Blood Money (chapters three and four.) (standard:Suspense, 4034 words) [2/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 15 2011	Views/Reads: 2623/1744	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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run away, because I'll find you.” 

Keenan patted the dog before departing. On his way to his Range Rover,
he looked to the heavens and spoke. “All things bright and beautiful, 
all creatures great and small. Why are people so cruel, God?” The music 
of Madame Butterfly serenaded him back to his vehicle. 

LONDON Facing the mob of angry protestors outside Regents Park mosque,
the isolated reporter had broken ranks and was snapping away with his 
camera. Thousands of Muslims had gathered, outraged at the recent 
Danish cartoons that depicted the prophet Mohammed as a figure of fun. 

Jack Pepper risked the wrath of the protesters and ignored the pleas of
the police by continuing to take his photographs. The red bearded 
journalist was eventually shepherded back amongst his colleagues. 

“You're crazy, Jack,” said a plump, red-faced man. “They want blood and
they don't care whose it is.” 

“Did you get an eyeful of those placards, Pete?” asked Pepper. “The
bastards are glorifying the July 7th bombings in London... Take a look 
at that one. Behead those who insult Islam.” 

Police reinforcements added to the contingent of officers struggling to
contain the mob. The protestors marched intently, their destination the 
Danish embassy in Sloane Street. Huge rallies in India, Pakistan, 
Malaysia and Bangladesh coincided with the one in London. In Beirut, 
news had reached the media that the Danish Embassy had been torched and 
Europeans were evacuating the country. 

Pepper and his colleague walked behind the flag-burning mob, the protest
gathering numbers as they advanced. Above the din, Pepper heard the 
chimes of his cell phone. He patted Pete on the back before stepping 
aside. “Hello.” 

“Jack, this is Deano. I need to speak to you.” 

The redheaded man frowned. “Oh, so now you want to speak to me. It's
been almost two years Deano.” 

“You shit on me, Jack, you fuck. If I wasn't desperate, I wouldn't be
talking to you, now believe me.” 

“Goodbye. I have nothing to say to you.” 

“Wait! Here me out you ginger fuck.” 

“You might think it funny tarring and feathering my car, but I don't.” 

“You deserved it, Jack. Did you get the King's shilling for betraying
me?” 

“Do you have to screw anything in a skirt? Shit, you even shagged
Debbie.” 

“What? I never touched Debbie.” 

“Well that's not what she told me... Anyway, me and Debbie are history
now, and so are we, Schofield.” 

“Hold on. Is this what all this is about? You display my hairy arse in
your newspaper because you thought I was fucking your girlfriend? I 
swear, I never touched her.” 

“Call me later. I'm on an important assignment.” 

“Two hundred grand, Jack. How does that sound?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Still betting on the gee gees? How much do you owe the bookies now? I
have a proposition to put to you worth two hundred grand. Interested?” 

“I'll meet you tonight. Shall we say eight 'o'clock at the usual
watering hole?” 

“It‘s better, I come to your flat. What I have to tell you must remain
between us.” 

“My flat it is then. Bye bye.” 

The curious reporter checked his wristwatch and ran across the busy road
towards the bookmakers. Today, he felt lucky. 

Pepper was standing at the window of his flat in Shepherds Bush and was
surprised that Schofield was accompanied by his brother in law. He let 
the couple in and opened a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels, a luxury that 
he and Schofield shared. 

Chaplin squatted on the leather sofa that had seen better days and took
in the news headlines on the television. “Were you there, Jack?” he 
asked, watching the protest outside the Danish Embassy and declining 
the offer of a drink. 

“Yes, I was there... Listen, I've got to meet someone at the White Horse
at nine, so can we get on with this?” 

Schofield removed his overcoat and warmed his hands by the electric
fire. He accepted his liberal measure of Jack Daniels and savoured the 
taste. “To be quite honest, Jack, there's no way I would have chosen 
you as a possible associate if we weren't desperate; you see, we need 
somebody who works for a newspaper.” 

“For what?” 

“Before we go any further,” butted in Chaplin, “I must make it clear
that this conversation does not go beyond these four walls.” 

“You have my word,” muttered the reporter. 

“Ah!” laughed Schofield. “Your word means Jack shit, if you'll forgive
the pun.” 

“I didn't invite you here to be insulted. You said you had a
proposition, so fire away.” 

Chaplin opened up. “Suppose we needed an adjustment made in an earlier
edition of your newspaper. Could it be done?” 

“I suppose so,” said Pepper, “but not by me.” 

“I told you we were wasting our time,” moaned Schofield, refilling his
empty glass. 

The reporter continued. “You mentioned two hundred thousand pounds. For
that I may be able to pull some strings.” 

“But that would involve someone else right?” asked Chaplin. “I don't
feel comfortable with that. We're taking a great risk by telling you, 
Jack.” 

“You've told me nothing... Listen, I'm definitely interested in the
money you quoted, and I expect it to be risky for that amount, but you 
have to be straight with me. What's this all about?” 

Chaplin picked up the empty glass and poured himself a generous measure
of the whiskey. He did not usually touch spirits, but he needed a drink 
at that moment. “A nameless wealthy client has asked me to find three 
penniless people anywhere in the world, who are worthy of being 
rewarded with one million pounds for their heroic deeds.” 

“Jesus,” gasped Pepper. “And why would he do that?” 

“Let's just say that he wants to atone himself after sinning, and it's
important to him that he's revered by the public.” 

Pepper proceeded to fill his pipe. “I still don't follow.” 

Schofield was impatient and intervened. “Ok, Jack, I'll be frank. We
think we know a way of relieving Sam's client of his money, but we have 
to involve at least another nine people apart from you.” 

“Are you going to fill me in with the details?” probed the reporter. 

Again, it was the private investigator who spoke. “We manufacture these
heroic deeds, Jack. We've put our heads together over this and decided 
that recent natural disasters such as the Asian Tsunami and the 
Pakistan earthquake were an option. Our heroes would be paid well, and 
I don't think it will be a problem finding witnesses.” 

Pepper slammed down his glass onto his coffee table. “That's fucking
sick. If we were ever found out, we'd be lynched for capitalising on 
the tragedy of others. I'm not happy with this.” 

“If we were found out, upsetting the public would be the last thing to
worry about,” added Schofield. 

“Meaning?” 

“I've said enough, Jack.” 

“And you won't tell me the name of this mystery benefactor?” 

Schofield wafted away the irritating pipe smoke. “You'll find out soon
enough... Listen, if you're with us then we'll tell you when the time's 
right. If you decline our offer and we tell you the name of the mystery 
man, then we've blown three million.” 

Pepper puffed on his pipe and pondered over his decision. “So let me get
this straight. You want me to somehow make an addition in one of our 
copies, describing our hero's exploits?” 

“Three additions,” interrupted Chaplin. “And possibly more to add
credence to the stories.” 

“And for that, I'll receive two hundred grand?” 

Schofield nodded. “That's right... Oh, one more thing. We need someone
to leak to the press that our client is about to donate the money to 
three poor souls.” 

“That's no problem... You say he's going to part with three million? For
the risk I'm prepared to take, I think a bigger slice of the pie is in 
order.” 

Schofield poured himself yet another refill. “You're getting greedy,
Jack. Like I said, at least another nine people have to be paid.” “And 
how have you arrived at this figure?” 

“The three heroes, we reckon we can buy for one hundred grand each.
Let's say for instance that we use six witnesses, paying them fifty 
thousand each...” 

“And after my cut that leaves you two with two million, two hundred
thousand.” 

Chaplin spoke up. “Of course there's expense money, Jack. Airline
tickets don't come cheap, and then there's the accommodation to pay 
for.” 

Pepper walked towards his window and gazed out into the street. “This is
fucking risky. Why not use genuine heroes and that way you wouldn't 
have to pay for the witnesses?” 

“We thought of that,” said Schofield. “What's to stop them betraying us
once they find out that the benefactor's offering a million? Why settle 
for two hundred thousand? No, it's better that our hero is a fraud and 
has no bargaining power.” 

The reporter turned to his guests. “There's something you two seem to
have overlooked... If we have heroes, then we need the people who have 
been saved.” 

Schofield raised his voice. “Don't you think we haven't thought of that?
We toyed with the idea of using one witness and one person who had been 
rescued; a mother and daughter for instance. Using too many people is 
dangerous.” 

The redheaded man pointed the stem of his pipe at Schofield. “And I
won't be expected to be involved with the witnesses?” 

“No way. Your job is to create the heroic deeds in your past newspapers,
and of course to leak to the media about Sam's client, nothing more... 
If we're caught, then so be it. We won't betray you, and you don't even 
have to meet the benefactor.” 

“But, I've only your word that you won't snitch on me... Half a million.
Half a million and we've got a deal.” 

Schofield rose from the sofa and prodded Pepper in the chest. “Fucking
forget it. In case it's escaped your attention, me and Sam here are the 
ones who are taking all the risks.” 

“Four hundred grand and that's my final word,” grinned Pepper. 

“No way. Come on, Sam, let's go. I knew this was a mistake coming here.”


Chaplin tugged on his brother in law's arm. “We can live with that,
Dean. He knows too much now.” 

Schofield calmed down and faced the smirking reporter. “As thick as
fucking thieves, Jack, eh? Three hundred grand and that's final.” 

Pepper thrust out his hand. “Gentlemen, you have yourself a deal.” 

4 

JAKARTA INDONESIA 

Schofield, looking splendid in his white suit, strolled through the
meticulous, vibrant gardens that surrounded the Jakarta Hilton 
International Hotel. He was conscious of the visible sweat stains below 
his armpits, a result of the infernal heat. Although it was the rainy 
season in Indonesia, there was no immediate relief from the soaring 
temperature. 

The impatient taxi driver sounded his horn once more and the Englishman
increased his pace. He climbed into the rear of the blue vehicle and 
muttered, “Ragunan Zoo please.” 

The smiling Indonesian driver checked his mirror. “You like the animals,
eh mister?” 

Schofield ignored the question and dabbed his forehead with his
handkerchief. They joined the chaotic chain of traffic, the deafening 
noise of the impatient drivers hooting their horns irritating the 
Londoner. He smiled at the comical cycle rickshaw drivers, meandering 
rapidly between the queue of traffic, and the absurd-looking three 
wheeled motorised cars, the bajajas. 

Schofield checked his wristwatch, now worrying that he would be late for
his appointment. Several hours trawling the Internet for potential 
would be heroes, had he hoped paid off. 

Manaf, a seventeen-year-old youth had reported on a tsunami survivors
website about how he had fled the tidal waves and lost his family in 
Banda Aceh, on the island of Sumatra in the Indian Ocean. A kindly 
Australian relief worker had taken pity on him and had offered Manaf a 
home in Jakarta. 

Schofield and Chaplin acknowledged the potential opportunity Manaf
offered and devised a scheme to lure him. Posing as an editor in a 
topical magazine, Schofield contacted the young man from Banda Aceh by 
e-mail, offering to interview him for a negotiable sum of money. 

It was decided that the private investigator would travel to Jakarta,
leaving Chaplin to search for other prospective bait. Schofield had 
agreed to pay the expenses from the money he had coerced from the wife 
of George Kyrimis; after all, he would have no need for a rented office 
if their scheme proved successful. To ask Morris O'Hara for the expense 
money would surely have alerted the Irishman to the fact that Chaplin 
had hired uncalled for assistance. 

Ragunan was situated in the southern sector of the city, about twenty
kilometres from the city centre. On route, Schofield marvelled at the 
many colourful mosques and the exotic buildings, decorated with carved 
archways and red-tiled roofs. The taxi crawled along in the traffic and 
Schofield was growing impatient. He pointed to his wristwatch and waved 
a wad of notes in the face of his driver. “Ten, I must make my 
appointment for ten 'o'clock, understand?” 

The ever-smiling driver accepted the reward and viciously swerved left
into a side street, provoking angry curses and more hoots from angry 
drivers. “Harunabdullah get you there very quickly, mister.” 

Schofield arrived outside Ragunan Zoo ten minutes early and abandoned
the taxi. Hr purchased a bottle of iced water from a vendor before 
squatting on the green bench, as requested. He examined the many faces 
of the visitors, unsure what Manaf looked like. 

Feeling the first drops of rain on his hot face, he rose from the bench
and looked for cover. The sudden downpour was torrential, and Schofield 
headed for the cover of the palm trees. A small boy, aged no more than 
ten scampered after him, holding his umbrella aloft to shelter the tall 
foreigner. 

“Thank you,” said Schofield, smiling at the skinny boy, who stared
incessantly at him. 

“Mister, mister,” enthused the boy, thrusting out his hand. Schofield
reluctantly withdrew his wallet from his inside pocket and was 
immediately surrounded by a pack of shouting youths. The foreigner was 
confused, watching the greedy eyes of the beggars as the downpour 
quickened, the huge raindrops bouncing off the baked, concrete road. 

A tall, thin boy, wearing an orange traditional robe screamed at the
young beggars and scattered them. The dark-eyed boy turned to Schofield 
and offered him his umbrella. “Mr Scott?” 

Schofield nodded. To use his real name could prove foolish if Manaf
refused his offer. 

The boy bowed. “I am Manaf. Welcome to Indonesia.” 

The rain stopped suddenly, just as quickly as it had started. He handed
the umbrella back to the boy, who declined. “Those boys are trouble, Mr 
Scott. They bring shame on my people.” 

Manaf headed towards the entrance to the zoo and Schofield followed.
They walked in silence for a minute or two, the chirping of the exotic 
birds now audible. Manaf motioned towards the natural hippopotamus 
pool. Aren't they wonderful creatures, Mr Scott?” 

Schofield agreed. They leant against the barrier, inhaling the strong
stench of the gigantic creatures. 

“You have your camera, Mr Scott?” quizzed Manaf. 

“Damn! I'm afraid I've left it in the hotel,” lied Schofield. How could
he have been so foolish? A magazine editor without a camera was like a 
fisherman without a rod. 

Schofield checked to see that nobody was within earshot. “You speak such
good English, Manaf. Where did you learn?” 

The boy bowed his head and Schofield noticed how young the boy looked.
“My uncle taught me, Mr Scott. He was the teacher in our village.” 

“Lambada, Lhok,” whispered Schofield. 

“Yes, Lambada Lhok... Why, Mr Scott? Why did the tsunami have to take so
many lives?” 

“A question I cannot answer, I'm afraid... It must have been difficult
for you, Manaf. I mean, losing your entire family.” 

Manaf avoided the question and walked on towards the ape compound. The
vibrant, green grass beneath their feet was now surprisingly dry. 
Schofield removed his jacket and loosened his tie, the relentless sun 
seemingly hotter than ever. They purchased some mango and devoured it, 
standing in the shade of a pine tree. 

A thin man with a snake draped over his shoulders stepped into the path
of Schofield. The Indonesian held out his hand and smiled. “You take 
picture?” 

Manaf shouted at the man, who went on his way. “How much money are you
offering for my story, Mr Scott? I am not greedy and will donate the 
money to my village.” 

This is not what Schofield wanted to hear. “Why not keep the money for
yourself, Manaf and start a new life?” 

“And what would I do with it? I have everything I want here now, after
Mr Adams kindly took me in. I will repay him of course, but one day, I 
will return to my village and help to rebuild it.” 

Schofield was in a state of meditation. Had he wasted so much time on
this journey? 

“Do you want to hear my story, Mr Scott?” 

Although Schofield had already read about Manaf's terrible ordeal on the
Internet, he nodded obligingly. 

“My father was a fisherman and I worked on the beach, hiring out beds
and umbrellas, and selling fruit and water. My mother and my two 
younger sisters liked to help me. My baby brother, Mustafa played in 
the sand as we prepared the fruit that morning. We were standing at the 
water's edge, waving at my father, who was setting sail. It happened so 
suddenly.” 

Schofield looked across at the tearful boy and removed his sunglasses. 

The boy continued. “The air at first was so still. Then we heard what
sounded like thunder. The sea receded as much as half a mile out, and 
boats along with my father's were beached. Hundreds of fish were 
stranded, fighting for breath as they flapped. Then there was this 
strange buzzing sound and the air was electric. There was another 
immense clap of thunder.” 

Schofield felt remorseful that he was here in an attempt to corrupt the
sad boy. He listened to what Manaf had to say with a heavy heart. 

“My father joined us and people were confused. Behind us, people were
screaming for us to get off the beach. Again, we heard a roar and saw 
an immense wave about sixty foot high coming towards us. My father 
gathered Mustafa in his arms and screamed for us to run for the higher 
ground. Around us, people were screaming and panicking. We ran for the 
high ground, but the sandy slope inhibited us. I climbed a palm tree 
and watched as my family were engulfed by the wave. I clung on for my 
life, witnessing the demise of my family. Baby Mustafa was prized from 
my father's grasp and my mother and sisters were swept away.” 

“Here, Manaf,” said Schofield, offering the distraught boy his water
bottle. 

Manaf swallowed a mouthful of the refreshing liquid before resuming with
his story. “I leapt from the tree and swam, but the wave was too 
powerful and I was helpless. Several times, I went under and thought I 
would drown, but it was not to be. I eventually reached the higher 
ground, before another three waves struck. These brought debris, glass 
and refuge with them. Buildings toppled and cars were thrown about like 
matchsticks. The bodies; there were so many bodies, mainly women and 
children who were too weak to climb the trees or to swim... Out of four 
thousand people who inhabited my village, only four hundred survived.” 

“And you found one of your sisters?” quizzed Schofield. 

“Yes, I buried Kamariah. The rest of my family, I never found; probably
buried beneath the mud mangroves or in a mass grave... Today, my people 
are rebuilding, and I must return there soon.” 

Schofield swigged from his water bottle and contemplated his next
statement. “Manaf, what if I was to offer you a great deal of money? 
Money that could change your life forever?” 

“You mean change the life of my people? With the money, I would erect
memorials; not just for my family, but for every person who perished in 
Lambada Lhok on December 26th, 2004.” 

The sorrowful private investigator decided against corrupting Manaf for
the time being. Between them, he and Chaplin would make the decision 
whether to offer the Indonesian part of O'Hara's money. 

They left the zoo and Schofield arranged a further meeting the next day.
He beckoned a taxi and looked back as they moved off, at the tall, thin 
boy who had moved him so. What the Englishman needed most was a cold 
shower, and to scrub the undignified repentance from his pores. 


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