by Daly, Bill
It seemed to take an age before the woman finally withdrew her card and tucked the single banknote that emerged inside her woollen glove. Avoiding eye contact with Tracey she depressed the button to open the cubicle door.
Tracey slid her card into the slot and was entering her PIN when she saw his reflection in the screen. He’d caught the door with his foot before it could close. She felt her heartbeat quicken as he shuffled to a halt behind her. No reason to panic, she told herself. She’d intended to withdraw a hundred so she could give Stevie the money she owed him but she decided to ask for twenty instead – just in case. Stevie had already waited a month for his money – another couple of days wouldn’t be a problem. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, not wanting to give this guy any pretext to start up a conversation. Snatching out her card as soon as it reappeared she shoved it into her coat pocket, the pounding of her heart against her ribcage seeming louder than the mechanical shuffling of the notes about to be disgorged. She could hear his quick, shallow breathing and she sensed he was standing very close to her. His cold breath came wafting over her shoulder and she felt something brush against her earlobe. Instinctively she lifted her hand to flick it away, then there was a sudden, violent, searing pain in her left ear as she was yanked across the confined space, her ankle twisting beneath her as she toppled over on her high heels and thumped down painfully on the tiled floor, skinning both knees. Her handbag fell from her grasp.
He was standing with his back against the cubicle door, staring at her through pinpricks of dark eyes sunk into deep red sockets. In his late teens, thin as a rake, his hair was close shaved, almost skinhead, his forehead acne-pitted. He was wearing white tracksuit trousers, pinched at the ankles, above a pair of white trainers. His light blue jacket was unzipped, the sleeves rammed above his elbows exposing his skinny forearms, blotch-marked from the cold.
Tracey saw him move his hands slowly back and forward in front of his face and she realised he was holding something. When she tried to scramble to her feet he yanked his hands backwards, sending her pitching forward onto the floor. She screamed in agony as the pain shot from her ear to her brain and when she jerked her hand to the side of her head she felt the piece of string he’d looped through the pewter rings in her left ear.
‘On your feet,’ he panted, tugging on both ends of the string and forcing her to her knees. When she grabbed at the string again he pulled on it hard, bringing her crashing down. ‘Try that again,’ he snarled, ‘an’ your fuckin’ ear’s comin’ aff.’
Tears of pain and terror were bubbling from Tracey’s eyes, rivulets of mascara oozing down both cheeks. ‘What do you want with me?’ she whimpered. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Gripping her by her braided hair he dragged her to her feet. He snatched the money from the cashpoint machine, glaring at her when he saw the two ten-pound notes. ‘Twenty measly fuckin’ quid!’ He stuffed the money into his hip pocket. ‘That’s sod all use! I need more than that.’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
‘I’m warnin’ you.’ He gripped her arm painfully. ‘Don’t mess me about.’
Tracey looked in desperation over his shoulder at the cars queuing up at the traffic lights; a line of bored drivers, staring straight ahead. When she saw two youths hurrying past on foot she let out a scream, but neither head turned, then she screamed even louder when he yanked her across the booth by the string in her earrings and slammed her face into the cashpoint machine, splitting open her bottom lip. Spinning her round he pressed his body hard against hers, pinning her to the wall, their faces inches apart.
Tracey screwed her eyes shut. ‘That wisny very clever,’ he panted. His breathing was coming in short gasps. She could feel his spittle in her face. Her whole body went rigid.
‘Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you,’ he commanded. Tracey sank her teeth into her bottom lip, tasting her own blood, but kept her eyes squeezed shut. Taking a step back he launched a sickening punch at the pit of her stomach. ‘I telt you to fuckin’-well look at me, you stupid wee bitch!’
Tracey folded at the waist, clutching at her stomach. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to straighten up. ‘Did you hear what I fuckin’-well said?’ he screamed in her face. Wheezing for breath, she slowly opened her eyes. Tears were coursing down her swollen cheeks.
‘I need more money,’ he panted. ‘My dealer won’t give me anythin’ until I settle up.’
‘I’ve only got a couple of quid. Look for yourself,’ she whimpered, pointing at her handbag lying on the ground.
‘You can get more out the machine.’
‘Twenty’s all it would give me – and you’ve got that,’ she sobbed, raising both arms above her head and flailing at his chest. ‘So take it and leave me alone!’
Her assailant grabbed Tracey by the wrists and pinned her against the cubicle wall, holding her in that position until all the energy had seeped from her body. ‘Show me,’ he said, releasing her wrists.
‘Show you what?’ she sobbed.
‘Put your card back in the machine an’ try again.’
‘I’ve already told you! It won’t give me any more!’
‘I’d try awfy hard if I was you, because if you don’t give me two hundred quid, I’ve got somethin’ I’m goany give you.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and producing a syringe. ‘Two hundred quid or AIDS.’ He held the point of the needle against her throat. ‘Your call.’
‘Oh, no! Not that! Jesus Christ!’ Tracey flattened her back against the wall and screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Take that fucking thing away from me! For God’s sake! I’ll get you the fucking money!’
As Tracey fumbled in her coat pocket for her cashpoint card she saw the headlights of a car arc up and down as its wheels bumped onto the kerb outside the booth. Her fingers felt the plastic card but she continued to fumble to hold his attention while the driver got out of his car. The cubicle door was pushed open and a slim, middle-aged man in a three-piece suit stepped inside. When he heard the door opening, Tracey’s attacker spun round and launched himself at the man, stabbing the syringe into the side of his neck. Without a backward glance he hurdled the collapsed, screaming figure and sprinted off down the road.
CHAPTER 3
As Bjorn Svensson was coming back down the stairs from the toilet the conversation around the dining table died away. He sensed the air of expectancy and he felt all the eyes following him as he made his way back to his seat. ‘What’s up?’ His cheeks flushed and his hands dropped instinctively to his crotch. ‘Forgot to do up my flies, or something?’
‘Helen’s been hinting that you’ve been up to something rather clever, you sly old bugger.’ Mike Harrison’s chubby features, florid from the effects of the wine, creased in a mischievous grin. ‘It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?’ he said, plucking his gold toothpick from his sporran and using it to prise out a piece of steak lodged between his closely-spaced front teeth. ‘It’s time to reveal all, my lad.’
Bjorn’s fair complexion reddened even more. Tugging off his rimless spectacles he polished them furiously on the handkerchief he’d yanked from his trouser pocket. ‘Helen!’ he hissed across the table. ‘I thought we’d agreed?’
‘Oh, come on, Bjorn! Don’t be such a spoilsport.’ She giggled tipsily. ‘We’re among family. Anyway, I think it’s so clever,’ she added, slurping down a mouthful of wine.
Bjorn replaced his glasses and his disconcerted gaze travelled slowly round the table. Jude Ramsay was gnawing on a stick of celery, looking mildly amused. Mike Harrison’s bulky, kilted frame was wedged between the constricting arms of a carver chair, his jabot long since discarded, his top shirt button undone, the remaining buttons straining across his broad chest. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he twiddled with the white rabbits’ feet on his sporran. Laura Harrison’s hazel eyes were fixed on him, a smile playing at the corners of her wide mouth. Helen was running her tongue back and forth along her slightly parted lips. She had a startled
, confused expression, as if she thought she’d done something rather daring but wasn’t quite sure of the consequences. Simon Ramsay was the only one avoiding eye contact. He had the same distracted air he’d had all evening, gazing towards the high, corniced ceiling.
‘You’ll have to spill the beans now, Bjorn, otherwise we’ll all assume the worst,’ Mike said, leaning across the table and prodding Simon in the arm. ‘Isn’t that right, Simon?’
‘Eh? Sure.’ Simon blinked and stretched for the wine bottle to top up his glass.
‘I don’t know about this.’ Bjorn cast his eyes down while he folded his handkerchief and put it back into his pocket. He looked up quickly. ‘It goes without saying that this mustn’t go beyond these four walls.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally got round to robbing the bank?’ Laura said with a smile.
‘Close!’ Helen squealed and let out a shriek of laughter, suddenly truncated as she clapped both hands across her mouth.
‘Fascinating stuff!’ Mike stifled a burp. ‘Come on, Bjorn, my boy.’ He gave an exaggerated, knowing wink. ‘Let’s be having you.’
Bjorn ran his fingers through his spiky hair. ‘The idea came to me back in 1999 when I was updating the bank’s computer programs to handle the change of millennium,’ he began. ‘Do you have any idea how many accounts the bank handles?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Jude.
‘We’ve got over four hundred thousand customers. When you include the deposit accounts and the various savings schemes there are more than a million active accounts, the majority of which attract interest payments in some shape or form every month. The bank’s computers are programmed to round interest to the nearest penny. If, for example, the calculation says you’re due two pounds fifty three point two pence, you get two pounds fifty three, but if it comes to two pounds fifty three point seven, you get two pounds fifty four. It’s swings and roundabouts for the bank. Statistically, it breaks even.’ There was an intrigued silence while Bjorn broke off to sip his wine. ‘So, I thought to myself, who would ever notice if I changed the logic to always round down? I mean, who’s going to question an interest payment of two pounds fifty three instead of two pounds fifty four?’
‘Who, indeed?’ Laura dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin.
‘If you do the arithmetic you’ll find that skimming, on average, half a penny from a million accounts comes to five thousand pounds a month.’
‘A nice wee earner.’ Mike nodded approvingly. ‘And tax free, to boot.’
‘The only problem was that tampering with the interest calculation logic at the time of the millennium changes wasn’t on. Everyone and his wife was checking and rechecking those modules.’
‘So?’ Jude asked.
‘So I introduced a bug into a different part of the program – in fact, the routine that handles standing orders. When the change of century fuss had died away customer complaints started filtering through about standing orders being unexpectedly terminated and I was asked to check the program logic. While I was fixing it I slipped in my ‘rounding down’ routine, at the same time setting up a complex series of fund transfers for the surplus cash which eventually ends up in an account in Helen’s name in the Cayman Islands.’
‘Bravo!’ Mike Harrison started applauding loudly.
‘Did the banking crisis not put a bit of a damper on your scheme?’ Jude asked. ‘God knows, it’s almost impossible to get an account that pays any worthwhile interest these days.’
‘To some extent, in that the current accounts stopped earning interest. But as for the rest, whether I’m skimming a half penny off a ten-pound interest payment or a one-pound interest payment, it’s all the same to me.’
‘Been running for about ten years now,’ Helen said. ‘So far – touch wood,’ she said, slipping her hand underneath the lace tablecloth and tapping a fingernail on the mahogany surface. ‘No one’s twigged.’
‘The really clever part,’ Bjorn continued with a self-satisfied air, ‘is that I’ve set it up as a separate load module which is invoked on a date-controlled basis. Without wanting to blind you with science, that means I can switch the routine off when I go on holiday so if anyone has a reason to look at the program logic during my absence they won’t stumble across my personalised code.’
‘Tell them about the promotion, Bjorn,’ Helen giggled.
Bjorn’s grin broadened. ‘Last month I was offered a job in head office. Step up on the career ladder and all that jazz. My boss couldn’t understand why I was turning down a promotion and a five thousand pounds a year salary increase. Difficult to explain to him that I saw it as a fifty-five thousand pounds a year salary cut.’
Everyone joined in the laughter.
‘What do you think of that, Simon?’ Mike said. ‘Impressed by Stockholm’s answer to Bernie Madoff?’
‘I only wish the stockbroking business offered such creative possibilities,’ Simon grumbled. ‘At this rate, Bjorn, you’ll be stashing away your first million before Mike.’
‘Don’t give me your worries.’ Mike’s mood changed suddenly. ‘I’m on my bloody uppers.’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘I kid thee not, Simon.’ He drew his bushy eyebrows together. ‘I’ve never known a month like it. You have to have turnover to survive in the bookmaking business. Do you know how many days’ racing we’ve had so far this month?’ Simon shook his head. ‘Two. And to top it all, Kempton was the only meeting to survive the frost last Saturday and the first five fucking favourites trotted in. I lost a bloody fortune!’
‘Stop it, Mike!’ Jude smiled expansively as she got to her feet. ‘You’ll have us all in tears.’
‘It’s no laughing matter, Jude,’ he protested. ‘It’s not as if the overheads and the wage bills go away when there’s no racing. I’m telling you, I’m seriously having to consider giving up the Cathcart shop to cut back on expenses.’
‘And how many would that leave you with?’ Jude asked as she walked round the table to collect in the cheese plates. ‘Six? Or would it just be five?’ She stopped to tickle Mike under the chin. ‘What you need is some of my home-made tiramisu to help keep body and soul together.’
*
‘Let’s go over it one more time.’ Charlie Anderson picked up the Save the Children collection box from the desk and balanced it in the palm of his hand.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Gerry Fraser leaned forward on the chair on the opposite side of the desk in the sparsely furnished interview room, elbows on knees, stubbled chin resting on clasped hands. ‘I’ve already telt you everythin’,’ he protested. ‘Twice.’
Charlie rocked back in his seat and swung his legs stiffly up on to the desk. ‘Third time lucky, then.’
‘Oh, gie us a fuckin’ break!’
Opening his notebook, Charlie thumbed through the pages. ‘Ready when you are. Let’s take it from eleven o’clock this morning in The Three Judges.’
‘Goany no’ let me smoke?’ Fraser whined.
Charlie smiled coldly and jabbed an arthritic finger in the direction of the NO SMOKING sign attached to the far wall, high above the head of a young plain-clothes officer who was sitting by the door, flicking through a newspaper. Charlie looked quizzical when they made eye contact, mildly surprised that he didn’t recognise him. ‘I don’t make the rules around here,’ he said, turning his attention back to Fraser, ‘but I sure as hell enforce them.’
Fraser ferreted in his trouser pocket and produced a grubby stick of gum. ‘I suppose there’ll be a law against chewin’ as well?’
‘Be my guest – as long as you’re not thinking of sticking it to the bottom of the chair.’ Tugging his half-moon reading glasses from the breast pocket of his shirt, Charlie slipped them on. ‘Let me make sure I’ve got this right,’ he said, referring to his shorthand notes. ‘You told me you borrowed the Save the Children collection box from The Three Judges this morning because you were struck by a sudden burst of altruism.’
‘“Sudden” – or “burst”?’
‘Piss off!’
‘You reckoned you’d be able to do well collecting from the Christmas shoppers in Argyle Street,’ Charlie continued, ‘but you didn’t mention to the barman that you wanted to borrow the collection box because he was busy.’
Fraser shrugged. ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said, unwrapping the stick of gum and stuffing it into his mouth.
Charlie examined the collection box minutely. ‘Why did you go to the trouble of widening the slot?’ Fraser glared at him sullenly. ‘Expecting some large donations?’ Fraser chomped noisily on his gum. ‘Always the optimist, eh?’ Charlie weighed the box in one hand, then flipped it over and started to prise open the seal with the blunt end of his pencil.
‘You’re no’ supposed to do that,’ Fraser protested, chewing open-mouthed.
‘I just want to see how well you did,’ Charlie said, rattling the box and tipping the contents out onto the desk. He let out a long, low whistle as several bundles of notes came tumbling out. ‘Come over here, son,’ he called out, waving the young officer across. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Freer, sir. Tom Freer.’ Freer was tall, slim and clean-shaven.
‘Don’t think our paths have crossed?’
‘This is my first week. I’ve just transferred up from the Met.’
‘Welcome to the frozen north. Glaswegians have a reputation for donating generously to worthy causes, Freer, as you can see.’ Charlie pointed to the wads of notes. ‘Save the Children are going to be chuffed to buggery with this lot.’ He slid the banknotes across the desk. ‘Count it for us, would you?’
