Blood Money (chapters thirty one and thirty two.) (standard:Suspense, 4371 words) [16/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Oct 06 2011	Views/Reads: 2314/1698	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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“Fuck you, cop. I have witnesses who saw him chasing me down the road.
He shot the old Jew and would have shot me if his gun hadn't jammed. I 
killed him in self-defence.” 

“Perhaps,” butted in De Vries, “but his death is not why I'm questioning
you. To be quite honest, you did me a big favour by taking Malik out. 
You must be one lucky bastard. Either that, or Malik was losing it big 
time. The top assassin for SSP is usually so thorough, and certainly 
wouldn't allow for a gun jam.” 

“Can I go?” moaned Farooq. 

“Where is the money?” 

“Come again?” 

“The money. The fucking money that was beneath your floorboards.” 

The teenager grinned. “I know nothing about any money.” 

De Vries narrowed his eyes and stroked his stubble. “Malik was in your
loft for a reason, and I'm damn sure that he had information that the 
money was beneath the floorboards.” 

“I have nothing to say.” 

“I suppose that seeing as this is off the record, I can confide in
you... Two days ago, a charred body was found at a farmhouse, not too 
far from here. Strange thing was that the hands had been severed. My 
guess is that the body was that of Mukhtar. Dental records will 
eventually bear this out... Are you still with me?” 

“Go on.” 

“Being gifted with such competent skills of detection, I would hazard a
guess that Malik had tortured the poor bastard and discovered the 
whereabouts of their share of the money, two million pounds.” 

The blood drained from the face of Farooq. “Two million?” 

De Vries nodded. “So where is the money, Farooq? Malik, if he had
stashed it wouldn't have been in your loft when you arrived home now 
would he? And so that points to you... I'm a reasonable man, and I 
admit that I'm here merely to ensure that the money does not fall into 
the hands of SSP. Now if I turn a blind eye to your windfall, then 
there's more than a ninety per cent chance that they'll hunt you down 
and take the money from you. Do you see my predicament?” 

De Vries could see that the youth was deep in thought. 

“Like I said, I'm a reasonable man. Tell me where the money is and I'll
fabricate a story for the newspapers that will leave you in the clear. 
We'll tell the press that the two million was found in the loft. SSP 
would then abandon their quest for the money, and I doubt they would 
send a man here to seek you out. They grow assassins in the trees in 
Pakistan.” 

“And I would be free to go?” whispered Farooq. 

“You have my word... You'll have to appear in court of course, but
anyone can see it was self defence... Of course, we'll overlook the 
part about you stealing the money.” 

Farooq hesitated, a look of suspicion clearly etched on his face. “It
was nine hundred and seventy five thousand pounds in Sterling.” 

“What?” 

“Your figures are wrong, Inspector.” 

“Are you fucking with me, kid?” 

“No! It's the truth.” 

The Dutchman held his head in his hands and was silent for a minute.
“Schofield,” he muttered. 

“What?” asked a bemused Farooq. 

“Never mind... Where is the money?” 

“Beneath the floorboards in my bedroom.” 

The face of De Vries lit up. “Okay, this is how we play it. You tell
nobody about the money, okay, and I mean nobody, not even the cops. If 
you want me to get you out of this mess, you've got to trust me.” 

“No problem... Can I go now?” 

“Go and bury your father, son; and oh, I'll be in touch.” 

De Vries had demanded privacy, to call his headquarters in Lyon, France.
His wish was granted and he waited anxiously to be patched through to 
the Secretary General. 

“De Vries? What is your location, Inspector?” 

The question was delivered in a broken French accent. 

“I'm still in New York, Sir. There have been some rather interesting
developments. Fazal Malik, I believe is dead.” 

“You believe? Is he dead or not?” 

“As you're aware, Sir, we have no way of identifying Malik, but you
yourself said he was in Florida. I believe that he traced Mukhtar and 
Rasheed to New York.” 

“You believe, you believe. Jan, our results are achieved by facts not
belief.” 

“If you'll allow me to finish, Sir... I told you that Mukhtar and
Rasheed were killed when their car crashed into the river, but only the 
body of Rasheed was found. Two days ago, a charred body was found at a 
farmhouse, minus his hands. What we do know about Malik is that he is 
sadistic and metes out justice according to Islam law.” 

“Again, a presumption, Inspector. I assume that the body was confirmed
to be that of Mukhtar?” 

“No sir, forensics have been unable to come up with anything apart from
the dentistry. It appears that Mukhtar was not a regular visitor to the 
dentists... It is my assumption that Malik tortured Mukhtar, in order 
to learn where their share of the money was. Mukhtar obviously lied to 
his torturer.” 

“I don't follow, Jan.” 

“Sir, Malik murdered the householder at an address in Midwood New York,
who happened to be the uncle of Rasheed. He then ripped up the 
floorboards in his loft, but was interrupted by the owner's son. It was 
the son who killed Malik in self-defence.” 

“Very interesting. And this son; how did he terminate the life of the
great Fazal Malik?” 

“With a baseball bat... I know, I could hardly believe it myself, but
I'm certain that it was Malik.” 

“And the money?” 

De Vries hesitated and lit up a cigarette. “There was no sign of the
money, Sir. We pulled up the floorboards, but nothing. If Schofield was 
the man who met them by the river, then there's a good chance that he 
has the remainder of the money.” 

“But what hold could he possibly have on them for them to give up the
entire proceeds of the robbery?” 

“I cannot answer that, Sir. All precautions have been taken to ensure
that Schofield does not leave the country... Incidentally, I have some 
good news. Almost seven hundred thousand pounds has been recovered from 
the bank account of Peebles. Something else that may put a smile on 
your face, Sir. Until we can prove conclusively that Peebles was 
involved in the robbery, then O'Hara won't receive a penny of it.” 

“So if your assumptions are correct, the operation has been a success.
That is of course, just as long as SSP don't catch up with Schofield.” 

“I have a suggestion, Sir, that could prove most convenient to us... We
could issue a press release, stating that the remaining proceeds of the 
robbery had been recovered in the apartment. SSP would then surely 
abandon their quest for the money.” 

I like it, Jan, but aren't you forgetting something? O'Hara will expect
his money to be returned.” 

De Vries smiled satisfactorily. Everything was falling into place
splendidly and he would soon be nine hundred and seventy five thousand 
pounds better off. True, his ambition at the outset of his mission was 
to prevent the money falling into the hands of SSP, but avarice is a 
powerful attraction that had bewitched him. Besides, he was fulfilling 
an element of his duty, by ensuring the money was not to be used to 
fund arms.  He had given his loyalty, blood, and risked his life 
numerous times during his ten years with Interpol. Now it was payback 
time. 

“Jan, are you still there? Jan?” 

De Vries hovered back to reality. “Yes, Sir... We tell O'Hara the truth.
We tell him we concocted the story about the money being recovered in 
order to ward off SSP, therefore offering us a greater opportunity to 
recover his money. I'm sure, he'll see it our way.” 

“Okay, Jan. Take a holiday. You've deserved it.” 

The Dutchman frowned. “But what about Schofield?” 

“Who cares? The money has not fallen into the hands of Sipah-e-Sahaba
and so you have succeeded in your mission. Let the local police worry 
about Schofield.” 

“I don't think that would be wise, Sir.” 

“And why not?” 

“First of all, we cannot be certain that SSP will fall for our story.
What if they already know about Schofield and are on his tail? Also, it 
will be most embarrassing for us if Schofield is apprehended with two 
million pounds in his possession.” 

The Secretary General pondered. “What do you suggest?” 

“I'll find Schofield, Sir. Let me continue in my pursuit and I promise
you that I'll find him.” 

“Very well, Jan... I realise how obsessive and committed you are to your
work, but to refuse an offer of a holiday? I'll never understand you 
young men nowadays. Keep in touch. I'll talk to the authorities in New 
York and order them to assist you in your investigation. As far as they 
will be concerned, Schofield is a suspected-armed robber.” 

“Thank you, Sir. As you know, I am committed and always follow my case
through to its conclusion. Only when Schofield is apprehended will I be 
able to relax. I'll be in touch... Oh, one more thing, Sir. Our 
undercover man in SSP. I think you should pull him out. Holly did not 
know the name of...” 

“Jan.  He‘s missing. We've had no communication with him now for one
week.” 

De Vries replaced the receiver and leant back in his chair with his
hands on his head. He laughed loudly, imagining the enjoyment that his 
bounty would bring. The offer of leave was tempting, but he had other, 
more personal motives for catching Schofield. One million of them. 

The police car parked in front of Central Park and the burly officer
fixed his rodent-like eyes on the man who was seated on a bench. 
Keenan, who was wearing a green combat jacket folded away his newspaper 
and ambled towards the vehicle. He climbed into the passenger seat 
beside the nervous-looking officer. 

“Well?” asked Keenan. 

“The two Pakis are dead, and word is that they met someone at the river,
who did a bunk,” mumbled the officer in a distinctive Irish brogue. 

“Fuck, that was Schofield. Tell me something that I don't already know.
I could have read that in the newspapers.” 

“I only know what I heard. Schofield, it seems was one of the gang.” 

Keenan sucked on his lollypop. “Why wasn't I contacted earlier? The
Paki's must have been in New York for a week and nobody noticed.” 

“Give me a break. Mr O'Hara didn't exactly advertise the fact that he
was looking for them... What I can tell you is that some Dutch cop from 
Interpol is deemed important enough to have the run of the precinct.” 

“Dutch? What does he look like?” 

“Blonde, handsome bastard. You know him?” 

Keenan ashamedly recalled the stranger who had saved his life in
Pakistan. “Maybe.” 

The Irish policeman scratched his head. “So why are you still interested
in Schofield? The money has been recovered and no doubt been returned 
to Mr O'Hara.” 

“O'Hara doesn't like to be fucked about, and besides, if word got out
that Schofield fleeced him, then that wouldn't do at all would it? The 
Brit must be punished accordingly.” 

The killer's last statement had been partly delivered untruthfully.
O'Hara had been informed that his money in fact had not been recovered 
and it was likely that Schofield was in possession of the cash. The 
Dutchman was a complication that Keenan  could so without. “Where could 
Schofield hide?” sighed Keenan. 

“The Big Apple's a big place, fella. We've got all the airports and the
seaports covered, and strict border checks in place.” 

Keenan glowered at the policeman, and without warning, stuck his
lollypop to the forehead of the lawman. “Now you look like the imbecile 
you appear to be. You've wasted my fucking time. You've told me nothing 
that I already knew, apart from the Dutchman being here. Next time you 
call me, you'd better have something more substantial or I'll do you, I 
swear... Have a good day now.” 

The policeman waited until Keenan had left his vehicle before passing
wind. He had never been so scared in his life, and the former IRA 
gunman had generated pure evil in his presence. He removed the lollypop 
from his head and whispered, “pussy.” 

32 

LONDON Two months had passed since the deaths of Mukhtar and Rasheed,
and London was basking in a heatwave. Even for June, the temperatures 
were abnormally high, and the scientists and doom mongers were 
apportioning the blame to global warming. 

Pauline and young David were standing at Sam's grave, the widow
rearranging flowers and the boy more interested in his toy aeroplane. 
Pauline's long hair was tied up and she wore a white tee shirt and cut 
off denims; an outfit suitable for the climate, and not a cemetery. 
Large designer sunglasses helped to hide the crow's feet that had 
developed after the death of Sam. 

Pauline straightened up, and ensuring her son was out of earshot, spoke
softly. “I love you, Sam and I miss you. We both do... I hope you like 
the roses. I know you...” 

Her words dwindled, as she squinted, her tired eyes focusing on the
scruffy-looking man who was standing beneath an oak tree. He was 
watching them. 

“David! David, come here.” 

The young boy ignored his mother's order and continued to enact his
dogfight.. 

“David!” The voice assumed more urgency when she saw the stranger
approaching. He sported a beard and his hair was shoulder length. 
Wearing sunglasses, a denim jacket and jeans, he assumed the appearance 
of a sixties flower child. Slung over his shoulder was a rucksack. 

Pauline clutched the hand of her son and looked around the spacious
grounds for assistance if it was needed. She was in shouting distance 
of other mourners, who had come to bury their loved one, and she 
suddenly felt safe. 

“Pauline. How are you?” 

She opened her mouth in disbelief. The voice was familiar and so were
the unmistakable piercing, grey eyes. “Dean. Shit, it is you, Dean.” 

Schofield looked around casually, before smiling. The two embraced.
“Sorry about the threads, but it's my new image. The Italian suits are 
history, sis.” He edged forward towards the grave and bowed his head. 
“Nice headstone.” 

“Dean. You're not safe here. The police are looking for you.” 

The smile disappeared. “It's not the police that I'm worried about.” He
crouched down and ruffled the hair of David. “How are you, Davy boy? 
Christ you don't recognise your Uncle Dean, do you? He looks so much 
like his father.” 

“Where have you been?” quizzed Pauline, removing her sunglasses. “The
newspapers say that you're in America.” 

“I was... I bribed some old merchant sea captain into letting me sail
with him. We eventually reached Aberdeen, and well, here I am.” 

“They think that you were involved with the robbery, Dean, and you're
suspected of murdering Peebles. Please tell me it isn't true.” 

“Shit, of course it's not true. Yes, I travelled to America, to take
what was rightly ours.” 

“I don't understand.” 

Schofield caressed his sister's hand. “Sam was not the meek, reticent
man that you thought you knew. He came up with an ingenious scheme, in 
which we would relieve O'Hara of his three million, without bloodshed 
or violence. Everything was going sweet, until Mukhtar got greedy and 
staged the robbery, under the influence of Sam's so-called loyal 
friend, Lance Peebles.” 

“And so you foolishly went after the money?” asked Pauline. 

Schofield nodded. “As you already suspect, Sam's death was no suicide. I
reckon that O'Hara suspected Sam of being involved with the robbery and 
then had him killed, making it look like suicide. In fact, one of 
O‘Hara's henchmen as good as verified this.” 

“So who killed Peebles?” 

“Mukhtar and Rasheed.” Schofield surveyed the surroundings cautiously.
He acknowledged that the police could still have his sister under 
surveillance. 

“David and I are moving in with man and dad, Dean.” 

“What? But why?” 

“Why? I can't keep up the mortgage payments on the house.” 

“Insurance?” 

“They don't pay out on suicides.” 

“Pension? Surely, Hector and Bullard paid you adequate compensation?” 

“No... On the day Sam died, he received a letter from Hector and
Bullard. We had an argument and he didn't even open the letter. They 
fired him, Dean.” 

Schofield once more checked around him before removing his rucksack from
his shoulder. He straightened up and held it out towards his sister. 

“Here, Pauline. Sam would have wanted you to have this.” 

Pauline hesitated. “What is it?” 

“A quarter of a million pounds.” 

At first, her face assumed a mask of amusement, and then she adopted a
more solemn look. “That's not funny, Dean.” 

“It's not meant to be. I'm serious. Here take it.” 

Pauline put her hands up in defence. “You actually recovered the money?”


“Not all of it. I managed to retrieve one million. I gave some to a girl
who helped me in New York, and I'm hoping to pass on a sizable fee to 
Manaf, so that he can help rebuild his village.” 

“But the papers said...” 

“That is was recovered? I'm not sure why they released that story.” 

The emotional woman was bemused. “I can't take this; it's blood money.
How many people have died because of it?” 

Calculating roughly, Schofield counted at least seven. In reality, the
number was nearer nineteen. He placed the knapsack on the bench. “Take 
it, Pauline. Sam died for it so that you could have a better life.” 

Pauline looked towards her late husband's final resting place and tears
welled up in her puffy eyes. “What are you going to do, Dean? Where 
will you go?” 

He slumped onto the bench and his sister joined him. David continued to
play with his toy aeroplane. 

“I plan to disappear, sis. Do you recall that farm in Wales that I was
infatuated with as a child?” 

“Oh, that farm. Yes, of course.” 

“Well, maybe I'll make the old farmer an offer he can't refuse.” 

Pauline lightened up. “Are you sure it was only one million that you
stole?” 

Schofield continued the daydream. “I wouldn't need much money, once I
purchased the farm. I'd live off the land, marry a buxom Welsh girl and 
tend to my livestock. Maybe a dozen cattle, and not forgetting the 
horses.” 

Pauline stared at the rucksack. “How do I explain my sudden financial
solvency?” 

“You don't... Do not put the money into a bank; well not immediately.
Pay off your missed instalments on the house and don't spend 
extravagantly, attracting undue attention.” 

Pauline examined the face of her troubled brother, and even with the
beard, he could not disguise his unhappiness. 

“There's something you aren't telling me isn't there, Dean?” 

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then had a change of heart.
“Forget it.” 

“Please, I want to know.” 

Schofield chewed on a fingernail, a habit he had picked up after giving
up the cigarettes. “I cannot put this on you.” 

“Damn it, Dean, I want to know what's on your mind.” 

Schofield took in an influx of fresh air before speaking. “I had plenty
of time to think on my long voyage home from the States. I came up with 
a scheme that would offer us financial security for the rest of our 
lives, and more importantly, would avenge Sam's death.” 

“Go on,” urged Pauline. 

“I'm not sure. The risk is too great, but it would be worth it just to
see O'Hara's smug face.” 

“Are you going to tell me your scheme?” 

Schofield looked towards David. “Are you sure you want to hear it?” 

“Amuse me, brother, like you did with your absurd made up fairy tales
you told me as a child. Fire away.” 

For a few minutes their troubles were forgotten and their active minds
stimulated. They sat by the graveside until the brilliant sunshine was 
no more, replaced by a spectacular orange night sky. 

LYONS FRANCE 

Waiting in the office of Secretary General Dupont, De Vries feared the
worst. Unable to locate Schofield, his mission would be seen as a 
failure in the eyes of the arrogant French commander. Allowing a 
colleague from the lower ranks to fester in his office for a given time 
was a habitual party trick of the Secretary General. The headquarters 
of Interpol in Lyons was his domain, and he was the supreme ruler, and 
he ensured that everyone under his command recognized the situation. 

Nearing his seventieth birthday, Dupont was an obstinate man, who
refused to retire. His stubbornness and strict disciplinary manner were 
inherited from his days in the French Foreign Legion. The short, stocky 
man made his grand entrance, his face severe and unsmiling; his bald 
head adding to his intimidating appearance. He sat opposite the 
Dutchman and rested his thick tree trunk-like forearms on the desk. 
“Good morning, Jan. I trust you had a comfortable flight?” 

“I wouldn't call economy class comfortable, Sir.” 

The older man flashed a rare smile. “You know how it is. Besides, I
wouldn't want my agents to go soft now would I? Now, fly a 
bullet-riddled chopper across the battlefield of Algiers and you'll 
know what a rough ride is.” 

De Vries felt like a naughty schoolboy about to be punished by his
master. Such was the aura generated by Dupont. “Why have I been 
summoned here, Sir?” 

“Relax, Jan. Don't look so worried. I appreciate what a great job you've
done, but I'm calling time on this case. You've achieved your 
objective, as we have reliable information that SSP have aborted their 
efforts to gain possession of O'Hara's loot. I want to congratulate 
you. Your suggestion concerning the press release seems to have been 
successful and I commend you.” 

“But, Schofield...” 

A mere opportunist,” interrupted Dupont.  “Forget Schofield, he is a
petty thief and does not warrant the attentions of Interpol. In fact, I 
find it amusing that he's out there somewhere spending the money of 
that hypocrite, O'Hara... No, Jan, your mission is concluded. Return to 
Amsterdam with your head held high. There may even be a promotion in 
this for you.” 

There was a prolonged silence, and De Vries felt uncomfortable with the
eyes of his superior burning into his. 

“Nice suit, Jan. We must be paying you well.” 

The Inspector blushed, realising how foolish he had been to wear such a
lavish and expensive suit. He had greedily dipped into his ill-gotten 
gains, unable to resist the temptation. He did not regret his decision 
to not bank the money. To explain his sudden influx of funds was a 
predicament he could do without. 

“I think is would be in our best interests to pursue Schofield, Sir.” 

“Oh, and why is this?” 

“You claim that he is merely a petty thief. Aren't you forgetting the
murder of Lance Peebles, Sir?” 

“We cannot prove that he had anything to do with the murder. Even you
reported to me that it was highly unlikely that Schofield murdered 
Peebles... Go back to Holland, Jan and take that break... My decision 
to offer you this assignment was the correct one. I will no doubt call 
on your services again. Good morning, Jan.” 


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