JUNK and other short stories Page 9

  “Just think what we could do with a few million pounds,” said Sarah.

  The more they thought about it, the more tempted they were to accept the offer.

  “He doesn’t even say what Bank he works for,” observed Sarah.

  “I can understand that,” replied Dillon. “He doesn’t want us checking up on him. But he does give the name of an investment company. I’ll look them up on the internet.”

  “They exist, all right”, he announced later. “Head Office in Bloomsbury Square, in London, and a branch in China - Hong Kong’s in China now.”

  “Perhaps it’s not a scam, after all.”

  “I wonder?”

  “As a matter of interest”, asked Sarah, “do you remember any relations called Twyman?”

  “Not off-hand,” replied Dillon, thoughtfully. “Although I do vaguely remember someone once mentioning a distant second Uncle or something, who was doing awfully well abroad somewhere.”

  “So perhaps you are entitled to the estate,” said an excited Sarah. “If you are, you could collect all of it, or at least a lot more than half!”

  “Doubt it,” replied Dillon. “Apart from my estranged sister, I’ve got loads of Aunts and Uncles and cousins all over the place, so if I am related to this Mr Twyman, we’d be at the bottom of the list and be lucky to get anything at all.”

  Sarah thought for a minute.

  “If you’re right, and the Gustave man knows about all your other relations, then he’s really been quite clever to offer you what he has.”

  “Very clever, in fact,” agreed Dillon. “Very tempting, too.”

  “What have we to lose?” queried Sarah.

  “We need to think carefully about this,” said a serious Dillon. “If this bloke is up to no good, then we don’t want to help him commit some sort of crime. We’d be accessories, or something, and end up in trouble ourselves.”

  “Only if he was caught, by some means.”

  “Or if we were. How would we explain our sudden wealth?”

  “We could say we won the Euro-lottery or something. Nobody would know.”

  “We need to think carefully about this,” said Dillon again.

  The more they thought, the more tempted they were, not least because they could think of no very good reason for not taking the money. They certainly needed it, and there seemed to be no risk attached to accepting the offer.

  “If we do accept, and if we do get the money, perhaps we should open a separate bank account in a different bank for it to be transferred into. Then our existing account would never be at risk.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Dillon. “If nothing happens, we could always shut the new one, and go on as normal, as if nothing had happened. If we don’t get the money, I mean.”

  “That sounds safe enough,” agreed Sarah.

  “Before we do anything, we should check with the bank security people - just in case. Then, to be doubly sure, we can open another account somewhere else. Perhaps in Guildford or Dorking.”

  “If we do contact the man, will you ring him or send him an e-mail?”

  “Talk to him on the phone, I think, but it might be a good idea if I have a word with Uncle Stanley first, as well as the bank.”

  “I wonder how this man got our address.”

  “Electoral register, probably. He’s obviously quite a clever chap, but I don’t want to give him our e-mail address as well. E-mails can be traced, but there’s no record of phone calls.”

  The phone call between Dillon and Pierre was long and profitable.

  ***

  Pierre Gustave wasted no time. As soon as he was sure that his share of the legacy was in the special account he had opened, he resigned from the bank. Pierre had certified that the Twyman account could be closed as no living relative could be traced and no Last Will and Testament could be found, in Switzerland or in Hong Kong, and had arranged for the money to be passed to the Swiss Treasury. It amounted to just over 13 million Swiss Francs. Pierre had effectively robbed the bank of about £9 million.

  It was some eighteen months after he had left that the auditors began to wonder how the bank had managed to give so much more to the Exchequer than they should have done, but had been unable to discover how the error had occurred.

  He had settled quite well into his new life in the Turks and Caicos Islands. They drove on the left, since it was a British Overseas Territory, but they used US dollars as their currency, and there was no income tax or any other form of direct taxation. As for the weather – well! It was warm all the year round! For the first time in his life, he had enough cash to live the life he had always craved, without getting into debt.

  He had a very smart apartment overlooking the sea, which rolled onto a golden beach below, and a reasonable job in the Grace Bay office of the Scotia Bank in Providenciales, who were delighted to recruit a Swiss banker who came with such an excellent reference. Altogether, his life style was just as he had dreamed, but with no financial worries. The bulk of his money had been deposited in a different bank, the Grace Bay branch of the FirstCaribbean International Bank not far from his own office, rather than arouse suspicion where he worked.

  A playground for the rich, the islands’ economy relied heavily on tourists, who were mostly American. So the bank was always busy, and, more to the point, there were always plenty of new and wealthy people for Pierre to meet and socialise with in the expensive bars and restaurants he frequented. One evening, sitting at a beach-side bar with a quiet cocktail before dinner – Lobster, he rather fancied tonight – he noticed a young couple a few tables away. Most of the wealthy tourists he met were older than that. He took no more notice of them, until they suddenly appeared at his side. They each drew up a chair, and sat at his table, one either side of him.

  “Are you Monsieur Gustave?” asked the man.

  “I am,” responded Pierre with a smile, flattered to have been recognised.

  “Pierre Gustave?” asked the man again.

  “That’s me. But I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?”

  “No. But if you once worked as a junior manager in a large private bank in Geneva, then we have spoken before.”

  Suddenly, Pierre Gustave lost his smile, and frowned. A cold shiver went down his spine, in spite of the heat.

  “Let me introduce my wife, Sarah,” said the man. Pierre stood politely, and shook her hand solemnly. “And I am Dillon,” the man continued. “Dillon Goodwin.”

  Pierre sat down again, ashen faced.

  “How on earth did you trace me here? How did you find me?” he asked quietly.

  “You were not to know this at the time, of course, but I have an Uncle who works at Interpol’s Central National Bureau in London. That’s my uncle over there, leaning against the bar.” Dillon thumbed towards him. “One of the two men with him is from the London sub-bureau of Interpol, based here in Turks and Caicos, and the other is from the Swiss Federal Police in Berne.”

  Gustave slumped into his chair. “What do you want of me?”

  “You owe us something over four million pounds,” said Dillon. “We’ve come to collect.”

  ***

  9 - LOCAL TIME

  Albert Ainsley had been wandering around like a lost soul for a few weeks now.

  Since his wife had died.

  He simply hadn’t been able to come to terms with the fact that he was now on his own. Very much on his own, in fact. They had had no children, and made few friends. His wife had a brother, Stan, who lived in Australia, but they rarely got in touch. She simply couldn’t stand the man, and Albert hadn’t taken to him, either, on the few occasions they had met. Not that it mattered. He had died himself, suddenly, five months or so ago. They had a letter from his solicitor in Perth, telling them.

  And now the man’s sister, Albert’s wife, had gone, too.

  Julie’s funeral had been a
quiet affair. They had been on nodding terms with quite a few people in the village, but had not made any real friends in spite of the fact that they had lived there all their married life. So there weren’t many people in the congregation. The vicar, who Albert was ashamed to realise they hardly knew, was very good, and said some nice things about Julie. And it was a lovely old church. Quiet and peaceful, as churches should be, part of it dating back to Norman times, so it was said. It was small, and quite in keeping with the village. It had a huge Yew tree just inside the wicket gate, and a winding gravel path leading past a few old tombstones to the chancel door.

  But that was three weeks ago.

  Now Albert had resolved to pull himself together, and get on with life, such as it was without Julie. They had decided before she died that their present place was getting too big for them, and had been looking around for something smaller. They wanted to stay in the same village if they could. They had always lived there, and got used to it. They rarely left the place, as a matter of fact. Why should they? It had everything they needed. Shops, a pub, buses to Chelmsford, a nice church, post office, and a bank which opened three days a week. Everything, really.

  So they had been planning on getting a cottage, on the other side of the village. Near the stream it was, but it had never flooded, otherwise they would have looked for something else. Nice place, about the same age as their present house, but with only two bedrooms and a smaller garden, which Albert could manage without too much trouble. Their offer had already been accepted when Julie was taken ill, and Albert had now decided to move anyway. A new place, and a new start, that’s what he needed. And he was sure he could afford it. Although he had only ever worked on Mr. Boutle’s farm, he had a decent pension. Enough, anyway.

  It would be a few weeks yet before the formalities could be completed, which suited him fine, since it gave him time to pack up. He had made a start with black sacks. Clothing and stuff like that - you know. He had decided what furniture to keep, and what to sell, if anyone wanted it.

  He had even made a start clearing out the loft. God, the dust! Things up there he had quite forgotten about – why on earth they kept it all, he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps everyone had an attic like that.

  It was while he was up there that he had come across a pile of old letters from Julie’s brother in Australia, tied up with a bit of string. He was surprised to find them. Given that Julie had no time for brother Stan, he couldn’t understand why she had kept the few letters he had written to her. But there they were. He did wonder for a moment if the stamps might be worth anything, but then decided he couldn’t be bothered to find out. At the top of the pile were the letters from Stan’s solicitor. He’d never read them, but did remember Julie saying something about Stan leaving her some property or other if she wanted to go out there to claim it. She didn’t want to, and had told the solicitor. She wasn’t going out there to claim some old tin shack in the outback, or for the funeral, either, come to that. All that way – not likely! They had passports, of course, in case they ever decided to get the train under the tunnel for a day in France. But they never had. They never bothered with holidays, not since they had gone by coach to Bournemouth for week, when it rained every day.

  Albert decided it might be worth reading the letters, at least those from Stan’s solicitor, so he dropped them through the hatch on to the landing below with everything else. He’d needed a bath after all that dust, then had to get himself something to eat and as always, that seemed to take forever. Never done much cooking, to be honest, and he wasn’t very good at it. But at least he tried now, although he hadn’t at first. Then there was football on the tele, so by the time he got round to it, it was quite late, and he didn’t feel like reading old letters. He put them to one side.

  ***

  It was Sunday before he remembered them again, and started to thumb through them out of curiosity. He didn’t bother reading the letters from Stan. Although he didn’t like the man, he would still have felt guilty about doing that – almost prying, since they weren’t addressed to him. Not that Julie would have minded if she’d been here. But he did read the ones from the solicitor, in Perth. There were only two. The first one announced, with great regret and heartfelt sympathy, that Stan had passed away. He, the solicitor had no record of any other surviving relative, so would Mrs Ainsley be attending the funeral? Funds were available from Stan’s estate to pay for the fares and other expenses involved, and he, the solicitor, would welcome meeting her to go through the terms of Stan’s last will and testament, in which she was the main beneficiary.

  There wasn’t a copy of Julie’s reply. They didn’t have a computer or anything like that, so it would have been hand written, but he knew roughly what she had said, because they had talked about it and agreed not to go. It was too far just for a funeral, and whatever Stan had left them they didn’t need, so the solicitor could give it to charity or something. Words to that effect, anyway. The solicitor had replied and, according to Julie, quite understood.

  Albert thought it looked a long letter, when he took it out of the envelope, just to say that. As he read it, he soon realised that there was much more to it than Julie had said.

  The solicitor, a Mr Herrington, from St. George’s Terrace, Perth, had made all the funeral arrangements as requested, and had attended on her behalf with about a dozen others, who, like Mr Herrington, were also close friends of Stan’s. He said it had been a dignified event. He then went on to talk about Stan’s Will. It seemed that Stan had been involved in mining, and had lived in a rented apartment in Perth while he was there, or at the site of the mine in the Kimberley region up north, where he had a small house. Albert didn’t know that. Stan apparently owned a large holding of shares in a small mining company, of which he was a Director. The mine, which produced diamonds and a small quantity of gold, was near the huge Argyle diamond mine. Albert didn’t know that, either. Stan had bequeathed his whole estate, after taxes and funeral expenses, to Julie, and Mr Herrington was obviously surprised that she had shown no interest in claiming it. He would happily provide her with the fullest possible details if she wanted to change her mind.

  And there was still time, as Mr Herrington pointed out, since her brother had thoughtfully allowed six months during which Julie could make all the necessary travel arrangements and get out there to claim her inheritance. After that, the estate would pass mainly to Mr Herrington himself, who was a long-time friend, but with a share also going to charity. To register her claim, Julie would need to report to Mr Herrington’s office to sign papers and so on, by mid-day local time six months from the day of her brother’s death – i.e. October 20th.

  Albert looked at his watch.

  It was the 16th.

  Sunday.

  What had Julie been thinking about, rejecting all that? Why had she not told him? They could have gone. There had been precious little adventure or excitement in their lives, and little spare cash either to be honest, since he was little more than a farm labourer, but this would have been a golden opportunity to get away from their happy, if monotonous life, and perhaps come back with something to spend on a few luxuries. Too late now though, he thought ruefully.

  Or was it?

  It was just possible, he thought, with Julie’s death, that Stan’s wealth had passed to him. She had after all left him everything she possessed, such as it was. Perhaps he, Albert, now owned shares in a diamond mine and a house in the Kimberley region of Western Australia.

  He looked at his watch again.

  Four days.

  Thursday, he would have to be there.

  He would get up early tomorrow, and see what his solicitor thought. If it had all passed to him, it would be a nice trip, and there really was no reason for him not to go. The dog had died last year, and the garden wouldn’t need watering, not
in October.

  So he could go.

  Cancel the papers and tell the estate agent, that’s all he would have to do.

  ***

  It could never be said that the solicitor in the village was a busy man. It wasn’t that sort of village. So although Albert didn’t have an appointment, he was able to see Mr Smithers almost straight away. He showed him the letters from Perth, and Mr Smithers was able to confirm that the Kimberley mine was now, subject to the necessary papers being signed and so on, Albert’s. If he should be so minded as to visit Australia to claim his newfound inheritance, he, Mr Ainsley, would need to take no end of documentation with him, like proof of identity, death certificates, copies of Julie’s will, probate forms etc, etc, which he, Mr Smithers, would be happy to put together for him, for a small fee of course.

  Mr Ainsley was of a mind to go, he decided.

  There was a sort of travel agent at the back of the Post Office shop, mostly doing package holidays and the odd coach trip to Southend – that sort of travel agent. But Albert knew they had a computer, installed since the trip to Bournemouth, so he walked down the street and across the Square to see if they could do Australia. Apparently, given time, they could.

  “I don’t have much time, that’s the problem,” explained Mr Ainsley. “I have to be in Perth in three days,” he added.

  “Ah,” said the lady with her grey hair in a bun. “Three days, eh?”

  “That’s all,” replied Albert. “That’s Thursday. Can it be done?”

  The woman sucked her teeth, and started typing on her computer.

  “I have a passport,” added Albert helpfully. “If I can find it.”

  “That’s a good start,” replied the travel agent lady.

  “How long will it take?” asked Albert.

  “When can you leave?” asked the woman, by way of a reply.

  “Anytime, really,” replied Albert. “I only have to cancel the papers.” He nodded towards the counter on the other side of the shop.

  “Well, according to this,” she tapped her computer screen, “according to this, it takes about 24 hours, depending on which airline you use.”