Paper Money (4 page)

news of this kind. He shrugged. It was worth checking out.

He would give it to a reporter later on.

Then he changed his mind. Innumerable stories had been lost forever by

being put aside for a few minutes. Fitzpeterson might leave for the

House, or his Whitehall office. And the informant had said: "Give him a

ring right away."

Cole read the number off his notebook and dialed.

SEVEN A.M. "HAVE YOU EVER watched yourself doing it in the mirror?" she

had asked; and when Tim admitted he had not, she insisted they try it.

They were standing in front of the full-length glass in the bathroom

when the phone rang. The noise made Tim jump, and she said: "Ouch!

Careful."

He wanted to ignore it, but the intrusion of the outside world took away

his desire. He left her, and went into the bedroom. The phone was on a

chair underneath a pile of her clothes. He found it and lifted the

receiver. "Yes?"

"Mr. Fitzpeterson?" It was the voice of a middle aged man with a London

accent. He sounded slightly asthmatic.

"Yes. Who is that?"

"Evening Post, sir. I'm sorry to call you so early.

I have to ask you whether it's true you're getting divorced."

Tim sat down heavily. For a moment he was unable to speak.

"Are you there, sir?" "Who the devil told you that?"

"The informant mentioned a woman called Dizi Disney. Do you know her?"

"I've never heard of her." Tim was regaining his composure. "Don't wake

me up in the morning with idle rumors." He put the phone down.

The girl came into the bedroom. "You look quite white," she said. "Who

was it?"

"What's your name?" he snapped.

"Dizi Disney."

"Jesus Christ." His hands were trembling. He clenched his fists and

stood up. "The papers have got hold of a whisper that I'm getting

divorced!"

"They must hear that sort of thing about famous people all the time."

"They mentioned your name!" He slammed one fist into the palm of his

other hand. "How could they find out so quickly? What am I going to do?"

She turned her back on him and put her panties on.

He stared out of the window. The gray Rolls was still there, but now it

was empty. He wondered where the driver had gone. The stray thought

annoyed him. He tried to assess the situation coolly.

Someone had seen him leave a club with the girl, and phoned the

information to a reporter. The informant had built the incident up for

dramatic effect. But Tim was sure no one had seen them enter the flat

together.

"Listen," he said. "Last night you said you weren't feeling well. I took

you out of the club and got a taxi. The cab dropped me off then took you

home. All right?"

"Whatever you say," she said uninterestedly.

Her attitude infuriated him. "For God's sake, this involves you!"

"I think my part in it is over.

"What does that mean?"

There was a knock at the door.

Tim said: "Oh, Jesus, no."

The girl zipped up her dress. "I'll go."

"Don't be such a damn fool." He grabbed her arm. "You mustn't be seen

here, don't you understand? Stay here in the bedroom. I'll open the

door. If I have to ask them in, just keep quiet until they go."

He put on his underwear shorts and struggled into his dressing gown as

he crossed the living room. There was a tiny hall, and a front door with

a peephole. Tim swung the flap aside and put an eye to the glass.

The man outside looked vaguely familiar. He had the face of a boxer.

Broad-shouldered and well built, he would have been a heavyweight. He

wore a gray coat with a velvet collar. Tim put his age at late twenties.

He did not look like a newspaper reporter.

Tim unbolted the door and opened it. "What is it?" he said.

Without speaking, the man pushed Tim aside, stepped in, and closed the

door behind him. He walked into the living room.

Tim took a deep breath and tried not to panic.

He followed the man. "I'm going to call the police," he said.

The man sat down. He called: "Are you in there, Dizi?"

The girl came to the bedroom door.

The man said: "Make us a cup of tea, girl."

"Do you know him?" Tim asked her incredulously.

She ignored him and went into the kitchen. The man laughed. "Know me?

She works for me."

Tim sat down. "What is this all about?" he said weakly.

"All in good time." The man looked around. "I can't say you've got a

nice place here, because you haven't. I expected you to have something a

bit flash, know what I mean? By the way, in case you haven't recognized

me, I'm Tony Cox." He stuck out his hand. Tim ignored it.

Cox said:

"Please yourself."

Tim was remembering the face and the name were familiar. He thought Cox

was a fairly wealthy businessman, but he could not recall what his

business was. He thought he had seen the man's picture in a

newspaper--something to do with raising money for boys' clubs in the

East End.

Cox jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Did you enjoy her?" "For God's

sake," Tim said.

The girl came in, carrying two mugs on a tray.

Cox asked her: "Did he enjoy it?" "What do you think?" she said sourly.

Cox took out his wallet and counted out some bills. "Here you are," he

said to her. "You done a good job. Now you can fuck off."

She took the money and put it in a handbag.

She said: "You know, Tone, I think the thing I like most about you is

your beautiful manners."

She went out without looking at Tim.

Tim thought: I've made the biggest mistake of my life.

As the girl left, the door slammed.

Cox winked. "She's a good girl."

"She's the lowest form of human life," Tim spat.

"Now, don't be like that. She's just a good actress. She might have got

into films if I hadn't of found her first."

"I presume you're a ponce."

Anger flashed in Cox's eyes, but he controlled it. "You'll regret that

little joke," he said mildly.

"All you need to know about me and Dizi is that she does what I tell her

to. If I say

"Keep your mouth shut," she does. And if I say "Tell the nice man from

the News of the World how M. Fitzpeterson seduced you," she will. Know

what I mean?" Tim said: "I suppose it was you who contacted the Evening

Post."

"Don't worry! Without confirmation, they can't do a thing. And only

three people can confirm the story: you, Dizi, and me. You're not going

to say anything, Dizi's got no will of her own, and I can keep a

secret."

Tim lit a cigarette. He was finding his confidence again. Cox was just a

working-class hoodlum, despite his velvet collar and his gray

Rolls-Royce. Tim had the feeling he could handle the man. He said: "If

this is blackmail, you're on to a loser. I haven't any money."

"Quite warm in here, isn't it?" Cox stood up and took his coat off.

"Well," he resumed, "if you haven't got money, we'll have to think of

something else you can give me."

Tim frowned. He was lost again.

Cox continued: "In the last few months, half a dozen or so companies

have put in bids for drilling rights in a new oil field called Shield,

right?

Tim was astonished. Surely this crook could not be connected with any of

those respectable companies? He said: "Yes, but it's too late for me to

influence the result--the decision has been made It will be announced

this afternoon."

"Don't jump to conclusions. I know it's too late to change it. But you

can tell me who's won the license."

Tim stared. Was that all he wanted? It was too good to be true! He said:

"What possible use could you have for that sort of information?"

"None, really. I'm going to trade it for another piece of information.

I've got a deal going with this gent, see. He doesn't know how I get my

inside dope, and he doesn't know what I do with the stuff he tells me.

That way he keeps his nose clean. Know what I mean? Now, then: who gets

the license?"

It was so easy, Tim thought. Two words, and the nightmare would be over.

A breach of confidence like this could ruin his career: but then, if he

did not do it, his career was finished anyway.

Cox said: "If you're not sure what to do, just think of the headlines.

"The Minister and the Actress. He wouldn't make an honest woman of me,

showgirl weeps." Remember poor old Tony Lambton?"

"Shut up," Tim said. "It's Hamilton Holdings." Cox smiled. "My friend

will be pleased," he said. "Where's the phone?"

Tim jerked a thumb. "Bedroom," he said wearily.

Cox went into the room, and Tim closed his eyes. How naive he had been,

to think that a young girl like Dizi could fall head over heels in love

with someone like him. He was a patsy in some elaborate scheme which was

much bigger than petty blackmail.

He could hear Cox speaking. "Laski? It's me.

Hamilton Holdings. You got that? Announcement this afternoon. Now, what

about your end?"; There was a pause. "Today? Terrific. You've made my

day, pal. And the route?" Another pause. "What do you mean, you think

it's the usual? You're supposed okay, okay.. So long."

Tim knew of Laski--he was an aging City whiz kid--but he was emotionally

too exhausted to feel appropriately astonished. He could believe

anything of anyone now.

Cox came back in. Tim stood up. Cox said:

"Well, a successful little morning, one way and another. And don't feel

too bad about it. After all, it was the best night's nooky you'll ever

have."

"Are you going to leave now, please?" Tim said.

"Well, there is one more little matter to discuss.

Give us your dressing gown."

"Why?"

"I'll show you. Come on."

Tim was too battered to argue. He slipped the robe off his shoulders and

handed it over. He stood in his shorts, waiting.

Cox threw the garment to one side. "I want you to remember that word

'ponce," he said. Then he punched Tim in the stomach.

Tim turned away and doubled over in agony.

Cox reached out, grabbed his genitals in one huge hand, and squeezed.

Tim tried to scream, but he had no breath. His mouth gaped in a

soundless howl as he tried desperately to suck air.

Cox let go and kicked him. Tim toppled to the floor. He curled up there,

and his eyes flooded with tears. He had no pride, no dignity left. He

said: "Please don't hurt me anymore." Tony Cox smiled and put his coat

on. "Not just yet," he said. Then he went away.

THE HON. DEREK HAMILTON woke up with a pain.

He lay in bed with his eyes shut while he traced the discomfort to his

abdomen, examined it, and graded it bad but not incapacitating. Then he

recalled last night's dinner. Asparagus mousse was harmless; he had

refused seafood pancakes; his steak had been well done; he had taken

cheese in preference to apple tart. A light white wine, coffee with

cream, brandy.

Brandy. Damn, he should stick to port.

He knew how the day would go. He would do without breakfast, and by

midmorning the hunger would be as bad as the ulcer pain, so he would eat

something. By lunchtime the hunger would be back and the ulcer would be

worse.

During the afternoon some trivial thing would irritate him beyond all

reason, he would yell at his staff, and his stomach would ball into a

knot of pain which made him incapable of thinking at all.

He would go home and take too many pain-killers.

He would sleep, wake with a headache, eat dinner, take sleeping pills,

and go to bed.

At least he could look forward to bedtime.

He rolled over, yanked open the drawer of the bedside table, found a

tablet, and put it in his mouth. Then he sat up and picked up his cup of

tea. He sipped, swallowed, and said: "Good morning, dear."

"Morning." Ellen Hamilton sat on the edge of the twin bed, wearing a

silk robe, perching her cup on one slender knee. She had brushed her

hair already. Her nightwear was as elegant as the rest of her large