Paper Money by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online

been like this with him, never. He felt hopelessly incapable of dealing with it. He did not know what to say, what to do, where to look. He said: “I . . . must catch the train.”
    She regained her composure quickly. “Yes. You must hurry.”
    He looked at her a moment longer, but she would not meet his eyes. He said: “Um . . . good-bye.”
    She nodded dumbly.
    He went out. He put on his hat in the hall, then let Pritchard open the front door for him. The dark blue Mercedes stood on the gravel drive, gleaming in the sunshine. Pritchard must wash it every morning before I get up, Hamilton thought.
    The conversation with Ellen had been most peculiar, he decided, as they drove to the railway station. Through the window he watched the play of sunlight on the already-browning leaves, and ran over the key scenes in his mind. I want to love you, she had said, with the emphasis on you. Talking of the things he had sacrificed for the business, she had said and God knows what else.
    I want to love you, not someone else. Was that what she meant? Had he lost the fidelity of his wife, as well as his health? Perhaps she simply wanted him to think she might be having an affair. That was more like Ellen. She dealt in subtleties. Cries for help were not her style.
    After the six-month results, he needed domestic problems like a creditors’ meeting.
    There was something else. She had blushed when Pritchard asked if she would be using the car; then, hastily, she had said Pritchard drives me.
    Hamilton said: “Where do you take Mrs. Hamilton, Pritchard?”
    “She drives herself, sir. I make myself useful around the house—there’s always plenty—”
    “Yes, all right,” Hamilton interrupted. “This isn’t a time-and-motion study. I was only curious.”
    “Sir.”
    His ulcer stabbed him. Tea, he thought: I should drink milk in the morning.

6
    Herbert Chieseman switched on the light, silenced the alarm clock, turned up the volume of the radio, which had been playing all night, and pressed the rewind button of the reel-to-reel tape recorder. Then he got out of bed.
    He put the kettle on, and stared out of the studio apartment window while he waited for the seven-hour tape to return to the start. The morning was clear and bright. The sun would be strong later, but now it was chilly. He put on trousers and a sweater over the underwear he had worn in bed, and stepped into carpet slippers.
    His home was a single large room in a North London Victorian house which was past its best. The furniture, the Ascot heater, and the old gas cooker belonged to the landlord. The radio was Herbert’s. His rent included the use of a communal bathroom and—most important—exclusive use of the attic.
    The radio dominated the room. It was a powerful VHF receiver, made from parts he had carefully selected in half a dozen shops along Tottenham Court Road. The aerial was in the roof loft. The tape deck was also homemade.
    He poured tea into a cup, added condensed milk from a tin, and sat at his worktable. Apart from the electronic equipment, the table bore only a telephone, a ruled exercise book, and a ballpoint pen. He opened the book at a clean page and wrote the date at the top in a large, cursive script. Then he reduced the volume of the radio and began to play the night’s tape at high speed. Each time a high-pitched squeal indicated that there was speech on the recording, he slowed the reel with his finger until he could distinguish the words.
    “. . . car proceed to Holloway Road, the bottom end, to assist PC . . .”
    “. . . Ludlow Road, West Five, a Mrs. Shaftesbury—sounds like a domestic, Twenty-One . . .”
    “. . . Inspector says if that Chinese is still open he’ll have chicken fried rice with chips . . .”
    “. . . Holloway Road get a move on—that PC’s in trouble . . .”
    Herbert stopped the tape and made a note.
    “. . . reported burglary of a house—that’s near Wimbledon Common, Jack . . .”
    “. . . Eighteen, do you