jokes, knowing Peach and the strain he was under.
Soon the coffees were on the table and we were all sipping away. As another boat went by the saloon window I asked, ‘So what's the plan of attack then?’
Peach looked at Vaughan. His eyes gave Peach a deputorial, carry-on-number-two kind of glance.
‘Well it doesn't look like it's on for tonight. The weather’s far too good. It may change, but we can’t be certain. Tomorrow night is a different kettle of fish altogether. So I suggest that for this evening, we move the boat a little closer towards the target and moor up somewhere away from any other vessels. We can use cover of darkness to get the rest of Vaughan’s gear on board and then go through a few bits and pieces. We’ve got plenty to do.’
Peach, Vaughan and Phil had recce’d a spot for us to get the gear on – a small bridge about two miles away. There were a couple of houses on the opposite side but they weren't in line of sight and, as we weren't going to be cranking-up the lifting arm, no-one would be any the wiser to what was going on. Admittedly we’d have to carry the gear down a slight embankment, but that would be nothing too difficult. The mooring point they'd picked for the night was a little way back towards Rugeley, away from any roads, bridges and hopefully nosey-parkers.
Coffee break over, Peach gave us our instructions. ‘OK, Vaughan and Phil you take Will to the bridge, stay this side of it and wait for us. I’ll go with Neil in the van, show him the gate and the lying-up point. After we’ve done that, we'll meet you and get the rest of the stuff aboard.’
By ‘the gate’, Peachy meant the Estate gate where Neil was going to have to leave the decoy trolley after having cut the chain, making it look like our entry/escape point to Shoreborough.
Neil and Peach hopped ashore and began walking
along the towpath back to the van. Vaughan started Betty’s engine, we cast off. Although the light was starting to fade it was magical. We passed beautiful properties that had water frontage and little boathouses at the end of their gardens. There was a profusion of weeping willows, with branches draping down towards the water, shimmering gently in the breeze.
We came to a severe right-hand bend in the canal leading to an aqueduct. Here, a flight of stairs descended down to the water’s edge, the Bloody Steps. During the 1830s, a young woman had been raped and murdered by a couple of boatmen while on her way to London. When the body was discovered and dragged out of the canal, up the flight to a local inn, the victim’s blood had cascaded down, seeping into the stonework – hence the grisly name.
With dusk approaching, Vaughan flicked a switch and on came the navigation lights. There were very few boats moving about compared to earlier when we’d sat in the saloon drinking coffee.
Vaughan pointed. ‘Do you see, Will? Most of the boats are moored.’
‘Why's that then?’ I asked.
‘Aside from the fact that many of the occupants will be rather hungry and feel it's time for a G’n’T before dinner, it’s down to economics and competence.’
‘Economics and competence?’ He had me baffled.
‘Yes dear boy, the two go hand-in-glove. Many of the craft on the waterways are for pleasure cruising. Folk that may have hired their boats for a week or so are capable of driving on the water by day, but come nightfall, not proficient enough to continue cruising up and down the canal. This is the competence part.’
‘And the economics?’
‘Well, as the proficiency isn’t there, neither is the insurance. These hire companies aren’t stupid. You will note tomorrow, during daylight, that most of the boats we will see do not have navigation lights. This lack of equipment is intentional, you see it’s down to expense. Amateurs at night means collisions, collisions mean payouts, payouts mean higher premiums. I’m sure you get the picture.’
