The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (23 page)

   ‘You’re a dirty dog, Gringo Greene.’

   ‘Thank you, Miss Walker, now if you don’t mind,’ and he beckoned her toward the door.

   ‘I’ll be back,’ she mumbled. ‘You know you want to.’

   Cheeky thing.

   A moment later, Melanie came in and sat in the spare chair and took a deep breath.

   ‘Are you messing about with Becky?’

   ‘No, I’m not, not that it’s any business of yours.’

   ‘She’s far too young for you.’

   ‘I know that.’

   ‘She seems awfully full of herself,’ said Mel.

   ‘She’s a young girl discovering she has power over some men, just like you were, not so long ago, if memory serves.’

   ‘I thought it might have been her you were with when I rang the other night.’

   ‘No, it wasn’t, definitely not. Don’t be so ridiculous.’

   ‘If you say so.’

   ‘I do say.’

   ‘She’s a little hussy who will bring you nothing but trouble.’

   There was a short silence and then he said: ‘Can I ask you something, Mel?’

   ‘The answer’s no, Gringo. You know how I’m fixed at the moment.’

   He ignored that.

   ‘You know when we went to the Country Club.’

   ‘Shush!’ she said, glancing round. ‘Keep your voice down!’ and she jumped up and closed the door.

   ‘Sorry,’ Gringo whispered.

   ‘Well what about it?’

   ‘When we were coming out, Richie said
Goodnight Melanie.
’

   ‘What of it?’

   ‘How did he know your name?’

   ‘I don’t know. I don’t even remember him saying that. Maybe you were mistaken.’

   ‘No, I’m not. I heard it as clear as day. Did you know Richie before?’

   ‘Course not.’

   ‘Well he knew you.’

   ‘I think you’re getting mixed up, Gringo. Brian doesn’t know about our little date, that’s the main thing, so let’s keep it that way.’

   Gringo nodded to that.

   ‘You look shit, by the way.’

   ‘Thank you, Mrs Tucker.’

   ‘You’re away tomorrow, I believe?’

   ‘News travels fast.’

   ‘Where are you off to?’

   ‘Business, Mel, just business,’ and then he thought better of it. He’d tell her; she deserved something. ‘Head office, Mel, if you must know, but keep that to yourself.’

   She bobbed her head; happy that he’d felt he could share a confidence. ‘Okay, I’ll see you when you get back, oh and Gringo…’

   ‘What?’

   ‘Lunches are not off limit.’

   He smiled and nodded and tried to make sense of the woman.

Later, he stayed at the office and tied up some loose ends. He hated the idea of going away at relatively short notice, leaving anything undone. He knew there would always be someone only too keen to step in and create mischief.
Look at what he hasn’t done here,
and
Look at this not done, as well.
It was always the same when a senior member of staff was absent, the backstabbers and opportunists would come crawling from the woodwork like insects and rodents in the night.

   He wouldn’t give them the opportunity.

   Back at home he was greeted by a huge pile of mail and the blinking light of his answering machine. Seven winks for seven calls. He grabbed the mail and sorted through it. Rubbish and bills, stuff and nonsense, the whole bloody lot, and a post card from Majorca from his Auntie Helena, his mother’s slightly bonkers sister who’d written:
To my gorgeous nephew,
it said
. Love you, baby face.
Christ knows what the postman would make of that.

   He flicked on the answering machine. The first call was his mother. Dad had taken a bit of a turn, she said, the concern clear in her voice,
I tried to ring you over the weekend but there was no reply, but he’s a lot better now
, the concern now diluted.
Maybe you’d like to call him sometime.
Beep.
Hello Mister Greene, it’s National Double Glazing here, just wondering if there was anything you need for your property, we’ll call back some time.
Beep. Don’t bother! On the next call, no one spoke, just the sound of someone breathing and putting the phone down. Beep.
Hello Gringo
, Maria this time,
I’m just checking that we’re still going out on Wednesday night. Don’t forget, you said you’d make a big fuss of me, you bloody well better had, I’m out with Vicky on Monday night, and I’m assuming you’re still away on Tuesday, so pick me up at
eight
on Wednesday. Don’t forget, and don’t you dare cancel.
Beep. Then another none speaking call, just that thumping noise as the phone went down. Beep.
Hello Gringo, I just thought you might like my phone number. Two four six, nine thousand, it’s an easy number to remember, so why don’t you ring me sometime? You can have my mobile too if you want. Cao baby.
Beep.

   Rebecca Walker was becoming something of a nuisance. He liked to do the chasing, thank you, and where the hell had she found his telephone number, it wasn’t in the phone book.

   He thought of his proposed date with Maria on Wednesday. He remembered the animalistic marks on his body, and wondered if they would still be there by then. Of course they would, maybe a different colour, but still telling tales. What would she say when she saw them? Though did he really care? There was one ray of hope, she preferred to make love with the lights off, he might be able to swing that, but plans such as these were often blown away in a careless moment, and it was a problem that wouldn’t go away.

   He rang his dad who sounded as miserable as ever, and afterwards over a chicken dinner for one he sat and wondered who’d rung him twice and never said a word. They could have been wrong numbers but something told him different, perhaps it was his vanity intruding again,
his
calls simply had to be real calls. Important calls. But from whom? He prepared his clothes for Tuesday, yawned loudly, and took an early night.

Meanwhile on the other side of town Maria and Vicky were getting merry discussing their love lives, and currently, that revolved mainly around Mister Greene. Maria told Vicky of the telephone call he had received when they in bed together.

   ‘The phone rang when he was doing me the other night,’ she said, gulping more wine.

   ‘No! Who was it?’

   ‘I don’t know. Some hussy he knows.’

   ‘What did they talk about?’

   ‘I’m not sure I can remember. I was otherwise occupied.’

   ‘I wouldn’t stand for that,’ said Vicky, mounting her high horse.

   ‘I know Vick, but what can I do?’

   ‘I’d think of something,’ she said, emptying her glass.

   ‘Do you know what the funniest thing was?’

   ‘No. What?’

   ‘He didn’t even slow down, all the while he was talking to her, he didn’t stop the once.’

   ‘He’s a one off, Maria, I’ll give you that.’

   ‘Oh he is Vick, he damn well is. If I didn’t like him so much I’d tell him to piss off.’

   There was considerably more in the same vein, and that was what Vicky wanted to hear, discontentment. She’d encourage that line of thinking all the way,
why don’t you
tell him to piss off
? ever eager to step in and pick up the pieces.

Twenty-Five

The train slunked and clunked into Reading railway station at five past eleven like a bad tempered slug. That was cool, because Dryden’s head office was only a ten minute taxi drive away. The journey had been comfortable and uneventful, Gringo dozing in his first class seat for most of the way.

   The women employed at head office were truly something else, like a bunch of off duty airhostesses, but as Gringo had discovered on his last visit, they were off limits and untouchable, a case of millionaires only need apply. Gringo didn’t stand a chance, though later he tried to fix a date with a slender blonde who it turned out was engaged to a budget airline guy, the bloke that owned the blinking company. An under manager like him from a provincial office… well, it just wasn’t going to happen.

   He was shown upstairs by a black girl in a figure hugging grey suit and told to wait by the
Country Life’s
.  A couple of minutes later she came back and said: ‘Mister Soloman will see you now.’ She pointed toward the boardroom door as if he were an impostor; or an idiot, opened the door for him, almost pushed him inside, and closed the door behind him.

   There were two guys sitting there. Mr M A B Soloman himself, he of the brusque internal memos, and another bloke that Gringo had never seen before. He was one of those skinny, balding, bespectacled guys who infested offices like Dryden’s up and down the country; as if these were the only places men like him could ever find a decent job. They both stood up.

   ‘Ah,’ said the boss guy, glancing at Gringo, ‘Kevin Greene, do come in.’

   Gringo strode forward and shook their hands.

   ‘Have you met Donald?’

   ‘No, I don’t think I have.’

   ‘Ah well, you have now, this is Donald Streeter, he’ll be looking after you while you are here. Take a seat, there, opposite.’

   Gringo sat and stared across the table, not exactly nervous, but meetings like this were bound to set one on edge. Could it be promotion? Could it be the bullet? Fifty-fifty bet. He was about to find out.

   Soloman began speaking again. ‘We have a little problem, Kevin.’

   ‘Oh yes?’

   ‘We think you are just the man to help solve it,’ interjected the skinny guy, determined, so Gringo imagined, not to be left out of the conversation.

   Soloman gave Streeter a slightly nervous look, a guilty look even, and turned back to Gringo.

   ‘The problem concerns the Inland Revenue.’

   What the hell has this got to do with me, was the first riposte that entered Gringo’s mind, but he held back for a second.

   ‘Customs and Excise,’ clarified skin and bones, ‘to be exact.’

   ‘Yes,’ said Soloman, ‘The VAT office to be precise.’

   ‘So?’ said Gringo. ‘Surely that’s an accounts matter.’

   ‘Yes, normally it would be, but as you know, the regional VAT office is located in your parish, so to speak, so we thought it would be better if it were dealt with locally on the ground… through your office.’

   ‘Fair enough,’ said Gringo, ‘Julian Smeaton’s your man.’

   ‘Ah yes,’ skinny was talking again. ‘But unfortunately, Julian is not for this world much longer.’

   ‘What! You mean he’s ill?’

   ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ said Soloman, sharing another patronising look with Streeter. ‘Natural wastage, you understand, but keep that little gem under your hat, old boy.’

   Old boy! Old fucking boy. I am not part of the old boy’s network, Gringo wanted to cry out, but instead he heard himself uttering an acquiescent, ‘I see.’

   ‘Yes, we think you are just the man to handle this one,’ said Streeter.

   ‘And,’ butted in Soloman, ‘it would not go unnoticed. Big plus mark on your record, gold star, that type of thing, and who knows where it might lead?’

   ‘So what exactly is the problem?’

   ‘Wrong figures submitted. £50,000 of VAT money has been reclaimed, incorrectly, from the VAT office. We have the cash, albeit in error, they want it back. Get the pic? The thing is, they have got it into their little heads that this was a premeditated act. Maybe, even a regular occurrence.’

   ‘That would be fraud.’

   ‘Yes, Kevin, it would.’

   ‘With a big penalty.’

   ‘Correct again. As you may know the Customs and Excise is the only law enforcement body, if you care to refer to them as such, that don’t have to prove one guilty. It’s up to the other party to prove one’s innocence.’

   ‘A hard thing to do,’ said Gringo, scratching his parting.

   ‘Yes indeed, very hard, if not impossible.’

   ‘And are we guilty? As you put it.’

   ‘Well, you tell us,’ said Streeter in a hurry.

   ‘I’m sorry?’

   ‘The error,’ said Soloman slowly, ‘emanates from your office, old chap, hence your involvement here today.’

   Silence reigned.

   Gringo’s hand went to his mouth. His brain clicked through the gears. His black matter began formulating data. Soloman and Streeter watched him intently.

   ‘All Nippon Steel,’ surmised Gringo.

   The pair of them smiled and shared another look.

   ‘I knew we had the right man,’ said Soloman.