‘How would you fancy this for a life? How would you, Prim?’ Prim rolled her big eyes, and shook her head, solemnly.

  ‘But Ellie,’ I said, ‘shouldn’t you have thought all this out before you bought the place?’

  She glared at me. ‘I didn’t buy it, brother. Allan did. He took the job, the company came up with this and he said okay. You don’t think he consulted me about any of it, do you!’

  I watched her as she savaged her third croissant. ‘You know what, Ellie?’ I said. ‘I reckon that’s mostly shite. You were brought up in Anstruther, for heaven’s sake. That’s hardly a bloody metropolis. Yet you could handle that, and, if everything else was okay, you could handle this.

  ‘But we both know that right now, if you were living in the middle of the Champ d’Elysee, you’d still be bored out of your tree, and we both know why.’

  But she wasn’t ready for such fundamental truth. She shook her head and stood up, to fetch more coffee from the big range cooker. ‘Enough about me,’ she said, sitting back down at the table.

  ‘Are you going to tell me, finally, what it is that’s brought you two out here? And don’t say you just came on holiday. You’re a creature of habit, Oz. You take your holidays in July, like the rest of Scotland.’

  Normally, Ellie’s the third person in the world, alongside my Dad and Jan, that I’d have trusted with our problem. But all of a sudden I wasn’t sure. She had problems of her own.

  ‘Are you working up to telling me something bad about Dad?’ she probed.

  I shook my head. ‘No, not at all. It’s nothing like that. Look if I told you you’d think I’m mad.’

  She looked me dead in the eye. ‘Oz, remember when we were kids? Who did you come to when you were in bother? And who sorted it out for you? As for being mad, what’s new?

  ‘So come on boy. Out with it.’

  So, just as I had with Jan and my Dad, I told her. I left out not a scrap of detail, from the size of Willie Kane’s organ, to the size of his wife’s betrayal. When I had finished, my sister was smiling. ‘It’s just like when you were Jonathan’s age.

  ‘You know, Prim, this bugger never got into ordinary bother like other kids. He did it in the grand style. I remember one summer: the man next door grew garden peas, on stalks, and they were right up against the boundary fence. This yin here, he reached through the fence, and he stripped all the peas out of nearly all the pods, but left them hanging there. When the man’s wife went out to pick her peas, all she found was empty pods, hangin’ there looking pathetic, like blown green condoms. There was hell to pay. He’d maybe have got away with it too, only he kept the evidence in a basin in his room!’

  All of a sudden she was serious. ‘Are you sure you’re right about this man Ross?’

  ‘As sure as we can be.’

  ‘And you can’t go to the police?’

  I shook my head. ‘He is the police. We’d wind up in the nick ourselves, and my client’s business would be bust. There is the other angle too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If we can avoid Ross, and get the money back to Archer, we collect ten per cent commission. That’s ninety thousand, Ellie.’

  ‘I’m a teacher. I had worked that out!’ She shot me her old familiar glower. Everything was all right again.

  ‘So you reckon that Ross’ll have come after you.’

  ‘Sure. He isn’t just after ten per cent. He’s after the lot.’

  ‘So what’s your next step? Geneva?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Right. If he’s there he’ll be looking out for Jan’s car. So you two take mine. Just you drive right up to the door of the bank and march straight in. Once you’ve got the money, don’t come back here. Head north. I’ll take Jan’s car back. It’s time the kids saw their Grandad again.’

  ‘What will Allan say about that?’

  She looked at me, and it was as if I was back in the school playground. ‘Not a bloody word, unless he wants his legs slapped!’

  In which we cross the border and reach our objective

  Ellen’s car was a farty wee Peugeot diesel, so short of horsepower that when the air conditioning clicked on, you felt a ‘clunk’, and the beast slowed by about five miles an hour. But it had air conditioning, and on the baking Autoroute as we headed for the Swiss border, that was real consolation for the loss of Jan’s nippy wee Fiesta.

  It isn’t very far from the east side of Lyon to Switzerland, barely as much as an hour, even in Ellen’s clunker. It was still morning when we crossed the border. I’d never been in Switzerland before, but I had seen Swiss drivers in action on the Autoroutes, and so I was extra careful.

  We pulled into the first parking area we could find, to study the street map of Geneva that we had bought back in France. The place looked a bit smaller than Edinburgh. I was pleased, because it meant that Berners Bank should be relatively easy to find, but concerned, because I figured that the smaller the place, the easier we’d be to find.

  Dawn had told us that the bank was more or less in the city centre, in a street which bore its name. We found the index on the back of our map, and sure enough, there it was, Rue Berner, grid reference H6.

  If Lyon is only a stone’s throw from Switzerland, Geneva is only a spit from the border. We had hardly started down the road before the countryside was giving way to built-up areas. As we descended, in the distance we could see, beyond the city, the blue water of Lake Geneva, and beyond that the towering massif of Mont Blanc.

  The first thing that struck me about Geneva was the flags. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as many flagpoles in my life, or as many colours flying upon them. It’s a real international city, just as much as London or Paris, and in some ways even more so. After all, the Red Cross is based there, and the World Health Organisation, and even, I read once, the World Council of Churches. Appropriate, I thought, feeling the stirring of my Calvinist roots.

  Prim navigated us smoothly along the broad green avenues, taking left, then right, then right again. We missed Rue Berner first time around, but a laborious loop brought us into it at last. It was a big, wide street, with two-way traffic, and very definitely no parking. We drove down it as slowly as we could, shrinking into our seats as we looked around for any sign of Ricky Ross, but seeing none.

  Berners was about four hundred yards down the street, its name picked out in beaten copper on a sign above a dark, narrow doorway. ‘There it is,’ said Prim, her voice hushed but excited. ‘Do you see him?’ she asked.

  ‘No sign of him, as far as I can see.’

  ‘What’ll we do with the car?’

  At that moment, I didn’t have a clue, but just then the answer presented itself, a big blue ‘P’ sign above a doorway a hundred yards ahead. I swung the car in, took a ticket from an automatic machine and found myself steering sharply down and round a spiralling ramp which opened out eventually into a long neon-lit garage. We found a space, parked and just sat there, our hearts pounding, breathing heavily.

  ‘This is it,’ I said, trying to sound confident, but, I’m sure, sounding scared instead. ‘Ten minutes and it’ll be done.’

  Prim nodded. ‘Or we will,’ she said, brightly. I didn’t need to be reminded of that.

  ‘There’s still time to back out,’ I said, quickly, to myself as much as to her. But I knew there wasn’t. Sometimes, a man has to do … and all that. To steel myself, I thought ahead, of what it would be like when the thing was over, and Archer had the money back, and Prim and I could get down to some serious living together.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, at last, my loins as girded up as they were going to get. ‘Let’s go and get Archer’s cash.’

  Prim drew me to her, and kissed me. I could feel her hands trembling very slightly. ‘I love you, Oz Blackstone,’ she said, for the first time. ‘Nothing can stop you and me.’

  ‘I love you too, Primavera,’ I said, grinning like an idiot, ‘and you know what? I think you’re right.’

  She reached into her handbag, fiddled with her purse, and pulled out half of a five pound note. ‘You’ll need this.’ I read the serial number aloud, ‘AF 426469. Remember, that’s the number of the account too.’

  Apart from the map, we’d picked up a few other things in France. On the basis that even the most basic disguise might help, we’d bought floppy sun-hats, blue for me, white for Prim, and Vuarnet sun-glasses, a good brand that were going to cost Ray Archer plenty on my expense account. Finally, realising just in time that nine hundred thousand sterling might be just a shade bulky, we’d found a good size duffel bag. It was still stuffed with waste-paper packing, and we decided to leave it that way, looking full, so that out on the street we’d look even more like a couple of plonker tourists.

  There was a lift up from the garage, to a narrow glazed door which opened directly out on to Rue Berner. We peered through the glass. Outside, the pavements on either side of the street were thronged, with business people rather than tourists. This was a commercial centre, with nothing to attract sightseers. We pulled on our sun-hats, then our shades.

  ‘We should have taken the ones with the false noses and moustaches,’ said Prim, giggling, very slightly nervously, but looking, I thought proudly to myself, absolutely sensational in tee-shirt and shorts. We looked at each other for reassurance and, taking a deep breath, stepped outside.

  In which we do the business and Berner rings the bell

  The air was a lot cooler than it had been in Perrouges, even in the morning. As the business people bustled by us, some of them in fairly heavy clothing, we realised all of a sudden how out of place we looked.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, picking up the pace until I was almost at a trot. Those last few yards to Berners were the most nervous of my life. Every step I took, I was tensed for a shout, or a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  But nothing happened. Unimpeded, we reached the narrow entrance to the bank and almost fell inside. We took off our redundant sunglasses and hats and stuffed them into the duffel bag.

  When I think of a bank, I think of a line of tellers behind counters, usually in a high-domed airy hall, where every whisper about the sad state of my account carries to the inquisitive ears of everyone else in the room.

  I’d heard the term ‘private bank’ before. I even know of one in Edinburgh. But until I set foot in Berners I had no idea what the term really meant. There was a short hallway off the street, with an unmarked door, closed, to the right and a second door at the end, opening and welcoming. We stepped inside. For a second I had the strangest feeling, that somehow I was back in my Dad’s front room. The furniture was similar, of the same vintage, and arranged in much the same way, around a fireplace, with an embroidered screen in front, not unlike my Mum’s. The only major difference was a big rosewood desk, set before the curtained window.

  We stared at each other. The room was empty. We looked around for a bell, something to ring, and call ‘Shop!’

  We didn’t see a camera, but it must have been there, because when the door in the far wall opened and the man stepped in, he was smiling a greeting before he’d even seen us. He stretched out a hand and said, ‘Good Day’; or rather, he said, ‘Bonjour’.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I thought, but Prim shook his hand, returned his smile, and said simply, ‘En Anglais, s’il vous plait.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the banker. He was a tall thin bloke, grey-haired, with a complexion that was so sallow it was virtually cream-coloured.

  ‘I am Jean Berner. How can I help you?’ I had the strangest feeling that he knew the answer already.

  ‘We wish to make a cash withdrawal,’ said Prim, ‘from numbered account AF 426469. I believe that these represent the key.’ She took out her half of the fiver from her purse. I unbuttoned my shirt pocket and produced the other half.

  Berner took the two pieces of banknote from her and checked each number. ‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘But you are not the young lady who opened the account.’

  ‘No,’ said Prim. ‘That was my sister. But the arrangement was that possession of the note gives the bearers authority to operate it.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. How much would you wish to withdraw?’

  ‘Nine hundred thousand pounds, sterling,’ I said.

  Berner stepped over to the desk, produced a key, unlocked a central drawer and took out a sheaf of computer printouts. It looked completely out of place in that room as he leafed through it. ‘But that will leave a balance of only forty-eight thousand,’ he said. ‘Our minimum deposit level is fifty thousand in sterling.’ I looked at him, astonished. Even allowing for interest on the lump sum, Wee Willie must have salted away at least another thirty K that no-one knew about.

  ‘In that case, close the account, please,’ said Prim. ‘We’ll withdraw it all.’

  If I was a banker and someone came in and told me that I’d lost a private account worth nearly a million squigglies, I’d be pissed off up to my neckline. Jean Berner’s smug half-smile never wavered. I found myself wondering whether he regarded sterling as second-class money, and was glad to be shot of it.

  ‘You will wait here, please.’ He oiled his way back through the door, still carrying the printouts and Prim’s fiver.

  As the door closed behind him, Prim gave a wee jump of joy. I thought she was going to shout out loud, and somehow, with a video camera in the room, I didn’t want that to happen. So I caught her in mid-jump and pulled her to me in a hug. She looked at me surprised, and gave me her most delicious grin. ‘We’re …’

  I kissed her, to stop her mouth. ‘We’re on Candid Camera in here, so careful what you say and do.’

  Still she smiled. ‘Wow,’ she whispered. ‘You really are paranoid. He’s gone to get our money, Oz. Relax.’

  ‘When we step out of Ray Archer’s office with our ten per cent, partner, then I’ll relax,’ I whispered back. ‘Until then, this is just too easy, and he’s just too pleased with himself.’

  We stood there, hugging and kissing, and throwing in the odd bump and grind for the cameras.

  Berner returned in a shade under five minutes, carrying a canvas satchel and an A4 form. And the bugger was still smiling. He put the bag on the desk and opened it wide for us to see inside. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Nine hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds sterling. Now if you will each sign this withdrawal form…’

  ‘Count it, please,’ I said, really niggled by that smile. He looked at me, as if he was disappointed in me.

  ‘But M’sieur, this is a reputable Swiss bank.’

  ‘Oui, M’sewer,’ I said. ‘And I am a suspicious Scots bastard! Indulge us.’

  With the sigh he would give to an awkward child, Berner unpacked all the money from the bag and piled it on the desk. There were nine large bundles and one smaller one. ‘This money is in Bank of England fifty pound notes,’ he said, picking up one of the larger bundles. ‘Each one of these contains one hundred thousand pounds. He riffled through the bundle, holding it up for us to see. I worked out how thick two thousand fifty pound notes should be and nodded. He riffled through each of the others in turn, showing us that there was no newsprint laced in there. Not that I thought for a moment there would be. I just wanted to do something, anything to rile the guy. No chance. He was still smiling when he finished his riffling. He began to pack the satchel once more. Our wee duffel bag looked pretty silly beside it. When he was finished, he clicked its catch shut and snapped a small padlock into place. As we signed the form he produced a key, and held it out to Prim, together with the two halves of her fiver.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I hope that one day your organisation will do business with Berners again.’ We looked at him, puzzled. My old friend the hamster started running around in my stomach.

  ‘Now for your surprise,’ said Berner. ‘You do not have to go to Lausanne to meet your colleague. He is here.’ He reached under the rosewood desk and pressed a button. We heard a bell ring.

  ‘Come on love,’ I said picking up the heavy bag and taking Prim by the hand. ‘Let’s quit this town,’

  Without an ‘au revoir’ to Berner we headed out of the room towards the exit. But the small door off the hall was open, and the hall wasn’t empty any more. It was full: full of Rawdon Brooks.

  In which Hansel and Gretel are right up against it in the forest

  He stood there, wrists limp no longer; instead he was tall, surprisingly wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and very trim in a beautifully cut jacket. There was no trace at all of the effete character we had met in the Lyceum rehearsal room. This Rawdon Brooks looked very dangerous, and I had no doubt at all that he was.

  ‘So you made it at last, little people,’ he said in a fruity, friendly voice, loud enough for Berner to hear through the open door. ‘Come on and I’ll tell you about the change of plan.’ He was dressed immaculately, grey slacks accompanying his jacket. Again I flashed back to our first meeting, and realised what a consummate actor the man was. ‘Which is the real him?’ I asked myself, until I saw the answer in his eyes.

  His hands were clasped together in front of him, with an overcoat draped over them. He flicked the coat to one side, letting us see the silenced gun. After that we weren’t about to argue. Her jerked his head towards the door. Prim, white-faced, walked past him and opened it, and we stepped out into the street.

  All that stuff about being safe in a crowd, God, what rubbish that is. Brooks stepped close behind us and dug the gun into my back. ‘Right,’ he said in a voice that, suddenly, wasn’t at all friendly. ‘Walk in front of me, Oz. Primavera, take his arm. Now young man, remember this. You do just one thing wrong, and she gets it first, then you. Now do as I say. Walk!’

  I could tell he wasn’t in a negotiating mood. I walked, with Prim holding my arm, keeping the leisurely pace of a tourist, making certain that I didn’t do anything wrong. He walked in silence until we reached the end of Rue Berner. ‘Turn left,’ said Rawdon. We did as we were told. All of a sudden, the pavement was even more crowded, but narrower. Brooks moved up alongside me. ‘Right, Miss Phillips,’ he said. ‘Now it’s the other way around. You do anything wrong and Oz gets it first, then you.