Give The Devil His Due (15 page)

        Although my job working at the Bailey only lasted six months, when the time came for me to leave I decided the De Villiers–Steadman saga was something I wanted to carry on investigating. Joining the staff of the British Archives put me in a great position to be able to, so three and a half years on, and plenty of research to boot, here we are.’

       ‘Have you told Arthur about your theory?’ Neil asked.

       ‘Sadly, it's too late for me to do that. Arthur died nearly eighteen months ago.’

       Phil took over the questioning. ‘So let's assume the note's out there somewhere. What exactly do you have in mind then Peach?’

       ‘First things first. As I said earlier, we would have to gain Peter Steadman's trust and with it, his agreement in writing. Without that, there would be no point in even considering this whole venture.

       ‘Also, utmost secrecy would have to be the order of the day. If word of the note's existence got out, it would very likely trigger a search-and-destroy mission by the De Villiers clan, not to mention the beneficiaries of the Moncourt Estate who would also have plenty to lose. So when I say utmost secrecy it means we don't discuss this with anyone other than ourselves. Agreed?’

       ‘AGREED!’

Chapter 11

So, with a new and exciting episode ahead of us the discussion continued. Neil had something to say at this point. ‘I'm just playing devil's advocate here, but consider this – if you had the note, you could always blackmail De Villiers. You'd probably end up with a darn sight more than fifty mil!’

       Peach disagreed. ‘No, that's not a road we should go down. It could be highly dangerous. Don't forget the kind of bread we’re talking about. Extorting money out of people who’ve got megabucks is bound to end in violence with
us
on the receiving end, not to mention the possibility of long stretches in jail for all involved. Besides, twelve and half million each is more than adequate, wouldn't you say?’

       ‘That would be twelve and half after tax, would it Peach?’ Phil was a man who knew what he wanted. Come to that he knew what Neil and I wanted too.

       ‘Yes Phil.’ We all nodded, confirming our approval.

       Peach continued. ‘If we do things the way I suggest, our fee can be legit. Don't get me wrong; this is not going to be a walk in the park. We’re going to have to break the law, but the risks will be calculated, and at the end of the day we know we are righting a wrong that has been perpetuated for years and created from murder.’

       ‘You say
break the law
Peach. What, exactly, do you mean?’

       ‘At the very least there's going to be some serious theft involved.’

       Fuck me! We'd come to London as three friends looking for a quiet weekend and a few drinks with an old mate. We'd be going home as the Great Train Robbers! Maybe we'd be spending Saturday buying stockings to wear over our heads.

       We carried on eating. Experiencing an excitement unlike any other I'd known, I looked at Phil; by the expression on his face he was feeling something similar. Neil on the other hand had a sense of trepidation about him. I guessed it was the fact that he'd already been inside. He must’ve been thinking that just as he'd turned the corner in his life, the last thing he needed right now was to become a non-paying guest of Her Majesty, courtesy of the underworld’s newly appointed Super-criminal Mastermind – Trevor Peachy Kozen and his
Caper of the Century
.

       Something crossed my mind. ‘Peach, let's say we get the go-ahead from Peter Steadman. Has it occurred to you that there might be the possibility that he has some clue or idea about the definite location of the note? Maybe he's got some old family stuff in his attic?’

       Peach shook his head. ‘I very much doubt it. Having done a fair amount of homework on Peter Steadman, it’s highly unlikely. Steadman lives in a three-bedroom detached on a new housing estate. He's very Joe Average. We'd be looking for material that's the best part of three hundred years old. In my experience, stockpiling ancient family heirlooms is usually an indulgence of the wealthy, mainly because down the years rich people were the only ones who had big houses and the necessary space to keep such things.

       ‘Think carefully; can anyone of you three, or your parents come to that, produce anything belonging to an ancestor of yours dating back two hundred and fifty years-plus? I’ll bet the answer’s no.’

       He was right. We all had blank faces.

       ‘Doing my job has taught me that normal everyday people rarely have anything going back further than four generations. We can of course ask him, but only after we've got a signed agreement. Reason being … if he thinks we don't know what we're looking for or where to find it he might not sign. Does that make sense to you all?’

       It made perfect sense. I could see Peachy had indeed done his homework.

       ‘OK then, as we all agree, I suggest that I try to arrange a meeting between us and Steadman for one evening this week. As soon as I can sort it out, I'll give you a call. Initially, I'll approach him by phone. I'll be as ambiguous as I can without sounding too cloak-and-dagger. I don't want him doing any digging before we've had a chance to make our pitch. I'll also get a contract drawn up. It may be that when we meet, he agrees there and then, in which case, if we've got the paperwork with us we can get the signature – happy days. If not we'll just have to keep our fingers crossed and hope he reasons in our favour.’

       Peach raised his goblet. We raised ours, clinked glasses and smiled at each other. More deliberation followed. After a while, Peachy cleared the table and went to his cabin. He came back with three thick, and I mean
thick
, identical bundles of papers. He gave one to each of us.

       ‘Here’s some required reading for you all. Enjoy.’

       Peachy could indeed back up his story with meticulously conducted research. He had everything from copies of birth certificates to company reports, old, as in ‘Olde’, newspaper and magazine clippings giving details about Edward De Villiers and James Moncourt. There were articles relating to Charles De Villiers, the current chairman of De Villiers-Moncourt.

       He  also had a substantial amount of paperwork on Peter Steadman and his family. It wouldn't have surprised me if Trev had been posing as a refuse collector going through Steadman's rubbish. If ever made redundant I'm sure he could have started his own private detective agency without any problem at all.

       We sat up reading and talking till the early hours, guided through this paper trail by the archivist. Many of the document copies that were complex and of a legal nature needed explaining, but Peachy was patient with both Neil and me. Phil on the other hand seemed to take it all in his stride. He had very good retention of facts and his mind was always analytical and logical. He was a scientist; he was an anorak! By the time we all crashed out, it had gone 3 a.m. I had reached information-overload and slept like a brick.

***

The next morning was taken up by Peach giving us a guided tour around the archives. We met the Headmistress. She was incredibly attractive for an older woman. She had her hair up and wore glasses, but you could see she had a haughty aloofness about her and there definitely was a bit of sexual chemistry between Peach and this woman. He was a dark horse.

       I wondered about their relationship and whether at his request she was spanking him senseless when the archives shut for the day. I was tempted to ask Peach but decided against it. Our guided tour concluded, we decided to visit a local café for some sustenance.

       Oddly, apart from a brief chat over breakfast, we hadn't talked about our new-found project. There seemed to be an understanding between us not to discuss it in public places. As we ate lunch; Neil said he wanted to cut the weekend short and travel back that evening.

       I tried to change his mind. ‘Why now Neil? We've only just got here. Peach is going to take us out tonight.’ He was indeed. What Peach had in mind was a gig at an Irish pub close by, followed by an all-you-can-eat for ten quid Indian buffet at
The Emperor of Kilburn
.

       ‘I'm worried about takings. If I'm going to lose more time during the week, coming back up here, perhaps it's best I go home now to make up for it.’

       ‘Look, one night isn't going to kill you. Why don't we take the middle ground? We can leave in the morning and be back by lunchtime. Then, if you fancy, do an afternoon and evening shift to make up for the time you've lost.’

       Neil thought about it. ‘Okay then, you've twisted my arm.’

       This was an absolute falsehood. I hadn't twisted his arm or any other protuberance belonging to him for that matter. ‘You know it's the smart move Neil.’

       It did indeed prove to be the smart move. We had a cracking night. The band was one of those outfits that had 'strange' Celtic instruments that nobody knew the name of. And to cap it all, they played more 'fiddly-diddly-dee' music than you could shake a ‘strange’ Celtic instrument at.

       By the time we left
The Thirsty Leprechaun
, we weren't thirsty. I had the Guinness sweats oozing out of virtually every pore, and my ears were ringing with ultra-high frequency. We exited the hostelry and gratefully breathed in some cool night air, as the fiddlers and penny-whistlers inside were still going at it loud and strong.

       Phil, with his personal space now liberated and encompassing a large section of the pavement, decided he would be a clever bastard and show us how an Irish jig is danced. He was doing all this heel-and-toe stuff, continually shouting ‘Michael Flatteley, kiss my arse!’ as he jumped up and down while criss-crossing his ankles at what seemed (through our drunken haze) a ridiculously fast speed.

       A small but appreciative crowd started to gather, mainly consisting of kebab-eaters and other undecided where-to-go-next Saturday night people. The rhythmic clapping of the Phil-istines increased in tempo. Phil, spurred on by his audience’s enthusiasm and trying desperately to keep up with the clapping frenzy, lost concentration for a split second. The ankles clashed, the Gaelic body was now out of balance,
begorrah
! Phil landed on his chin, falling like a sack of shit; his bottom lip split open by his lower teeth being forced upwards to meet the top row.

       In response to Phil’s earlier request, I scanned the crowd, looking for Michael Flatteley, hoping he might be able to come forward and give Phil some sort of mouth-to-arse resuscitation. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

       Phil’s fans had witnessed their idol kiss the blarney stone and were cheering. Phil was looking like one serious casualty. Peachy and Neil were doubled up. I heard someone at the back of the crowd holler, ‘Fuck off back to Ireland and get some dancing lessons!’

       I yelled, ‘He’s from Wales.’

       The Ire-o-Phobe, wanting to demonstrate that he’d travelled widely, and in having done so, knew how a welcome in the hillsides is kept, had a new suggestion, ‘Stick to sheep-shagging mate. It's safer.’

       As the mob, came to the realisation that the main event was over, they began to ebb away. I found a tissue in my pocket and gave it to Phil. Mr Simms, who looked more like an extra off a bad vampire B movie, rather than the king of Irish dancing, ungraciously took it and started to clean himself up.

       A few minutes later, following an explanation to the restaurant doorman as to why Phil was covered in blood, coupled with a not insignificant amount of grovelling, we were seated in
The Emperor of Kilburn
, tucking into our poppadoms discussing Irish jig-dancing technique and enduring Phil's moans about how much pain he was in. The sympathy wasn't forthcoming.

       Fed and watered, it must have been nearly 2 a.m. when we arrived back at the boat. Phil had just stopped whingeing. I'd lost count of how many times the phrases
self-inflicted injury
and
It's your own fault
were used. Peach, being the true gentleman, gave Phil the first aid kit. We all got our heads down.

***

I was awakened by the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. I’d managed six hours sleep though in reality it felt like six minutes. Peach was making toast. We started chatting. It wasn't long before the other two began to stir.

       After we’d all consumed several rounds of toast and at least two mugs of coffee (apart from Phil) each, it was decided that we would make our way to Victoria for the bus back home. We hadn't managed the early bird start that Neil had hoped for, although he didn't seem to care, having been reminded of the old adage ‘beer and curry mean joy and happiness’.

Sunday 5.15 p.m. South Wales
Arriving in the afternoon, after a short detour to retrieve the dog from Ma, Neil – a man on a mission – departed for work. Although I was still feeling tired I was eager to see Tegan.

       I grabbed the lead and other dog-walking accessories, harnessed the newly bathed and pampered beast, walked across the street, and knocked Tegan's door. She answered, phone in hand but beaming from ear to ear.

       ‘Fancy a stroll down the park?’ I asked.

       ‘Yes, come in a minute, I've just got to make a call. Won't be two ticks.’

       I sat in the lounge waiting, while Tegan made her call. Maude, seeing another dog on a lead, sensed she too was going for a walk and started getting worked up. Phone call over, we made our way to the park. Tegan wanted to know about the trip.

       ‘Did you have a nice time with the boys?’

       I was dying to tell her about the note, our quest to find it and make ourselves millionaires as a result, but couldn't bring myself to. ‘OK, the usual beer and curry thing.’ She had an inkling I was keeping something from her.