Sweet Talking Money Page 37

  Altmeyer wandered to the ice-bucketed nymph, and tore the foil from the top of the champagne bottle. The cork boomed briefly in his hands, and he filled three glasses.

  ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ he complained. ‘You’re always in a hurry, Bryn. Calm down. Have some champagne. Maybe we should get some lunch ordered? I think we’ve got some cold pheasant somewhere in the galley.’

  Bryn and Cameron exchanged glances. They’d played their last card. By rights, Altmeyer should have surrendered. By now, he was meant to be begging for peace on any terms.

  ‘Sod lunch,’ said Bryn. ‘I think you need to decide what you’re going to do about all this.’

  ‘Decide?’ said Altmeyer. ‘I have decided.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, I’ve decided I owe you a big debt of thanks. Both of you. I’m much obliged.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Bryn, you’re a banker. You know as well as I do that a decent auction needs at least two bidders. Before today, I had to accept whatever Corinth offered me. I mean, they’re a generous bunch, their offers were always reasonable – but this way, I can play them off against you, force them to raise their bid, see how high I can get them to go. It should be fun.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I expect them any minute now.’

  Cameron and Bryn exchanged glances once again. Their breath was completely synchronised now, short, rapid, shallow. All of a sudden, Cameron leapt up and ran to the communications room. She came back a moment later, grim-faced.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said simply. ‘The boat’s been sending out a distress signal all this time. He’s right. Corinth is on the way.’

  10

  ‘Can’t you go faster?’

  A hundred and ten miles an hour on the road, now this ridiculous crawl over the sea. The boatman wore no rain-jacket, only a thick-ribbed woollen jumper, thick with lanolin, on which the water beaded like pearls on a party frock. The boatman shrugged.

  ‘Old engine. Better rested.’

  Janssen dolloped money down on the wet boards like so many dead flounders.

  ‘I’ll buy you a new engine, a new boat. Get me there as fast as you can. Please! As fast as you can!’

  The boatman looked at the cash, left it lying there. He increased the engine speed, though still short of full, and their bow-wave curved white as they cut faster through the water.

  ‘What line of business you in, then?’

  The boatman speaks, thought Janssen. The idiot has words.

  ‘Healthcare,’ he responded curtly. ‘Freelance.’

  The boatman dropped speed to curb engine noise. The bow sank down as the thrust died off. ‘Healthcare? Doctoring? A big responsibility, that.’

  ‘Yes. Please, our speed.’

  The boatman throttled up again, water sparkling in his hair and eyelashes.

  ‘My dad was ill once,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doctors said there was nothing to be done.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Offered him head pills, you know, psychi-what-nots.’

  ‘Psychiatric medication.’

  ‘You’re quite right.’ The boatman paused awhile in admiration of Janssen’s medical skill, then resumed. The boat kept its course straight through the water. They were more than a mile from land now, Janssen’s Mercedes just a flash of windscreen in an empty car park. ‘Head pills, but it wasn’t a head problem.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Then, you know what?’

  An answer was expected. Janssen did what he had to do to keep the boat in any kind of motion. ‘No, what?’

  ‘Came across a doctor who said he didn’t need head pills.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Said the problem was to do with poisoning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Said you could help the body detoxify itself. That means getting rid of the poisons.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gave my dad loads of pills. My mum had to whizz them all up into a milkshake to get him to take them.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Worked a treat, worked a bloody treat.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You want to know her name? The doctor, I mean, not my mum.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Cameron Wilde she was, a bloody miracle worker.’

  Oh!’

  Janssen’s exclamation was different this time. His frozen face held no expression, but there was a brief scamper of fear in his eyes, which was almost immediately replaced by something else: an extra hardness, a hint of cruelty. A quick movement inside his coat produced a knife blade six inches long, plenty long enough to reach the heart. He held it expertly, his arm against his side, protected from attack, ready for the lethal jab forward. Dai Hughes, boatman for all of four hours, let the engine die.

  ‘Bit of a bloody surprise,’ he confessed. ‘I was expecting to head you off, not give you a bloody boat ride.’

  Janssen said nothing, letting his body grow accustomed to the swell of the boat on the rocking waves, letting his nerves and muscles do the arithmetic: the moving boat, the shifting weight, the sudden lunge.

  ‘Still,’ said Dai, ‘it’s nice to have a chat, it’s more friendly, like.’

  Equidistant between far-off yacht and far-off shore, the little boat rocked in silence. Then movement. Janssen darted forward, keeping his hand by his side except for the final lethal plunge. There was a flash of silver, a dull groan, a spatter of blood, the thump of a body crashing backwards.

  The knife span briefly in the air before falling to the floor of the boat. Silence returned.

  11

  There was silence on board the yacht as well. Three glasses of champagne had been poured, but only Bryn and Altmeyer were drinking theirs. Cameron was lost in thought. Altmeyer didn’t know about Dai, of course, but Dai was alone and unarmed – what if Janssen had brought a weapon? What if Janssen had managed to evade Dai? What if Janssen was even now preparing to climb up the ship’s side?

  Suddenly, her head jerked with an entirely different thought and she leaned forwards.

  ‘It’s not only about money,’ she said.

  ‘Patients?’ said Max. ‘The darling diddums little patients? D’you know what, Cameron, sweetheart? I don’t really give a –’

  ‘Not the patients,’ she snapped. ‘Your liberty. Your treatment of those animals isn’t just illegal, it’s an offence, a felony – a criminal, jailable offence. Unless you co-operate with us now – and I mean now – I’ll see you imprisoned for what you’ve done.’

  Seeing the value of Cameron’s new initiative, Bryn leaped in to support her. ‘She’s right, Max, dammit. And the more the publicity around the incident – the more the newspapers get their teeth into it – then the bigger the jail sentence. You need to work with us, Max. It’s your only hope.’

  Altmeyer’s face looked white and shocked, genuinely uncertain about how to react.

  ‘It’s nasty, prison,’ said Bryn, rubbing it in. ‘And going in there on a charge of animal cruelty … I hate to think what the other prisoners would do to you.’

  Altmeyer’s shock deepened, but then his face changed. He smiled and took another sip of champagne, with hands that weren’t even shaking. ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, ‘but it’s a good one. You see, the more you threaten me, the more Corinth will have to pay. I mean, don’t get me wrong, prison would be horrendous, but if I demanded – oh, I don’t know – say five million pounds for every month I serve, then I’d be pushing for the longest sentence I could possibly manage. I’d get my lawyers to supply you with any material you don’t already have.’ He shook his head, mouth smirking, eyes dancing. ‘Oh Bryn, Cameron, I love you people. Absolutely love you!’

  12

  Out on the ocean, Janssen rubbed his head, which was singing like a thousand angels. He hadn’t even seen Dai’s blow as it crashed like a ton of metal into his skull. The knife stroke had torn Dai’s
jumper, but had only grazed a rib, sketching a thin line of blood beneath his heart. The two men sat motionless once again, as the bows of the boat were nudged round by the wind.

  Warily, keeping his eyes fixed on Dai’s beef-barrel fists, Janssen stretched out his toe towards the knife and drew it to him along the floor of the boat. Moving cautiously, he reached down towards it, keeping his body ready for sudden action, found the blade first, then the handle. He retrieved the knife, cradling it once again like the expert that he was. Dai watched expressionlessly all the while.

  Back in starting positions: Janssen with the knife, Dai calmly waiting.

  Janssen tried to find his rhythm once again, but the boat had twisted in the water and was corkscrewing awkwardly. Its simple one-two pitching motion was overlaid now with the complex beats of roll and yaw. Besides which, Janssen’s head was still ringing like the end of a wedding.

  But still, the fight needed decision.

  Janssen thrust forward again, but the knife never came close to its target. Another huge fist swung through the air, catching Janssen in the same place as before, right on the temple. The knife spun out of his hand, tumbling over the boat’s gunwale into the sea. Janssen leaned over the wet thwarts, groaning, blood dripping from his nose where he’d smashed against the wood. When he righted himself, his own wet banknotes had glued themselves to his cheek.

  ‘D’you ever watch rugby?’ asked Dai conversationally. Since silence greeted him, he continued, chattily. ‘Good game, rugby. Golden rule is never stop thinking about defence just because you’re on the attack.’

  Janssen unpeeled a ten-pound note from a cut on his knuckles and licked the wound. Dai reached into a locker at his feet and pulled out a yellow life-jacket. ‘Where’s the bloody air hostess, then? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’ He threw the jacket across the boat to Janssen.

  Oh, God! No.’

  ‘No idea how to put it on, I’m afraid. I’m sure you can work it out. Don’t even think it would fit me.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Janssen drew the ugly yellow bib over his head, pulled a cord to inflate it, tied straps to fasten it. He nodded in readiness.

  ‘OK,’ said Dai, nodding. ‘Nice meeting you and all.’

  Face to face with the gunmetal sea, Janssen hesitated, drawing back from the gunwale. Seawater slopped over the side, soaking his shoe, sending bile up to his mouth in a sudden retch.

  ‘I said OK,’ said Dai, making the tiniest of gestures with his arm.

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Janssen heaved himself to the side of the boat. His head was like a migraine convention and the idea of the cold seawater made him nauseous. He dipped a foot in the water to test the temperature and gasped with the shock of it. ‘Jesus,’ he said again, teetering unstably on the edge.

  Oh, bloody hell,’ said Dai. ‘I almost forgot. Wait around.’

  Janssen looked up gratefully, hoping for a reprieve.

  He didn’t get it. Standing up in one deft motion, Dai swept his leg round and caught Janssen in the backside so hard that he was lifted clean into the air and only hit the water several feet from the boat.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Jesus!’ Janssen spluttered, as his head broke the surface again. Cold water, English sea, pissed in by herrings, shat on by gulls, slopped into his mouth. His arms beat the waves. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘That was from Bryn,’ called Dai. ‘He said to let you know that if you ever touch a little lad called Mungo or his sisters, then you’ll be getting a load more of that.’

  Dai restarted the engine, letting it idle. He bent down and picked up the remaining banknotes, one by one, scattering them on the water around Janssen’s head. With a nod of farewell, Dai released the motor, ratcheting it quickly up to full speed. The engine boomed, and the boat raced away to join Altmeyer’s yacht.

  Janssen looked at the distant shore, many times more remote now than it had seemed from the boat. Wearily, hating the sea, hating everything, a funeral march beating in his head, he began a slow front crawl back towards shore and the glint of his deserted Mercedes.

  THIRTY-ONE

  1

  On board the yacht, Altmeyer, Bryn and Cameron waited in hideous suspense, with no way of knowing what was happening outside.

  Eventually, there came a bang against the ship’s side, then shouting and the tread of boots. Altmeyer greeted the noise with a loud crow of delight.

  ‘Let the auction commence!’ he cried.

  A gust of damp salt air blew down the corridor into the stateroom, cold and with a smell of bodies. The boat’s captain stumbled backwards into the room, brushed aside by a rainswept man of the sea. Altmeyer leaped forwards to greet his rescuer, then, seeing it wasn’t Janssen, collapsed backwards, disappointed.

  Dai looked about him, the naked gold nymphs, the leather sofas, the painted ceiling. Making straight for the champagne bottle, shaking raindrops from his head and jumper, swigging long draughts from the bottle, belching like a horse and drinking again, he spoke: ‘Bloody hell, Bryn. It’s a ruddy pimp’s palace in here.’

  2

  Even then, the game wasn’t finally won. Still believing that a rescue could be imminent, Altmeyer teetered on the edge of further defiance and it was only Dai’s quick thinking which snuffed out the last vestiges of opposition.

  ‘Funny little man came down to the seashore just now,’ he said. ‘Face all kind of … stiff, I don’t know, like the poor bugger didn’t know how to smile.’

  ‘Janssen? Yes? He’s coming?’ said Altmeyer eagerly, scenting a possible way out.

  ‘Was coming, laddie, sorry. He asked me how far it was out to the boat. I told him about three miles, and that my brother was out there, all set to bugger up your company. He was bloody pissed off to be honest with you, pardon the phrase. Made a phone call to some chap. Oozing? Hoozen? Something like that.’

  ‘Huizinga,’ Altmeyer muttered the magical syllables like a prayer.

  ‘Huizing, that’s right. Shouting he was, with all the rain. Couldn’t catch it all, but basically, they have a chat about how much it’s all going to cost them, and the stiff-faced bugger just closes up his phone and walks away. Didn’t even want to come out and tell you. Bloody cheek, I thought. I mean, if you’re dropping somebody in it, the least you can do is tell them face to face.’

  Confronted with the destruction of his own business and in the absence of a counter-offer from Corinth, Altmeyer had no choice but to give up. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he said forlornly.

  Bryn explained, Altmeyer listening attentively as his fate was mapped out. Bryn said they’d hand over the patents to Altmeyer free of charge, and destroy all the marketing material they stole. As for Chirpy Chimps, they were giving Altmeyer thirty days to clean up his act.

  ‘After that,’ Cameron said, ‘I’ll be on your back. I’ll inspect what I want, whenever I want. Not just for a month or two, but for ever. Any abuse, any abuse at all, and I swear I’ll break you.’

  ‘And if the animals are OK, you’ll do nothing?’

  Bryn nodded.

  ‘I’m going to lose money,’ complained Altmeyer. ‘That place is only profitable because … because I’m very cost-conscious.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Cameron came blazing in. ‘Bullshit! Those animals are living creatures. You have no right, no right at all … By God, I’d like –’

  ‘Max,’ said Bryn. ‘We don’t honestly care if you make money or not. But you treat those animals right or you suffer the consequences. Is that understood?’

  Sulkily, Altmeyer bowed to the inevitable. ‘And my shares? And the loan?’

  ‘You get to keep them, Max, but with a difference. We reclassify your shares as non-voting stock, and we amend the loan agreement so that you can’t call in the loan for any reason at all for the next seven years.’

  ‘No votes? Can’t call in the loan? That’s not economics, that’s hostage-taking.’

  ‘How nicely put. Exactly. You’ll get your dividends, you’ll get your
interest payments. When we float the company on the stockmarket, you can cash in your shares. But no control. Not now. Not ever.’

  Altmeyer pondered. Bryn thrust a contract at him which would make the entire agreement legal and binding. Given how things stood, Bryn’s offer was generous, and both men knew it. With shaking hand, Altmeyer signed.

  3

  The boathouse rafters rang with victory. Bryn had ordered celebration champagne by the crate-load, and the staff of the now-large research organisation and the ever-swelling clinic chinked glasses and tucked in, as though they’d never seen booze before. But not everyone was happy. With a strained and anxious face, Cameron pulled Kati away into a side-room, the stationery cupboard, as it happened. There among the ringbinders and paperclips, the smell of manila envelopes and plastic wallets, Cameron found out what she had to know.

  ‘Janssen was there? Waiting? He knew you were coming?’

  Kati shrugged. ‘We can’t be sure, but … Oh, Cameron, I’m so sorry – yes, it certainly looked like he was expecting us.’

  Cameron nodded. She was crushed, devastated.

  4

  That evening, Cameron and Allen, alone together in his high-ceilinged flat. The parquet floors, hard white walls, minimal steel furnishings made the sounds clicky and repetitive, like an argument born in hell.

  ‘Allen, please tell me. Did you tell anyone – anyone at all – about the respiratory work I’ve been doing recently?’ Her voice was strained and loud.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Allen, tall, priestly and handsome as ever. ‘Calm down. There’s no need to shout.’

  ‘I’ll shout if I want to. Did you or didn’t you?’

  As it happened, Allen was dressed in a dark suit, with a dark-blue shirt underneath. Cameron was in a cream shirt and stone-coloured jeans. They looked light and dark, good and evil from a morality play. But Allen wasn’t going to play Cameron’s interrogation games. He wandered with exaggerated calm into the kitchen and began to take sushi from the fridge and lay it out on a black china plate.