The Money Stones
Page 28
It was the postman. Harrison took the parcel and the handful of Christmas cards to the kitchen to make tea. He was up now and from bitter experience knew he wouldn't get back to sleep again. Mechanically he loaded cups, milk and a sugar bowl on to a tray, reminded by the pain at the back of his eyes that last night was the fifth in succession he'd reached his bed with a drink too many under his belt. He grumbled about its inevitability. This time of the year, some damn function every night of the week. He looked through the post while waiting for the kettle to boil. The parcel was about the size of a shoe box, but his attention was caught less by its shape than by its postage stamps. Brazilian. He frowned, and tried to remember which army pal had secured the soft advisory posting to South America. But no name came to mind. The kettle boiled, he made the tea, put three spoons of sugar into a cup, added milk and poured tea over it. It rankled, not guessing who'd sent the parcel, so that seconds later speculation gave way to curiosity as he unwrapped the brown paper cover.
It was a shoe box. Sealed on every side with tape, and a letter stuck to the top. He began to stir his tea as he read the letter.
Dear Bob,
I've been meaning to write for a long time. The problem was knowing where to begin. And once, having started, being determined to leave nothing out. To tell exactly the way it happened. Because if anyone's owed an explanation, you are, together with my thanks for persuading the police to raid Hill Street when you did. Unfortunately, or otherwise as things turned out, by the time they forced entry I was already on my way out of the country.
I've read your defence of me in the Press and what can I say? Except thank you. And to tell you what happened. At least now you'll know how and what was done. Or at least as much as I do. And if you ask WHY, let me tell you. I could never prove this story. My witnesses are dead, except for Pamela Johnstone, and she had committed suicide years before - ask Poignton at Durbeville's and he will prove it to you. It took Jean a while to see it but she did in the end. I was a wanted man in London without a chance of clearing my name. So I had to make a start elsewhere. Which takes money. Maybe not ten million but I could hardly keep some and hand the rest back. So I kept it all. Now it's as though we've always been rich. Rich and happy.
Sometimes - late at night, when we're alone - Jean and I still talk about them. Hallsworth and Pepalasis, Drachman and the man I knew as Vince Pickard. But mostly I remember a girl called Sue.
‘Sue laughing, Sue serious, Sue as an angel, Sue as a bitch. Sue whose real name was Pamela Johnstone. I wonder where she is now? I wonder WHO she is now? But most of all I wonder if she meant it, that night at Windsor, when she said: 'I'm sorry, Mike. Sorry now that it was you.' And do you know Bob... I really think she was.
Affectionate best wishes, M.T.
Harrison had ceased to stir his tea long before he finished reading it. For a minute or more he just stared at the letter, remembering the man who had written it. Then he dipped both hands into the shoe box and drew out the bundle of papers. He would let Amy sleep for once. Dammit, it was Christmas! So, after making sure that his cigarettes were to hand, he sipped his tea and began to read The Money Stones.
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