The Chisellers (21 page)

Mr Jacobson became indignant. ‘How dare you, Mr Wise. I assure you this will is perfectly legal and was drawn up with the greatest of integrity by myself and witnessed by my secretary, Thelma, isn’t that so?’ He turned to Thelma who nodded her assent, at the same time giving Mr Wise the evil eye.

Manny stood up. ‘My father cannot leave something to someone that he does not own,’ Manny said these words very carefully.

Jacobson was now confused. ‘Can you be more specific, Mr Wise? What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that in London I have a document dated prior to this will in which my father signed everything over to me, for love and natural affection.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Believe it, Mr Jacobson, believe it!’

‘I refuse to believe it. Mr Wise made me well aware of his relationship with you. He would hold no truck with your involvement in his business affairs.’

‘I have the document, Mr Jacobson.’ Manny now virtually sneered.

David Jacobson sat quietly for a couple of moments gathering himself. The outburst was uncommon for him and he now returned to his calm, cool solicitor mode.

‘All right, Mr Wise, I will give you until Friday at three o’clock to produce the said document here in this office. If we can verify your father’s signature on such a document then I will suggest a number of law firms you should go to to contest this will. However if by three o‘clock on Friday this supposed document is not produced, then I shall execute the will post haste.’

Manny Wise began to laugh again and made his way to the door.

Jacobson called after him. ‘Are you clear on that, Mr Wise?’

Manny placed his trilby hat on his head and as he opened the conference room door looked back over his shoulder. ‘See you Friday, Mr Jacobson.’

Mark stared at the closed door for some moments, then turning to Mr Jacobson he asked, ‘So, what do we do now?’

Jacobson gathered his documents and began to return them to the file. ‘I knew Benjamin Wise for many many years. There is no possibility whatsoever that he willingly would have signed a document giving anything, let alone his entire estate, to his son Manny.’ He paused for a moment, then continued. ‘However, that does not rule out the possibility that Manny
has
some kind of document that can contest this will.’

The solicitor’s face softened and he smiled at Mark. ‘Listen, son, we’ll know by three next Friday. In the meantime all we can do is wait.’

Chapter 18

LONDON

THE AER LINGUS FLIGHT EI 111 had touched down in Heathrow airport at exactly 1.05pm. Precisely on time. Throughout the flight and the one and a quarter hour journey by taxi from Heathrow to his apartment on the Edgeware Road, Manny had been very relaxed and confident. When he arrived into the hallway outside his apartment, young Joe Fitzgerald was standing waiting for him.

‘What are you doin’ here?’ Manny asked.

‘Waitin’ for you.’

‘How did you know I’d be home?’

‘I didn’t, I just knew you’d come home some time!‘ Joe Fitzgerald spoke softly.

Manny inserted his key into the lock and turned it, the door opened and Joe followed Manny in.

‘So, how long are you there, waiting?’ Manny asked the junkie as he removed his coat.

‘Since last night - I slept sittin’ outside the door.’

‘Outside my door - all night! You fuckin’ asshole,’ Manny laughed.

‘I need a favour, Manny.’

‘Do you now, Joe? And what kind of favour would that be, Joe?’

There was a growing sense inside Manny that the tide was turning against him and he felt agitated. He certainly wasn’t in any humour for the Joe Fitzgeralds of this world.

‘I need a fix, Manny - bad,’ Joe pleaded.

‘That’s no problem, Joe. Give me the few bob you owe me and the price of the fix and Bob’s your uncle!’ Manny spoke very flat and matter-of-factly.

‘I don’t have any money,’ the young man mumbled.

‘What
^?
Speak up, Joe! What was that? You don’t have any money?’ Manny’s tone was mocking, and the young man just shook his head. ‘Well, there’s a Russian phrase for that, Joe. Toughski shitski. Now, fuck off, I’m busy.’ Manny turned his back on the young man to pour himself a drink.

‘Give me a fix, Manny!’
Joe Fitzgerald screamed as he lunged at Manny Wise.

His decimated form used as much impact as it could on Manny’s slumped back. Manny toppled forward, his head going through the glass door of the drinks cabinet, sending bottles of booze and broken glass flying in all directions. But Joe Fitzgerald was undernourished, weak, and disorientated for the want of a heroin fix. He was no match for Manny Wise although the ferocity of his attack had initially caught Manny by surprise. The clash lasted just seconds. After regaining his footing, Manny landed his very first blow, a punch flat to the nose, pushing Joe’s cartilage back into his face. The young man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Even though Joe Fitzgerald was unconscious from the very first blow, Manny continued to kick him for a further thirty seconds or so. Manny was now crazed and his breath was coming in grunts. He walked away from Joe’s body and stumbled over a footstool. As he got up from the floor he took with him a bottle of Scotch that had been lying on its side close to his hand. Then he slumped into an armchair and uncorked the bottle.

It was at this precise moment that Derek (Wilco) Wilson, Sergeant Major (retired), rang the police from his apartment below Manny Wise’s. In his early eighties and even though still a little scared from his last confrontation with his upstairs neighbour, Sergeant Major Wilson had had enough.

Manny sat pale and shaking, and he gulped hungrily from the bottle. The warm golden liquid burned his throat. He rose from the armchair. Carrying the Scotch he went to the bathroom, and checked the damage in the mirror. There was a three-inch-long gash from his hairline down to the middle of his forehead. It need a stitch. He put the Scotch bottle down on the toilet cistern, deciding to wash the streaks of blood that covered his face. But suddenly changing his mind he decided he would shower later.

He re-armed himself with the bottle and headed for the study. What he really needed now was a snort of cocaine. He wheeled his office chair away from the front of the safe and quickly opened the combination lock. Stretching over the money, he removed the tray at the back. On the top of the tray was a foil-wrapped one-kilo package of cocaine. He picked up the package in his left hand and held it up to his nose, taking a sniff. It was then he thought about the document that had brought him back from Dublin so quickly.

With the cocaine still in his left hand he began to remove the papers in the tray, one by one. Stocks, bonds, a few letters of credit, and then - nothing! The yellowed envelope marked ‘Dublin Papers’ was not there. He quickly bent to the safe and again with his free right arm began to feel around the back, behind the money. He felt nothing. In a panic he pulled the money from the safe, a couple of bundles burst and the crisp notes scattered across the room like butterflies. Slowly Manny Wise stood erect. He clenched his fingers and raising his arms over his head he slammed his fists into the middle of his desk screaming, ’NO!!!‘

Two things happened simultaneously. First, Manny had forgotten that in his left hand he held a foil pack of cocaine, and as his fists hit the desk the bag burst and a huge white gush of cocaine shot towards the ceiling, spreading out like a nuclear cloud. The second thing was a loud bang as the size thirteen black leather shoe of Detective Constable Pete Wilkinson sent the door of Manny’s apartment flying wide open. This kick had been delivered with great gusto, for Detective Wilkinson had been waiting over two years to kick down this particular door. The look of surprise on Manny’s face as the police poured into his study was matched only by the look of surprise on the officers’ faces at the sight that lay before them. Manny Wise had over sixty thousand pounds spread in a circle about his feet. In his left hand he held the remains of what was once a kilo of cocaine. The front of his body and face were completely covered in white dust, except for one three-inch red stripe which ran from his hairline to the centre of his forehead.

In a low voice, Manny said, ‘I’ve been robbed.’

It was Friday. It was five minutes to three o‘clock. Mark Browne sat at his desk in the small office of Senga Soft Furnishings. He was doodling on a workpad. He stopped doodling and rested his head in his left hand and began tapping the pencil on the desk. He stared at the telephone.

In the Tinsely Wire Co. the barbedwire machine ground slowly to a halt. Dermot Browne went to the canteen where he washed his hands and poured himself a glass of milk. He sat down and looked at the canteen clock. The second hand swept slowly around the face. Dermot began to drum his fingers.

Dino Doyle checked the timer on his client’s hair-dryer. He reset it by another two minutes. He looked up at the clock. It was three minutes to three. He tossed his comb and scissors into the steriliser unit and made his way to the small room at the back of Wash & Blow hairstylist’s. Rory Browne was sitting there at a table with a mug of coffee in front of him, nervously smoking a cigarette.

‘Three minutes,’ Dino anounced.

‘Yeh - three minutes,’ Rory replied.

Dino went over to him and gently squeezed his hand. Rory smiled his appreciation.

A couple of doctors returning from their lunch break nodded to the likeable young porter as they passed him. Simon Browne simply nodded back. He had his hands dug deep into the pockets of his porter’s coat and he strolled along the corridor at a relaxed pace. When he came to the big brown door he pulled hard on it, for it was quite heavy. He entered, and the door closed slowly behind him. Simon loved the quiet of the hospital chapel. He walked to the nearest pew, knelt and began to pray.

Agnes paid the taxi driver and stepped onto the pavement to join Cathy. When they went in the door of Senga Soft Furnishings they were met by Betty. The factory was totally quiet.

‘What’s goin’ on here, Betty?’ Agnes asked.

‘What? Oh the quiet. I don’t know, Mrs B, it’s been like that since a quarter to three.’

Cathy glanced around the factory. ‘Where’s Mark?’ She asked.

‘He’s in the office - waitin’,‘ Betty told her.

‘I’ll go into him,’ Agnes began, but Cathy restrained her.

‘No, Ma - leave him.’

There was just one telephone in Senga Soft Furnishings. Because the office was sometimes unmanned, Mark had got the Post and Telegraphs people to rig the phone to a large bell that was mounted outside the office. This way, wherever he was, Mark would know when the phone was ringing and could make his way to the office. At two minutes past three o‘clock the bell clanged. The staff of Senga Soft Furnishings were well used to this bell going virtually non-stop throughout the day, yet on this occasion it seemed to clang louder than it had ever clanged.

From their vantage point the three women saw Mark standing up as he placed the receiver to his ear. He stood very still. There was little animation. Then they watched as he slowly took the telephone from his ear and replaced it on the receiver. Mark began to walk towards the office door. Agnes glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to see that there were now over forty people standing around her. Wherever they had been just ten seconds before, the phone bell had flushed them out. Mark came out of the office and walked straight across the factory floor to Betty and took her hand. His delivery of the result was very simple.

‘It’s ours!’ He smiled broadly and Betty threw her arms around his neck.

There was a huge cheer from the workforce and a lot of back-slapping and hand-shaking, but eventually everybody drifted back to work.

Mark walked his mother and sister to the comer of the street where he waved down a taxi for them to send them home. While he was organising transport for the two, Betty was standing in the office. On the desk she noticed the pad where Mark had been doodling. It was upside-down and she turned it around to face her. He had drawn an oblong box, inside which he had written just two lines. The top line read ‘Mark Browne’, the second line ‘formerly Wise & Co.’. Betty smiled. She looked through the glass office door to see Mark already organising things and ploughing into the work as if nothing had changed, but she knew better. She turned back to the pad, picked up the pencil Mark had been using, and on the top line of his new sign, beside the name ‘Mark Browne’ she wrote, ’and Son‘.

Epilogue

JUST FIVE DAYS AFTER THE OLD BAILEY sentenced Manny Wise to fourteen years in prison, Joe Fitzgerald died of injuries he had received at the hands of the crazed drug dealer. It had been a long fight for the Metropolitan Police to piece together the evidence that would eventually take down this smug little cockney. During the four months it took the police to put their case together Joe Fitzgerald had remained in a coma. Now for the first time in a long, long time he was finally at peace. His death would result in further charges against Manny Wise, and to the delight of the Metropolitan Police, and for the benefit of the citizens of London, a further twelve years would be added to Manny Wise’s sentence.