Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Read online

  Doug completed three more journeys from Marseilles via New-haven before the two customs officers were arrested. When Doug saw five officers heading toward his truck, he knew that his new impossible-to-be-caught system had been sussed.

  Doug didn’t waste the court’s time pleading not guilty, because one of the customs officers with whom he had been splitting the take had made a deal to have his sentence reduced if he named names. He named Douglas Arthur Haslett.

  The judge sent Doug down for eight years, with no remission for good behavior, unless he agreed to pay a fine of £750,000. Doug didn’t have £750,000 and begged Sally to help out, as he couldn’t face the thought of another eight years behind bars. Sally had to sell everything, including the cottage, the carpark, nine lorries and even her engagement ring, so that her husband could comply with the court order.

  After serving a year at Wayland Category C prison in Norfolk, Doug was transferred back to North Sea Camp. Once again, he was appointed as librarian, which was where I first met him.

  I was impressed that Sally and his two—now grown-up—daughters came to visit Doug every weekend. He told me that they didn’t discuss business, even though he’d sworn on his mother’s grave never, ever again.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Sally had warned him. “I’ve already sent your lorry to the scrapyard.”

  “Can’t blame the woman, after all I’ve put her through,” said Doug when I next visited the library. “But if they won’t let me get behind a wheel once I’m released, what am I going to do for the rest of my life?”

  I was released a couple of years before Doug, and if I hadn’t been addressing a literary festival in Lincoln some years later, I might never have discovered what had become of the chief librarian.

  As I stared down into the audience during questions, I thought I recognized three vaguely familiar faces looking up at me from the third row. I racked that part of my brain that is meant to store names, but it didn’t respond. That was, until I had a question about the difficulties of writing while in prison. Then it all came flooding back. I had last seen Sally some three years before, when she was visiting Doug accompanied by her two daughters, Kelly and, and . . . Sam.

  After I’d taken the final question, we broke for coffee, and the three of them came across to join me.

  “Hi, Sally. How’s Doug?” I asked even before they could introduce themselves. An old political ploy, and they looked suitably impressed.

  “Retired,” said Sally without explanation.

  “But he was younger than me,” I protested, “and never stopped telling everyone what he planned to do once he was released.”

  “No doubt,” said Sally, “but I can assure you he’s retired. Haslett Haulage is now run by me and my two daughters, with a backroom staff of twenty-one, not including the drivers.”

  “So you’re obviously doing well,” I said, fishing.

  “You clearly don’t read the financial pages,” she teased.

  “I’m like the Japanese,” I countered, “I always read my papers from back to front. So what have I missed?”

  “We went public last year,” chipped in Kelly. “Mum’s chair, I’m in charge of new accounts and Sam is responsible for the drivers.”

  “And if I remember correctly, you had about nine lorries?”

  “We now have forty-one,” said Sally, “and our turnover last year was just under five million.”

  “And Doug doesn’t play any role?”

  “Doug plays golf,” said Sally, “which doesn’t require him to travel through Dover, or,” she added with a sigh, as her husband appeared in the doorway, “back via Newhaven.”

  Doug remained still, as his eyes searched the room for his family. I waved and caught his attention. Doug waved back and wandered slowly across to join us.

  “We still allow him to drive us home from time to time,” whispered Sam with a grin, just as Doug appeared by my side.

  I shook hands with my former inmate, and when Sally and the girls had finished their coffee, I accompanied them all back to their car, which gave me the chance to have a word with Doug.

  “I’m delighted to hear that Haslett Haulage is doing so well,” I volunteered.

  “Put it all down to experience,” said Doug. “Don’t forget I taught them everything they know.”

  “And since we last met, Kelly tells me that the company’s gone public.”

  “All part of my long-term plan,” said Doug as his wife climbed into the back of the car. He turned and gave me a knowing look. “A lot of people sniffing around at the moment, Jeff, so don’t be surprised if there’s a takeover bid in the near future.” Just as he reached the driver’s side of the car, he added, “Chance for you to make a few bob while the shares are still at their present price. Know what I mean?”

  Charity Begins

  at Home

  Henry Preston, Harry to his friends—and they didn’t number many—wasn’t the sort of person you’d bump into at the local pub, meet at a football match or invite home for a barbecue. Frankly, if there was a club for introverts, Henry would be elected chairman—reluctantly.

  At school, the only subject in which he excelled was mathematics, and his mother, the one person who adored him, was determined that Henry would have a profession. His father had been a postman. With one A level in maths, the field was fairly limited—banking or accountancy. His mother chose accountancy.

  Henry was articled to Pearson, Clutterbuck & Reynolds, and when he first joined the firm as a clerk he dreamed of the headed notepaper reading Pearson, Clutterbuck, Reynolds & Preston. But as the years went by, and younger and younger men found their names embossed on the left-hand side of the company notepaper, the dream faded.

  Some men, aware of their limitations, find solace in another form—sex, drugs or a hectic social life. It’s quite difficult to conduct a hectic social life on your own. Drugs? Henry didn’t even smoke, although he allowed himself the occasional gin and tonic, but only on Saturday. And as for sex, he felt confident he wasn’t gay, but his success rate with the opposite sex, “hits” as some of his younger colleagues described them, hovered around zero. Henry didn’t even have a hobby.

  There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes I’m going to live forever is a fallacy. It came all too soon for Henry, as he progressed quickly through middle age and suddenly began to think about early retirement. When Mr. Pearson, the senior partner, retired, a large party was held in his honor in a private room at a five-star hotel. Mr. Pearson, after a long and distinguished career, told his colleagues that he would be retiring to a cottage in the Cotswolds to tend the roses and try to lower his golf handicap. Much laughter and applause followed. The only thing Henry recalled of that occasion was Atkins, the firm’s latest recruit, saying to him as he left for the evening, “I suppose it won’t be that long, old chap, before we’re doing the same sort of thing for you.”

  Henry mulled over young Atkins’s words as he walked toward the bus stop. He was fifty-four years old, so in six years’ time, unless he made partner, in which case his tenure would be extended to sixty-five, they would be holding a farewell party for him. In truth, Henry had long ago given up any thought of becoming a partner, and he had already accepted that his party would not be held in the private room of a five-star hotel. He certainly wouldn’t be retiring to a cottage in the Cotswolds to tend his roses, and he already had enough handicaps, without thinking about golf.

  Henry was well aware that his colleagues considered him to be reliable, competent and thorough, which only added to his sense of failure. The highest praise he ever received was, “You can always depend on Henry. He’s a safe pair of hands.”

  But all of that changed the day he met Angela.

  Angela Forster’s company, Events Unlimited, was neither large enough to be assigned to one of the partners, nor small enough to be handled by an articled clerk, which is how her file ended up on Henry’s desk. He studied the details carefully.

&n