That Will Do Nicely: Inspector Roberts Investigates, #1

By Ian Campbell

Tom Pascoe, an ordinary man has a bad marriage and despite giving his wife everything she wants, she betrays him.

She wants a house-warming party at their period cottage home in a small village just outside Canterbury, Kent where she can show off her home to her 'up-market' friends. Pascoe goes along with her wishes but on the day of the party he discovers his wife 'inflagrante delicto' with one of his work colleagues. He flips and throws the couple out into the street in front of their 'friends'. His wife takes her revenge by running up sizeable credit card debt in his name.

Faced with ruin and bankruptcy through no fault of his own, Pascoe decides not to go quietly but to revenge himself on the system that has contrived to place him in his precarious position by inventing his own virtual bank and issuing money in its name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geneset Books
• Release date: Sep 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536557022

Ian Campbell

There was piece of advice that I had before I started writing and that was 'write what you know about'. My first Crime Thriller was about a reasonably young man being taken for a very expensive ride by his wife and he uses his skills learned in his former employment to commit fraud and recoup the money that it cost him. The necessary skills were those of a studio photographer, a printer and the operational side of Travellers Cheques. I had those skills and employed them in the novel. In the reviews of my book, it is the details of these processes that make the story real.

Book preview

That Will Do Nicely

Ian Wallace Campbell

Chapter 1

'Hell hath no fury...'

The man had nursed a fantasy since early childhood that he would have loved to have been a criminal. In childhood games he had always played the 'baddie' by choice... for the simple reason that they had more fun. From boyhood, the devious mind fascinated him and even now, whenever a sophisticated crime was reported involving large sums of money, the news of it invariably brought a smile to his face. For as long as he could remember, he had planned imaginary crimes, deriving the same sort of pleasure from doing so as others did from solving the Times crossword in less than seven minutes. To him, they were but different intellectual exercises. Only two factors had prevented him from turning to crime... the lack of motivation and the probability of getting caught, which meant he was as normal as anyone else working in the City of London. Morality didn't come into it... there were few successful men of morals in the city!

The ancient pub known as the Falstaff, stands outside the tourist trodden precincts of Canterbury, in England’s county of Kent, opposite the city's Westgate Towers. Its clientele no longer consists of Chaucerian pilgrims, but rather of students from the University of Kent who use it as a watering hole between campus and an antiquarian bookshop further along the lane. Even on this bitter January day when the yellow-tinged clouds threatened snow at any time, the students seemed oblivious of the cold as they scuttled to their afternoon lectures, clad only in denim, the ubiquitous uniform of students the world over.

Inside the Falstaff, the landlord had already called 'time' several times and shuffled between the remaining people, clearing the lunchtime debris from the tables. Tucked away in a secluded corner of the saloon bar, flanked by Hogarth framed prints of the city, Tom Pascoe paid no heed, but sat staring into the open fire, nursing a glass of scotch. The landlord had noticed him earlier, noting him as someone obviously down on his luck; a deduction made from the man's Tweed jacket, which although of good quality and cut, was threadbare around its cuffs and elbows. It lent Pascoe a worldly-worn look, as though there were no woman in his life.

Your glasses please! bellowed the landlord again, edging his way to where Pascoe was sitting. Time, Sir, he addressed him directly, expecting him to finish his drink, but when Pascoe didn't stir, he deftly plucked the glass from his hand and placed it on the tray with the others.

Bastard! Pascoe muttered. Another time he might have made something of it, but not that day. That day he had other things on his mind. He rose unsteadily from his fireside seat, gathered his anorak from the back of the chair and left by the saloon-bar entrance.

The cold grey north-light showed Pascoe's true age; a face which although firm and slightly tanned, was covered with a network of finely etched lines. Greying temples and a slightly sagging waist-line completed the picture of a man fighting and losing the first skirmishes with ‘middle age’. Turning up the collar of his anorak and narrowing his eyes against the bitter north-east wind, he crossed the lane to the car-park opposite, a snow-flake settling on his cheek as he did so. He looked up into the heavily leaden sky and knew instinctively that there would be more snow to come.

He had spent the lunch-hour drowning his sorrows, occasionally eavesdropping on student conversations, as if by listening to their problems, his would disappear, but it had been to no avail. The student's problems had been purely acquisitive; to take or not to take - the pill; the educational grant or the veiled opportunity when and if proffered and other peoples’ problems had neither helped him nor made him feel any better.

He slumped behind the wheel of the car, buried his face in his hands and let the events of the last few months flood back into his mind. It was almost an hour before he shivered himself awake, by which time he was sure of only one thing... that he was a failure. He knew it. His wife and friends knew it and if there ever was such a thing as a Supreme Being - which he seriously doubted, he knew it too. He was a failure because he had been unable to obey the unwritten eleventh commandment, 'Thou shall put thyself first, above and before everyone else' - the creed of modern day life. But what he didn't understand was why he was so out of step with society. He didn't know if it was because of his mixed parentage, an American father and an English mother, or of having grown up in both countries. Whatever the reason, he had spent the last 20 years putting other people first - his parents, his clients, his friends and his wife. Playing by the rules had got him absolutely nowhere!

In his early years in the States he had been picked on because of his English accent. Later, he hadn't fitted into the scheme of things at his English public school because by that time he sported a slight American accent, but also possessed neither psychopathic nor homosexual tendencies. He had finally completed his fall from grace by eschewing Oxbridge in favor of a career as a photographer, a profession which had lasted only until his marriage to the honourable Teresa, his wife's family insisting on a change of job as a condition of the marriage contract. Afterwards, by which time it was too late, he had rued the day that he had accepted that particular condition and later realized how besotted he must have been to have let lust gain the better of pride. The mistake had cost him dear; 10 years as a glorified clerk in a city import/export office, just to pacify 'daddy' and recalling the memory still sent shivers down his spine. Respectable it may have been, but being a glorified filing-clerk hadn't been his idea of a career, even if the pay-cheques had been regular. Whatever gain there had been in salary, the Honourable Teresa had always managed to spend it faster than he had made it. Indeed, if there had ever been a surplus, it had quickly disappeared into the period cottage they could ill-afford in the Kentish commuter land.

In short, all he had gained for playing the role of hard-working faithful husband for 10 arduous years to the 'Honourable' lady, was an unbelievable mortgage, an incredible overdraft and the recent discovery that his darling wife, had cuckolded him with anything in pants at each and every opportunity. Of course he had been the last to find out, but what no-one had guessed, was that he had been taken for granted once too often. On the evening of the party, three months earlier, he had reached the end of his 'English' tether and had let the American side of his personality take over. On discovering his wife, in flagrante delicto with the stuffed-shirt known as Mainwaring-Chrichton, a colleague from his own office, there had been nothing remotely 'English' about his reaction. Instead, he had prized the lovers roughly apart and kicked them downstairs in naked disarray and thrown them out into a very cold night. Physically. Simply. Unceremoniously and in front of all their so called friends. Tom Pascoe, at the ripe old age of forty had finally come of age!

The debacle had marked the start of a strange metamorphosis from which he had emerged a new and better man; a realist who recognized that troubles were but part of life and that by living by his new code and thinking only of himself, he would not only survive but thrive. This bubble of new found self-confidence had lasted all of three months, until that very morning, when his wife Terri's revenge had arrived by the morning's post. A revenge which threatened to punish him not only for him throwing her out, but for a crime of which he was entirely innocent.

A letter, from a popular American credit card company, claimed he owed them money... £18,463.90 to be precise... more than he had ever amassed at any one time, more than he could reasonably borrow and more than he normally made in a year; an academic point as Terri had had her lover get him dismissed from his job.

When he had first read the letter, he hadn't been sure what to make of it and had innocently asked his wife if she knew anything about it, but far from denying knowledge of it, her voice had actually brightened at the mention of the letter.

It's quite simple, she had explained on the phone, When I decided to leave you, I thought I'd treat myself to all those things you've been denying me, so I applied for a credit card and did it their way. He could still picture her gloating.

I applied for the card in your name, with your references; that's why they gave me a gold one. I wouldn't have done it at all unless I had checked all my facts first. You see darling, we've got the same initials, so I didn't have to forge your signature and as for the references, I gave them daddy's address in the city.

When he had warned her that she wouldn't get away with it, she had just laughed at him.

You've always known how to lose gracefully, Tom, so why stop now? You've been a gutless wonder all the time I've known you. You haven't got the balls for something like turning me in and if you did, it wouldn't do you any good... a husband can't testify against his wife. It'd be your word against mine and I come from a decent background and family.

Her parting words had told him to accept it as a going away present; a little legacy. So, it had been goodbye and good riddance.

He knew now that she was out to ruin him, which was why he'd spent the morning arranging an appointment with Wilkinson, a friend from his school days and more appropriately, his solicitor.

He left the cottage in Patrixbourne next morning, in good time for his appointment and drove by way of the old A2 road to the solicitor's office in Canterbury arriving with a few minutes to spare and sat waiting in the small vestibule for his friend Wilkinson to appear. He didn't have to wait long. Morning Tom. Bellowed Wilkinson in his usual hale and hearty manner. Nothing ever seemed to upset the man, thought Pascoe. Although they had been at school together, with Pascoe one year ahead, Wilkinson seemed younger than his years and would easily have passed for 30. He was, in appearance, most of the things that Tom wasn't; tall and slim, with a full head of curly blond hair. Only his premature, gold-rimmed bifocals gave him the air of the profession at all. It was a carefully cultivated image and one which had served him well. Now after eight years in the Canterbury legal practice, Wilkinson had become one of its senior partners.

Pascoe followed him through a rabbits' warren of corridors until they came to a room which overlooked the ancient City wall.

Come in Tom... make yourself comfortable... you sounded terrible on the phone... what sort of mess have you got yourself into, eh? Wilkinson, dressed in a leather elbow-patched tweed jacket, perched owl-like on the corner of his desk and directed an incessant stream of trivial remarks at him. Pascoe settled into a leather clad chair.

How about the door, before we start? Pascoe asked. His friend got up and closed it, ensuring some privacy.

Now Tom, tell me everything right from the beginning...

Pascoe told his story as simply and baldly as he could, but it still took 20 minutes to cover everything. Wilkinson listened attentively, occasionally jotting down the odd note.

From what you say Tom, things haven't been good between you and Teresa for quite some time... a couple of years in fact... mainly due to the fact that you couldn't or wouldn't support her in the style she wanted... is that right?

Not in as many words but, yes, except that I didn't have much choice in the matter... her father got me the position in the import/export firm and I went along with it because I wasn't exactly making a fortune in my photographic studio, at that time. Was that at her request... the change of job?

I suppose it must have been.

When did she start complaining about your life-style?

She had little digs about it right from the time we returned from our honeymoon... we bought the cottage to keep her happy - it was right out of my price range.

How did you afford it then?

By cutting down on other things... cheaper holidays, or none at all... a second-hand, economical car instead of the latest model - now that was something which really annoyed her... not being able to go out with the girls occasionally, with a little sports car of her own to match theirs.

But you managed otherwise...

I did for the first few years, but lately it's become more and more difficult.

How difficult? In what way?

It was the little things at first... I'd give her the money to take care of the domestic bills and then get the odd visit from a tradesman, claiming payment... that sort of thing.

Did it happen often?

Not to begin with... they were just isolated occasions... I didn't even suspect anything odd was happening.

And now?

Now I know better. A few weeks ago she misplaced our holiday money that I had given to her. It was to be our first real holiday abroad since the honeymoon. I gave her £1,200 to make all the arrangements and when I asked her about the confirmation from the holiday company, she calmly told me that she'd lost the money... you can guess how I felt.

Did she give you an explanation?

As soon as I read the letter, I suspected Teresa was behind it - so I tried to speak to her. I phoned her parents and her friends first but they hadn't seen her. Finally, I tried Mainwaring-Crichton's number and she answered the phone. I confronted her about it and she admitted it; pretty blatant about it in fact and added that she was glad she was now with someone now who really appreciated her.

What about the letter from American Express... did you bring it with you?

Yes, here it is, said Pascoe, removing the letter from his jacket pocket and passing it over. The solicitor read it carefully and only when he had completely absorbed its contents, did he look up at Pascoe.

I'm sorry Tom, but there doesn't seem to be much I can do for you on the face of it.

Don't give me that crap Toby, there must be something we can do... surely?

You say that this debt of £18,463.90 is nothing to do with you... is that correct?

Of course it is Toby... I'm not stupid... Don't you think I'd know if I'd spent that kind of money.

What did Teresa actually say on the phone when you mentioned it to her?

She admitted it. Calm as a cucumber she was... said she'd applied for their gold card some months ago - in my name, would you believe and has obviously been spending money like it's been going out of style ever since. She even had the audacity to tell me she had done it in order to spite me... to get the things I couldn't provide her with. The question is, what are you going to do about it? Pascoe was angry and his voice reflected it.

Losing your temper in front of me, although understandable, won't get you anywhere Tom. So shut up and listen. You won't like what I am going to tell you, but you have to know, so here goes. Your wife has admitted to you that she has obtained this credit card in the name of T. Pascoe, but because you both have the same initials and sign your cards with initials and surname... well that's your bad luck. All the shops are interested in, is that the signatures on cards and receipts match and they certainly will in this case. Because the card is in your name, you are responsible for its accountability.

But...

Keep quiet Tom... I know what you're going to say... but legally, as her husband, you are responsible for her debts.

Even in this age of women's lib? Pascoe protested.

Even so, Wilkinson continued, I'm afraid that leaves you with only three alternatives.

Which are?

One... you pay. Two... you file for bankruptcy...

And three... ?

You sue her for fraud, but I must point out that you can't afford that particular choice... a high court action could take years to settle and would cost you more than you already stand to lose, just to bring the case to court. You'd almost certainly lose in any case.

How could I lose... I'm innocent?

Innocence has got nothing to do with it Tom. The legal system has little to do with right or wrong or justice, either. The law belongs to them that can afford it and at this moment of time, that doesn't include you.

I've never heard anything so totally cynical in my life, Toby... why the hell do you do it?

It's the best way I know of making fairly easy money. It took me a few years to get used to the cynicism of it, but I managed... we all do. Face it Tom... you're probably the only person she has admitted this fraud to... she'll hardly have made a statement in front of witnesses to what she has done. It will be your word against hers, if it ever goes to court.

So doesn't my word count for anything?

Not against your wife it doesn't. Evidence against a spouse is inadmissible in an English court of law.

Then what the hell do I do Toby?

My advice is that if you have got the money, pay. If you can't, go bankrupt... they're the only ways you can beat this, short of printing your own money.

Thanks Toby, you're a bloody great help.

Seriously Tom, whether we like it or not, the lady's got you by the short and curlies. For what it’s worth, I'll give you a tip... pull out of anything you are in together.

Such as?

If you have a bank account, even a joint account, empty it. Put the money somewhere safe. Do the same with the building society or post office; anywhere you have an account together. When you've done all that let me know and I'll file for the divorce.

Why not file straight away?

Because, Tom, once I or her solicitor are officially involved, we'll have to freeze all your assets and hers, until the divorce settlement is made. I don't need to tell you that this advice is completely off the record; I'd be struck off if anyone found out. Meanwhile, instruct your firm to pay you direct and not send it straight to your bank account.

It's too late for that Toby. The bitch has already got me fired!

How come?

The guy she's gone off with was a colleague of mine at work and happens to be the boss's nephew. Enough said... legally, you could probably sue for wrongful dismissal but that would take months.

Yeah, I know... another battle I can't win.

I'm sorry Tom, I really am. Go home, write to American Express and explain things, pointing out that you are an honourable man and intend to fully discharge the debt. Ask for time to pay. They usually co-operate.

Is that all you can do for me then? It doesn't seem much.

Try not to let it get you down, Tom.

Easier said than done.

"Look Tom, remember that joke you pulled on the sixth form, the year you left school. Anyone who could con 130 people like that, need never give up.

Think about it Tom - it sure as hell inspired all of us."

You know, that's the first time I've thought about that since the day I left school, said Tom, getting up to leave. A smile flickered over his face as he remembered what he'd done 20 years before. If only things could be that simple again, he thought.

It's part of the school's history now, added Wilkinson, "Probably engraved on tablets of stone somewhere, but it set you apart from the others... If anyone can get over this, you can. Don't give up, and don't forget the motto, ‘acquam memento rebus in arduis servare mentum!’

And just what does that mean?

It's from Horace, Tom.’ Remember to keep a calm mind in difficulties’... bye Tom.

Chapter 2

Old memories

Pascoe drove straight across the city to the Falstaff pub, trying to recall the details of the practical joke that Wilkinson had mentioned. It had happened during the final week of the school's summer term. By tradition, it had been the privilege of the outgoing sixth formers to play a prank on the rest of the school and in previous years had involved toilet rolls and paint, or dissembling the headmaster's car. Pascoe's contribution had been a little subtler. In 1966, at the end of the exam fortnight in July, he had invented a new Advanced Level exam, using the facilities of the school's printing club (of which he was one of three members) and had caused the whole of the sixth form to be kept in on a normally free Saturday afternoon to sit an exam which didn't really exist on Environmental Psychology. He had filled the paper with illogical questions and later, when he marked them, he had awarded the only pass to a student who had written 'You've got to be joking.' across his entry. Strangely enough, even when he'd posted the results and confessed the joke, most of his peers refused to believe they'd been hoaxed, let alone by him.

The answer papers had revealed every type of perversity amongst his fellow students... sadists, masochists and sexual deviates, criminals and even the odd psychopath or two. A strange cross-section of society considering the school drew its students from the top fifteen per cent of intelligent 11 year olds and that the same pupils often rose to high office. If they were really the 'crème de la crème', it could only be of the sour, clotted, variety. He had wondered at the time of the future fate of England. By now the same people would be installed in government, law and the armed forces throughout the country... a sobering thought! The joke had been his revenge against the system and had helped make up for the years he had been bullied for being a loner and only half-English.

He had started work a few days after publishing the results, in a Bureau de Change on board a cross-channel ferry. Although only a stop-gap measure for the summer, the job had made a welcome change from the slog of exams and had turned out more interesting than he had anticipated.

At the end of the summer season, he had joined a photographic studio in Great Windmill Street, London, where his mentor had flourished since the war. There, he learnt the rudiments of the photographic trade and enjoyed the perk of thumbing through the old picture files of the Windmill girls which the studio had taken since the war.

Six months of Hubert Harry Winters (his mentor and boss) and the Windmill girls had been enough for anyone, so by replying to trade advertisements, he had joined a commercial studio at the earliest opportunity. At the new studio, in Slough, he had learned the printing side of the business as well as photography... the studio handling the entire package for its clients, from conception of original idea through to finished brochure.

Several years later, when he had gleaned the necessary skills, he left Slough to start a studio of his own in Walton-on-Thames, which sounds much better than it actually was. There, although he learned how to produce endless pretty baby pictures and how to flatter ugly brides, it took him three years to realize that flair and hard work didn't guarantee success and money. It was then that he had first met his wife, Teresa.

Marriage, with all its constraints and conditions had swiftly followed and when Terri's father, who was 'big' in the City's Foreign Exchange markets had offered him a job in an import/export office, he had let himself be talked into taking it and had given up the studio. In Terri's words, he had moved into a 'better job... with prospects' which turned out to be a position as a glorified clerk with an Import/Export firm in Dover. The irony was that Dover was where he had started, the summer he had left school. He had come full circle.

Realizing that the snow was now falling thick and fast, Pascoe drove to his home in Patrixbourne which lay beyond the far side of the city of Canterbury and spent the rest of the afternoon, putting his affairs in order.

Early next morning, he joined the hordes of migrating school children on the London bound train. For Pascoe, a day spent wandering around the metropolis was a means of recharging his battery; a habit acquired during his time in Soho. He'd often wandered around the back-streets during his lunch breaks and remembered that on one such occasion, his nose had led him to discover the delights of Chinese cooking.

On arrival in London, he left Victoria station and wandered aimlessly through the backstreets of the capital. Two hours walking brought him to the Gray's Inn Road and he turned north in the direction of the law courts. Several minutes later, just as he was crossing the road, fate dealt him a curious, double-edged blow. First, a taxi nearly knocked him down, which would have solved all his problems more permanently than he cared for and then, as he picked himself up, he found himself staring at a strangely familiar fascia on the shop-front opposite. 'ADANA... manufacturer of excellent printing equipment to the schools and jobbing printers of the empire.'

Whether he had stumbled across the shop by chance or whether it was a trick of his subconscious, it struck Pascoe as a strange coincidence, considering Wilkinson's words the previous day. Whatever the reason, he felt compelled to enter the shop and spent nearly an hour foraging around shelves of half remembered equipment. There were dozens of different styles and sizes of type displayed, but although the technology had made some incredible advances in the twenty