Simply set up a few dummy companies, I have many of them already. Joe Blow and I use a company called Vivid Viral Media for this scheme. Then book your influencers on a few fake assignments abroad, advertising the products of other front companies you already own, and, unbeknownst to them, give them a big bag of money to smuggle through customs every time.
Well, almost every time. Sometimes your poor couriers, usually with no idea what they’re carrying, get caught. And that’s the origin of this current brouhaha!
Joe Blow is clearly high up at Maximum Impact, with access to this email address certainly. I don’t give it out willy-nilly!
At first I simply assumed that Joe Blow was Jeff Nolan. He seemed like a good guy who would happily put his clients at risk for an immense payday. However, I fear I was mistaken, because, after two of our couriers had been caught by customs officials, Jeff Nolan himself sent me a very rude email. Accusing me of all sorts. Quite the nerve.
So I decided to move on. As I say, I have plenty of these schemes; as soon as one gives me gip, I move along posthaste.
But, before I did, I sent Jeff Nolan a message in return. And by “message,” I mean I had one of the couriers killed, very publicly. No point pussy-footing around, is there? It was simply a gentle warning to back away, a shot across Jeff Nolan’s bows, and I thought that would be the end of it.
But no. There was a further email from Jeff Nolan. He had taken offense at the murder, for goodness’ sake, and wasn’t backing down. He wished to expose me. You know that sort of nonsense. All ego.
My response was the only reasonable one in the circumstances. To have another courier killed. Inconvenient for me, but one must always respond to threats, mustn’t one? I can’t abide a bully.
But still Nolan wouldn’t back down.
The third murder was a few days ago. South Carolina, I believe. I’m not fully across the details. This time I even told Rob Kenna to leave the money with the body. A million dollars. That was me saying, very simply, to Jeff Nolan, “This isn’t about the blasted money, old thing, this is about the blasted principle, so we must let bygones be bygones and live in harmony.”
Nothing from him since, so perhaps this has done the trick, and I can get on with the rest of my business in peace?
Back to the email from Rob Kenna, though. Amy Wheeler on the run.
Where does Amy Wheeler come in? And why do I want her dead? I did tell you that I always take out insurance, and, on this occasion, Amy Wheeler is my unwitting insurance policy. I will explain more when she’s dead. I don’t want to get too cocky!
I know that Amy Wheeler is far from a fool, you see, and, though I trust Rob Kenna to get the job done, it won’t do any harm to send him a note of encouragement.
Mr. Kenna,
I understand completely; these things happen. While I still have great faith in you, be assured that if Amy Wheeler is not dead within a week, you will be.
Warmest regards,
François Loubet
Hopefully that should focus his mind. Chop-chop, Robert!
27
“Sushi, sir?” The attendant is wearing an all-black uniform.
There had been a driver, wearing a hat, if you can believe that, waiting for Steve back at the cottage. Steve had invited him in for a cup of tea, but the driver, Ken, had refused.
Steve had then taken a call from his old colleague Linda, now at Hampshire Police. Of course she can tip him the wink when they get the blood results back from the Hollands Wood scene. Why did Steve want to know? Oh, no reason, no reason. Linda then asked if Steve fancied a drink, and Steve pretended he had plans. It always makes him feel awkward, that sort of thing, women asking him round to supper, or out for drinks. Feeling sorry for the widower. Steve berated himself for a while for pretending he had plans, before realizing that, for once, he actually did have plans.
He is flying to America to stop somebody from killing Amy.
Steve had then knocked for Margaret, told her the situation—“Just a couple of days, surprise party, don’t forget Trouble needs eye drops”—and packed a bag. Steve couldn’t find any details of how much luggage you could take on a private plane, so had packed just a small rucksack in case. He took a cup of tea out to Ken, because the poor man had been waiting for nearly forty-five minutes. He told Ken he’d need to stop at a cashpoint, as he had no money to pay him, but Ken said it was all already paid for. His printer was out of ink, so over he went to Margaret’s again to use hers, and printed out the documents Amy had sent him. A topless man, smiling on a yacht, and then a mutilated torso, and pages and pages of notes about a woman called Bella Sanchez and a man called Mark Gooch. He would read them on the plane. He packed a toothbrush and a phone charger, a book of word search puzzles, three pairs of underwear, a shirt, just in case they had to go anywhere nice, a packet of chocolate digestives, in case there was nothing to eat on the plane, a Van Halen T-shirt, a Def Leppard T-shirt, and a smart denim jacket with holes at the elbows.
When Steve got into the front of Ken’s car, Ken said that most people sat in the back, but Steve said that sitting in the backs of cars was only for children or prisoners, so he stayed where he was, and they had a good chat all the way to Farnborough. Steve said he wasn’t sure which terminal he was going to, but Ken said not to worry, and when they got to the airport, he drove the car all the way up to the plane steps, where Steve was met by a passport officer with a stamp, and Brad with a glass of champagne. He said his farewells to Ken, and they swapped numbers because Ken plays bass in a Kiss tribute band who sometimes gig at a pub up in Lyndhurst, and he’d wondered if Steve would ever fancy coming along.
Up the steps and on board, Steve looked around for other passengers, but there were none. The pilot, Saskia, asked if he would like to sit in the cockpit for take off, and Steve said that he would like that very much indeed. She even let him press a button. Which was the first good thing to happen today, apart from finally getting his clutch cable fixed.
Eventually, when they’d reached cruising altitude, Steve said to Saskia, “I’ll let you get on,” and, as he left the cockpit, he saw her stretch out and pick up a book. When Steve returns to his seat—a sofa, of all things—Brad offers him sushi on a silver tray.
Steve takes a look. “Do you have anything else?” he asks. “A sausage roll? Some crisps?”
“I think we have some Parmesan croutons?” says Brad. “I’ll ask the chef.”
“Or a Scotch egg?” says Steve. “Whatever you’ve got. I was supposed to be having bolognese tonight, so if there’s any bolognese?”
“Of course,” says Brad. “And can I get you a drink? We have eighteen types of vodka.”
“Do you have beer?” asks Steve.
“We have twelve types of beer,” says Brad.
“Do you have an ale? Something with a bit of oomph?”
“I couldn’t say,” says Brad. “Why don’t I bring out all twelve, and we’ll have a tasting?”
Steve agrees that this sounds like a fine idea. From his window he sees the lights of the English coast. Soon they will be out above open sea. The last time Steve went abroad was a week in Turkey with Debbie on a flight that had neither sushi nor eighteen types of vodka. He ended up with an upset stomach and had to stay in the hotel room. And the only English thing on the TV was an international news channel that repeated everything on a half-hour loop. He learned an awful lot about the disputed elections in Burkina Faso on that trip.
Steve takes out his papers, in an effort to distract himself from going abroad.
Andrew Fairbanks. Killed on a yacht, tied to a rope, and thrown overboard, bobbing along on the Atlantic Ocean until the alarm was raised.
The trip had been booked through a trendy media agency with offices in decidedly untrendy Letchworth Garden City. Steve knows all about that. He hasn’t sent them an email yet; he’s not quite sure what question he wants to ask. He also doesn’t want to alert them to his suspicions.
