Dick Francis - Crossfire

"How much money?" I asked.

"Depends on how much people invest."

"And where does it go when it leaves Rock Bank?"

"I arrange a transfer into another Gibraltar account, but it doesn't stay long there either," he said. "I don't know where it goes then. I'm pretty sure it ends up in a secret numbered Swiss account."

"How long does it stay in Rock Bank?"

"About a week," he said. "Just long enough to allow for clearance of the transfer and for any problems to get sorted."

So Rock Bank (Gibraltar) Ltd had no assets of its own. No wonder the London-based liquidation firm was attempting to pursue the individual directors.

"And where does it come from?" I asked him.

"The mugs," he said, with a laugh.

"You're the mug," I said. "Look at you. You don't look quite so clever at the moment. And I bet you don't get to keep much of the money."

"I get my cut," he boasted.

"And how long in prison will your cut be worth when this all falls apart, as it surely must? Or when will Warren and Garraway decide you are no longer worth your cut? Then you might end up drowned in a bath, just like Roderick."

"They need me," he boasted again. "I'm the CPA. They need me to square the audit. You're just jealous of a successful business."

"But it's not a business," I said. "You are simply stealing from people."

"They can afford it," he said, sneering.

I wasn't going to argue with him, because there was no point. He probably agreed with the philosophy of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.

"So how do Jackson Warren and Peter Garraway know each other?"

"I don't know," he said. "But they've done so for years. Long before I met them."

"And how long have you known them?" I asked.

"Too long," he said, echoing what he'd said to me at Isabella's kitchen supper.

"And how long is that?" I persisted.

"About four years."

"Was that when the fake-hedge-fund scheme started?"

"Yeah, about then."

"Is that what you were referring to when you had that little spat with Jackson Warren, you know, that night when I first I met you?"

"No," he said. "That was over his and Peter's other little fiddle."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"No way," he said, shaking his head. "I've already said too much as it is."

At least he was right on that count.

"You think the Revenue will investigate their other little fiddle?" I asked him, thinking back to the supper exchange between him and Jackson. What was it he had said then? Something about that there was no telling what else the Revenue might dig up. "And you're worried about that investigation finding out about everything else?"

It was a guess but not a bad one.

"Bloody stupid, if you ask me," he said.

I was asking him.

"Why take the risk?" I said.

"Exactly."

"So their other little fiddle is about tax?"

"Look," he said, changing the subject and completely ignoring my question, "I had a few beers on the flight, and now I desperately need to take a piss."

I thought back to my time in the stable. Should I make him wet himself just as I had been forced to do?

"Come on," he shouted at me. "I'm bloody bursting."

Reluctantly, I took a pair of scissors from my rucksack, leaned down and cut the ties holding Alex's hands behind his back.

"I might run away," he said, sitting up and rubbing his wrists.

"Not like that you won't." I pointed to the plastic ties that still bound his ankles together.

"Come on," he said. "Cut them too."

"No," I said. "You can hop."

Grudgingly, he pulled himself upright and hopped into the bathroom beneath the stairs.

I thought it unlikely that there would be a phone in the bathroom, but nevertheless, I took the precaution of removing the house telephone from its cradle in the kitchen. You can't dial out on one extension if another is off the hook, and his cell was still lying, switched off, on the kitchen counter where I'd left it.

Alex was taking his time, and I was beginning to think he might be trying to escape out of the bathroom window, when I heard the flush. Presently, he reappeared, hobbling out into the hall.

"Cut these bloody things off," he demanded angrily. He had obviously been using the time to try to break the plastic ties around his ankles, but I knew from experience that they were tougher than they looked. Much tougher indeed than his skin, which was chafed and reddening.

"No," I said.

"What the bloody hell more do you want?" he asked angrily.

"My WMD," I said.

"Eh?"

"My weapon of mass destruction," I said. "My nuclear deterrent. I need some hard evidence."

"What sort of evidence?"

"Evidence of conspiracy to defraud my mother of one million U.S. dollars."

"Dream on," he said, smiling.

"Maybe I should just ring up Jackson Warren and ask him about my mother's money, telling him that it was you who suggested I did so."

"You wouldn't do that," he said, looking a little worried.

"Don't tempt me," I said.

"He'd bloody kill me just for talking to you."

Good, I thought. It was much to my advantage that Alex remained more frightened of Jackson Warren than he was of me. That alone would prevent him from telling Jackson anything about this nocturnal encounter. Maybe that in itself was my nuclear deterrence.

"Or perhaps I should call Jackson and ask for the number of the Swiss bank account into which he and Garraway put all the money they steal."

"You'd better bloody not," Alex said. "Or I'll be onto the tax man about your mother."

I strode into the kitchen, and he hobbled in behind me. I walked straight past his flight bag, and I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye as he pushed it farther out of sight beneath the table. I didn't mind one bit that Alex believed I hadn't accessed his computer.

"Sit down," I said sharply, pointing to one of the kitchen chairs.

I don't think he really knew how to react. He didn't move.

"Sit down," I said again, in my best voice-of-command.

He wavered, but after a few seconds, he pulled the chair out from under the table and sat down while I sat on the chair opposite him.

"So whose idea was it to get my mother's horses to lose?" I asked.

"Julie's," he said.

"So she could bet against them on the Internet?"

"No, nothing like that," he said. "She just wanted to give her old man's horses a better chance of winning. He gives her such a hard time when they lose. It was me who bets against the horses on the Internet. Not too much, like, not enough to attract attention. But it's been a nice little earner."

Amateurs, I thought. These people were amateurs.

The doorbell rang, making both of us jump. It was followed by a persistent gentle knocking at the door. I glanced at my watch. It was ten to one in the morning.

"Stay there," I ordered. "And keep quiet. Neither of us wants the police involved in this, do we?"

Alex shook his head, but I thought it most improbable that the police would knock so softly. They were far more likely to break the door down.

I walked through into the dark front room and looked out through the window. Julie Yorke was standing outside the door, rapping her knuckles gently against the glass. I went back into the hall and opened the door.

"What have you done to him?" Julie asked in a breathless voice.

"Nothing," I said.

"Where is he, then?" she demanded.

"In the kitchen," I said, standing aside to let her pass. I glanced out at the dark and silent road and closed the door.

When I went back into the kitchen Julie was standing behind Alex, stroking his fine ginger hair. In other circumstances, it might have been a touching scene.

I could see that she was still wearing a nightdress under her raincoat.

"Couldn't sleep?" I asked sarcastically.