Blood Money (chapters seventeen and eighteen.) (standard:Suspense, 4420 words) [9/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 24 2011	Views/Reads: 2299/1768	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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I'll tell him the whole scam was your idea.” 

Schofield examined the early afternoon drinkers carefully. Who was in
the employment of CID? The middle-aged businessman perhaps, who was 
checking the FTSE index, or maybe the scruffy man who was attempting to 
pick out the winner in the two-fifteen at Sandown? “I've got to reach 
Mukhtar before O'Hara's monkeys find him.” 

Pepper rose from the table. “That's it, Deano, we're through, okay? I
want nothing to do with you ever again.” 

“And if I retrieve our money?” 

“Keep it... Keep the fucking money. And, Deano; it was never our money.
We had a dream, nothing more.” 

“Whatever... When I do get the money, Pauline will receive Sam's share
and I'll make sure Manaf and Kannelakis gets what's owing to them.” 

Pepper leaned over the table and placed his face close to Schofield's.
“I trust you'll keep my name out of this, just on the chance that 
O'Hara comes calling.” 

“Although I'll be tempted to give your name, I'm no grass. Goodbye,
Jack.” 

Schofield now fully realised just how much he hated Pepper. He watched
the reporter jogging across the busy road towards his car. In his short 
time as a private detective, Schofield had become competently adept in 
the art of surveillance, unlike the young woman who occasionally caught 
his eye. Her awkward glance, he was sure was not a flirting gesture; 
therefore, she was working for either O'Hara or Chief Inspector Bruce. 
He suspected the latter. If O'Hara suspected him of being involved with 
the robbery, then surely he would now be lying in a grave adjacent to 
his brother in law. 

Schofield playfully winked at the pretty detective, grinning
satisfactorily at her obvious discomfort at being made. His body 
convulsed, when the deafening blast reached his ears. Sporadic 
screaming followed the horror, and a mixture of petrol and burnt 
plastic penetrated his nostrils. 

The female detective talked hysterically into her radio, ignoring
Schofield, who passed her. Black smoke spiralled towards the once blue 
sky and Schofield could just make out the remains of the devastated 
coffee shop. He looked to where Pepper's Peugeot had been parked and 
saw nothing but remnants of blue plastic and a million splinters of 
glass. 

Wandering trance-like across the road, he witnessed the carnage. The
injured were being helped by pedestrians, and the not so fortunate 
souls were scattered on the ground, limbless and bloody. Several cars 
were ablaze, their drivers past helping. 

The tears that streamed down Schofield's eyes were not for Jack Pepper,
but for the innocent who were caught up in this bloodbath. O‘Hara had 
today demonstrated his ruthlessness and apathy towards mankind. To 
eliminate Jack Pepper, he had shown total disregard for the innocent. 

Schofield stooped down and reached out for something that had caught his
eye. Pepper's pipe was intact; its owner not so lucky. 

Chief Inspector Bruce and Sergeant Kinsella watched with optimism as the
priest surveyed the identity parade. Father Blake had appeared 
confident that he could pick out Chaplin's Irish tormentor. DCI Bruce's 
expectation floundered when the priest moved on, ignoring the imposing 
figure of Jimmy Cochrane. 

“Come on, come on,” whispered Bruce. 

Father Blake turned to the detectives. “I'm sorry, Chief Inspector. The
man I saw in church is not there.” 

Bruce's investigative instincts told him that the priest was lying. The
holy man avoided eye contact; an obvious tell to the experienced 
detective. 

“Please, Father, take another look.” 

“I don't need to... The man is not in that line up.” 

The disappointed detective mustered a smile. “Okay, Father, you can go.”


Sergeant Kinsella waited until the priest left the room before speaking.
“He's lying. He's been got at.” 

“Of course he's been got at, Sherlock,” offered DCI Bruce. “Can you
blame the poor bastard? Every witness who voluntarily came forward has 
failed to incriminate Cochrane.” 

Kinsella began to whistle the Van Der Valk tune with the appearance of
Inspector De Vries. 

“I thought you'd left,” said the Chief Inspector. 

The Dutchman stared hostilely at DS Kinsella. “Has anyone ever told you,
Sergeant, you're tone deaf?.. Don't tell me that you weren't surprised, 
Chief Inspector, about the priest's silence.” 

“Yesterday, he seemed so reassuring... Anyway, why are Interpol so
interested with the death of Sam Chaplin? I thought it was Mukhtar that 
you were after.” 

The three men ambled along the corridor and stopped at a coffee machine.
De Vries proceeded to feed the machine with an assortment of coins. 
“Mukhtar, we're still unable to locate. Also, Lance Peebles has gone 
AWOL... Chief Inspector, O'Hara obviously believed that this Jack 
Pepper had something to do with the robbery. I gather you've put 
Schofield under surveillance?” 

DCI Bruce reddened and glanced at DS Kinsella. “At this moment in time,
we don't know the whereabouts of Schofield.” 

De Vries blew on his hot coffee. “You've lost him?” 

“Yes, we've lost him,” responded Bruce. 

The man from Interpol smirked. “What a fucking mess... Now as I see it,
there are three scenarios that I'd like to put to you. One, Schofield 
was involved with Mukhtar and helped to mastermind the robbery. He 
could have gotten the information from his brother in law, who it 
seemed like to boast about his good fortune.... Two, Schofield is 
merely out for revenge and is foolishly going after O'Hara.” 

“And the third scenario?” asked DCI Bruce. 

De Vries grimaced at the bitter tasting coffee. “Maybe Schofield is
innocent and O'Hara's fed him to his pigs... I'm swaying towards my 
first suggestion... Schofield has probably left the country with a 
false passport and has met up with Peebles and Mukhtar.” 

“But Schofield was screwing some whore at the time of the robbery,”
quizzed DS Kinsella. 

De Vries nodded. “Convenient, eh? What if Peebles is the mastermind
behind this? Chaplin no doubt asked him if he knew any heroes in the 
making.” 

“Slow down, Inspector,” broke in DCI Bruce. “It would make sense that
Peebles suggested Mukhtar as one of O'Hara's beneficiaries, but where 
does Schofield come into this?” 

“Who knows? Chaplin could have boasted when in drink about their plot,
and Schofield then could have resorted to blackmail in order to wheedle 
his way into the gang. Or maybe, Peebles needed an extra pair of 
hands.” 

“Aren't you forgetting Pepper?” asked DS Kinsella. “Why would they need
him?” 

De Vries shrugged his shoulders. “He works for the Daily Mirror. Maybe
he manufactured a story about Mukhtar's heroic deeds, or perhaps he is 
innocent.” 

The trio entered the operation's room. De Vries turned towards the men
from CID. “Listen, I won‘t bullshit you. “I don't give a fuck about 
O‘Hara and his bloody exploits. Gross incompetence is what I've come to 
expect from the British police force... What I do care about is where 
the three million has gone. If as I believe the money is to help fund 
the SSP, then Schofield is a dead man walking... I aim to track down 
Peebles, Mukhtar and his entire gang. My job would be a lot easier if I 
didn't have some fanatical Irishmen for company.” 

“Are you finished?” growled DCI Bruce. “We didn't want you here, and
just in case it's escaped your immaculate attention; weren't you 
supposed to be tracking Peebles and Mukhtar? Now leave me to do my job 
and stick your fucking daffodils up your smug Dutch arse. A good day to 
you.” 

De Vries glared at the sergeant. “Do you think I've upset him?” 

Exiting the lift on the tenth floor of Westminster Tower, Schofield saw
the sign that pointed him in the direction of the Red Cross department. 
Now sporting blonde, cropped hair and wearing tinted spectacles, the 
private investigator deemed the disguise necessary to evade both the 
police, and more worryingly, O'Hara's band of killers. 

As he entered the office, he went unchallenged and asked directions to
the girl he sought. The plump, bespectacled relief worker smiled coyly 
when he approached her desk. 

“Julie? Julie Chrysler?” 

“You must be Dean Chaplin,” she said, offering her hand. 

“That's right.” 

“I'm sorry about the loss of your brother, Mr Chaplin.” 

“Please call me Dean... As I told you on the telephone, my brother and
Lance Peebles were very close.” 

Schofield displayed his sexiest smile. The lies he told the girl were
minor and his need to contact Peebles was great. 

“As I said, Dean, Lance has not been seen for several days and he's not
answering his phone... Incidentally, his house was burgled over the 
weekend.” 

Schofield guessed who was responsible for the break in. “Has anyone ever
told you that you resemble, Catherine Zeta Jones?” Another white lie. 

The girl blushed. “Lance of course spent a lot of time in Pakistan, but
our colleagues over there have not been able to contact him. The police 
have been notified of course, but at this early stage, they seemed 
unconcerned... You do know of course that he has no immediate family?” 

Schofield realised his opportunity. “It's imperative that I contact
Lance. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but my business with 
him concerns my brother. You do know of course that they were lovers?” 

Julie listened, mouth agape. “Lovers? Lance and... I never would have
guessed.” 

“I understand, Julie... It's probably something he wouldn't want to
advertise... Anyway, Sam left a few things for Lance, sentimental 
things you understand.” 

“I see... I'm sorry I can't help you, Dean. I have no idea where he is.”


Schofield pondered. “Did Lance have a PC?” 

The girl's eyes motioned towards a monitor close to hers. “That's
Lance's PC.” 

“Would I be too presumptuous in asking if we could access his data?” 

“Sorry, but I don't know his password... There is his desk drawer of
course.” 

“His drawer?” 

“Yes. I have a key to his drawer. Lance was always forgetting things and
he kept a spare key with me.” 

Schofield's eyes sparkled. “Could we take a look?” 

The shy girl checked around the office to see that they were alone. “I
suppose so, but I don't know how that will help.” 

Julie opened up the drawer and stepped aside. Schofield expertly
rummaged through the contents, inspecting the clutter of newssheets and 
photographs. His eyes settled on a photograph of a tall, blonde man, 
his glass eye preventing him being classed as handsome. 

“Is this Lance?” 

“That's him.” 

He turned his attention to a travel brochure for Florida. Leafing
through the magazine, he came across some luxury apartments and found 
one of them had been ringed with a red pen. He reached into his inside 
pocket for his pad and scribbled down the details. 

“Have you found something?” asked Julie. 

“No, nothing at all,” he lied. “Do you mind if I borrow one of these
photographs of Lance?” 

“I suppose it will be okay.” 

Schofield kissed the girl on the cheek and she giggled. “I may be back
for you girl; I may be back.” He was grateful that he was not a  
Catholic. An awful lot of time would have been spent in the confession 
box. 

18 

FORT LAUDERDALE FLORIDA 

Acting out the role of a typical tourist, Schofield skirted the
perimeter of the exclusive luxury villa. He felt a little envious, 
viewing the rented home, complete with a one hundred-foot dock and 
swimming pool. He was filled with renewed enthusiasm, realising that he 
was here so that he too could perhaps rent or possibly own such a 
palace. 

Leaving the shores of England had proved not so difficult, giving his
years of experience as a sleuth. On of his trade benefits was mixing 
with the unsavoury characters; the shit of London town as he liked to 
call them. With the help of one of the shits, a shady thief and forger 
named Lenny Buxton, Schofield had managed to acquire a false passport 
and visa. 

Schofield, attired in a beige tee shirt, shorts and baseball cap had
waited in the shadows of the tall palm trees in the lush tropical 
garden, his patience at last proving rewarding. 

He clicked away with his camera, focusing on the tall, spindly man,
donning swimming trunks, who had conveniently left his elegant abode 
and was pacing towards the swimming pool. Schofield removed his 
sunglasses and concentrated fully on the man. He studied the photograph 
of Lance Peebles and smiled, a satisfactorily smile. 

Although the surrounding gardens were pungent with the aromatic
fragrance of exotic plants and shrubs, the tropical paradise failed to 
gratify the Englishman. He struggled to breathe, his previous forgotten 
bouts of asthma when he was a child now fresh in his memory. He swatted 
away the biting mosquitoes and cursed his foolishness for not 
purchasing insect repellent. Swallowing a liberal mouthful of tepid 
water, Schofield watched Peebles jealously, wishing that he too were 
cooling himself in the refreshing swimming pool. 

The annoying banter of the crazy frog ended the tranquillity, and
Peebles climbed from the pool and wiped himself down before answering 
the call. Schofield smiled smugly. A person's personal ring tone could 
reveal much about the owner of the phone. Immediately, Schofield 
recognised the relief worker as a geek, who probably hated soccer, 
watched those infernal American comedies and owned a collection of Star 
Trek DVDs. 

Schofield was too far away to hear the conversation and his curiosity
compelled him to advance. Crouching low, he moved closer to the 
swimming pool, until he was within earshot of the one-eyed relief 
worker. 

“I'm not liking what I'm hearing,” moaned Peebles. 

Peebles listened patiently and lit up a cigarette. “Yes, I know I said
everything is working according to plan, but before I discarded my 
phone, I received a message. The fucking dumb Irishman has burgled my 
house and...” 

Again, Peebles listened. “Who the hell could it have been if it wasn't
O'Hara? Okay, this is how I see it. O'Hara took the bait, thinking 
Chaplin was responsible for the robbery, but now it seems the big spud 
muncher is looking for Sam's accomplices, and guess who tops his list?” 


Peebles took a long draw on his cigarette and listened. “Can't you get
it into your fucking head, Mukhtar, that if O'Hara is looking for me, 
then you can be sure he's also hunting your arse... Shit, Sam must have 
mentioned to O'Hara that I proposed you.” 

Schofield liked what he was hearing. He now had confirmation that
Peebles and Mukhtar had pulled off the robbery. 

Peebles continued with his conversation. “This brother in law of Sam's,
Schofield. We can safely assume that he was the man plotting with Sam 
in Trafalgar Square.  Rasheed and Tariq heard them talk about his 
sister.” 

Peebles stubbed out his cigarette and reached for his bloody Mary.
“Schofield presents no problem? How can you be so sure? I mean, he's 
bound to be pissed off, having three million snatched from his grasp... 
No, no, Mukhtar. If we know about Schofield, then we can safely assume 
that O'Hara knows about him... It wouldn't surprise me if Schofield is 
embedded in concrete beneath the M1.” 

Again there was a long pause as Peebles listened. “Hear what I'm saying,
Mukhtar. Schofield is a two-bit private eye who couldn't find us even 
if we drew him a map, besides, there's no way he could suspect me. I'm 
not worried about him. O'Hara, now he is worth worrying about... 
Hopefully, my friends and colleagues will assume that I'm dead, but 
O'Hara?” 

Schofield was now perspiring heavily. He swigged another mouthful of the
warm water and swatted yet another mosquito. 

Peebles ambled towards his swimming pool and settled down with his hot
feet immersed in the water. “No, Mukhtar! Most definitely not. I'm 
grateful that your friends supplied us with new identities and credible 
documents, but they were paid well. You had to tell them didn't you? 
They want a bigger cut, then you and Rasheed donate a slice of your 
fee... Yes, I know who they are and what they represent, but don't 
forget, we know a little about them too... We made a generous donation 
to the SSP and that's it as far as I'm concerned.” 

The mention of SSP stunned Schofield. He had heard about the Sunni
sectarian group and acknowledged that they could prove as fearsome as 
O'Hara and his ex IRA gunmen. 

Peebles continued. “Listen, Mukhtar; we have new identities and a
shitful load of money to spend. Relax and forget about SSP. I'm certain 
that we covered our tracks, and so even if O'Hara was looking for us, 
he couldn't possibly find us. Even so, we must be vigilant. If it puts 
your mind at ease, we'll move on. With our money, we can create another 
identity and be rid of SSP forever.” 

“What you want, mister?” The voice was female. 

Schofield looked across at a slim, dark woman, who was wearing an apron.
He smiled hopelessly and shrugged his shoulders. 

Peebles heard the interruption. “I'll see you when you arrive, Mukhtar.
I have to go.” 

The curious relief worker tucked a pistol into the waistband of his
trunks and paced towards his hired cleaner. The Mexican woman motioned 
towards the intruder. “He was watching you, Mr Jennings.” 

Peebles dismissed the woman and confronted Schofield, who was shielded
by a tall palm tree. “Who are you? Don't you know that this is private 
property?” 

“Gee, I'm sorry,” said Schofield, mimicking a poor American accent. “I'm
on vacation here and just had to photograph your wonderful home.” 

Peebles approached the stranger. “You had to photograph my home?” 

“Sure, I'm an architect back home in Tennessee, and I was shamefully
eyeing the design of your beautiful home.” 

Schofield was now saturated in sweat and the mosquito bites irritated
him. He felt the piercing blue eyes of Peebles scrutinising him 
suspiciously. 

“Can I see some identification?” 

Schofield smiled. “Gee, I don't have any with me... Now if you let
me...” 

“Your camera.” 

“What?” 

“Let me see your camera,” insisted Peebles. 

Schofield hesitated, his discomfort obvious to Peebles. “I'm afraid I
can't do that.” 

Schofield focused on the pistol that was pointing at his midriff. “The
camera, please.” 

Schofield conceded and passed over his digital camera. Peebles ushered
the intruder towards his villa. Once inside, the host settled in a cane 
chair opposite Schofield, who was invited to sit on a barstool. Peebles 
awkwardly browsed through the snapshots, his pistol still aimed at 
Schofield. 

“It seems you're more interested in me than my home, Mr...” 

“Bell... Ian Bell..” 

Peebles grinned and stared at the bottle of Bells whiskey that was
standing on the bar. “Not very clever are you, whoever you are? Who 
sent you? O‘Hara?” 

Schofield saw an opportunity. His accent quickly turned to Irish. “You
fucked up big time, Peebles... Mr O'Hara wants his money back and to be 
quite frank, he wants your head on a platter. Did you really think that 
you could get away with this?” 

Schofield smiled satisfactorily, noticing that it was Peebles who was
now perspiring. The man in the swimming trunks mopped his brow with his 
hand. 

“So how did you find me?” 

“It wasn't difficult. A bit clumsy of you to leave this place underlined
in a travel brochure, don't you think?” 

“Shit... You broke into my desk?” 

“That's another story,” smirked Schofield. 

“Put your hands in the air,” threatened the worried Peebles. ”Now put
your gun on the table.” 

Schofield smirked. “So what's it to be? Put my hands in the air or put
my gun on the table?” 

“The gun,” snarled the red-faced Peebles. 

Schofield carefully placed his firearm onto the table. He felt relief
now that he had purchased the less than elegant looking weapon from 
some bum in down town Fort Lauderdale. On closer inspection, a weapons 
expert would no doubt determine that the ancient pistol would not be 
the choice of an experienced IRA gunman, but Peebles was no expert. 

“Why are you smiling? I have a gun aimed at your gut and you're
smiling?” 

“Because, Peebles, it matters not what happens to me. Mr O'Hara knows
where you are and he's coming to get you.... Now, I have a proposition 
to make... You hand over the proceeds of the robbery and I'll call Mr 
O'Hara and plead your case for clemency.” 

“Are you mad?” growled Peebles, again wiping away the perspiration from
his face. “What's to stop me from shooting you?” 

Schofield lowered his hands. “You won't shoot me, you fucking
snivelling, pathetic cunt. You haven't the balls, Peebles... Think 
about my proposition. It's the only way you'll get out of this alive.” 

Peebles was now confused. He mulled over the intruder's words. “You
know, you'll...” 

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up,” screamed Peebles... “O'Hara will kill me
regardless... I'll take my chance and...” 

“I'll tell you what,” interrupted Schofield. “O'Hara pays me well, but
not well enough. Now how about if you give me say, half a million? I 
tell O'Hara that you're not in Florida and you live happily ever 
after.” 

Peebles touched his brow, his clammy hands having difficulty gripping
his pistol. “Do you think I'm stupid? Even if I agreed to your 
proposal, how could I possibly trust you?” 

Schofield removed his sunglasses and baseball cap. “The way I see it,
you have no choice but to trust me... For what it's worth, you have my 
word that once you hand me half a million pounds, you or O'Hara will 
never hear from me again... Of course, you could shoot me, but that 
would only prolong your death. O'Hara will hunt you down, no matter 
where you go. This way and you'll be a free and rich man. How much does 
half a million pounds million mean to you? Is it worth your life?” 

Peebles, with his gun still trained on Schofield, walked towards the bar
and reached for the whiskey bottle. He poured out two large measures 
and handed Schofield one. 

“I need to think this over. How can I contact you?” 

Schofield scribbled down his cell phone number on a piece of paper.
“Don't take too long over your decision, Peebles. O'Hara will start to 
get suspicious if I don't contact him soon.” 

“I don't trust you, Mr Bell, or whatever your name is, but, I guess I
have little choice. You'll have your answer by this evening.” 

“That's fine... I'm sure Mukhtar will see sense and agree.” 

Peebles looked surprised. “You know about Mukhtar?” 

“Of course. Rasheed, who you spoke of, I assume was one of the men
involved in the robbery. Then of course there was his partner in the 
robbery.” 

“Tariq was unfortunately shot dead by your employer... I'll speak to
them and you'll have your answer... Now please leave.” 

Schofield felt relief as he was allowed to leave the villa. He was
delighted at his ability to ad-lib, and everything seemed to fall into 
place perfectly. Of course, he had no intention of accepting the half a 
million pounds, although it was a tidy sum. 

“One more thing, Mr Bell.” 

Schofield turned towards the angry-looking Peebles. “Personally, I think
you're bullshitting me... I believe you to be loyal to O'Hara, but 
we'll be prepared for you. I'm not a violent man, but as you probably 
heard, I have powerful friends. If I agree to deal with you, then so be 
it, but if you're lying, then it is not only my body that will be 
riddled with gunshot wounds... A good day to you Mr Bell.” 


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