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  * * *

  When the Pascoes sat down to plan their next summer holiday, Joyce warned her husband she was beginning to run out of insurance companies, as she couldn’t afford to make a claim to the same one twice. Dennis was disappointed by this news, because he’d recently joined the local golf club, acquired a season ticket for Norwich City FC, quite near the center line, and been invited to become a vice president of the Rotary. He’d also begun to stick rarer and rarer stamps into his eighth album. Dennis would have been the first to accept that none of this would have been possible had it not been for his newfound wealth. He realized that he’d climbed onto a bandwagon that he didn’t want to get off.

  * * *

  Joyce woke her husband in the middle of the night when she came up with her latest idea. Dennis listened intently and couldn’t get back to sleep. If they pulled it off, he might even consider standing for the parish council.

  “It will have to be our last job,” she warned her husband, “because there are only three major insurers left.” She didn’t add, whom we haven’t robbed.

  Joyce wrote out a list of jobs Dennis had to do before they embarked on their summer holiday, including taking out any spare cash they had in their bank accounts. She checked the small print of the three insurance companies where they hadn’t made a claim, while Dennis told his friends at the golf club and Rotary that he and Joyce were planning a trip down the Nile to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary, because his wife had always wanted to see the Pyramids and visit Tutankhamun’s tomb.

  Once Joyce had filled in all the forms, and the letters and checks had been dispatched, everything was in place by the time they set off for Southampton.

  On July 17, 2001, Dennis and Joyce boarded the SS Balmoral, which was setting out on a voyage to Salalah, Port Said, and through the Suez Canal, before returning to Southampton via Istanbul.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  At this point in the story I came up with three different endings, and because I couldn’t choose between them, decided to write all three and leave you to pick which one you prefer.

  A

  WHEN THE SHIP docked in Istanbul, several passengers leaned over the railings and watched with interest as two police officers climbed aboard the luxury liner, and asked the purser for the number of Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe’s cabin.

  Joyce burst into tears when she and Dennis were escorted off the ship and driven to the nearest airport. She didn’t stop weeping on the flight to Heathrow, or when a black limousine drove them back to Steeple Bumpstead.

  When the Barrington courtesy car pulled up outside the front gate of The Sidings, Joyce burst into tears once again. Dennis climbed out of the car and said nothing as he stared at the smoldering remains of what was left of their little home.

  The local fire chief, a fellow Rotarian, hurried across to join them.

  “I’m so sorry, Dennis,” he said. “My men got here as quickly as they could, but once the flames touched the thatched roof, there was little they could do about it.”

  “I’m sure you did everything you possibly could, Alan,” said Dennis, trying to look suitably distressed.

  “But we’ve lost everything,” Joyce told a reporter from the local paper, “and no amount of money will compensate for that.” A quote that was reported on the front page next to a photo of a tearful Joyce, who felt confident the insurance companies wouldn’t have missed it. Well, not everything, thought Dennis, because he’d hidden the stamp collection in his locker at the golf club.

  Joyce and Dennis booked into the Bumpstead Arms (covered by one of the three insurance policies) and then spent the next month looking for a new home. The company that had insured their contents settled fairly quickly, while the buildings claim took a little longer.

  Once Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe had purchased a similar cottage on the other side of the village, not thatched—too risky, Dennis told his friends at the golf club—and furnished it, there was more than enough left over to live a very comfortable existence, as well as enjoy the occasional off-peak-season holiday while no longer having to mislay any of their luggage.

  However, a problem arose that neither of them had anticipated. Boredom set in, and they quickly began to get on each other’s nerves again.

  It was Joyce who came up with a solution to which Dennis happily agreed. They would change their name, move to the West Country, and once again start looking for “the holiday of a lifetime.”

  B

  THE FIRST PORT of call on their trip to the Middle East was Salalah, where they hired a taxi to take them to the souk. They took their time strolling around the crowded bazaar, with its hundreds of colorful market stalls, displaying thousands of different-quality carpets. But Joyce was far more interested in finding the right dealer than the right carpet. Once they’d selected a man who wouldn’t have been invited to give a talk at the Rotary Club, they joined him for a cup of Turkish coffee before the bargaining could begin for an exquisite, thousand-thread silk carpet that the dealer claimed was unique.

  An hour later Joyce agreed on a sum, which Dennis paid in cash. The dealer then supplied them with a receipt for four times the amount they had paid for the rare silk carpet.

  In Port Said, they visited several emporiums, and selected only the finest pieces of jewelry, including a gold brooch of Nefertiti, a string of pearls worthy of Cleopatra, and a diamond-studded bracelet that Joyce felt confident would be the envy of her fellow lady Rotarians. The proprietors were equally obliging when it came to the receipts. Replacement value for insurance purposes, Joyce explained.

  In Istanbul, they purchased an oil painting of a fishing boat on the Bosphorus that Joyce felt would look perfect above the mantelpiece in their front room, and although the price was exorbitant, triple the amount was entered on the receipt.

  By the time the Balmoral docked in Southampton, the Pascoes had spent all their spare cash, but they now possessed some extremely valuable merchandise, and Joyce had the receipts to prove it.

  Joyce took her time packing everything they’d bought on the trip into a large green suitcase before a porter arrived to pick up their trunk and two other smaller suitcases. When the Pascoes arrived in the baggage hall, Joyce gave a farewell performance worthy of Elizabeth Taylor.

  “One large green suitcase, you say, madam?”

  “Yes,” said Joyce, “full of all the beautiful things we bought on the trip.” Dennis appeared to be making every effort to comfort his wife, something he was getting rather good at.

  After the promise of a reward, several members of the ship’s crew set out in search of a large green suitcase, but an hour later, no one was able to claim the reward.

  The Pascoes were among the last to leave the baggage hall, but not before they were convinced there was no longer any hope of finding their missing treasures. A porter placed their trunk and the two other suitcases on a trolley and began pushing it toward the exit.

  Dennis and Joyce trudged mournfully after him, and as if to add insult to injury, a recently promoted Customs officer pulled them to one side and asked them to place their luggage on the counter. The porter obeyed without hesitation.

  “May I ask if you purchased anything of value while you were abroad, madam?”

  “No,” Joyce said, “just a few souvenirs. Nothing of any real value.”

  She happily opened the two suitcases to reveal Dennis’s dirty laundry and washbag in one, and her neatly folded clothes in the other.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And the trunk?” The porter once again heaved it up onto the counter.

  “Would you open it, please, sir,” said the Customs officer, as Dennis turned to look at his wife.

  Once again Joyce burst into tears, but this time she wasn’t greeted with the same sympathetic look.

  “Would you please open the trunk, sir,” the young officer repeated a little more firmly.

  After what seemed an eternity, Dennis reluctantly stepped forward, unlocked the trunk, and pushed up the lid to re
veal a large green suitcase that almost took up the entire space.

  “Would you now open the suitcase,” said the young man, as a more senior officer walked across to join them.

  Dennis unzipped the suitcase and slowly lifted the lid to reveal all the carefully selected purchases they had made during the past fortnight. The junior officer started to take them out and unwrap them one by one, while the senior officer began to make a note of each item. He spoke for the first time.

  “Have you kept any receipts for these souvenirs?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Dennis.

  “No,” said Joyce, which caused the senior officer to ask the woman to hand over her bag, where he quickly found an envelope stuffed with forty-two receipts.

  He took his time checking each item before transferring the amounts onto a large calculator. It was some time before he declared, “You may wish to check my figures, madam, but I think you’ll find the overall amount comes to twenty-seven thousand, seven hundred and sixteen pounds. Now, I am sure you are both aware there is a forty percent import tax levied on any goods purchased while abroad, above the cost of fifty pounds.” He returned to his calculator. “Which means you are liable to pay Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise eleven thousand and eighty-six pounds and forty pence. Should you be unable to do so, all the goods will be confiscated until you have covered the full amount.”

  C

  DURING THE TRAIN journey back to Audley End, Dennis and Joyce agreed it was the best holiday they’d ever been on, and were already planning where they should go next year.

  Joyce felt it might be wise to take a taxi back to Steeple Bumpstead rather than drag all the suitcases on and off the bus. Dennis agreed, although he was down to his last ten pounds.

  When the taxi pulled up outside the front gate of The Sidings, Joyce collapsed in tears.

  Dennis climbed out of the taxi, and said nothing as he stared at the smoldering remains of what was left of their little cottage.

  The local fire chief, a fellow Rotarian, hurried across to join them.

  “I’m so sorry, Dennis,” he said. “My men got here as quickly as they could, but once the flames touched the thatched roof, there was little they could do about it.”

  “I’m sure you did everything you possibly could, Alan,” said Dennis, trying to look suitably distressed.

  Joyce didn’t stop crying, and Dennis wondered if she wasn’t overdoing it. “Look on the bright side,” he whispered, placing an arm around his wife’s shoulder, “No doubt you took out several policies on the house.”

  “But I didn’t insure the house,” said Joyce with feeling. “Never could see much point.”

  DOUBLE OR QUITS

  “I THINK WE’VE got a problem on table number three,” said the manager, staring intently at the screen on his desk.

  “Which punter?” asked the head of security, as he joined his boss and looked over his shoulder.

  “Young guy, with an attractive woman standing behind him. What do you think, André?”

  “Zoom in,” said the security chief, “and let’s take a closer look.” The manager touched a button and waited until the young man’s face filled the screen. “I agree,” said André, “he’s a double or quits merchant. I think from the sweat on his forehead, he’s probably got a lot riding on it.”

  “And the girl?” said the manager, as he switched the camera to a young woman, whose right hand rested on the gambler’s shoulder.

  “All I can tell you is she’s not a one-night stand.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They’re both wearing wedding rings.”

  “Get Duval up here.”

  André quickly left the room as the manager of the casino watched the young man place another thousand francs on 13.

  “Idiot,” said the manager, as he glanced at the front page of Le Figaro, which was on the desk by his side. He didn’t need to read the article a third time. The headline was bad enough.

  ELEVENTH SUICIDE REPORTED IN MONTE CARLO FOLLOWING HEAVY GAMBLING LOSSES

  He looked back at the screen to see the young punter place a further thousand francs on 13. “Idiot,” he repeated. “Haven’t I got enough problems without you?”

  Claude Richelieu, the owner of the casino, had been on the phone from Paris earlier in the week, concerned about the latest government directive. The French interior minister was pressing the Monte Carlo gaming council to close the recently opened casino. Too many stories in the press about suicides, broken marriages, and bankruptcies caused by gambling, which was illegal in France, and precisely the reason why they were making so much money in Monte Carlo. The manager had cursed when Richelieu added, “We don’t need any more suicides.”

  “But what am I supposed to do,” he asked, “if someone loses badly and then decides to kill themselves?”

  “Fix the wheel,” said Richelieu. “Make sure he wins.”

  “And if that fails?”

  The owner told his manager exactly what he should do if fixing the wheel wasn’t enough.

  There was a knock on the door, and the head of security returned, accompanied by one of the few members of staff who wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket that evening. In fact, if you had passed Philippe Duval in the street, you might have thought the short, balding middle-aged man was a schoolmaster, or perhaps an accountant. But he had other talents that were far more valuable to the casino. Mr. Duval could lip-read in five different languages.

  “Which one?” he asked, as he stared down at the screen.

  “The young guy,” said the manager, once again zooming in on him. “What can you tell me about him?”

  Duval watched carefully, but it was some time before he offered an opinion, during which the young man had lost another thousand francs on 13. “He’s French,” Duval eventually said, “a Parisian, and the lady standing behind him is his wife, Maxine, unless they’re both married to someone else.”

  “Tell me what they’re saying,” said Marcel.

  Duval leaned forward and watched carefully.

  “Him, ‘My luck’s got to change soon.’

  “Her, ‘I’d rather you stopped, Jacques. Let’s go back to the hotel while we’ve still got enough money to pay the bill.’

  “Him, ‘It’s not the hotel bill I’m worried about, as you well know, Maxine. It’s that loan shark who’ll be waiting for me the moment I show my face in Paris.’”

  The young man placed another thousand francs on 13. The ball landed on 26.

  “Him, ‘Next time.’”

  “Is Tony on tonight?” the manager asked.

  “Yes, boss,” replied the head of security. “Table nine.”

  “Switch him with the guy on table three, and tell him to make sure the ball lands in 13.”

  “He’s still only got a one in five chance,” said the head of security.

  “That’s better than thirty-seven to one,” said the manager. “Get on with it.”

  “On my way, boss,” said the head of security. He hurried out of the room and headed down to the casino floor, but not before the young man had lost another thousand francs.

  “Pull the camera back,” said the manager. The manager zoomed out. “I want to take a closer look at that man leaning against the pillar in the far corner.” The camera moved onto a middle-aged man who was also staring intently at the table. “He’s that journalist from Le Figaro.”

  “Are you sure?” the manager barked.

  “Look at the photo next to his byline on the front page,” he said, tapping the newspaper on the desk.

  “François Colbert,” said the manager. “I could kill him.”

  “I think that’s what he has in mind for you,” said Duval, as the camera returned to the roulette table, where two of the croupiers were swapping stations.

  “Make it land in 13, Tony,” said the manager as the new croupier began to spin the wheel. While everyone’s eyes were on the ball, the croupier’s right hand slipped under the table.

&nb
sp; Jacques placed another thousand francs on 13, as the croupier sent the little white ball on its way. The young man, the manager, the head of security, and Duval all followed the progress of the ball, which ended up in 27, one slot to the left of 13.

  “He’ll get it right next time,” said the manager.

  “He’d better,” said Duval, “because the mark’s only got two chips left.”

  The young man put them both on 13. Once again, the croupier sent the ball spinning, and once again his index finger felt for the hidden lever under the table, as six people with a vested interest watched to see where the ball would land. 36.

  “Now Tony’s managed both sides of thirteen,” said the manager, “surely he’ll get it right a third time.”

  “But I think our guy’s run out of money,” said Duval, as the young man swung round to face his wife.

  “What’s he saying?” demanded the manager.

  “I can’t tell you while he’s got his back to me. But zoom in on the woman. She’s saying, ‘But it’s all I’ve got left, Jacques, and if I let you have it, we’ll be cleaned out.’”

  The croupier once again spun the wheel and released the ball before flicking the lever of the trip pin a third time, when the ball finally landed in 13, but the gambler hadn’t had time to place a bet. As the young man turned back, a gasp went up from those standing around the table, and he said in despair, “If only you’d believed in me, Maxine, I could have won the three hundred thousand I needed to clear my debt.”

  The young woman quickly unclasped her bag and handed over a wad of notes to the croupier. He counted them slowly.

  “Ten thousand francs, sir?” he said impassively, before dropping the money into a plastic box by his side.

  “Keep your eye on the journalist,” said Duval. The manager glanced across at François Colbert, who was writing down every word Jacques and his wife were saying.