Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“No. I need to know the details of a flight to Malaga. I know that it’s leaving tonight sometime; I just need to know which airport it’s going from and whether a Mike Marshall is booked on it.”

“You just need restricted flight information? Oh, well, that’s easy,” Nigel says sarcastically.

“Please. I know you can do it. Look, I will do anything if you help me out, I promise.”

“Anything?”

I hesitate. What could Nigel ask me to do? What am I saying? I quickly remind myself that I am doing this to save David.

“Anything.”

“Don’t call me ‘Nigel’ anymore.”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“Everywhere else I’m known as Steve. Steve is my middle name. I tried telling personnel when I joined but they didn’t remember. I want to be called Steve.”

I take a long, deep breath. I can’t believe it! I am so close to laughter, but I know I have to suppress it. It’s just the idea of Nigel knowing how awful his name is and not saying anything for

. . . how long can it be? He’s been at Leary much longer than me—it’s probably near to fifteen years. Poor old Nigel. Sorry, Steve.

“Steve, consider it done. And I’ll make sure everyone else does, too.”

“And you’ll say you found out by accident? You won’t tell them I asked you to?”

“Of course. You know, if you don’t tell anyone about this.”

Honestly, who needs colleagues you can go out to lunch with when I’ve got a pal like Nigel?

Maybe when this is all over I’ll make him a cake with “Steve” written on it. Then again, maybe not . . .

Suddenly Mike’s phone rings. Mum and I look at each other, not sure what to do. I mean, of course we’re sure what to do (not answer it, obviously), it’s just, you know, unexpected. We stare at the phone as it rings and then the answerphone kicks in.

“Please leave a message after the tone.” Short and to the point, I guess.

“Geoff, it’s Rob here from Foxtons. Your buyers are wondering when your keys are going to be delivered. I’ve had confirmation from your solicitors that the money has been transferred to the PP account, so if you could give me a call I’d appreciate it. I’ll try you on your mobile now.”

Keys? Geoff? So that would make this Geoff Proud’s flat. But then why did Mike pretend it was his? Why is Mike’s stuff in it?

And then it hits me. Mike Geoffrey Marshall. The second name he professes to hate. I would bet my bottom dollar that his mother’s maiden name is Proud—it’s the oldest trick in the book. Mike has set up another company under a false name, and transferred all the investment money from Big Base Records to his fake one in Geneva. And now he’s sold “Geoffrey’s” flat, and is planning to bugger off to Spain with all the money. Not if I can help it, he’s not.

“Got them!” My mother holds up a cluster of bank statements triumphantly. There are a number of payments to solicitors, and some withdrawals from a Swiss bank account.

This is all the evidence David needs, surely. My heart is beating so loudly I’m convinced Nigel will be able to hear it down the phone. David will be okay. Everything’s going to be fine. If only we can stop Mike getting to Malaga.

“Nigel, sorry, Steve, are you still there?”

“Yes.” He sounds annoyed. “Mike Marshall, you said?”

“That’s right. Traveling to Malaga tonight.”

There’s a pause. And then I hear Nigel’s breathing get quicker.

“I’m sorry, Georgie, I just can’t get through. Their security measures are too complex. I’m . . .

I’m only a first stager, you might say. I haven’t really got on to the advanced stuff yet. I’m really sorry . . .”

He sounds distraught. I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter, we’ll find out another way, but I can’t think of another way.

“Are you sure? Can’t you send someone an e-mail or something?”

“Georgie, these systems are just out of my league. I’ve tried everything. I just can’t get in. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, no, don’t worry. Look, thanks . . . Steve.”

“Yes, well. Be back at work tomorrow morning.”

I quickly hang up and grab the statements. I’ve got to get this information to David. He’ll know what to do. And even if they can’t catch Mike, at least David will be in the clear. He probably won’t ever talk to me again, but at least I won’t be responsible for ruining his life.

“Mum, help me clear up this stuff so Mike doesn’t suspect anything when he gets back.”

My mother reluctantly tears herself away from Mike’s bank statements and starts to put them in neat piles.

My mobile phone rings. It’s James. He is breathing fast. “There’s someone at the door,” he says.

“There’s someone at the sodding door, and if your description of Mike is anything to go by, it looks like him.”

My heart leaps into my mouth. “He can’t be here!” I whisper. “He’s at the office waiting for the disk.”

“No he bloody isn’t,” says James. “Get out of there quickly!”

The phone goes dead and I look at my mother with alarm. “He’s here. James says he’s outside!”

Mum looks up with alarm. I sneak up to the window to have a peek, and sure enough a cross-looking Mike is reaching for his keys. Only he can’t find them. Of course he can’t, I realize with relief. I have his keys.

He walks away from the door and I think we’re safe. But then he kneels down, and starts digging into a flower bed. He can’t have hidden a spare set of keys there, surely? He has. Oh my God. He’s coming in!

This is not looking good. If Mike comes in, it isn’t going to be easy to explain ourselves. We have broken into his house, and are stealing his papers. Mike will be in his rights to call the police, they will lock us up, and David will go to prison because he never got the information and . . .

Suddenly I hear a terrible crashing noise. Mike hears it, too, and turns away from the house.

“Quick! Hide!” I hiss, and my mother and I dive behind the sofa next to the window. On the floor I see a postcard with a flamenco dancer on the front. I pick it up. The postmark is just two days ago, from London. “Can’t wait to dance the night away in Spain. See you in Malaga!

Vanessa x.”

Malaga? Vanessa? So Mike isn’t going on his own? I rack my brain to think of a Vanessa Mike has mentioned, but I draw a blank.

And then I hear a familiar voice.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I think I may have driven into your car. Terrible shame. Probably going to cost the pair of us a fortune!”

It’s James! Out of the window I see the Mini crumpled into the back of Mike’s BMW, and James is bumbling around pretending to look for his insurance details while Mike stares at the damage, aghast.

My mother looks furious. “He’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of that car for ages,” she says crossly. “It’s a perfectly good run-around.”

“Mum,” I hiss, “he did it to help us out. For God’s sake!”

“Us?” Mike is shouting. “I am not paying for any fucking damage. You stupid fat bastard!”

“How dare he!” exclaims Mum. “James is not fat. He is just carrying a little excess weight, and if that insolent young man thinks he can shout abuse at James, at my husband, well, he’s got another think coming.”

She gets up as if to jump to James’s defense and I have to pull her back.

“He’ll recognize you,” I hiss. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Stuffing the papers under my shirt, we creep out the front door and down the stairs. As James demonstrates to Mike that the damage to his car is not significant by showing how easy it is to dislodge his number plate (“See? These BMWs just don’t have the craftsmanship of other cars.