Give The Devil His Due (17 page)

       I concentrated on Tegan's drinks order and looked on the wine rack to see what was available. There were still a couple of bottles left of the delightful Rioja Peach had given me during my first visit on his boat. Where was the corkscrew? My memory failed me. Just as I was going through a second drawer in my quest to locate the little bugger, five words I wasn't expecting to hear emanated from the lounge.

       ‘Will, who is Edward De Villiers?’

       What! I put the wine bottle down and discontinued my search for the corkscrew. I walked over to the kitchen door, looking into the lounge. Tegan was sitting on the sofa with her back to me. She was holding Neil's bundle and reading voraciously. I knew it had to be his, because mine was still in the boot of the car.

       FUCKSTICKS! Neil had obviously heard the question from upstairs and now appeared. He had a manner of ‘Oh shit!’ about him. Tegan, aware of our presence, turned and assessed our expressions in an instant.

       ‘This has got something to do with your pretend tax returns and Neil-the-bogus-tax-inspector, hasn't it?’

       The game was well and truly up. It was no good trying to lie any more. She had the bit between her teeth and was starting to chomp harder.

       ‘Explain it to her, can you Neil? While I try and find the corkscrew.’

       ‘What? Everything?’

       ‘You might as well. If she doesn't hear it now, we'll only get an ear-bending until she does.’ Tegan wasn't letting go of the bundle. She was still looking through it as Neil began to tell her the story. I went back to the kitchen and prepared a platter of cheese, pâté and biscuits.

       After about half an hour Neil said, ‘There you have it, warts an’ all.’

       Tegan was grinning. ‘So I might have a couple of very wealthy men living opposite me in the near future then?’

       I put her straight. ‘Tegan, you are not to discuss this with anyone.’

       ‘I'll have to tell Denise.’

       ‘No you won't.’

       ‘Oh come on Will. Denise won't blab to anyone.’

       ‘No, promise, otherwise you shall disappoint me.’ I was beginning to sound like Michael Corleone. It was patently clear, that no matter how heartfelt my entreaty, she was going to tell Denise.

       Peach would be seriously pissed off if he knew we'd let the cat out of the bag. But once I'd seen her reading the bundle, damage-limitation was the name of the game. It would do more harm not to have told her everything. At least now she was aware of the whole scenario, I wouldn't have to lie about my whereabouts. With the exception of telling Denise, it was my guess she'd keep quiet. As far as Denise was concerned though, we just had to hope for the best.

       After we'd done the platter Tegan remembered that she hadn't sorted Maude's dinner out. ‘If you're both at a loose end, why don't you come over in about half an hour and we'll continue our conversation?’

       ‘Just enough time for you to get on the blower to your mate and spill the beans, eh?’ Tegan looked at me with the expression of someone who'd just been caught out. She was grinning. ‘See you in half an hour then!’ She scurried off.

       ‘Do you think she'll sing like a canary then, Will?’

       ‘Too bloody right. Didn't you see the look on her face?’

       ‘Yeah, now you come to mention it. I don't think the dog's dinner really
was
the reason she had to get home.’

       ‘Why don't you check the email again, just in case there's news from Peach?’ Neil went back upstairs. Suddenly there was a shout.

       ‘Will, it's a goer! He's managed to arrange a meeting with him for tomorrow evening.’ I dashed upstairs to check the computer, just in case Fairburn was winding me up. He wasn't.

       The email read:
Can't phone – in work. All set for tomorrow night 7.45 p.m. We are going to his house! Ring you in the morning with further details. In the meantime, try not to pee your pants ladies. Trev.

       I wondered what the further details were. Probably dress code or suggestions on which aftershave we should wear. At this stage it didn't matter. All that mattered was that we’d get our shot at persuading Steadman to let us chase the crock of gold.

       ‘I know it's a bit premature Neil, but what say you we have a little glass of bubbly over at Tegan's and make a toast to success?’

       ‘A bit premature? You're not fucking joking. Don't you think we might be tempting fate? It could be a bad omen to do that.’

       ‘No, the way I look at it is this. When you buy a lottery ticket, until the draw is made, that jackpot is every bit as much yours as anyone else’s. It's called positive thinking. It's what keeps people going. You need to have a dream.’

       Neil smiled. He wanted to believe in this as much as I did. A short while later, after an impromptu visit to the minimart, we were in Tegan's, raising our glasses. Tegan knocked-up some supper for us. The excitement of the next twenty-four hours' events was really starting to take hold. I was beginning to understand why people committed crime for the adrenalin rush. If we got a
yes
it would be on. The chance of a lifetime was nearly within our grasp.

Chapter 12

Wednesday 6.30a.m. South Wales
 A good night's sleep had eluded me. I'd been experiencing one of those
night-before-a-job-interview
feelings that unfortunately lingered till the early hours. The result – I’d probably managed a couple of hours’ actual sleep, at best.

       Out of bed, washed and dressed by seven, I gave Tegan a kiss and went straight over to my house. Neil was already up; he'd fed the dog and was drinking coffee while scanning his bundle. We chatted about the day ahead. Just after eight the phone rang; it was Peach. He wanted us to be in London by mid-afternoon at the very latest. We’d anticipated this. He told us to make sure we both had a shirt and tie with us, another request that we'd expected.

       We were to meet at the boat for a briefing and something to eat before making our way to Steadman’s place, which was somewhere out near Heathrow airport. Peach told us about an NCP about half a mile away from the barge. It was expensive, but he reckoned the car would be safe there until it was time for us to drive over to Steadman’s. What did he know? He didn't even have a car!

       As soon as he was off the phone I rang Phil. Peach’d already spoken to him a few minutes beforehand. Phil wasn't happy, he didn't want to come. I tried to change his mind. ‘Look Phil, you must come even if you don't go in to Steadman's house. We agreed
All-For-One
, and I think you should be there to give us moral support.’

       Phil disagreed. ‘You haven't seen the state of my face. It’s horrendous. I've even been thinking of going to casualty. I look as though someone's dragged me by the ankles facedown along the street. My chin’s all scabbed over and my lips look even worse. If Mick Jagger had a few clips off Mike Tyson he couldn't come close to having a mouth like mine.’

       ‘I still think you should come Phil.’ After a bit more badgering he gave in. A couple of hours and a blast up the motorway later, Neil and I were standing in Phil's kitchen, examining Phil's mug. We were in full agreement that he hadn’t exaggerated. His face was indeed hideous and that was without the recent additional markings. When married to the injuries he'd sustained during his Irish dancing demo, Phil had managed to turn himself into some sort of ultra-offensive freak-show; which to view, many would have been prepared to pay a handsome admission price.

       We hadn't as yet had Peachy's take on the matter, but Neil and I were united in the opinion that Phil should definitely stay in the car while we went to see Steadman. If time permitted, it might be a good idea to stop off at a newsagent’s along the way, hopefully acquiring a large brown paper bag for Phil to put over his head. Then he wouldn’t scare any old people and children that might walk past the vehicle while we were in the meeting with Steadman.

       For the onward journey from Phil's to London, we decided to take my car. It was less conspicuous than Phil's. Once I'd removed the magnetic-mounted taxi roof-light and signs from the doors, all that remained to indicate its taxi status was a small licensing badge located close to the rear number plate; hardly noticeable at all unless you were actually looking for it.

       We followed Peachy's advice and used the car park he’d suggested. It was almost 3 p.m. when we climbed aboard the boat. Peach had taken a half-day from work. We settled down to sandwiches and tea. He hadn't bothered to get the cookbooks out on this occasion. There were more important things on his mind.

       I'd already agreed with Neil that we weren’t going to mention anything about Tegan finding out what we were up to. Peach would only do his nut, and it would also provide an unwelcome and unnecessary distraction from the task that lay before us.

       Once more we went through it. By the end I felt I could have entered
Mastermind
, with John Steadman being my specialist subject. Neil had everything covered. He wouldn't need any notes for the pitch. Peach had decided that he wouldn’t allow Steadman to retain any written or printed material. It was his time and effort that’d produced this research and he wasn't prepared to run the risk that Steadman might try to go it alone or with another party using his expertly-compiled notes as the basis for any document-hunting expedition.

       Steadman would have to make his decision based on what he was told in the meeting. Peach would let him view the notes but as for his hanging on to them, that was totally out of the question. We all agreed it was the right way to go. Peach was also of the opinion it was best Phil stayed in the car. Phil seemed more than happy with that.

***

Around 6 p.m. it was time to leave. Once we’d walked to the car, fought our way through London's rush-hour traffic, found a suitable parking spot close to Steadman's house, it would probably be close to, if not right on, 7.30 p.m.

       Our guesstimate wasn't far off the mark. We arrived in the road adjacent to Steadman's at 7.12 p.m. precisely. The traffic had been heavy; every corner we’d turned there seemed to be road works. In reality we’d probably only come across three or four sets but the nervous anticipation we were all feeling made the journey seem to take forever.

       Peachy'd already briefed us on Steadman's background. Peter Steadman worked for the local water company. Peach had followed him one morning on his motorbike, found out where his office was then phoned the company and asked which department he was in. Just before transferring the call, the switchboard operator had unwittingly divulged Steadman's position by giving Peach his job title.

       It transpired that Steadman was an engineering works manager. Peach described him as a human-hamster trapped on the wheel of middle-management, running at variable speeds but going nowhere. I knew the feeling. According to Peach we were definitely dealing with Mr Average.

       I parked the car in Beech Road; we’d have to walk a couple of hundred yards or so to number 17 Cedar Drive. Phil, meanwhile, would wait for us in the car. I gave him strict instructions.

       ‘Whatever you do Phil, don't sit in the driver’s seat. It'll only take an over-keen copper on the beat to notice you and shit will happen. You aren't insured to drive this and with the keys in the ignition we'll both get done. Oh yes, before I forget, don't fuck about with my radio settings. I've got it tuned to the stations I like.’ Unfortunately it had become routine that Phil always had to be told things like this – due to the
controlus-freakus/tamperus et omnia
disorder that he’d suffered from for most of his life. He couldn't leave anything alone. Whenever he came to visit me he always had to have the TV remote in his hand.

       He had a question. ‘Does Your Imbecilic Lowness require anything else of me?’

       ‘Yes. While in this vehicle, keep all your bodily fluids inside your body!’

       Phil almost smiled, but observed a measure of restraint. I sensed he was worrying that the scabs on his chin would split open if he tried to make any sudden facial movements.

       The three of us left Phil and walked towards Peter Steadman's house. This place could have been anywhere, a typical late-eighties/early-nineties housing estate lacking character. The ubiquitous tree road-names stood out in sharp contrast to the not so ubiquitous trees they were supposed to be indicative of. Yes, there were a few scrawny-looking saplings dotted here and there, which would (if not interfered with) probably in about a century or two turn into grand specimens. But on the whole, no-one who visited this place could honestly say that they couldn't see the wood for the trees. The land developers had decided to leave it to the residents to plant their own. Yet again the world was run by accountants.

       As we walked up the driveway Peach said, ‘Let me start the talking.’ We were standing by the porch, Peach rang the doorbell. We could hear movement inside, a few seconds later the door was opened by an unassuming, youngish lady.

       Peach greeted her. ‘Good evening, I'm Trevor Kozen. This is Neil Fairburn and Will Rees, we’re here to see Mr Steadman.’

       She smiled. ‘Hi, I'm Louise, Peter's wife. Please come through. Peter said you'd be calling round. He's in the study.’ She sounded very well-to-do. We followed her in.

       The house was immaculate. Inside the hallway she knocked a door very softly.

       ‘Peter you have visitors.’ I don't know what I was expecting but this wasn't it. As we walked into the study, Louise glanced at Peter, she looked at him with concern, his expression in response seemed to allay her fear. ‘I'll leave you to it. If you need anything I'll be in the kitchen.’ She exited the room, closing the door.

       Peter Steadman stood before us. The name Steadman now had a face. Momentarily, for some strange reason, I started to imagine what he might’ve looked like dressed in eighteenth-century clobber, and couldn't help but wonder if he bore a likeness to his murdered ancestor.