He stumbled over something
in the alley. It was a man lying across
his path, his head to one side, eyes open. Ben crouched down and shook him.
Slapped his face; checked for pulse in wrist and neck. No pulse, skin cold, dead. The man looked about 50. He was wearing a
dinner-jacket and his bow tie was undone. There was no sign of injury, as far
as he could see. Instinctively,
naturally and professionally, he reached inside the jacket for
identification. A small wallet contained
a Maestro Card in the name of Charles Spencer, credit cards for John Fortune
and Henry Jessop, and a couple of £10.gambling chips. There was no driving
licence and no address. Ben knew the type. The dregs of humanity.
In the other inside pocket
he found a gold propelling pencil and a wad of used twenties, bound in a paper
band.
What to do now? I should
call the Police and ambulance, he thought. But why? This obviously suspicious
character was dead; nothing could be done for him. Ben really didn’t want the bother, not with
his churning stomach and early sign of influenza. Then he did something he had
never done before. He pocketed the
cash, except for a couple of £20.notes, and replaced the wallet. He looked carefully around. He was alone and
he knew there were no cameras in this alley. He walked quickly for the half-mile
back to his car. He had decided to
go home.
After five miles he stopped
on a layby because he wanted to check the cash.
Above all, he wanted to think.
The first time he counted £960.
Then it was £980. Check again,
right first time. The dead man must have
had a good night in the casino. He was probably a worthless gambler using
stolen credit cards, laundering his illegal gains. Ben wasn’t to be fooled by
the fancy suit and vaguely distinguished appearance.
He looked back on his own
life. He had always played to the
rules. No crook had ever succeeded in
bribing him. There had been times of
course, when it would have been easy to falsify a bit of evidence or accept a
favour. In that very Casino a few years ago his Inspector had mysteriously aborted
a raid only to be able to take a rather expensive holiday a few weeks
later. Plenty of his colleagues had
bent the rules to get their man or protect another. But he had always played it straight. Which
was, he thought, why he had retired as a sergeant when less able men had left
him far behind.
And now here he was, sitting
in his car, riffling through the wad of notes, wondering why he had even
thought of taking them. It’s not that I need the money, he thought. What with the pension and the job, and
Sheila’s business we do well enough. The kids are gone, the mortgage paid, this
nice new car, all paid for… why do I need the best part of a K?
There was the sound of a car
door slamming. He looked up and saw the car, nose to nose with his own. A man got out, hurried over and tapped on his
window.
