The dark side of my soul (5 page)

For the next two nights sleep became a luxury. All I could do was lay awake and think about the blackmailers. Who were they? Maybe they were just a couple of kids, teenagers who had seen the accident and were trying to make a quick killing out of our misery. Strangely, Sandra seemed able to sleep. I could hear her steady breathing as I lay watching the shadows moving on the ceiling and remonstrating with myself for not making her go to the police in the first place. David was at least partially right when he said that we would regret our actions for the rest of our lives. Our misguided and short lived hope that things would get better was already proving to be wrong.

On Tuesday morning I met Archie Haines as arranged at the golf club. He was young and enthusiastic and had I not known I would never have guessed he was a police detective. The day was bright and sunny but with a chilly wind and as we walked up to the first tee we chatted casually as though we were good friends rather than mere acquaintances. I purposely held back from mentioning the hit and run incident; I didn’t want to seem too eager.

The weather held and we were both playing reasonably well. I was enjoying the game and Archie proved to be surprisingly good company but my questions for him kept praying on my mind and by the twelfth hole I could hold back no longer. As I placed the ball on the tee peg, I asked as casually as possible “I don’t suppose you have found out who that poor woman was who was killed by the hit and run driver last week.”

“Funny you should mention it. I’ve been assigned that case. Yes, she was in her eighties and apparently often went wandering off on her own.”

I took a couple of practice swings as Archie continued. “She came from a family of Roma travellers who had illegally parked their caravan in the field opposite the night before.”

“I live out that way. I haven’t noticed a caravan in that field.” I said as I moved up to take my shot.

“No it’s gone now. The other occupants of the van, her son and grandson and their wives only stayed one night, moved on, not far though; they’re parked up on some disused land near Sellinge. Mind you, I hope we catch the driver of the car that killed the old girl before her relatives do. I have had dealings with them before. Bloody psychopaths, both the son and grandson; word is that they’re looking for the driver. If they catch him, or her, before we do they’ll cut ‘em to pieces, there’ll be nothing left for me to arrest.”

My tee shot went straight into the trees, as did the rest of my game. I tried to put what Archie had said out of mind but I kept imagining the two knife welding Roma gypsies who were now looking for us. Aware that Archie might link my sudden loss of form to his remarks I tried even harder to play well but the more I tried the worse my shots became. In the end he won easily and as we shook hands on the eighteenth green I apologised for my poor play.

“Don’t worry about it” he laughed. “It happens to us all. It can be a strange game. You’re going well then suddenly the wheels come off. It’s happened to me enough times.”

In the clubhouse Archie met several other friends and so after buying the drinks I was able to leave quickly, grateful, at least, that he hadn’t connected my sudden turn of form with his comments.

When I got home I didn’t mention the psychopathic Roma travellers to Sandra; there was no point in worrying her further but I couldn’t stop wondering if the travellers could be the blackmailers. I pondered how they could have found out about us and if they knew who we were, why they hadn’t just come and taken their revenge. Maybe they were more devious than I had supposed. Perhaps they were planning to take the money in some quiet lonely place then beat me to death or cut me to pieces as Archie had described. That way they got both my life savings and my life. As time went on I became more and more convinced that the travellers were the people responsible for the blackmail threat.

The next day, after another sleepless night, I went to the bank and made arrangements to withdraw the money from all our accounts. Dealing with a couple of young kids was one thing but knife wielding psychopathic gypsies was something entirely different.

After that I tried to work, if I was about to give away most of our wealth I had to earn something to put bread on the table but it was difficult to concentrate and I got little done. Sandra was in a permanent tizzy. Although she knew that when I was working in the little bedroom that I used as an office I did not like to be disturbed, she kept fliting in and out for no apparent reason, until I finally gave up and came down stairs. For the rest of that day and the next Sandra took to the wine, as did I and our waking hours were spent in a kind of alcoholic blur. We were just marking time, waiting for the call from whoever was blackmailing us.

Friday, however, was the day my life changed. Two things happened, the first of which was the collection of the cash from the bank. Having learned from my previous experience, I had specified that I wanted the money in ten and twenty pound notes to be ready at eleven o’clock. When I arrived at the counter I was pleased to find that I was directed to Karen, the same smug faced cashier who had refused my previous request for a cash withdrawal. She greeted me with a half-hearted “Good morning.”

I slid my bank card under the security screen “My name is Harry Conrad and I have come to collect the money that I ordered on Wednesday. I was told it would be ready to day.” I never cracked a smile and kept my voice even and mean.

Karen punched my account details into her computer and her eyes widened when she saw the amount. “You are taking this all out in cash?”

“That’s the idea, any objections?” I wanted to get my own back for the way she had treated me on my previous visit.

She gave me a callous look. “No, of course not, but you will have to go to the office to get the money and there are a couple of forms that have to be filled out. Just a moment and I’ll get somebody.”

Five minutes later I was in the little glass office filling out the forms. “Why is this necessary?” I asked the little chubby woman with a round face who stood behind me.

“It’s a Government requirement sir. Anyone withdrawing more than five thousand pounds in cash has to complete those statements. It’s to try to prevent money laundering.”

When finished, I signed and handed her the pieces of paper. The money was on the desk in front of me in neat little bundles.

“It’s all there” she said. “Each bundle is made up of one hundred notes so you have two thousand pounds in each bundle of twenties and one thousand pounds in each pack of tens. Thirty packs of twenties, which is sixty and the rest, twenty packs in tens making eighty thousand in all. Do you want to count any of it?”

“No, I’m sure it’s all correct.” I had closed all my savings accounts which gave me five thousand too much, but I had asked for it all in cash anyway. I was surprised how small it was, I had brought a large holdall to put it in, expecting it to be bulkier.

As I placed the money in the bag the woman asked me “May I enquire why you need so much cash sir.”

When all the packets were neatly inside the carryall, I zipped it up and gave her an icy stare. I was beginning to enjoy this. “No, it’s personal.”

I arrived home, went into the kitchen and emptied the bag of money onto the table. At first Sandra and I simply stared at it then we each took a packet and flicked through it.

“Crazy isn’t it, it’s our own money but it feels like I’ve just robbed the bank.” I said as I flicked through another pack.

“I’ve never seen so much money” Sandra added as she played with a couple of packets. “Is it really ours?”

“Yes, our life savings. When you see the figures on a statement sheet or on a computer readout they are numbers, just digits on a piece of paper or on a screen, just ones and zeros, it doesn’t really register that its real money. Like this, well, it’s different somehow.” I felt good, I felt rich.

“And now we’re going to have to give it all away.” Sandra said sadly.

Her words brought me down to earth, she was right, we were about to lose most of it, then the second thing happened. I remembered the gun

Along with the grandfather clock and various other useless articles that Sandra’s father had left us, there had been a gun. As far as I could recall it was a nine millimetre automatic that held eight rounds. I was no expert on firearms and had no idea of the make but I was certain it had been accompanied by a box of ammunition. It had been my intention to hand the weapon in to the police but it was another one of those things that I never got round to and so the gun had ended up in the loft with a load of other junk that should have been thrown away. I didn’t even know if it still worked but I was sure the pistol was still hidden away somewhere.

As far as I knew it was unregistered and I certainly had no licence for it, which seemed to make it all the better. Just in case the blackmailers turned out to be the Roma travellers, I could take it with me when handing over the cash. It may prove to be a very good form of protection. All I had to do was find the damned thing.

We packed the money back in the holdall and put the bag in one of the kitchen cupboards. Sandra opened a bottle of red Merlot as I headed up the stairs, pulled down
the extendable loft ladder and commenced my search for the long lost pistol. The loft was just as untidy as the garage and I looked around not knowing where to start.

The floor was boarded so I could walk freely down the centre under the apex of the roof but either side of me, as the roof sloped down there was only a crawl space that was full of plastic bags and cardboard boxes containing all manner of unknown items. It was going to be a long search. The oldest stuff was at the far end so that’s where I started. There were bags of old curtains, boxes of books, faded paintings and prints, boxes of used lampshades, a couple of old computers, used kettles and toasters and an acoustic guitar with broken strings.

It was only then that I realised we were hoarders, we never threw anything away in case it may be useful at a later date. As I worked my way through the clutter I found some old Christmas decorations, curtain rails and other long lost items but I could not find what I was searching for.

After almost two hours I gave up. I had looked through every box and bag but I had not found the pistol. I sat in the middle of the floor, covered in dust, disappointed and disillusioned. Then I remembered that some years back an amnesty was declared when you could hand in unlicensed firearms without prosecution. Perhaps Sandra had taken the gun into the police station without telling me, I knew she was not happy having it in the house. The thought jogged my memory. No, she had not handed it in, on the contrary at the time of the amnesty the authorities were emphasising the penalties for having unregistered weapons and I had decided that if I was going to keep the gun I should put it somewhere safe where it was unlikely to be found. I remembered hiding it but could not recall where.

The gun was here somewhere. I cursed my rotten memory as I cast my eyes around the loft searching for the hiding place and then in a split second it came back to me; under the floorboards. I had put the weapon under a loose board near the loft hatch. I made my way to the hatch and looked around on the floor and found a section of board that was not fixed down. With difficulty I levered it up with my fingers. Under the board was an old biscuit tin and I knew that within was the gun.

The lid of the tin came off easily to reveal the weapon. It was wrapped in an old oily cloth, with not one but two boxes of ammunition. I lifted the gun and removed the cloth. The pistol felt heavy in my hand, black, solid, workmanlike and straightaway I knew why I had not handed it in. To me it had a strange kind of beauty. Even here in the empty loft the pistol gave me a sense of power, changing me from mister average into someone with authority. I liked the feel of the cold steel and the way it sat comfortably in my palm.

On closer inspection it was apparent someone had filed off the make of the piece, no doubt my father in law, although I couldn’t imagine why he would have done such a thing. I found the button that released the magazine and it slipped out easily into my left hand. It was empty. The pistol was unloaded. I pulled the trigger and it clicked harmlessly and I knew that it would be necessary to check it thoroughly before loading it with some of the shells. I would then have to fire a few practice shots in the field. If all went well the old gun could save my life.

Later that day, after cleaning, checking and oiling the weapon, I loaded it and took it into the farmer’s field behind my garden. The farmers often used a loud automatic bird scarer which went off at regular intervals so I hoped the sound of my firearm would be confused with it and not draw too much unwanted attention; nevertheless I made up my mind to restrict myself to no more than two or three shots. I merely wanted to make certain that the weapon was functioning properly.

I clicked off the safety catch and took up a shooting stance (which was only learned from watching numerous television programmes) and squeezed the trigger gently. The enormous bang was much louder than expected and the weapon kicked wildly in my hand but I was gratified to know that the pistol still worked. The old fallen tree branch that I had been aiming at, was however still intact. My second shot was better, the branch leaped into the air and split in two. It had only been ten feet away but I was satisfied that the gun was in good working order and that I could use it without shooting myself in the foot. I didn’t really intend to use it. I would take it with me to the handover of the cash merely as a form of security.

The rest of the day was spent waiting for the call from the blackmailers. Sandra polished off most of the bottle of wine then concentrated on spring cleaning. She cleaned all the bedrooms and the hall, working frantically, I suppose to try and keep her thoughts from the extortionists and the fact that we were about to give away our life savings.

Twice in the course of the day she came to me, threw her arms around my neck and whispered “I’m sorry, I’m sorry it has come to this. Maybe I should just go and admit what happened. A short prison sentence would be better than us losing all our money.”

If it was not for the threat from the Roma travellers, of whom she was still unaware, I might have even agreed with her but each time she came to me I clasped my arms around her and comforted her with a hug and a quiet word. “No, we have chosen our course of action and have to go through with it.” The truth was that since finding the gun I had developed a new self-assurance. Maybe the blackmailers were not the gypsies; maybe they would turn out to be only kids after all and maybe I could scare them off, threaten them and keep all our money. That was an awful lot of maybe’s but my new confidence gave me hope.

After a light lunch Sandra returned to her frenetic cleaning and I tried once more to repair the old garden bench. The afternoon dragged on and with the fading light came the evening.

With the bench repaired and standing proudly at the end of the garden and our home as clean as it had ever been since we moved in, Sandra prepared dinner which we both devoured with surprising gusto. At six thirty, ignoring the dishwasher, we washed and dried the dishes for something to do, before moving into the lounge to wait for the dreaded call. It was not yet completely dark outside. The days were getting longer as the year wore on.

We did not turn on the radio or television. We sat in silence waiting, hoping that the blackmailer had changed his mind and decided not to go ahead with his plan, hoping that we could get through the evening without hearing any more from our tormentor. The only sounds were that of our breathing and the ticking of the grandfather clock. At ten minutes after seven the telephone rang and the caller display read ‘number withheld’. I took a long deep breath and picked up the receiver but did not speak, waiting instead for the person at the other end to make the first move. After an uncomfortable delay the strained nasal tone of the man’s voice came on the line.

“Do you have the money?”

“Yes”

“All of it?”

“All of it” I confirmed.

“Okay, that’s good” Did I detect a note of surprise in the voice? “Lyminge forest tomorrow; seven thirty in the morning; come alone; bring the money. Do you know the forest?”

“Yes,”

“Do you know the Roundwood golf club?”

“Yes,”

“About half a mile past the golf club you’ll see a track on the right that goes into the wood. Go down the track for about one hundred yards. Wait there. If we see anyone else around we go to the police. If you do not have all the money we go to the police. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” my worst fears had been confirmed. They had picked a quiet and lonely place for me to hand over the cash. I was even more convinced that I was dealing with the Romanian relatives of the woman my wife had killed, the ones Archie Haines had warned me about.

“Don’t be late.” There was a chilling threat in those final words before the caller rang off and I gave an involuntary shudder as I thought of what the next day might bring.