Paper Money by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page B

them. He also discovered that the paper, like the police, was a lot less interested in a crime done to a colored man in a colored area. Herbert thought this quite reasonable, since he, as an Evening Post reader, was not much interested in what the wogs did to each other in their own parts of London; and he surmised, correctly, that the reason the Post was not interested was simply that people like Herbert who bought the Post weren’t interested. And he learned to read between the lines of police jargon: knew when an assault was trivial or a complaint domestic; heard the note of urgency in the operations-room sergeant’s voice when a call for assistance was desperate; discovered how to switch his mind off when they decided to read out great lists of stolen-car numbers over the air.
    The speeded-up sound of his own alarm clock came out of the big speaker, and he turned the deck off. He increased the volume on the radio, then dialed the Post ’s number. He sipped his tea while he waited for an answer.
    “ Post, g’morning.” It was a man’s voice.
    “Copytakers, please,” Herbert said. There was another pause.
    “Copy.”
    “Hello. Chieseman here, timing at oh seven fifty-nine.”
    There was a clatter of typewriters in the background. “Hello, Bertie. Anything doing?”
    “Seems to have been a quiet night,” Herbert said.

EIGHT A.M.

7
    Tony Cox stood in a phone booth on the corner of Quill Street, Bethnal Green, with the receiver to his ear. He was perspiring inside the warm coat with the velvet collar. In his hand he held the end of a chain, which was attached to the collar of the dog outside. The dog was sweating, too.
    The phone at the other end of the line was answered, and Tony pressed a coin into the slot.
    A voice said: “Yes?” in the tone of one who is not really accustomed to these newfangled telephones.
    Tony spoke curtly. “It’s today. Get it together.” He hung up without giving his name or waiting for an answer.
    He strode off along the narrow pavement, pulling the dog behind him. It was a pedigreed boxer with a trim, powerful body, and Tony had continually to yank at the chain to make it keep pace. The dog was strong, but its master was a great deal stronger.
    The doors of the old terraced houses gave directly on to the street. Tony stopped at the one outside which was parked the gray Rolls-Royce. He pushed the house door open. It was never locked, for the occupants had no fear of thieves.
    There was a smell of cooking in the little house. Pulling the dog behind him, Tony went into the kitchen and sat on a chair. He unhooked the chain from the dog’s collar and sent it away with a hefty slap on the rump. He stood up and took off his coat.
    A kettle was warming on the gas cooker, and there was sliced bacon on a piece of greaseproof paper. Tony opened a drawer and took out a kitchen knife with a ten-inch blade. He tested the ledge with his thumb, decided it needed sharpening, and went out into the yard.
    There was an old grinding wheel in the lean-to shed. Tony sat beside it on a wooden stool and worked the treadle, the way he had seen the old man do it years ago. It made Tony feel good to do things the way his father had. He pictured him: a tall man, and handsome, with wavy hair and glittering eyes, making sparks with the grinder while his children shrieked with laughter. He had been a stallholder in a street market, selling china and saucepans, calling his wares in that strong, carrying voice. He used to make a performance of pretending to needle the grocer next to him, shouting: “There y’are, I just sold a pot for half a nicker. How many spuds d’you sell afore you take ten bob?” He could spot a strange woman yards away, and would use his good looks shamelessly. “I tell you what, darling”—this to a middle-aged woman in a hairnet—“we don’t get many beautiful young girls down this end of the market, so I’m going to sell you this at a loss and hope you’ll come back. Look