Blood Money (chapters fifteen and sixteen.) (standard:Suspense, 5564 words) [8/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 23 2011	Views/Reads: 2306/1804	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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Keenan unwrapped one of his lollipops and buttoned up his combat jacket.
“I hardly think they'd risk robbing you to save themselves three 
hundred thousand grand.” 

“That's what I reckoned, so who are we left with? Manaf and Mukhtar. One
of them obviously got greedy, and with a little help from their 
friends, they pulled off the robbery. What irks me though is how they 
knew about the money?” 

Keenan dipped his lollypop into his brandy. 

“Christ, Terry Keenan, you're such an animal,” groaned O'Hara. 

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Keenan. 

O'Hara lit up a cigar. “Chaplin doesn't strike me as a brave man. I'll
get Jimmy to question him and then... Chaplin must be emotionally 
unstable, after all the newspapers are suggesting that he may have had 
something to do with the robbery. It wouldn't surprise me if he topped 
himself.” O'Hara grinned, a glint in his eye. 

“And me?” 

“You, Terry. You're off on another holiday. Indonesia or Pakistan? I'll
leave the choice up to you... You may need some help, so I've contacted 
some of the boys.” 

“I work alone, you know that.” 

O'Hara inhaled on his cigar. “You may be up against three of them,
though I'm more than sure that one of them may be lying on a slab in 
the morgue. I shot the bastard at least twice.” 

O'Hara walked towards the mansion and Keenan followed. “Wait here,
Terry.” 

Keenan stepped inside and smiled at the huge portrait of O'Hara, which
dominated the hall. Though O'Hara would never be summoned to Buckingham 
Palace, he liked to think of himself as Lord of the manor. Two 
mansions, homes in Madrid, Rome, Miami and Sydney were evidence of his 
vast wealth. 

Hearing the footsteps, Keenan turned to face O'Hara, who passed over two
large envelopes. “Your fee as agreed and your expense money. And for 
God's sake, Terry, fucking smarten yourself up.” 

Sitting around the breakfast table on Sunday morning, Pauline nibbled on
her toast and watched her husband, whose head was buried in his 
newspaper. She realised that their marriage was becoming unstable. 
Lately, Sam could not even muster up a cuddle, let alone the act of 
sex. Little David slammed his spoon repeatedly onto the top of his 
boiled egg. 

“Do you mind?” moaned Chaplin. 

“Sam,” countered Pauline. “Just what the hell's bothering you?” 

“You don't know?” he asked sarcastically. “My friends won't even speak
to me. Half of them believe I'm conspiring with Morris O'Hara and think 
I'm a member of the IRA, and the other half think I'm a fucking armed 
robber.” 

“Sam! Don't you ever swear in front of David... All the time we've been
married, and I've never heard you use such language.” 

David continued to hammer his egg. 

Chaplin knocked over the eggcup with one swipe and the yolk splattered
onto the dining room floor. 

“Stop it! Do you hear me, stop it!” yelled Pauline. 

Chaplin raced for the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I'm off for some cigarettes. I could use the fresh air.” He brushed
past the postman, who was in the process of handing him a letter. 

The troubled solicitor ignored the early morning drizzle and wore only a
shirt. He took a deep breath and tried hard to restrain himself from 
crying. He regretted treating his family so badly, but what he had not 
told his wife was that he was about to lose his job. 

John Bullard, the junior partner had voiced his concern and blamed
Chaplin's unwanted publicity for their lack of business. Chaplin, in 
his desperation had hinted to Simon Hector that he knew about his 
sordid secret, but the threat was brushed aside, with his employer 
challenging him to prove the allegation. A date in court was the last 
thing that Chaplin needed, and now he awaited his final notice. 

The solicitor heard the sound of a car coasting behind him. He looked
around and jogged across the road towards the newsagents. Stopping 
outside the shop, Chaplin once more turned to view the black BMW that 
had parked at the side of the road. 

Chaplin entered the newsagents and paid for his cigarettes. He slowly
approached the door and peeped through the glass. 

“Is everything all right?” asked the newsagent. 

Chaplin ignored him and focused on the face of the driver. Although he
was wearing sunglasses, the face seemed familiar. “Is there a back door 
out of here?” 

“It is locked. The manager has the only key. What is...” 

Chaplin was back onto the street before the shopkeeper could finish his
sentence. He walked in a different direction and stopped at an 
electrical store. Looking at the reflection in the window, he could 
clearly see the BMW crawling towards him. Chaplin faced the driver and 
the memories came flooding back. 

The driver had removed his sunglasses. Jimmy Cochrane, though a little
heavier had not changed too much. His once dark beard was flecked with 
grey, but the same black, lifeless eyes that had stared back at him 
from across the courtroom remained unaltered. A flat cap hid his wild, 
dishevelled hair. 

Chaplin broke into a run and he heard the BMW accelerate. Crossing the
sodden green, Chaplin sprinted towards a church. Without looking back, 
he went inside and walked swiftly to the front. He shuffled along the 
aisle, disturbing the Sunday morning worshippers who were singing a 
chorus of, All things bright and beautiful. 

Picking up a hymn book, he nervously checked over his shoulder to see
Cochrane standing at the rear of the church. The Irishman wore a black 
leather coat and gloves. He removed his cap and his eyes searched for 
his quarry. 

Fifteen minutes later and the service came to an end. Chaplin remained
seated, unsettled by the presence of the persistent Irishman, who was 
watching him, arms folded. Several of the congregation chatted to the 
priest before vacating the church. 

Chaplin had made his decision. He walked rapidly towards the front of
the church and entered a chamber. Panic-stricken, he fumbled around; 
searching for an exit that did not exist. Realising he was trapped, 
Chaplin crouched beneath a table; a feeble attempt to evade his 
pursuer, but his mind was addled. He pulled down the draping tablecloth 
in a vain attempt to conceal himself. 

He ceased breathing, listening to the approaching footsteps that echoed
off the polished, wooden floor. Cochrane was now standing so close to 
the table that Chaplin could smell the newly polished shoes. 

“Come out, come out wherever you are, Sam,” teased Cochrane. “Who's been
a naughty boy then?” 

Chaplin remained motionless. 

“Let's not play fucking games, Sam. I only want to speak to you. You
have nothing to fear from me, after all, you did successfully defend me 
didn't you, and I owe you a favour?” 

Chaplin heard someone else enter the chamber. 

“What are you doing in here? This room is off limits.” 

“Relax Father,” said Cochrane. “I swear I saw a frightened rat run into
here, and so like the good Catholic son I am, I decided to pursue the 
poor creature.” 

“Please leave or I'll be forced to call the police.” 

Cochrane faced the priest. “Now why you would you want to do that? I'm
merely carrying out a compassionate act. The rat looked in some 
distress, Father.” 

“Go now,” threatened the priest. 

Chaplin closed his eyes in relief, as he heard the Irishman leave. “You
can come out now.” 

The solicitor struggled to his feet. “Thank you, Father.” 

“Why is this man chasing you?” 

“It's a long story... Is there another way out of here?” 

The priest ignored the plea. “You're not a fugitive are you?” 

“No, of course not... Listen, Father, that man means to harm me.” 

“Do you want me to call the police?” 

“No! Please, is there another way out of here?” 

The priest led Chaplin along a corridor until they came to an exit. 

Chaplin opened the door and searched the area with his eyes. “Thank you,
Father, I owe you one.” 

The solicitor sprinted across the green, towards the subway. He
considered his family and slowed down, reaching for his cell phone. He 
had to warn Pauline and David. Before Chaplin could make his call, he 
heard the roar of the engine as the black BMW sped across the green. 
The frightened man increased his pace, the incident now attracting a 
handful of curious spectators. 

The vehicle veered in front of Chaplin, causing him to topple onto the
bonnet. Cochrane ignored the witnesses and vacated his car, menacingly 
waving his pistol at Chaplin. “Get in, Sam! Stop fucking me about and 
get in the motor.” 

Chaplin obeyed his wild-eyed tormentor. The BMW pulled away and Cochrane
looked across at his captive. “I'll give you credit, Sam; you've got 
balls. It certainly took spunk to even consider robbing old Morris.” 

Chaplin sighed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jimmy, but I had nothing to do
with the robbery.” 

Cochrane smiled. “Oh, we know that. Well, not the actual robbery, but
you still planned along with the paki, the Greek and the slant to 
fleece Mr O'Hara out of his money.” 

Cochrane grinned sadistically; noticing the look of surprise on
Chaplin's worried face. “Oh, come on, Sam; surely you must have had an 
inkling that we'd rumble you; after all, three million is a lot of 
money.” 

“So what happens now?” asked Chaplin, checking behind him hopefully,
half expecting one of the witnesses to have contacted the police. 

“Well, that's down to you, Sam. Let's just say that your welfare is in
your own hands.” 

“Meaning what? I don't know where the money is.” 

Cochrane checked his mirror and Chaplin realised that they were heading
towards his own home. 

“I really do believe you, but I'm merely a pawn in Mr O'Hara's
employment and I have to follow his orders.” 

The BMW pulled into Chaplin's driveway and the non-appearance of Pauline
and David worried the solicitor. 

“Oh, not expecting your wife and kid are you, Sam? They've been
conveniently dealt with. I phoned your wife earlier and told her that 
you've been involved in a motor accident. At this moment, I reckon 
she's on her way to the hospital.” 

Threatened by the Irishman's weapon, Chaplin was urged to open the
garage door, and Cochrane steered the car inside. After closing the 
garage door, Cochrane invited Chaplin to sit beside him in the 
passenger seat, before turning off the engine. 

“Okay, Sam, I'll give it to you as straight as I can... Mr O'Hara is a
romantic and the love of his life is his fucking money. Putting two and 
two together, he reckoned that either you, Manaf, Mukhtar or Darius had 
to have robbed him. The Greek, who incidentally is now a banquet for 
the crabs, betrayed you, Sam. We're almost certain that he had nothing 
to do with the robbery, so that leaves just the three suspects.” 

“I've told you, Cochrane, I had...” 

“Don't fucking interrupt me... It wouldn't make sense you planning the
robbery, after all, you stood to make a hefty profit without resorting 
to anything so drastic, but Manaf and Mukhtar certainly had a motive. 
What did you offer them? One hundred grand each? Why are you solicitors 
such a greedy breed?” 

Cochrane closed the windows of the BMW. “Mr O'Hara, although a proud
man, is reluctantly willing to overlook your foolishness if you can 
help him get back his money.” 

“But how? I don't know who took his bloody money.” 

Cochrane waved his pistol. “Tell me about Manaf and Mukhtar. How did you
recruit them?” 

Chaplin swallowed, his throat dry and sore. “As I told Mr O'Hara, I read
about Manaf on the internet. I travelled to Indonesia and met with 
him,” lied the desperate solicitor. Believe me, there's no way he's 
involved with the robbery.” 

“How can you be so sure?” probed Cochrane. 

“Manaf merely wanted to rebuild his village. There's not a bad bone in
his body.” 

“Perhaps, but do not be fooled by appearances... So, then you travelled
to Pakistan to meet Mukhtar?” 

“I did.” 

“And Greece?” 

Chaplin nodded. 

“So you just happened to choose your three accomplices from the
internet?” 

“Yes.” 

“You told Mr O'Hara that Lance Peebles suggested that you nominate
Mukhtar?” 

“It wasn't so much a suggestion.”. 

Cochrane lit up a roll-up and glared at the Englishman. “You're fucking
lying, Sam!” 

“No I'm...” 

“Shut up!” Cochrane slapped the passport down onto the dashboard. “Where
did you...How?” 

Cochrane ignored the question. “Yes, you visited Pakistan, but Indonesia
and Greece? Why are you fucking lying to me, Sam? Who are you 
protecting?” 

Chaplin remained silent. 

“Your brother in law, Schofield; is he in this with you?” 

Chaplin shook his head. “Dean? No, of course not.” 

“Peebles?” 

“No!” 

Cochrane held a photograph of Joe Pepper in front of the flustered
solicitor. “How about him? Who is this ginger twat?” 

“He's a friend... Look, they know nothing about my scheme. Why would I
confide in them?” 

Cochrane drew heavily on his cigarette and Chaplin coughed and reached
for the window. 

“Don't!” threatened the gunman. “Let's just say for argument's sake that
your brother in law and ginger did know about your scheme. Perhaps over 
a drink you boasted to them that you were fleecing the famous Morris 
O'Hara? The greedy bastards could then have planned the robbery, 
unknown to you.” 

“No... I never uttered a word about the money.” 

Cochrane stubbed out his cigarette. “You're making me a very angry man,
Sam. Don't fucking take the piss. I saw you visiting your brother in 
law's flat, along with ginger. You deemed that the meeting was to be so 
secretive that you parked several streets away.” 

“Jimmy, have you tried parking in..?” 

“For the last time, shut the fuck up... You're feeding me bullshit,
Sam... You're trying to tell me that even if they weren't your 
accomplices, you failed to mention to them that you were representing 
Morris O'Hara in a lucrative deal? Fucking bullshit.” 

There was a prolonged silence and Cochrane fiddled with his firearm. 

“It's got to be Mukhtar,” offered Chaplin. “I never trusted him from the
beginning.” 

The Irishman listened patiently, whistling Danny Boy as he considered
his options. 

Chaplin, for whatever reason, recalled his rendezvous with Schofield in
Trafalgar Square. He remembered the two Asian men who sat beside them. 
“Of course.” 

“Talk to me, Sam.” 

Chaplin realised his error and somehow had to omit his brother in law
from his explanation. “It was Mukhtar, I'm certain of it. Two Asian 
men, Pakistan or Indian followed me. At first, I made nothing of it, 
but now it makes sense. Mukhtar you bastard.” 

Cochrane pondered. “Peebles may have had a profitable interest in
Mukhtar... So how did they know that cash would be used and not a 
cheque, as reported in the newspapers?” 

Chaplin was speechless. The more he tried to absolve Schofield and
Pepper, the more complicated it was becoming. His head ached and he was 
so thirsty. 

Cochrane rested his feet on the dashboard and sighed. “In my profession,
Sam I deal in death and dishonesty, as well you know. I lied about Mr 
O'Hara's clemency, and I'm sure that you already know that. Morris is a 
proud man and if it ever came out that a pen pusher and three 
foreigners tried to scam him, he'd be a laughing stock... Yes, he 
ordered me to attain the identity of the robbers from you, and then he 
told me to terminate your life, Sam.” 

“Please, Jimmy, I have a wife and son.” 

“And the Queen shits. Sad, but I'll get over it... Listen, I'm not so
heartless that I cannot send you to your maker without affording you a 
little security and peace of mind to your memories. I was going to let 
you do the honourable thing and kill yourself here in the garage. If 
you didn't, then I was going to take the life of your pretty wife and 
child. However, I believe you're a yellow-bellied coward and so I can't 
take any chances.” 

“Cochrane removed some tie wraps from his glove compartment and fumbled
behind his seat for a length of tubing. 

“How much, Jimmy?” pleaded Chaplin. 

“Sam, Sam, I've seen your finances remember... Like I was saying, I'll
make you a deal. The identity of ginger for the lives of your wife and 
son?” 

Chaplin bowed his head. He contemplated trying to overpower the
Irishman, but all of his resolve had been drained by the unfortunate 
circumstances that had befallen him. “Jack Pepper,” he muttered. “He 
works for the Daily Mirror.” 

“I'll keep my word, Sam. Your family will not be harmed. Of course, I'll
have to have a chat with your good wife first. If she reported the 
mysterious telephone call about your so-called accident, then it 
wouldn't look too good for me now would it?” 

Cochrane motioned for Chaplin to get out of the vehicle and led him
towards his own car, which was parked behind. 

“Make yourself comfortable, Sam,” uttered the killer, who proceeded to
bind the solicitor's hands to the steering wheel with the tie raps. 
“I'll be outside, and remove the tie wraps just as soon as you're 
gone.” 

“Please,” begged Chaplin with tearful eyes. “I'll take my life
voluntarily. I may be a coward, but I love my wife and son. Please, 
Jimmy.” 

The Irishman nodded. “I must be going soft in my old age... Okay, Sam...
A tip mate; take big breaths.” 

Cochrane put on his gloves and inserted the tubing into the exhaust
pipe. He then handed the end of the tubing to Chaplin, who held it in 
place with his window. 

“Oh, I almost forgot, Sam. Your phone please. I wouldn't want you to get
any ideas now would I?” 

Cochrane nodded and Chaplin reluctantly turned on the engine. The killer
shut the garage door, leaned against the wall and nonchalantly smoked 
another cigarette. It was an emotional vocation, but somebody had to do 
it. 

16 

The downpour added more misery to the sombre occasion in the cemetery.
Schofield held Pauline's umbrella over her and held her hand. His 
sister, although understandably distraught, seemed so distant and 
secretive. The private detective sensed that Pauline was holding 
something back, but now was not the time for probing. David was being 
comforted by his grandparents; his sobbing audible above the driving 
rain. 

One by one, the family and friends of Sam Chaplin stepped forward and
tossed a handful of earth onto his coffin. Schofield, seeing Morris 
O'Hara perform the respectful act had to exercise all of his will power 
not to intercept the Irishman. Schofield doubted that his brother in 
law would take his own life, and O'Hara had both the motive and the 
resources to end Sam's life. 

Schofield felt warm breath on his neck and the odour of garlic repulsed
him. 

“Can I have a word in private, Dean?” 

Schofield turned to face a pock-faced man. “Do I know you?” 

The detective produced his ID. “Chief Inspector Bruce, CID.” 

Schofield turned his attention to a younger, blonde man, not much older
than himself, who was wearing a long leather coat. His immaculately 
groomed hair and his film star looks made this man stand out in crowd; 
a definite disadvantage, given his vocation. 

“This is Inspector De Vries from Interpol.” 

“Interpol?” Schofield kissed his sister on the cheek before joining the
two detectives. They detached themselves from the mourners and a 
rainbow appeared ahead; promising a change in the weather. 

De Vries produced a batch of photographs. “Mr Schofield. Do you
recognise any of these men?” 

The Londoner browsed through the photographs. “I don't recognise any of
these men.” 

“Take another look, Mr Schofield,” urged De Vries. 

Again, Schofield shook his head. “I don't know these men.” 

DCI Bruce joined in. “That man there is Mukhtar Ahmed. You haven't met
him?” 

“No, why should I have?” 

The Chief Inspector led his companions towards an old gravestone. “My
parents. It seems only like yesterday when I buried them.” 

“Can I go now?” asked Schofield. “I ought to be with my sister.” 

DCI Bruce frowned. “Mukhtar Ahmed was one of the men nominated by your
brother in law to receive one million pounds from Morris O'Hara.” 

Schofield appeared bemused. “Of course. He did mention Mukhtar to me,
but I never met the man.” 

They walked on. “Do you think Sam killed himself?” asked Bruce. 

“What sort of a question is that?” 

The detective continued. “Only two people knew about the three million
pounds in O'Hara's van, and one of them was your brother in law. Now 
believe me when I tell you that Morris O'Hara is not the smiling, 
caring man he appears to be on his advertisements for his 
supermarkets.” 

Schofield removed his tie. “Are you trying to tell me that O'Hara
suspected Sam of carrying out that robbery?” 

“Why not?” shrugged the Chief Inspector. “Your brother in law was having
financial difficulties... Nothing however can convince me that Sam 
masterminded this. First of all, he would have had to recruit someone 
to carry out the robbery; someone he could trust.” 

“I'm not liking the vibes I'm getting here,” moaned Schofield. 

“Don't worry, Dean. We know where you were at the time of the robbery.” 

“What? You know...” 

“We've been following you for some time,” said De Vries.... “Let me
explain shall I? Mukhtar Ahmed, we've had under surveillance for two 
years now. He along with the other two men in the photographs were 
involved with Sipah-e-Sahaba, Pakistan.” 

“Come again?” 

“SSP as they're known, are a Sunni sectarian outfit, who target the
minority Shia community in Pakistan. Their aim is for Pakistan to be 
declared a Sunni state. To attain their goal, they murder prominent 
opponent organisation activists and often attack worshippers in mosques 
operated by opposing sects.” 

“I don't understand where this is leading?” 

“Let me finish, Mr Schofield and all will become clear,” demanded De
Vries. “Mukhtar and his friends were small fish. They liked to think 
they were terrorists, but they were merely errand boys. As I told you, 
we had them under surveillance, and many arrests were made because of 
this.” The Dutchman foraged through his inside pocket and produced 
another photograph. “Do you know this man?” 

Schofield screwed his eyes up and studied the face. “No.” 

De Vries retrieved the photograph. “He's Lance Peebles, a Red Cross
worker who was a close friend of your brother in law.” 

Again, Chief Inspector Bruce intervened. “I interviewed Sam and he told
me that Peebles put forward Mukhtar's name for O'Hara's donation. 
Inspector De Vries arrived at the station and lo and behold, the name 
Lance Peebles came up again. Interpol has also been keeping tabs on him 
for some time. He seems to spend an awful lot of time with Mukhtar.” 

Schofield glanced at his wristwatch. “Why are you telling me this?” 

The detective grinned with satisfaction. “Mukhtar, if he planned the
robbery was taking one hell of a chance; after all, he was due one 
million pounds himself. Inspector De Vries here has a notion that 
Mukhtar and Peebles, who may also have links with SSP, were trying to 
impress them. They would deliver the three million and command respect, 
maybe even climbing the ranks in the terrorist organisation.” 

“Again, what has this to do with me?” 

De Vries ignored the question as the rain eased off. “I was in Islamabad
when your brother in law met with Mukhtar. Because of that and his 
friendship with Lance Peebles, Chaplin was marked as a potential 
terrorist.” 

“That's crap and you know it.” 

“No, we don't know it,” countered Bruce. “We had Sam followed, and when
he met with you and Jack Pepper several times, we had you followed too. 
That's how we know you were bedding a certain Sharon Pickering at the 
time of the robbery.” 

“You think I'm involved with this SSP?” 

“No, I do not,” smiled De Vries. “I also believe that your brother in
law was innocent... What we were hoping was that you could tell us 
something about Peebles or the men in this photograph. It seemed 
feasible that Mukhtar's friends carried out the robbery, but you say 
you never met the man, so it seems our questioning is pointless.” 

“So why don't you arrest Mukhtar?” 

De Vries seemed embarrassed by the question. “Because, Mr Schofield, we
don‘t know where he is... He's no doubt by now left the country with a 
false passport...  Mr Schofield, I must warn you that you are bound by 
the Official Secret's Act and you must not disclose what you have heard 
today.” 

“Not even about O'Hara?” 

Chief Inspector Bruce spoke. “Leave O'Hara to us, Dean. Witnesses say
they saw someone resembling Sam being chased by a car on the morning of 
his death. A priest has also come forward, stating that Sam was hiding 
in his church. He's gave us a good description of an Irishman who he 
confronted. We've a good idea by the car and the description, who he 
is.” 

“And what do I tell my sister?” 

“Nothing, Dean; you tell her nothing. Let her mourn her husband, and God
willing, her grief will be short... Good morning, Dean.” 

Schofield, in his mind recalled the photographs of Mukhtar's associates.
The last time he had seen the two men was in Trafalgar Square.” 

Schofield had to admit that he failed to recognise the majority of the
mourners at Sam's wake. Pauline was understandably subdued; wandering 
around as if in a trance, and even ignoring her own son. 

Schofield gazed through the patio doors at little David ,who was playing
on his swing. The private detective was not surprised by the 
six-year-old's apparent ignorance to his father's death. Although tears 
had been shed after being notified of his death, David now seemed calm. 
Schofield had witnessed it many times before, including the result of 
the death of his own mother. Perhaps delayed shock or a child's 
incapability to take in such a drastic event in their life, contributed 
to their confused mind. 

David looked towards his approaching uncle, his face impassive. 

“Hello, David. Need a push?” Schofield looked up at the darkening sky.
“Looks like rain again... How about we go inside?” 

“I don't want to.” 

Schofield continued to push his nephew. “I too lost my mother when I was
about your age, David. In time, you will get over your loss. Your 
father was a good man and one-day I'm sure you'll do him proud.” 

The young boy turned his head towards his uncle. “Did the Scottish man
kill my father, Uncle Dean?” 

Schofield ceased his pushing. “Scottish man?” 

David nodded his head. Schofield stepped in front of David and crouched
down. “Tell me about the Scottish man, David.” 

David cocked his head to one side. “I heard him talking to my mother.” 

“You heard the Scottish man talking to your mother? When?” 

“When we came back from the hospital.” 

Schofield frowned. “The hospital?” 

David nodded. 

“What did you hear, David?” 

The Scottish man told mother that it would be better if I went inside,
but I listened at the door... He told her he would hurt me if she went 
to the police.” 

Schofield hugged his nephew. “Nobody is going to hurt you, David... Does
your mother know that you heard them?” 

“No. You won't tell her will you?” 

“No, I won't tell her, David.” 

Schofield continued to push David, considering what he had been told.
Sam's father joined them, and after offering his condolences Schofield 
returned indoors. He watched Pauline returning from the kitchen, 
carrying a tray of teacups. Being a curious and impatient man, 
Schofield approached his sister and whispered into her ear. “We have to 
talk.” 

“Would you like a nice cup of tea, Dean?” 

Schofield ushered his sister into the deserted parlour. “What's going
on, Pauline?” 

Pauline was far away, judging by her nonchalant gaze. “Are you sure you
don't want a cup of tea?” 

“Who's the Scotsman?” 

“What?” 

“David told me that some Scotsman threatened to hurt him.” 

Pauline smiled, her eyes glassy. “David? He's always fibbing. He's
just...” 

“Tell me, Pauline... I know something's wrong; I can sense it.” 

Pauline attempted to pass by her brother who barred her way. “I've lost
my husband and David's lost his father. Yes, something's bloody wrong, 
Dean.” 

The grieving woman sobbed uncontrollably. Schofield hugged his weeping
sister. 

“What happened, Pauline? Who is this Scotsman?” 

She looked up at him with reddened eyes, her lips quivering and her
hands trembling. “Not a Scotsman, Dean. Not a Scotsman, but an 
Irishman.” 

“My God... O'Hara?” 

Pauline shook her head. “No... I received a telephone call on Sunday
morning. I was told that Sam had been involved in a road accident and 
to make my way to Paddington hospital immediately... When I got there, 
nobody knew about any accident.” 

“Go on,” urged Schofield. 

“When we arrived home there was a man waiting at the door. He told me
that Sam had killed himself. Of course, I didn't believe him, but he 
insisted. He said that he made the hoax call so that he could be alone 
with Sam in order to talk him out of killing himself. Of course, I'm 
not stupid and told him to get off my property. It was then that he 
threatened to kill David if I reported the hoax call or mentioned the 
meeting with him.” 

“Had you ever seen this man before, sis?” 

“His face was familiar, but from where I don't know... He said that Sam
was dead and there was nothing I could do about it but get on with my 
life. Again, he swore that he would kill David if I spoke to the 
police. He suggested that I phone them and report finding Sam.” 

“O'Hara,” mumbled Schofield. 

Pauline dabbed her wet eyes with her handkerchief and sobbed. “Does that
stupid Irishman really think that Sam would rob him?” 

Schofield resisted temptation to tell his sister about their original
plan. 

“What am I to do, Dean?” 

Schofield pondered. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing... There's no sense in
risking David's life, and I know that these people don't bluff... 
Believe me, Pauline when I tell you that Sam's death will be avenged. 
O'Hara will get his comeuppance one-day, I swear it.” 

Schofield left Primrose Hill that afternoon, more intent than ever to
first of all locate the robbers of the three million pounds, and then 
to execute the killer of his brother in law. 


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