Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

As Spaniards were involved, it was another year before the arbitrator presented his findings to the Supreme Court, which necessitated a further six months of making some minor adjustments to the costs so that no one would be in any doubt about how seriously the court had taken their responsibilities.

The day after the senior judge announced the court’s findings, El Pais suggested in its leader that the size of the award was a warning to all politicians not to consider making retrospective legislation in the future.

The Valldemossa Council was ordered to pay 121 million euros in compensation to Mr Liam Casey, Mr Pepe Miro and their associates.

At the local council election held six months later, the Green Party lost all three of its seats by overwhelming majorities.

Pepe took over the business in Majorca, while Liam retired to Cork, where he purchased a castle with a hundred acres of land. He tells me he has no intention of seeking planning permission, even for an outhouse.

Observant readers who have followed the timescale during which this story took place might feel that even if the Green Party had failed to overturn Liam and Pepe’s planning permission, they would have gone bankrupt anyway following the sudden downturn in the world’s economy, and without being paid any compensation. But, as I said at the outset, no one would believe this tale unless they were told that an Irishman was involved.

‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ Arnold’s mother always used to tell him.

Despite this piece of sage advice, Arnold took against the man the moment he set eyes on him. The bank had taught him to be cautious when it came to dealing with potential customers. You can have nine successes out of ten and then one failure can ruin your balance sheet, as Arnold had found to his cost soon after he had joined the bank; he was still convinced that was why his promotion had been held up for so long.

Arnold Pennyworthy — he was fed up with being told by all and sundry, That’s an appropriate name for a banker — had been deputy manager of the Vauxhall branch of the bank for the past ten years, but had recently been offered the chance to move to Bury St Edmunds as branch manager. Bury St Edmunds might have been one of the bank’s smaller branches, but Arnold felt that if he could make a fist of it, he still had one more promotion left in him. In any case, he couldn’t wait to get out of London, which seemed to him to have been over-run by foreigners who had changed the whole character of the city.

When Arnold’s wife had left him without giving a reason — at least, that’s what he told his mother — he had moved into Arcadia Mansions, a large block of flats which he liked to refer to as apartments. The rent was extortionate, but at least there was a hall porter. ‘It gives the right impression whenever anyone visits me,’ Arnold told his mother. Not that he had many visitors since his wife had walked out on him. Arcadia Mansions also had the advantage of being within walking distance of the bank, so the extra money he paid out on rent he clawed back on bus and train fares. The only real disadvantage was that the Victoria line ran directly below the building, so the only time you could be guaranteed any peace was between twelve-thirty and five-thirty in the morning.

The first time Arnold caught sight of his new neighbour was when they found themselves sharing a lift down to the ground floor. Arnold waited for him to speak, but he didn’t even say good morning. Arnold wondered if the man even spoke English. He stood back to take a closer look at the most recent arrival. The man was a little shorter than Arnold, around five feet seven inches, solidly built but not overweight, with a square jaw and what Arnold later described to his mother as soulless eyes. His skin was dark, but not black, so Arnold couldn’t be sure where he was from. The unkempt beard reminded him of another of his mother’s homilies: ‘Never trust a man with a beard. He’s probably hiding something.’

Arnold decided to have a word with the porter. Dennis was the fount of all knowledge when it came to what took place in Arcadia Mansions and was certain to know all about the man. When the lift doors opened, Arnold stood back to allow the new resident to get out first. He waited until the man had left the building before strolling across to join Dennis at the reception desk.

‘What do we know about him?’ asked Arnold, nodding at the man as he disappeared into a black cab.

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Dennis. ‘He’s taken a short-term lease and says he won’t be with us for long. But he did warn me that he’d be having visitors from time to time.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Arnold. ‘Any idea where he comes from, or what he does for a living?’

‘Not a clue,’ said Dennis. ‘But he certainly didn’t get that tan holidaying in the South of France.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Arnold, laughing. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Dennis, I’m not prejudiced. I’ve always liked Mr Zebari from the other end of my corridor. Keeps himself to himself, always respectful.’

‘That’s true,’ said Dennis. ‘But then you must remember that Mr Zebari is a radiologist.’ Not that he was altogether sure what a radiologist was.

‘Well, I must get a move on,’ said Arnold. ‘Can’t afford to be late for work. Now that I’m going to be manager, I have to set an example to the junior staff. Keep your ear to the ground, Dennis,’ he added, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Although our masters have decided it’s not politically correct, I have to tell you I don’t like the look of him.’

The porter gave a slight nod as Arnold pushed through the swing doors and headed off in the direction of the bank.

The next time Arnold came across the new resident was a few days later; he was returning from work when he saw him chatting to a young man dressed from head to toe in leather and sitting astride a motorbike. The moment the two of them spotted Arnold, the young man pulled down his visor, revved up and shot away. Arnold hurried into the building, relieved to find Dennis sitting behind the reception desk.

‘Those two look a bit dodgy to me,’ said Arnold.

‘Not half as dodgy as some of the other young men who’ve been visiting him at all hours of the night and day. There are times when I can’t be sure if this is Albert Embankment or the Khyber Pass.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Arnold as the lift door opened and Mr Zebari stepped out.

‘Good evening, Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis with a smile. ‘On night duty again?’

‘Afraid so, Dennis. No rest for the wicked when you work for the NHS,’ he added as he left the building.

‘A real gentleman, that Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis. ‘Sent my wife a bunch of flowers on her birthday.’

It was a couple of weeks later, after arriving home late from work, that Arnold spotted the motorbike again. It was parked up against the railing but there was no sign of its owner. Arnold walked into the building, to find a couple of young men chatting loudly in a tongue he didn’t recognize. They headed towards the lift, so he held back, as he had no desire to join them.

Dennis waited until the lift door had closed before saying, ‘No prizes for guessing who they’re visiting. God knows what they get up to behind closed doors.’

‘I have my suspicions,’ said Arnold, ‘but I’m not going to say anything until I’ve got proof.’

When he got out of the lift at the fourth floor, Arnold could hear raised voices coming from the apartment opposite his. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he slowed down and casually glanced inside.