The Madeiran Double Cross Read online

  He handed out street maps.

  “OK,” he said, pointing to the one he had already pinned up, “the first two cars will be here, and here. Both places are well away from the centre, so there shouldn’t be any danger of them being parked-in. The third car will be here, on Rua Castanheiro. The route it’s to take is marked. Now I don’t want you taking any of these maps with you. Right? You memorize the bloody things, and then you burn them. Now there’s one more car, isn’t there? Which one’s that, Pedro?”

  “Is the one I hire the day before, Frankie. I drive it roun' the route, two, maybe three times.”

  “Good. Now what about the shooters. Harry?”

  This time Harry Smell knew the answer.

  “They’ll all be in the same place, but we’re to pick ‘em up at different times.”

  “And do you know your own times?”

  Everybody nodded.

  Pedro wondered where Frankie was going to get the shotguns from. They couldn’t take them on the plane, so they’d have to buy them in Madeira. There was some hunting on the island, but a foreigner asking to buy a shotgun – four shotguns – would be noticed.

  It didn’t matter.

  Frankie was smart.

  Frankie think of everything.

  “Now the most important thing is … not to get nicked,” Mason said.

  They all laughed.

  “There are two safeguards against that already built into this job,” Mason continued. He produced a cassette tape out of his pocket and slid it into the player on the dressing table. The motor whirred, and then a tinny voice, but still recognizable as Pedro’s, said, “Maos pra arriba – Put up your hands.”

  “Pedro’s Patent Portuguese Course,” Mason said. “There's a copy for each of us. Listen to it, and memorize it. It’s nothing complicated, just things like, ‘Keep them covered’, ‘Pass me the bag’, ‘If he doesn’t hand over the money, blow his bloody brains out’. You won’t have to use any of it, but you’ll have to be able to recognize it when you hear it. Why’s that, Harry?”

  “We want them to think that it’s a Portuguese gang what’s turned the bank over, so the only feller who’ll be talking – giving orders – will be Pedro.”

  The only feller who’ll be talking – giving orders – will be Pedro, the Portuguese repeated in his mind. Him!

  “Now the fail-safe,” Mason continued. “It’s just possible that the police will work out it’s an English gang, and then, of course, they’re going to suspect us three right away. They’ll come straight to our hotels, and start asking questions. Linda. Susan and Mrs. Snell will give us alibis – ‘Where was your husband when the bank was being robbed?’ ‘Why, officer, he was in bed with me, just getting his leg over.’ – but the cops have nasty suspicious minds, so they probably won’t believe it. We’ll be taken down to the local nick, but they’ll never be able to hold us – not without the money. And that’s where Pedro comes in again.”

  The Portuguese felt his chest swell with pride.

  *

  To avoid attracting attention, the members of the gang always arrived at the flat separately – and five minutes apart – and the same procedure was observed when they departed. It had been Linda who had left first the night, then Pedro, than Harry Snell, which meant that it was not until fifteen minutes after the meeting ended that Tony finally hit the street.

  It had been cold and foggy earlier, and conditions had not improved while they’d been inside. Tony pulled up his collar and walked along the street with his head down, which was why he did notice who was waiting for him by his car until he was almost on top of it.

  Linda was leaning back against the bonnet of his motor, her legs further apart than might have been considered strictly necessary for balance and comfort.

  “It’s such awful weather that I thought you might give me a lift home,” she said.

  That made no sense at all, Tony’s brain warned him. If the weather was awful, you got out of it as quickly as possible. What you didn’t do was stand on the freezing street for a quarter of an hour, waiting for someone to give you lift.

  “So are you going to offer me a ride or not?” Linda asked.

  “Yes … of course,” Tony said, somewhat confusedly.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. She seemed clumsy getting in – almost falling over on top of him. Then, as she shuffled around – as if searching for a comfortable position – her leg brushed his, and he felt an electricity that was far from static.

  At the corner of the street, he hesitated. “Which way do I turn?” he asked.

  “That’s up to you,” she said, “but I would have thought that, as a gentleman, the least you could do would be to invite me back to your place for a nightcap.”

  Her hand fell, apparently accidentally, on to his thigh, but she made no effort to remove it. He could feel her long scarlet nails gently digging into his flesh. He cleared his throat, and turned left – homewards.

  *

  Linda looked around the living room of Tony’s flat.

  “Very nice,” she said.

  The tennis ball of indecision had been battering its way back and to across Tony’s skull ever since Linda had first brushed against him.

  — Frank was his boss, and Linda was Frank’s mistress.

  — But he really fancied her.

  — Frank had been good to him, taught him all he knew.

  — Just look at those boobs, straining to escape from her dress.

  — Frank had always played straight with him.

  — True, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

  — But if Frank did find out? There was no telling what he might do then.

  — How could he find out? It was as much in Linda’s interest as his own to keep this quiet.

  Then Linda spoke, and it was like the voice on an umpire, calling for a temporary paused in his mental tennis match.

  “Do I get that drink, then?” she asked.

  “Oh, sorry!” Tony said. “What would you like?”

  “Something long and cool,” Linda replied throatily. “Something that will take you a while to make.”

  Now that Linda had stepped onto the court herself – and there was no doubt from her tone that she had – it was two against one, and he did not see how his conscience (or even his fear) could resist the onslaught much longer.

  He went into the kitchen and filled two highball glasses with crushed ice from the dispenser. When he returned to the living room, Linda had not moved.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He walked over to the drinks cabinet and pulled down the flap. As he reached for the vodka bottle, he saw that his hands were shaking.

  “What are you making us?” asked the voice behind him.

  “Harvey Wallbangers.”

  “Very appropriate!”

  He poured the vodka over the ice, then added Galliano and orange juice. Behind him, he heard the sound of a zip being slowly, seductively, drawn down.

  “Don’t turn around,” Linda ordered. “Look at the picture on the wall.”

  “It’s not a picture,” he said. “It’s a mirror engraved with the Cutty Sark. Do you know what the Cutty Sark was?”

  Linda said nothing.

  “It was a famous tea clipper,” Tony ploughed. “I suppose the mirror’s nothing more than an advert for the whisky of the same name, really.”

  Even as he spoke, he thought how absurd he sounded. He was angry with himself. He must have had dozens – scores – of women up to this flat, and none of them had affected him like this one did.

  “Doesn’t matter what it is,” Linda said, amusement evident in her voice, “just keep looking at it.”

  Obediently, he fixed his gaze on the clipper. Behind him, he could hear a gentle rustle, and knew that it was Linda’s dress sliding to the ground.

  Stern, anchor, sails.

  Mainmast —tall, rigid.

  In the silvering that had survived the etc
her’s art, he could see small areas of pink flesh reflected.

  “Right, you can look now,” Linda said.

  He turned.

  She was not completely naked – she had kept on her stockings and suspender belt.

  He ran his eves hungrily up and down her body; her breasts, with brown protruding nipples, her slim waist, the mound of black pubic hair, the slender legs.

  He realized that he had automatically picked up the drinks and was holding one in each hand. It made him feel helpless and slightly ridiculous. He made a move to put them down again.

  “Stay exactly where you are!” Linda said.

  She walked across the room, stopping when she was directly in front of him, her breasts almost brushing against him. He wanted to touch her, but he still had the bloody glasses in his hands. Linda took one from him.

  “Let’s take these through to the bedroom, shall we?” she suggested.

  *

  “That was great,” Linda said. “You’re really fantastic.”

  They had just made love in Tony's king-sized bed. Before that, they had made extensive use of the thick carpet and the armchair in the corner.

  “Really fantastic,” Linda repeated. “I mean it.”

  A complacent smile played on Tony’s lips. He knew that a lot of what she said was probably just flattery, but even so, he thought he’d been pretty good.

  “You know,” Linda continued, “Frank can be really stupid sometimes.”

  He wished she hadn’t mentioned Frank. Even in the glow of post-coital well-being, it was enough to start guilt, like a chill, seeping through his body.

  And yet he knew with absolute certainty that given the chance, he would betray Frank again … and again, and again. There was no way he could resist this woman.

  She raised herself on to one elbow and looked into his eyes. “I mean, it’s insane to divide the money from the job up among all those people, isn’t it?”

  His mouth was dry, and there was a sudden pounding in his head.

  “Frank always plays straight,” he croaked.

  “Does that mean you have to as well? You’re a big boy now. You’ve just shown that.”

  “We’d never get away with it,” he said – because it was no use pretending that he didn’t understand what she was saying. “Frank would kill us both.”

  “With all that money, we could go a long, long way away. He’d never find us.”

  Names and faces swam before Tony's eyes.

  Jock McGuire, doing ten years in Durham.

  Wally Baxter serving fourteen years on the Moor.

  Steve Hilton, banged up on a twenty at the Isle of Wight maximum security prison.

  They were all about his age, but they’d be like Harry Snell when they came out – old before their time.

  His luck couldn’t last for ever. Even Frank’s luck couldn’t. He was being offered the chance to make the break now, with a woman who was everything he’d ever fantasized about. And he could see exactly how it could be done. Given the nature of The Plan, it would be a doddle.

  “No,” he said. “I can’t do it. Not to Frank.”

  Linda took his ear between her fingers, and nipped it with her nails. It was playful, but it still hurt.

  “You’re making me get nasty,” she said reproachfully, “and I didn’t want to get nasty, not with you. What do you think Frank would do if I told him you’d raped me?”

  “He wouldn’t believe you,” Tony said.

  “Wouldn’t he?” Linda took his ear between her thumb and forefinger. “Not even when I described that sweet little scar at the top of your thigh?”

  *

  It was morning. Outside, it was bitterly cold. Dogs taken for early morning walks seemed to resent the exercise, and even the shivering sparrows appeared to be coughing. The air was not much warmer in the kitchen of the dingy flat, where Nigel was slumped over the table, his head in his hands.

  The door opened, and Linda entered the room.

  “What would you like for breakfast, Nigel sweetheart?” she asked.

  He looked up accusingly at her.

  “You were out most of last night,” he said.

  Linda sat down opposite him, and took his hands in hers.

  “I was with Frank Mason,” she said. “We’ve been having an affair.”

  Nigel lowered his head.

  “I know,” he mumbled.

  “No,” Linda replied, her voice choked. “You don’t understand at all. Don’t ask me why it happened, because I can’t tell you. Maybe it was because I was depressed by all this,” she made an expansive gesture at the four walls which surrounded – almost imprisoned – them, “and when Frank offered me a bit of glamour I was too weak to resist. But we didn’t make love last night, we only talked. He wanted me to run away with him, and I said I wouldn’t, because when it came to it, I realized that it was you, not him, that I loved.”

  Her eyes were full of tears. She walked around the table, sat on Nigel’s knee, and buried her head in his shoulder.

  “Don’t speak,’ she said, between sobs. “Just hold me. Make me feel safe. Make me feel protected.”

  He gripped onto her, and eventually the sobbing subsided and her body ceased to heave.

  She looked up at him, her eyes moist.

  “I do love you, Nigel,” she said. “And I want to be with you forever. Only …”

  “Only?”

  “Only even though it’s all over between Frank and me, I can’t be sure that I won’t get depressed again and be swept off my feet by the first rich man who comes along. That’s the way I am. I’m not a very good person, Nigel, but I do try. Honestly.”

  He clasped her to him again, and rocked her gently. Her hand reached round and stroked his hair. For several minutes, there was no sound but the ticking of the kitchen clock, then Linda said, “Nigel?”

  “Yes,” he answered sadly.

  “If I could think of a way for us to make money – lots of money, so I’d never be tempted again – would you help me?”

  He was not easy to persuade, but she cried again and told him that she loved him, and, in the end, he agreed.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

  “No, I want some time alone – to think about what a bitch I’ve been to you, and to see if there’s some way I can ever make up for it.” She kissed him tenderly on the forehead. “I won’t be long.”

  She did not walk far – only to the phone box around the corner.

  “Tony?” she said, when the man at the other end of the line picked up the receiver. “It’s me. The stupid bastard fell for it! Honestly, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  PART TWO: LINE

  December 1986

  Is it possible to succeed

  without any act of betrayal?

  Jean Renoir: My Life and My Films.

  EIGHT

  The snowflake fluttered down towards the ground. In a second or two, it would be re-united with the brothers and sisters who had gone before it, and would form a small part of the thin white carpet that was already covering the pavement. But it was not to be! When it was only a few feet from its destination – from successfully completing its mission – it was diverted by a faint air current, and ended up crashing, like a kamikaze plane, into the nose of Chief Superintendent Gower.

  Gower brushed it away angrily. Nineteenth of December and already it was bleeding snowing!

  That was what came of playing ‘White Christmas’ on the wireless all the bleeding time.

  Well, it could snow all it sodding-well liked once he’d taken off, but if those bureaucratic bastards at the airport dared to cancel his flight …

  Blood pressure, Ron, he told himself.

  He pushed his trolley into the terminal. Families stood guarding suitcases, long-haired layabouts sat on their rucksacks. The place looked like a World War II re-settlemen
t centre.

  Far too many people could afford package holidays these days, he thought – and half of them were probably paying for it with bent money, too.

  He spotted the right check-in desk at the same time as he noticed that a woman with three small kids and a trolley full of luggage was heading for it too.

  Bugger that!

  He increased his speed, never taking his eyes off his rival for the next place in the queue.

  The woman had less distance to cover, but she was hampered by the slowness of her children. He was just going to make it.

  His arm was jolted as metal clashed against metal. He looked up. The man pushing the offending trolley had short white hair – neatly combed – and wore heavy tortoiseshell glasses. He was not as old as he might sometimes be taken to be, Gower guessed. He was probably one of those old-fashioned accountants or solicitors who thought that adding a few years to their appearance gave them a certain gravitas.

  The woman with the kids had reached the back of the waiting line, and smiled at Gower triumphantly.

  The Superintendent, for his part, looked at the white-haired who had cost him his victory with true loathing.

  “Why don’t you look where you’re bloody going?” Gower demanded.

  “It wasn’t my fault …” the man began, in a confident, plummy voice. Then his mouth flapped wide open, and the eyes behind the heavy glasses darted wildly back and forth. “Yes … sorry. You’re quite right, it was my mistake,’ he continued. “Will you excuse me?”

  He disentangled his trolley from Gower’s, and pushed it hurriedly away.

  More people had joined the queue by now, so the woman was well ahead of him, but at least Gower could find some consolation in the fact that one of her children looked as if he was about to be sick.

  Gower’s mind returned to the white-haired man.

  I know you, you bastard, he thought. I’m sure I do.

  But the last time they had met, he hadn’t been a solicitor or an accountant at all.

  He was a villain – the Chief Superintendent could smell them a mile away.

  But what the hell was his name?