Our House(49)

Mike frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘You said joyriders took it!’ Thirty seconds in and already I was on the back foot, speaking in just the wild exclamations I’d been determined to avoid.

Wendy, who had not uttered a word until then, said, conversationally, ‘If I were the police and someone said they’d seen a Toyota at the scene of a crime, the first one I’d check out would be the one that’s just been reported stolen. I’d think, A bit of a coincidence, that.’ She regarded me, wide-eyed.

‘You haven’t gone and got rid of the Audi, have you, mate?’ Mike said, with unconvincing concern. ‘That would be a mistake.’

Now he said it, it was obvious. I’d been played. I’d reacted to his text about joyriders exactly as he’d hoped, heedlessly incriminating my own vehicle and giving him even more leverage than he already had. The A3 would have been a needle in a VW/Audi haystack had I not left it for the police to find, had I not reported it missing. How many others had been stolen in the last month? Even in the whole of the South East there couldn’t be more than, what, ten, twenty? Few enough for each owner to be given reasonable consideration, even before you added the new detail of it being a hatchback. Even before you cross-referenced said owners against the database of motoring convictions . . .

I was a fuckwit. At this rate, I was going to jail and I was throwing away my own key.

‘Mind you,’ Mike said, pleasantly, ‘even the other driver hasn’t mentioned a Toyota, so it’s a moot point.’ He paused to savour the phrase, before glancing about the flat with an amiable air. ‘Not a bad little place this, is it, mate? Compact. Not a patch on the main house, obviously, but needs must. This is what happens when your wife finds out you’ve been a naughty boy, eh?’

What? How the hell did he know that? Guesswork, I supposed, based on my present circumstances, based on my willingness to fall into bed with Wendy.

‘You don’t know anything about my wife,’ I said, bitterly. ‘You’ve never been in my house and you never will.’

He smirked. ‘Someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning, didn’t he? I won’t ask whose.’

‘Sadly not mine,’ Wendy said, with a ghastly simper.

Without being invited, they seated themselves in the two armchairs, their heads turned to me at symmetrical angles, as if operated by a single brain. The blinds were drawn, the lamplight creating a terrible intimacy between the three of us.

‘You not going to offer us a beverage, then?’ Mike said.

‘Got nothing in,’ I said, perching on a bar stool, too agitated to settle.

‘Not very domesticated, is he?’ Mike said to Wendy.

‘He had plenty of refreshments last time,’ she said, as if puzzled by the discrepancy.

‘I bet he did.’

I loathed them. I wanted to lock them in their Toyota and put a bomb under it. ‘So what’s the deal with you two?’ I demanded. ‘It’s obvious you knew each other before all this.’

‘Irrelevant background,’ Mike said, his agreeable tone at odds with my belligerence. ‘So, tell us about the money. Found an account you’d forgotten you had, have you?’

‘It’s the car insurance money,’ I said. ‘But it may be another week or two before they pay out – they have to be satisfied it was definitely stolen.’

It struck me that the claims investigator might have been referred to the Collisions Unit, which may in turn have served to remind detectives of a vehicle they’d all but discounted following that preliminary chat with Fi. It was only a matter of time, surely, before they returned, this time to question me. I was the originator of the report, after all, even if Fi had stated she was the last to drive the thing. Tomorrow, perhaps? They must know about the second residence by now; they might come before I left for work, escort me to a squad car as the school-run mums drove by . . . Who would I call? Fi? My mother? Why hadn’t I thought to line up a solicitor?

‘I got the impression you had the cash ready to go,’ Mike said, frowning. ‘Fifteen won’t be enough, by the way. Twenty would be better, and I suggest you chase it up sharpish because we need it for the new documentation.’

I snapped to attention. ‘What documentation?’

He adopted the air of exaggerated helpfulness I now knew to be his trademark, as if obliging an elderly tourist’s request for directions. ‘Well, for starters, we’re going to need new passports and we’re looking at five grand a pop minimum for the kind that gets you across borders. Plus we’ll need help with the bank account, probably in the Middle East, somewhere like Dubai, beyond the tentacles of the British taxman.’

I bounced in my seat. ‘What the fuck . . .? Who needs a new passport? Who needs to cross borders?’

‘Well, you will, for one. When the sale goes through, your ex isn’t just going to walk away, is she? She’ll go mental. She’ll want to get the police involved, find out what’s happened to her share, and chances are they’ll alert the border folks, maybe even Interpol. You won’t be able to travel on your own passport and new ones can’t be magicked up overnight. They’re works of art, Bram.’

I gaped. When the sale goes through? Interpol? The understanding that the money I’d offered had not slaked his lunatic appetite entered me through my open mouth, a monster cockroach blocking my airways. Finally, I managed to rasp: ‘Come on, Mike, forget this fantasy about the house. I’ll try and get twenty for you. Take it and move on. It’s a decent pay-off.’