Laski said: 'The funds are in the Cotton Bank of Jamaica-London branch, of course. I imagine this presents no problem.' He drew a checkbook from his pocket.
Fett frowned. It was a very small bank, but perfectly respectable. He would have preferred a check drawn on a clearing bank, but he could hardly object at this stage without seeming obstructive: Laski knew he would feel like this.
Laski wrote the check and handed it to Hamilton. 'It's not often a man pockets a million pounds,' he said.
Hamilton seemed to become jovial. He smiled: 'It's not often a man spends it.'
Laski said: 'When I was ten years old our rooster died, and I went with my father to market to buy a new one. It cost the equivalent of… oh, three pounds. But my family had saved for a year to accumulate that money. More heart searching went into the purchase of that rooster than any financial deal I have ever done, this one included.' He smiled, knowing they were uneasy to hear this story, and not caring. 'A million pounds is nothing, but a rooster can save a whole family from starvation.'
Hamilton mumbled: 'Very true.'
Laski reverted to his normal image. 'Let me call the bank to warn them that this check is on its way.'
'Surely.' Fett took him to the door and pointed.
'That room is empty. Valerie will give you a line.'
'Thank you. When I return, we can sign the letters.' Laski went into the little room and picked up the phone. When he heard the dial tone, he looked out of the room to make sure Valerie was not listening. She was at the filing cabinet. Laski dialed.
'Cotton Bank of Jamaica.'
'Laski here. Give me Jones.'
There was a pause.
'Good morning, Mr. Laski.'
'Jones, I've just signed a check for a million pounds.'
At first there was no reply. Then Jones said: 'Jesus. You haven't got it.'
'All the same, you will clear the check.'
'But what about Threadneedle Street?' The banker's voice was rising in pitch. 'We don't have enough cash on deposit at the bank!'
'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'
'Mr. Laski. This bank cannot authorize one million pounds to be transferred from its account at the Bank of England to another account at the Bank of England, because this bank does not have one million pounds on deposit at the Bank of England. I don't think I can make the situation plainer.'
'Jones, who owns the Cotton Bank of Jamaica?'
Jones drew in his breath loudly. 'You do, sir.'
'Quite.' Laski put the phone down.
TWELVE NOON
20
Peter 'Jesse' James was perspiring. The midday sun was unseasonably strong, and the wide glass windshield of the van magnified its heat, so that the rays burned his naked, meaty forearms and scorched the legs of his trousers. He was awful hot.
As well as that, he was terrified.
Jacko had told him to drive slowly. The advice was superfluous. A mile from the scrap yard he had run into heavy traffic; and it had been bumper-to-bumper since then, across half of South London. He could not have hurried if he had wanted to.
He had both of the van's sliding side doors open, but this did not help. There was no wind when the vehicle was stationary, and all he got when he moved was a light breeze of warm exhaust smoke.
Jesse believed driving ought to be an adventure. He had been in love with cars since he stole his first motor-a Zephyr-Zodiac with customized fins-at the age of twelve. He liked to race away from traffic lights, double-declutch on bends, and scare the hell out of Sunday drivers. When another motorist dared to sound his horn, Jesse would yell curses and shake his fist, and fantasize about shooting the bastard through the head. In his own car he kept a pistol in the glove compartment. It had never been used.
But driving was no fun when you had a fortune in stolen money in the back. You had to accelerate gradually and brake evenly, give the old slowing-down signal when you pulled up, refrain from overtaking, and give way to pedestrians at road junctions. It occurred to him that there was such a thing as suspiciously good behavior: an intelligent copper, seeing a youngish bloke in a van poodling along like an old dear on a driving test, might well smell a rat.
He came to yet another junction on the interminable South Circular Road. The light turned from green to amber. Jesse's instinct was to push his foot to the floor and race the signal. He gave a weary sigh, flapped his arm out of the window like a fool, and came to a careful stop.
He should try not to worry-nervous people made mistakes. He ought to forget the money, think about something else. He had driven thousands of miles through the exasperating traffic of London without ever being stopped by the law: why should today be different? Even the Old Bill couldn't smell hot money.
The lights changed and he pulled forward. The road narrowed into a shopping center where delivery trucks lined the curb and a series of pedestrian crossings slowed the flow of cars. The narrow pavements were thronged with shoppers and obstructed by several hawkers flogging substandard costume jewelry and ironing-board covers.
The women were wearing summery clothes-there was something to be said for the hot weather. Jesse started to watch the tight T-shirts, the delightfully loose-fitting frocks and the bare knees as he crawled forward a few yards at a time. He liked girls with big bottoms, and he scanned the crowds for a suitable specimen to undress with his eyes.
He spotted her a good fifty yards away. She was wearing a blue nylon sweater and tight white trousers. She probably thought she was overweight, but Jesse would have told her otherwise. She had a nice, old-fashioned bra which made her tits look like torpedoes; and her high-waisted slacks flared out over big hips. Jesse peered at her, hoping to see her tits wobble. They did.
What he would like to do, was to stand behind her, and pull her trousers down slowly, thenThe car in front moved forward twenty yards, and Jesse followed it. It was a brand-new Marina with a vinyl roof. Maybe he would get one with his share of the takings. The line of cars stopped again. Jesse pulled the handbrake and looked for the plump girl.
He did not pick her up until the traffic was moving off again. As he let the clutch in he saw her, looking in the window of a shoe shop, her back to him. The trousers were so tight that he could see the hem of her panties, two diagonal lines pointing to the fork of her thighs. He loved it when you could see their panties under the trousers: it turned him on almost as much as a bare bum. Then I'd slide her panties down, he thought, andThere was a crash of steel on steel. The van stopped with a bump, throwing Jesse forward against the steering wheel. The doors slid shut with a double bang. He knew, before he looked, what he had done; and the taste of fear made him feel sick.
The Marina in front had stopped sooner than it needed to, and Jesse, wrapped up in the plump girl with the tight trousers, had gone straight into its back.
He got out of the van. The driver of the saloon car was already inspecting the damage. He looked up at Jesse, his face red with anger. 'You mad bastard,' he spat. 'What are you-blind, or stupid?' He had a Lancashire accent.
Jesse ignored him and looked at the bumpers of the two vehicles, folded together in a steel kiss. He made an effort to keep calm. 'Sorry, pal. My fault.'
'Sorry! You people should be banned from the ruddy road.'
Jesse stared at the man. He was short and portly, and wore a suit. His round face was a picture of righteous
