The Ponzi Men Read online

  Chapter 2

  McBride ran up the steps to the hotel. The commissionaire in his top hat and fancy uniform opened the lobby door.

  “Good Morning Mr McBride.”

  McBride smiled and nodded. He went straight across the lobby, turned left into the restaurant.

  He ordered a full English breakfast, his mind full of the killing. Dusty Miller. He had served with him in the SAS Regiment, kept in touch since, albeit sporadically since Dusty hadn’t settled to civilian life, and spent most of his time in the world’s trouble spots working as a mercenary. Well paid, but dangerous. He must be staying with his sister in Manchester, McBride supposed. They needed to meet.

  Back in his room, he grabbed his cell phone which was still on the bedside table. Went over to the window where he knew the reception was best. He dialed Dusty’s number. When the phone was answered McBride spoke.

  “Dusty, it’s John McBride. I assume you are at your sister’s in Manchester. Can I come and see you? Not today because I must work, but tomorrow morning?”

  “How did you know I was in Manchester?”

  “I saw a picture of you running out of a building in Chester. But the police don’t know it was you.”

  “Christ, did you get pulled in? You must have, unless it was on the television.”

  “Yes, and no. It wasn’t a clever thing to do.”

  “I was angry.”

  “I’ll be round tomorrow about ten-thirty. At you sister’s, unless you want to meet somewhere else.”

  “No, my sister’s will be okay. We can sit in the sun in the garden.”

  The rest of the day, McBride painted. The call from Ian Smith was about a commission which happened to be in Chester. Since he was already there, could he possible fit it in? He had already told the client that McBride would be round today to make a start. That was Ian Smith. Impetuous, a slave driver, a drunk too.

  But he had put McBride’s paintings on the map. The result was that McBride sold every painting as soon as he had done it. Or rather, Ian Smith sold them through his UK galleries, and wholesaled them round the world.

  He looked in his wallet for the address. It was actually ten miles from Chester, but never mind.

  Next morning, he checked out of the hotel. The concierge had already sent for his car to be driven round, and it was waiting on the slip road. The porter carried his case and painting gear. McBride got into the car, fiddled with the satnav, entered the post code of Dusty’s sister, and he was off. The time eight thirty, and another beautiful morning. The traffic was heavy but most of it was entering the city, not leaving it. McBride made good time, until he got off the M60.

  Nevertheless, it was only ten minutes before ten when he was pottering along the suburban street, prewar detached houses built on large plots. He noticed that a few houses were recently built in the gardens of the originals. A good way to make some money, and reduce the gardener’s bill at the same time.

  The satnav announced that he had reached his destination, and looking around, McBride spotted the house number, and swung into the large sweeping driveway.

  Dusty was waiting at the door, standing on the porch. McBride got out of the car and greeted him.

  “You’re looking good.” Miller was tanned, and the scars of previous wars had healed and faded on his face. He was lean and muscled.

  “You, too,” said Miller. “For an artist who has it too easy.” He led the way into the house, shouting to his sister who came out of a room and into the hall.

  “Hello again,” she smiled. “Dusty tells me you’re going to have a discussion in the garden, so I’ll be out with tea and biscuits soon.”

  Again Dusty led the way, through a door out of the back of the house. McBride was impressed. The lawns swept away to a stand of mature trees. A summerhouse stood off to one side of the lawn surrounded by a large flower bed.

  Dusty led the way to the summerhouse, and in front was a garden table and chairs.

  “Here will do,” said Dusty. He pointed to a chair and McBride sat down. Dusty sat at the opposite side of the table.

  “How long is your leave?”

  “About another week and I’m due back. Hey, I didn’t tell you. I got another job. Brigadier, no less. Head of the army, small independent state, bordering on South Africa. It’s not all that grand, an army of only two hundred.

  A kingdom. I knew the king when he was in England being educated. Well, he was a prince then. But his father died, and now he’s a king.”

  “Promotion and a permanent job. Sounds good.”

  “It is, so far.”

  McBride saw Dusty’s sister approaching, bearing a large tray. He stood up, and took the tray from her. She sat with them for a while, drinking a cup of tea then she excused herself, claiming unfinished housework. She walked away up the path, still a very trim figure, a mother of three in her early forties. McBride felt a pang of lust, turned his eyes back to the table which was suddenly besieged by a squadron of sparrows aiming at the crumb-filled plates.

  “Okay, Dusty. Why did you shoot Johnson? And are you clear, no fingerprints?”

  “Christ, McBride, give me some credit. I used an old Lee Enfield which I know was used by the IRA, back in the day. I cleaned it down and left it in the shop. I wore gloves. If they had picked me up at the time, there was a minimal risk of powder contamination. Any how I got clean away.”

  “True, the CCTV pictures were a mess.”

  “And you know why I shot Johnson. That investment was my pension fund.”

  “You should never invest what you can’t afford to lose. But I was pissed off as well. You know they got away with 30 million quid, less a nominal amount they paid back in dividends.”

  “And I’m going after Markham. He’s taken the bulk of the cash. Lives like a multimillionaire, so it’s said.”

  “Well, he is a multimillionaire. Though he pinched the cash, it’s not his. But you can’t just go around killing people. It’s murder. You can’t be judge and jury.”

  “Like the government does, eh?”

  “Look,” McBride said,“Dusty, governments are different, wars are just a chess game, and we’re the chessmen. Regarding Johnson and Markham, killing them is too easy for them. They are alive one minute, dead the next. Don’t know it’s happened. It’s far too good for them. I’ll help to punish Markham, but if we play it right we can dupe him and get at least your investment back, and maybe a bit more to repay the widows and orphans. But he’s not in the country, now.”

  “McBride, I know where he is and so do you. In South Africa. Daren’t come back, he would get arrested, or lynched. And guess where I live now – South Africa! Marvelous isn’t it.”

  McBride knew he wasn’t suggesting going after Markham to help Dusty get his money back. Well, only so far. The big pull for McBride was the adventure that he still lusted for even ten years after leaving the SAS Regiment. The art world was different. In itself beguiling, every painting he did was an adventure of a different kind. He could happily absorb himself in art for a year, even a couple of years, and then he was missing the raw adventure in the real world, chasing and fighting, pitching his wits against adversaries, people needing to be taught a lesson.

  Dusty said: “Well, okay. So how do we screw some money out of the Markham guy?”

  “We don’t go hell for leather chasing him and attacking him face to face. A guy like that must have so many enemies that he’ll be on the lookout all the time. Probably got bodyguards. Nowhere near as good as us, of course.” Dusty smiled.

  McBride went on. “We should spend some time getting together a dossier on him, what he does, where he spends his time and who with. I can do some work on the internet, and speak to a few ex-colleagues who might know Markham. In the meantime, you’re on the ground in Africa, might be able to strike up an acquaintanceship.

  “You said you’re head of an army in a small kingdom? And a friend of the king? What’s the name of the country?”

  “Maswat
iland. It adjoins South Africa. The king’s a Zulu. Population one million, give or take. Mostly Bantus and Zulus, with a reasonable smattering of Indians, migrated down from troubles further north. The British offered them citizenship in the UK, and lots of them took it. But for others, Africa is home to them. As I said, I knew the king from schooldays. We both served in the cadet force at school.”

  “Do they have any embassies in other countries?”

  “Just in Jo’burg. Very fancy townhouse with our flag flying over it.”

  “So, they must have embassy functions. Get the king to put Markham on the guest list. Then speak to him at a function, you in your brigadier uniform, should impress him. Then introduce him to the king. That will impress him even more. Tell the king what we’re doing, get him on our side, and he might learn even more than we can.”

  “Good idea,” said Dusty. McBride could tell he was impressed.

  It was nearly lunchtime when Dusty showed McBride out to the front of the house, down the side garden to reach his car.

  “Say goodbye to your sister,” said McBride, sorry that he wasn’t going to see her before leaving. “And for goodness sake keep in touch.”

  As he drove off, McBride was back in artist mode, composing his next painting in his head. The Welsh mountains from the Dee estuary, snow on the mountain tops in the pure white of the paper, the sun sparkling across estuary, the pathway white paper, with a broad brushstroke flat across the tops of the rough paper to accurately indicate the flecked waves. A large painting, with yachts skimming over the water. The yachts would come from McBride’s imagination, set across the water to complete the composition. If it was good enough, his agent might make a one thousand print run.