CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The day.
Winner was awake early, well before dawn. He could tell that Sally was still asleep, but she was restless, suffering perhaps from the same overactive dreams that had brought him to the surface. He lay in the near darkness, listening to the early morning sounds. A distant rattle of milk bottles, the odd car driving past, some far away sounding music, perhaps from one of the other flats in the block. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Reassuring, ordinary sounds. Yet today was uncertain, with no guarantees.
He slid out of the bed gently, easing himself to a sitting position and transferring his weight to the floor in a smooth movement that left Sally un-disturbed. Softly closing the door behind him, he headed for the bathroom. He stood in the bath under a hot shower, washing away the sleepiness of the night and thinking about what had to be done. That was part of the problem. There wasn't a lot to be done, just one or two things to deal with, but mostly it would be a case of waiting.
Waiting for nightfall.
Waiting for the delivery.
What was the worst that could happen? Not to be caught and arrested by the police. That would be bad, of course, but there would be mitigating circumstances. First time offenders. A foolish attempt at amateur sleuthing by a couple of misguided Council employees. With the evidence in the safety deposit, there wouldn't be much sympathy for Cavendish the victim. No, official discovery would be embarrassing, but explainable. Being caught by Cavendish's men would be worse. Unthinkable, really. Best to take a more positive approach. They could expect trouble afterwards, but unless Cavendish knew for sure that it was them, he'd have some rather more obvious suspects to deal with first. Riggs was his right hand man, but how much reward did he get for his loyalty? So much that he wouldn't like another million for himself?
The bathroom door opened and Sally wandered in.
"I couldn't sleep either," she said. "Leave me some hot water."
Winner turned off the control and reached for his towel. "You didn't have to get up."
"You'd have been prowling round, waiting for me. Why don't you go and listen to the weather forecast? It's nearly seven o'clock."
He finished drying himself and went back into the bedroom. Through the bathroom door could be heard a muffled rendering of 'Singing in the Rain'. He flicked on the bedside radio and slid open the wardrobe door. Today ought to be a comfortable day, just to please himself. Old jeans, well worn in, without being worn out, a white tee-shirt and a denim shirt on top. New socks, straight from the wrapper.
The news was just coming to an end, the regular daily diet of economic gloom and wars small and large. Weather cold, mostly dry with unbroken cloud cover. Possibility of snow showers later in the day. Down around freezing, but feeling colder because of the wind-chill factor. Not surprising for early February, but disappointing after the spring-like weather at the weekend.
"Still confident?" she asked him, as they sat eating toast and marmalade. "We could call it off, even now. Maybe go and watch the horse racing at Petermere instead."
He adjusted a piece of orange peel with his knife, then looked at her. The question wasn't serious, her eyes told him that. "There's no certainty of success," he told her.
"I know that, but we'll be doing it together and it makes a change from local government."
"Are we going to be able to settle back to the Town Hall after all this fun?"
"Maybe, if we want to," she said. "At least we'll be able to afford wild weekends as a contrast. Just at the moment I don't feel so involved, you know, as if I've broken out of a rut."
"The money might not turn up. There's been time for him to change his plans if he thought he'd been overheard on La Mouette."
"He strikes me as being too arrogant and self-confident to believe that anyone could foul up his arrangements. As long as we get there in good time, we should see Riggs arrive with the cash. If he doesn't come, we can still pull out."
Winner poured out another cup of coffee. Not instant, but made from freshly ground beans in honour of the day.
"Do we take weapons?" Sally asked.
Winner spluttered into his cup. "What had you in mind, a machine gun? Perhaps we could pop into Gorston after breakfast and buy one."
"They might be armed."
"Cavendish's crimes have been business swindles. He may be getting more violent as he drifts into megalomania, but I haven't heard of any gun battles in Sharmouth recently."
"But what if they attack us?"
"Our weapons are stealth and surprise. We have to avoid an outright battle."
"Well I'm going to take a carving knife, just for emergencies."
After breakfast they took their time clearing up and Winner walked round to the local newsagent to get a daily paper. They killed off an hour reading and doing the crossword. Even by nine o'clock the day was hardly light. A thick blanket of grey cloud stretched unbroken across the sky. Perhaps it was just as well. The evenings were drawing out fast now as the winter solstice receded into the past. If the skies were clear they would be starting their stakeout in daylight, which wasn't really part of Winner's plans.
"Come on," said Sally, "it's not too early now. I want to get started."
Winner put down the crossword, still puzzling over a single un-solved clue. "OK, we'll take your car."
Winner had decided against the local van hire company, on the basis that if he did anything unusual or out of character it would be sensible to do it where he wasn't known. The chances of running into anyone that he knew in Petermere were always very slim. He was quite particular about the type of vehicle that he wanted. It had to be the sort where the van body extended over the top of the cab, and there were only three possible colours that would do. They must have thought he was a bit strange when he'd asked the colour of the van, but they hadn't asked the reason.
Sally waited round the corner while he went in to sign for it. Winner knew that professional criminals would probably have stolen one for the purpose, but the skills needed for stealing vehicles had never been included in his education.
The trip back from Petermere was long enough for Winner to get used to the controls and the width. He wanted to be smooth and confident because he could imagine the possibility of a successful raid on Cedar Park being ruined by the police stopping him afterwards for apparent drunken driving.
It was just after twelve when they arrived in procession at Sally's house and Winner reversed into the driveway, proud at negotiating a gap in the wall that was only a few inches wider than the van. Sally parked in the road and squeezed past to unlock the garage door.
Apart from the ladders, the decorators' trestle and the scaffolding planks, the rest of the equipment would have gone in the boot of a small saloon car. There were some ropes, some rolled up signs, traffic cones temporarily borrowed from some Gorston roadworks, a few yellow warning lamps from the same source and a bag containing torches and small tools, sticky tape and equipment. Winner's main creative efforts had been channelled into making some stick-on number plates that matched a similar van owned by the Council. Sally had spent two evenings making the signs. She had worked on the dining table, using a ruler and felt tip pens to make passable replicas of the sign on the van pictured in the latest Council Annual Report.
Concealed by the house and the van, they worked unobserved, transferring the equipment from the garage to the hired vehicle. Sally added the shopping bag from her car before pulling down and locking the roller door.
At one o'clock they were in the Red Lion at West Sharmouth. The van was safely parked in a semi-commercial road only a short walk from Winner's flat. Just a hired van with the hire company logos on the sides, blending in to the daily business of the street. Winner's only real fear was that someone might steal it.
The pub was quiet. Too far out from the town to attract the lunch time trade, it survived on evening and weekend sales to keep profitable. They sat in a window seat away from the rest of
the patrons, where they could talk without being overheard. For the sixth time they ran over the details for the evening's work. The aerial photos had been helpful, showing where the walls and outbuildings were, but they still had no idea about the interior layout of the house. They were going to need a lot of luck.
Miles Cavendish was also having lunch, but he was at home at Cedar Park, toying with a light salad. He would have preferred something more substantial, but with another official dinner in the evening it was important to watch the calories. He had just put down his knife and fork and was trying to decide between grapes or satsumas for dessert, when his housekeeper came in, carrying the cordless phone.
"I'm very sorry to disturb your luncheon, sir," she said, "but the caller is very insistent. He says his name's Parker."
"That's all right, I'll speak to him. You can carry on."
The housekeeper left, and Cavendish walked over to an armchair with the telephone.
"Hello, Richard," he said, as he sat down. "What can I do for you?"
"I don't know what to do. They told me I shouldn't talk to anyone, but I've been tossing and turning all night. I felt I must at least warn you."
"Settle down man, you're not making sense. What is it you need to warn me about?"
"Forbes called me in yesterday. Westerman was there as well. They gave me a real grilling, accused me of not declaring interests and colluding with other Councillors."
"I hope you denied it?"
"Yes, of course, but they mentioned your name. Asked me what my relationship was with you. Implied that they knew you were up to something. I didn't tell them anything."
"Did they mention anything specific?"
"They know something about the superstore, but I'm not quite sure what. What can I do?"
"Just keep denying everything. They haven't got a shred of evidence."
"I suppose you're right, but you've been helpful to me. I felt I ought to let you know what's happened."
"Yes, it was very good of you to phone. Just the sort of thing I meant when I asked you to let me know of anything you heard that might affect me. I shall be much better prepared if I'm challenged, thanks to you. Please don't be offended, but I'll have to put the phone down now, I'm in the middle of important business. I'll phone you in a day or two, but we'd better keep apart at the Council tomorrow."
Before Parker had the chance to tell Cavendish that he wouldn't be at the Council meeting, the line had gone dead.
Cavendish sat holding the phone, the anger that had been suppressed while he spoke to Parker now gripping him, demanding action. What had Parker told them? More than he'd admitted, that was for sure. What was behind these investigations? Surely not another Council member? The ones that knew anything all had good reasons to keep quiet. To expose Cavendish would be to expose themselves. It had to come from somewhere inside the Council, though. Outsiders wouldn't complain about failure to declare an interest, unless it was something they knew a lot about. Most outsiders would go straight to the Sharmouth Daily News if they wanted to stir something up.
No, it must be some sort of internal investigation, but he'd paid Winner to get the nosing around stopped. There was really only one possibility. That damn creep must have been too stupid or obstinate to give up when he'd been told to. Well, he'd pay the price now.
Cavendish stabbed out the digits on the phone. Come on, answer it.
"Riggs."
"That interfering accountant's been meddling again. He has to be taught a lesson. I want you to snatch his kid on the way out from school. Vane knows the place."
"That's a bit drastic, what's he done."
"Never mind now, just get on and organise it. Keep him on La Mouette. Vane can keep an eye on him while you deal with the cash."
"This is all getting out of hand. You don't want to get involved in kidnapping."
"Just do it. I'm not going to let anything foul up the superstore land deal."
There was a slight pause. "All right, I'll do what you ask, but nothing more until we talk about it face to face."
"Yes, yes. Get the kid first, then we've got a bargaining card."
The Borough Page 37
