Conman (12 page)

Three anxious hours and barely half a bowlful of thai noodles later I was brushing my teeth, Streaky was scoffing his tea, Jane changing Lana in the nursery.

I stared at my frothy face in the mirror. A new face. The face of a criminal.

Jane appeared behind me, Lana in her arms.

“Don’t be long,” Jane said, snaking a hand around my waist and kissing me between the shoulder blades. Her reflection in the soap-spattered mirror smiled sleepily, then left, snapping off the hall light and carrying our daughter to the warm lamp-glow of the bedroom.

Jane and I had been each other’s escape I suppose. Jane had taken me away from my father, his deals and his schemes. Given me a shot at normal, honest life. While I had grounded Jane and shown her happiness without pony-trials and garden parties, let her be who she wanted to be.

Was I about to find myself back with my father?

Would I send Jane scuttling to the bosom of her bloodline?

I spat and sloshed and unravelled some floss, looking at it closely.

Did you get floss in prison? Could you hang yourself with it?

Dad would know.

See, money won is twice as sweet as money earned, young man,
Dad would say. Or,
if hard work never killed anybody, who’s that clogging up the cemetery
? That was another favourite. All these delivered in a chuckle of cheap scotch and peanuts. See, Dad had no time for the working man. The nine-to-fiver. The commuter.
Tch, there they go,
he’d say, every morning. And I mean
every
morning. In his vest, pale ropey arms stretched over the sports pages, roll-up perched in a stolen pub ashtray, slurping sweet builder’s tea from a
World’s Greatest Mum
mug. I’d be munching Frosties, head in a
Superman
comic, he’d be staring out through the net curtains in the sitting
room, out at the suits and briefcases and umbrellas, hurrying to the station.
Tch. There they go. What are they son
?

Mugs Dad,
I always had to say.
S’right,
he’d chuckle back.
Teacups the lot of ’em.

A job. Nine to five. These things were for mugs. A regular income. A car. Holidays. Birthday presents. Shoes.

Ahhh, give over. Those’ll do ’im another year. Anyway, I’m off out. Fellah I have to pop out and see.

Heh-heh, never you mind,
nudge nudge.

Twanging off the light, I fetched a book from my satchel and trudged into the bedroom. Jane was sitting up with her Terry Pratchett, stroking a restless Lana on the arm softly with hushing noises.

“Dad’s pretty pissed off at you stalling his accountant,” Jane said idly. “Says you haven’t called him yet?”

“Stalling? Who’s stalling? I’m not stalling. I’m just … busy. The basement, Earl’s Court. It’s just a bad time. I’ll call him next week.”

“That’s what I told him, but you know what he’s like. Wants to know what you’re trying to hide.”

“Hide?” I clambered in, sliding under the duvet to stop the cold air getting in.

“Ignore him. What’s that you’re reading there?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” I said, flapping the paperback. “Just uh, I thought I’d give it a –”

“Dale Carnegie.
How to
… what is it – ?
How to Win Friends and Influence People
?” Jane laughed.

“I know. Someone bought me a copy.”

“Who?”

“Hmm? No one. Just a –”

I stopped.

I listened.

“Hear that?” I said.

Shoving the book to the bedside, I got up quickly and
scuttled
out of the room, Jane calling behind me. I went to the lounge, to the window. Streaky curled about my ankles. I picked him up and cradled him, pushing the curtains aside and peering out into the orange street.

A siren. Somewhere.

My heart thudded hard, my breath held. I could hear the cat purring, vibrating against my body.

A siren. Approaching?

I waited.

What had Christopher said as we’d closed up?
Confidence
tricksters
don’t carry guns or knives. Nobody but the wealthy get fleeced and all they really lose is their pride. Our investigations into Mr Grayson tell us he’s unscrupulous. A crook and a bully and it was only a matter of time before his double-dealing caught up with him. Just desserts, that’s all this is. The police have more urgent things to investigate than people like us.

People like
you
, I had corrected him.

People like
us
.

I listened. The siren was getting more distant.

I let the cat jump to the floor, shushed the curtain closed and moved over to the mantelpiece where, from fifty years away, behind cracked glass, two young men beamed into the camera lens. Boxy suits, brillantined partings, the pose was awkward. The typewriter shoved under an arm, the paintbrush popped into a top pocket.

The rough household tablecloth around the neck.

The clean cotton underpants.

“What was it?” Jane said.

“Nothing,” I replied, moving back to the bedroom.

“
Nothing
? You’re in such a funny mood tonight. Isn’t he Laney? Hmm? Ooze in a funny mood den? Daddy? Yes he is,” and she jiggled Lana in her arms.

“I thought I heard … s’all right,” and I climbed back into bed, changing the subject as best I could. “I’ll have a go at that
bathroom
tomorrow. There’s still a yellow stain on the lino from that broken perfume bottle. I’ll get some disinfectant after work.”

“
Work
? On a Sunday?” Jane said. She put her book away,
snapping
off her light and snuggling down with the baby.

“Yeahhhh,” I said, overloading it with a tired irritability. “I know. It’s just I’ve got all this Earl’s Court stuff to go through, seeing if I’ve got enough gear that’s dry enough to make the stall worth doing this year. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Is it finally dried out down there?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “And the fumes are twice as bad, so don’t … y’know, don’t bring Lana by for a surprise visit tomorrow or anything,” I added as casually as I could. “It won’t be good for her. I’ll only be a couple of hours, tops.”

“Mnnf,” Jane said, duvet bunched about her shoulders.

“J?”

She turned over, mumbling sleepily.

Ignoring my book, I stroked Lana’s head for a while in the darkness, wishing there was someone to stroke mine.

A couple of hours, tops.

Tomorrow. Sunday. 9am.

Day two.

I thought about this for a moment. I thought about a
Star Trek
fan called Maurice. A waterlogged cellar. A summons due in six days. I thought about a pair of pale, aging underpants. A pale, aging in-law. A wife. A daughter. A father.

A promise.

I rolled softly out of bed, trudged to the bathroom in the dark, knelt down on a yellow lino stain and threw up a glass of wine and half a bowl of thai noodles.

“I’ve got it mate,” Henry’s voice floated out from the back office. “No no, just shot it. Say half hour? … Bonza.”

“Bonza?” I queried. “What’s bonza?”

“Henry’s getting us a Sotheby’s catalogue mocked-up,” Pete explained, peering at my creaky till, face scrunched like a
half-chewed
toffee.

It was a crisp Sunday morning. Numb fingers buzzed around Starbucks paper cups, breath fogged in the damp shop air and the counter wore a pile of fat Sunday papers like loft lagging. The fire-escape was wedged open to to try get rid of the funny smell, traffic honks and the hum of shoppers floating in on the freezing wind. All in all, a Sunday morning for breakfast in bed, full strength radiators, fluffy dressing-gowns and quiet thanks for not being brought up Roman Catholic. But here I was, surrounded by strangers in a damp, dusty shop, shivering under the warmth of a faulty strip-light.

“We’ve got a helpful printer dropping our item into a genuine … ah-ha!” and the till drawer sprang open with an antique
ching
, “… brochure.”

Leaving Pete to master the till-roll, I moved shivering into the back office cum storeroom cum base-of-operations cum, it appeared, photographic studio. Chairs and boxes had been pushed to one side and on a flashy looking tripod a tiny digital camera perched, peering down at the underpants on their velvet
back-board
.

Henry was on his mobile phone, leaning on the work-surface, all sun-washed denim and leather bangles. Christopher paced briskly, brogues squeaking, eyes bright, clapping gloved hands together for warmth. By the chilly fire exit, Julio stood smoking angrily, and by way of no change whatsoever, appeared to have just rolled out of bed. Or more accurately, out of a cardboard box under Westminster
Bridge. He had sleep and saliva crusting about his face, his thick hair bunching up on one side, greasy grey combat trousers and hiking boots.

“Half an hour then,” Henry said and snapped his phone shut.

“Now don’t forget you’re giving the Bloomsbury room a thrice over at ten,” Christopher said. He paused to pluck a tobacco pouch from his tweed jacket pocket and peer
thoughtfully
over a half-played game of
Kerplunk
on an upturned box. “The agent’s the usual teenage barrow-boy – all hair-wax and St George cufflinks – but I’ve had him swear on his Burberry braces this place is what we’re after. Give it your professional opinion. If you think it’s hunky-dory, tell him I’ll sign for the keys this afternoon.”

“And it better be ready for us by Wednesday,” Julio said
pointedly
. “We cannot foul up blow off.”

“Gotcha,” Henry nodded, sliding the tiny memory card from the back of the camera and slipping it into his trousers.

“Oh and while you’re at our printer,” Christopher said, clicking his gloved finger with a squeaky snap. “Be a poppet and get a discreet quote for a ream of Fitzgeralds. We’re running low. Pete?” he called.

“One second …”

“Grab Henry the
Maurer & Fitzgerald
letters. They’re in the purple bag.”

“Sure, I’ll – oh for Chrissakes. Neil! This bloody till?”

We moved back out into the shop where Pete was cursing, poking at the sub-total key, trying to tug his trapped
Watchmen
T-shirt from the drawer. Henry dumped the revolting sports holdall onto the counter, removed a plastic wallet and slid out a sheet of headed paper.

“And make sure the printer’s clear,” Christopher called out as he left. “We need our page dropped in, bound and sitting on this counter when Grayson walks in here tomorrow morning, on pain of … well, death isn’t my style. On pain of a great deal of pain. Tell him that. Now off you pop.”

“You think he’ll definitely be here?” I asked, reaching past Pete and stabbing the sub-total to no avail. “Tomorrow?”

“I have every confidence he is over the Atlantic as we speak,”
Christopher said. “American Airlines Flight 609 from Kansas to Heathrow.”

“And what happens if the catalogue isn’t ready? Any chance Grayson will buy your auction story without it?”

“By which I presume, despite constant references to the contrary Neil, you mean
our
auction story?”

I attempted a swallow, only to find my Adam’s apple had swollen to the size and consistency of a cue ball.

“It is unlikely. A convincing blute is key to this sort of game.” Christopher patted himself down like a suspect, eventually drawing his pipe from his trousers. “Otherwise it’s just a bunch of guys yakking. Never forget the persuasive power of print, Neil. Talk is one thing of course, but to give a mark something solid? Proof, that he can hold, smell, touch. There in black and white – or in our case four-colour offset litho. Works wonders. Just ask
yourself
why Catholics travel thousands of miles to glimpse the Shroud of –”

Christopher stopped at the jangling commotion of Henry
clattering
back through the door, breathlessly. Everyone tensed, eyes wide.

“Just so as you know, there’s someone lookin’ like he’s headed here.” Henry panted. “Late sixties. Brogues, driving gloves. On a mobile phone. Mentioned Neil’s name.”

“Doesn’t sound like Windsor Davies does he?” I winced.

“More like that tiger from
The Jungle Book
…”

“Aww
crap
.”

The place promptly exploded in a frenzy of elbows and cursing. Henry was out of the door and down the street. Christopher
shuffled
Julio and himself out of sight quickly with a
move move!
just as the door jingled with the aroma of tight tweed and cigars.

“Neil? Made that first million yet young man? Jane said I’d find you … oh. Hullo there.”

Pete, trapped behind the counter – smiley cartoon shirt still gripped in the till’s teeth – took a deep breath and looked up. He gave his wide smile.

“Good morning sir,” he said.

“Edward,” I squeezed, mind thudding with panic. “Gosh. Uhmm …”

The shop went quiet, until Edward’s crashing upper-class duffery forced him forward, hand extended.

“And who’s this? Weekend staff is it? Hn? Hn? Weekend staff?”

Fortunately where Edward came from, all black men were good only as manual labour so having my own carrier-bag wallah appealed to his bigoted in-bred idiocy.

Edward pumped Pete’s hand violently. “Edward Spencer. This layabout’s in-law. Well? Saints preserve us Neil, some common courtesy wouldn’t go amiss.”

“S-Sorry. Sorry, this is, uhh –”

“Ted,” Pete said. “Everyone calls me Ted. Friend of Neil’s. I’m giving him a hand with the exhibition.”

“
Ted
,” Edward said, eyebrows bouncing. “Good man, good man. Heaven’s Neil, what’s that frightful stench? Law, it’s no wonder you can’t close a sale.”

“Just some … some plumbing problems,” I said quickly. “Nothing uhm … wh-what brings you … ?”

“I’m meeting some friends at the club for Sunday lunch. Janey mentioned you’d abandoned them. And what’s this she’s telling me about you giving my accountant the runaround? This is my
granddaughter’s
future Neil.”

“I wasn’t giving anyone –”

“Don’t make me regret this, young man,” Edward juddered crossly, chins wobbling over his collar. “Get him over. Get that money
working
for you. It’s in your hands now. Janey’s given me your sort code and whatnot –”

“
Whatnot
?” I blurted, knees a-buckle.

“For the transfer. Close of business tomorrow it’ll be all yours. I’m leaving for the coast for a couple of nights and I want to see a draft portfolio of whatever my man thinks is for the best by the time I’m back in London. It’s not just sitting there to look pretty.”

“Absolutely,” Pete interrupted, causing Edward to turn, his shuddering jowls following behind with a wet clapping sound. “Sorry,” Pete said. “It’s just I have a wise father-in-law myself. Financially shrewd, y’know. Knows a thing or two.”

“That right?” Edward dissembled. “
Shrewwwwd
? Good man, good man.” Pete was warming him like a vintage port. Edward began to pace the store slowly, silk hanky over his nose, dragging
disapproving eyes about the wares with the odd tut or two. I took the opportunity to throw panicked looks at Pete, but he tossed back some reassuring nods.

“I mean look at this.
Six hundred pounds
?” Edward spat, getting dribbles of his upper-class genetic code all over Robert Redford’s glass. “Good God man, no one’s going to wander in off the street and pay that sort of money for something they could get in Tesco.”

“That’s what
I
keep saying sir,” Pete piped up. The
sir
was a beautiful touch. Edward’s chest ballooned out like a bullfrog after a Sunday roast. “We should be focusing more on … well … ” and he let the sentence trail off, reading accurately Edward’s unstoppable desire to finish everyone else’s –

“Exactly!” Edward said. “It’s all tourists around here. You want to have a few souvenirs in the window. Ceramic bits and
doodahhs
. They’re moving them by the handful not a hundred yards from here. You’ve had that bloody eyesore up there since you bought this place.”

“I had an offer on it just last week in fact,” I said. “An offer which will open up a whole new raft of contacts, so –”

“Then what the bally hell is it still doing
up there
? Apart from making the place look untidy?”

“Well I’m considering –”

“Tcha! And while you are, he’s on the interweb getting it for half price from Tesco dot com. What have I told you Neil? Time and time again.”

“Close the –”

“
Close. The. Sale,
” Edward punctuated firmly. He began to button his overcoat, tugging back his shoulders, shifting his portly frame under the cashmere. “For goodness sake man, this is Book One stuff. Tell him, Ted.”

“Book One stuff,” Pete said with a barely concealed smirk.

“Good man. Tell Janey I’ll call her this evening. And
you
?” he said, fixing me with a podgy index finger. “I won’t be able to concentrate on my trip with the thought of little Lana’s future sitting dead in some
easy saver
account,” and he curled his lip. “So best we get this sorted before I go I think. Be in my study this afternoon. We’ll say five o’clock.”

“
This afternoon
?”

“Cab and back with your paperwork. Won’t kill you. I’ll have my Chandler Dufford chap there to take a look. Five o’clock. Bring your bookkeeping. No excuses,” and with that, Edward harrumphed out of the door into the street and away.

After a beat, I exhaled, Christopher and Julio emerging from the office.

“Flattery,” Pete smiled, pre-empting my strike, “is telling the other person precisely what he thinks of himself. Now how the hell does this – a-ha!” The till drawer slid open petulantly.

“
And all of us,
” Christopher said, popping his pipe in his mouth and lighting up. “
Be we workers in a factory, clerks in an office or even a king upon his throne. All of us –
”

“
– like people who admire us,
” I finished. Christopher’s face took a turn lighting up.

“Our bible. Mr Carnegie. You read it.”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Good man, good
man
. We’ll make a grifter of you yet. Now, where shall we hang these pants?”

Come four-thirty that afternoon, true to my promise to Edward, I was in a black cab heading west. Sliding left and right on the rear vinyl seat, listening to the light London rain rattle on the window, the Euston Road rolled along outside, grey and dusty, punctuated once in a while by a bright flash as a crocodile of anoraks slithered by, tourists presumably somewhere snug inside.

Heart thudding and throat fat, I sat forward, tugging the
all-important
paperwork from my inside pocket. I crackled it open on my lap for the fifth time, reading it over again, stomach anxious and squirty.

Nothing had changed.

Of course, nothing had changed.

With a sigh, I sat back, head lolling on the seat, feeling the engine’s vibration bubble the vinyl. I couldn’t relax. I was too jittery, too twitchy. I flipped the paper over and slid a black, Darth Vadar biro from my denim jacket, clicking the helmet at the top in and out, in and out.

I began to scribble, mind furrowing, mumbling a mantra.

“I’ve been trying to call. I’m stuck in traffic …”

£100,000. Minus £39,000 = £61,000.

“I’ve been trying to call. I’m stuck in traffic …”

Minus mortgage payments × 2 …

“I’ve been trying to call. I’m stuck in traffic …”

Minus Rod-o-matic, minus skip-hire … minus replacement plumbing, replacement heating …

I checked the figures again.

If all went according to plan, in three days’ time I’d have enough left over to refit the shop. Enough to take Jane and Lana away for a week.

I sat back, rattling Darth Vadar between my teeth anxiously.

If
all went according to plan.

“I’ve been trying to call. I’m stuck in traffic …”

Relax. It’ll be okay.
Relax
.

Pushing the paper aside, I pulled my paperback from a carrier bag, flipping open the page to where it was folded and tried to focus, to keep my mind distracted. Dale Carnegie was banging on about the Battle of Waterloo.

Napoleon apparently invented his own names and ranks: Marshals of France; Legions of Honour; Chief High Whatnots of Oohja – and handed them out to thousands of troops to bolster their
confidence
. He was criticised of course for giving out these ‘toys’ to war-hardened veterans, but had simply replied ‘
men are ruled by toys.
’

An uneasy thought struck me and I lowered the book.

Inventing cosmetic roles just to beef up self-esteem?

I looked around the cab.

Sending underlings on pointless errands to make them feel involved, make them feel part of the gang?

My mobile began to purr. Edward, no doubt. Calling to check I was on my way. Tossing Dale Carnegie aside, I dug around in my jacket, hauled out the phone and thumbed it open.