Ken Follett - Paper Money

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 Mr. 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 na?ive 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, brandyBrandy. 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 painkillers. He would sleep, wake with a headache, eat dinner, take sleeping pills, and go to bed.