Flyaway. Desmond Bagley
Читать онлайн книгу.
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, he saved a lot. He kept his current account steady at about the level of a month’s salary and he had nearly £12,000 on deposit. He cleared the lot out last Tuesday morning as soon as the bank opened.’
‘Well, I’m damned! But wait a minute, Sergeant; it needs seven days’ notice to withdraw deposits.’
Kaye smiled. ‘Not if you’ve been a good, undemanding customer for a dozen or more years and then suddenly put the arm on your bank manager.’ He unsealed the founts of his wisdom. ‘Men walk out on things for a lot of reasons. Some want to get away from a woman and some are running towards one. Some get plain tired of the way they’re living and just cut out without any fuss. If we had to put on a full scale investigation every time it happened we’d have our hands full of nothing else, and the yobbos we’re supposed to be hammering would be laughing fit to bust. It isn’t as though he’s committed an offence, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. What does the Special Branch say?’
‘The cloak-and-dagger boys?’ Kaye’s voice was tinged with contempt ‘They reckon he’s clean—and I reckon they’re right.’
‘I suppose you’ve checked the hospitals.’
‘Those in the area. That’s routine.’
‘He has a sister—does she know?’
‘A half-sister,’ he said. ‘She was here last week. She seemed a level-headed woman—she didn’t create all that much fuss.’
‘I’d be glad of her address.’
He scribbled on a note-pad and tore off the sheet. As I put it into my wallet I said, ‘And you won’t forget the scrapbook?’
‘I’ll put it in the file,’ said Kaye patiently. I could see he didn’t attach much significance to it.
I had a late lunch and then phoned Joyce at the office. ‘I won’t be coming in,’ I said. ‘Is there anything I ought to know?’
‘Mrs Stafford asked me to tell you she won’t be in this evening.’ Joyce’s voice was suspiciously cool and even.
I hoped I kept my irritation from showing. I was becoming pretty damned tired of going home to an empty house. ‘All right; I have a job for you. All the Sunday newspapers for November 2nd. Extract anything that refers to a man called Billson. Try the national press first and, if Luton has a Sunday paper, that as well. If you draw a blank try all the dailies for the previous week. I want it on my desk tomorrow.’
‘That’s a punishment drill.’
‘Get someone to help if you must. And tell Mr Malleson I’ll meet him at four o’clock at the Inter-City Building for the board meeting.’
I don’t know if I liked Brinton or not; he was a hard man to get to know. His social life was minimal and, considered objectively, he was just a money-making machine and a very effective one. He didn’t seem to reason like other men; he would listen to arguments for and against a project, offered by the lawyers and accountants he hired by the regiment, and then he would make a decision. Often the decision would have nothing to do with what he had been told, or perhaps he could see patterns no one else saw. At any rate some of his exploits had been startlingly like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Hindsight would show that what he had done was logically sound, but only he had the foresight and that was what made him rich.
When Charlie Malleson and I put together the outfit that later became Stafford Security Consultants Ltd we ran into the usual trouble which afflicts the small firm trying to become a big firm—a hell of a lot of opportunities going begging for lack of finance. Lord Brinton came to the rescue with a sizeable injection of funds for which he took twenty-five per cent of our shares. In return we took over the security of the Brinton empire.
I was a little worried when the deal was going through because of Brinton’s reputation as a hot-shot operator. I put it to him firmly that this was going to be a legitimate operation and that our business was solely security and not the other side of the coin, industrial espionage. He smiled slightly, said he respected my integrity, and that I was to run the firm as I pleased.
He kept to that, too, and never interfered, although his bright young whiz-kids would sometimes suggest that we cut a few corners. They didn’t come back after I referred them to Brinton.
Industrial espionage is a social disease something akin to VD. Nobody minds admitting to protecting against it, but no one will admit to doing it. I always suspected that Brinton was in it up to his neck as much as any other ruthless financial son-of-a-bitch, and I used the firm’s facilities to do a bit of snooping. I was right; he employed a couple of other firms from time to time to do his ferreting. That was all right with me as long as he didn’t ask me to do it, but sooner or later he was going to try it on one of our other clients and then he was going to be hammered, twenty-five per cent shareholder or not. So far it hadn’t happened.
I arrived a little early for the meeting and found him in his office high above the City. It wasn’t very much bigger than a ballroom and one entire wall was of glass so that he could look over his stamping ground. There wasn’t a desk in sight; he employed other men to sit behind desks.
He heaved himself creakily out of an armchair. ‘Good to see you, Max. Look what I’ve gotten here.’
He had a new toy, an open fire burning merrily in a fireplace big enough to roast an ox. ‘Central heating is all very well,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing like a good blaze to warm old bones like mine. It’s like something else alive in the room—it keeps me company and doesn’t talk back.’
I looked at the fireplace full of soft coal. ‘Aren’t you violating the smokeless zone laws?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s an electrostatic precipitator built into the chimney. No smoke gets out.’
I had to smile. When Brinton did anything he did it in style. It was another example of the way he thought. You want a fire with no smoke? All right, install a multi-thousand pound gadget to get rid of it. And it wouldn’t cost him too much; he owned the factory which made the things and I suppose it would find its way on to the company books under the heading of ‘Research and Development—Testing the Product’.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The working day seems to be over.’
He pressed a button next to the fireplace and a bar unfolded from nowhere. His seamed old face broke into an urchin grin. ‘Don’t you consider the board meeting to be work?’
‘It’s playtime.’
He poured a measured amount of Talisker into a glass, added an equal amount of Malvern water, and brought it over to me. ‘Yes, I’ve never regretted the money I put into your firm.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ I sipped the whisky.
‘Did you make a profit this year?’
I grinned. ‘You’ll have to ask Charlie. He juggles the figures and cooks the books.’ I knew to a penny how much we’d made, but old Brinton seemed to like a bit of jocularity mixed into his business.
He looked over my shoulder. ‘Here he is now. I’ll know very soon if I have something to supplement my old age pension.’
Charlie accepted a drink and we got down to it with Charlie spouting terms like amortization, discounted cash flow, yield and all the jargon you read in the back pages of a newspaper. He doubled as company secretary and accountant, our policy being to keep down overheads, and he owned a slice of the firm which made him properly miserly and disinclined to build any administrative empires which did not add to profits.
It