The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

CONFESSION by Paula Williams

THIS IS THE full written confession of Trevor Montgomery Pringle, aged fifty-five, of – well, there’s not a lot of point me putting my address down because Trevor Montgomery Pringle is going away for a long, long time.

It’s funny but I never really thought of what I was doing as stealing, more a question of building up my pension fund. It was, after all, the only one I was likely to get, in spite of the fact I’d worked for Fraddon and Son (Construction) Ltd for most of my adult life.

So I preferred to think of what I did more along the line of a redistribution of assets. And if that sounds like accountant-speak, that’s because I am one. Or rather I was, for thirty-six tedious years.

But to be honest – and, in spite of everything, I am an honest chap – I’m not exactly an accountant. I’m what you’d call “qualified by experience”. But I never took any exams or had any letters after my name, which was Roger Fraddon’s excuse for paying me peanuts all those years.

“Let’s face it, Trev,” he said, back in the early days when I was still naive enough to believe him when he promised that next year my rise would be The Big One. “I pay you a fair wage considering you’re nothing more than a glorified bookkeeper. And, of course,” he jingled the loose change in his pocket, narrowed his eyes and looked challengingly at me, “if you don’t like it, you can always leave.”

Funny he should say that because my wife, Sandra, was always on at me to leave Fraddon’s.

“Why don’t you get yourself a job that pays a decent wage?” she grumbled when I got home, late as usual, one evening. “What you earn isn’t enough to keep me in shoes and handbags.”

I stopped myself from pointing out that David Beckham probably didn’t earn enough to keep her in shoes, handbags and anything else that took her fancy. It would only have caused an argument and Sandra doesn’t like arguments when she’s having one of her heads.

“That Roger Fraddon takes advantage of you,” she said as I placed her supper tray – two eggs, lightly boiled, with bread and butter soldiers with the crusts cut off – on her lap so that she could watch EastEnders.

But how could I leave Fraddon’s when there was old Bert Netherton to consider? Bert was night watchman at a disused fish-packing factory that Roger’s father Arnold (now sadly no longer with us, having suffered a massive heart attack in the arms of the local floozy back in 1997) had once taken in lieu of payment on a re-roofing job that went over budget.

If I left, Roger, who was a bit casual when it came to what he contemptuously described as the “boring bits” of the business, such as staff welfare, wages and benefits, would look into files he hadn’t looked in for years, discover the fish factory and want to develop it as luxury living for the discerning executive in a prime waterfront location. Poor old Bert would be history.

So I stayed – even when Roger took advantage not of me but my Sandra. Not that she minded being taken advantage of, because one Thursday morning, when I was up to my ears in lintels and roof trusses, it being the annual stocktake, she packed all her shoes and handbags and anything else she could stuff into half a dozen suitcases and moved in with Roger.

Things were surprisingly pleasant after Sandra and her shoes moved out. Not only did I gain space in the wardrobe, it meant I never had to watch another episode of EastEnders or The Apprentice ever again. I also started spending time at Bert’s. Sitting on his front porch, watching the sun go down across the water, was very relaxing after a long day at the office.

After that, things rubbed along smoothly enough for a few years and nothing much changed at work, apart from the fact that I stopped asking Roger for a rise. I figured that now he had to keep Sandra in shoes and handbags, he probably needed the money more than I did.

But I was worried about the company’s financial future. Before Sandra moved in with him, Roger used to work long hours, particularly when it came to drumming up new business.

But even a glorified bookkeeper like myself knows that if you don’t put in the hours, and you take more out of the business than you put in, then things don’t look too good in the long term.

Which is why I was surprised when Roger called me into his office one day.

“You’ve been a loyal servant to the company, Trevor,” he began in an unusually formal tone of voice that made my heart sink because the “you’ve been a loyal servant” bit is usually followed by the “but we’re going to have to let you go” bit. And then the “this hurts me more than it hurts you” bit.

But it didn’t happen like that. “Which is why I’m giving you a long-overdue promotion,” he went on. “How does Finance Director sound? And there’ll be a company car, of course, and a salary to match your new status.”

My new status? I was astounded. Pleased, too, of course, but more than a little worried. That’s not the sort of behaviour I’ve learned to expect from Roger and I couldn’t help wondering what had brought about this sudden change of heart.

Could it mean-? My mouth went dry and my palms began to sweat. Oh, no, surely not. Could it mean things were over between Roger and Sandra and she was packing her six suitcases, or probably more likely ten by now, and heading back to the marital home as we spoke?

But I needn’t have worried because Sandra didn’t come back. And Roger began spending even more time away from the business and I got on with my job in the same old way.

But I was getting increasingly concerned about the company’s financial position, and every day I was taking calls from unhappy suppliers demanding to know when they were going to be paid as the bank balance was sinking further and further into the red.

“I’m out there getting new business,” Roger said when I tried to tell him about the company’s cash-flow problems. “In spite of what you may think, it’s not all wining and dining and funny handshakes. It’s damn hard work. So you do your job and leave me to do mine.”

He turned to go but I called after him. “That large withdrawal you made last week,” I said. “The bank says-”

He whirled round, his face flushed with anger.

“Listen,” he said as if talking to a less than bright child. “You get back to counting beans or whatever it is you count and leave the higher financial stuff to me. I need hardly remind you, Trevor, that the title of Finance Director is, in your case, what they call a courtesy title. You leave the real directing of finance to me. OK?”

So that’s exactly what I did. Until, that is, the day there was a knock on my office door and two grim-faced police officers stood there.

“Mr Trevor Pringle?” said the younger one, whose ears could have been used to direct taxiing aircraft. “We’ve a warrant to search your offices. We have reason to believe a major fraud has been perpetrated here.”

“F-fraud?” I stammered, while my insides turned to water.

“If we could just go through your contracts files,” he said. “We’ve been following the activities of this company for some time. It seems you’ve been putting in false tenders for council work, defrauding the local taxpayers out of tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of pounds in the last eighteen months.”

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said, handing them the keys to my filing cabinet. “Mr Fraddon has some good contacts on the council but all the contracts have been won fair and square. He’d never do something like this.”

“We know that, Mr Pringle. That’s why we’re here. Mr Fraddon has owned up to the odd irregularity, but it’s not him we’re after. It’s your name on the contracts. You’re the Finance Director, and I think you’d better see about getting yourself a decent lawyer. It looks like you’re going to need one.”

The police were quite right. I had committed a fraud. But where they’d got it wrong was that it wasn’t against the local taxpayers but against Roger.

All those years ago, when he’d refused me a rise, made me work all those hours for peanuts, then stolen my wife and rubbed my nose in it, I, the bean counter in charge of the payroll, invented this old chap called Bert Netherton, gave him the job of night watchman at the old long-forgotten fish factory and began paying his modest wages into a bank account I’d set up in his name.

I’d always intended that, one day, Trevor Montgomery Pringle would disappear and I’d start a new life as Bert Netherton. I just hadn’t planned on doing it quite so soon.

But when Roger’s little scheme to get me to carry the can for his fraud kicked off, Trevor Pringle walked out of the office that Tuesday evening, never to be seen again – and Bert Netherton came to life.

That was five years ago now and I’m very happy here in Bert Netherton’s ramshackle cottage, living the quiet life and enjoying watching the sun set over the salt marshes each night, with only the sea birds for company.

I’ll have to move out soon, though, because I’ve just had a letter to say that Fraddon and Son (Construction) Limited are going into Receivership and all the staff are being laid off. I hear, too, that Roger Fraddon has had to sell his posh house and fancy cars.

I shall be all right though. Bert made some sound investments over the years and has a tidy sum tucked away, more than enough to buy a modest little bungalow down by the estuary that’ll do me nicely.

As for the police, they’ve still got Trevor Pringle’s name on file, of course, but they’re not looking for him quite so hard since they received an anonymous tip off about a secret bank account that contained the proceeds of the council contracts fraud.

Poor old Roger never was much good at planning ahead, a necessary attribute for a successful fraudster. In order to stay out of jail, he’d had to deny all knowledge of the account, which meant he never got his grubby little paws on a single penny of his ill-gotten gains.

As for Sandra, she’s left him and last I heard was living with a shoe salesman from Norwich and is, I imagine, as happy as she’ll ever be.

So why am I writing this confession? Well, I have a lot of time for reading now – not to mention birdwatching, painting and listening to music – and it says in this book I’ve just finished about how confession is good for the soul so I thought I’d give it a try.

Writing this has taken longer than I thought and the evening has grown quite chilly while I’ve been sitting here. I think I’ll light the fire. I scrunch up a piece of paper and toss it on to the kindling. Then I strike a match and hold my hands towards the flames, watching as the words I’ve just written writhe and twist before they disappear in a shower of sparks up the chimney.

What do you know? It works. The fire is drawing well and it feels good. The book was right after all. Well, nearly right. Confession, it seems, really is good for the coal.