Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

a very nice idea. My colleague, Mr Noggett, has a suite of rooms which would be ideal for the purpose. I’m certain he would be only too glad to participate.’

      ‘Can’t you think about anything else but nooky at a time like this?’ says Sid irritably when I tell him.

      ‘No. What is there?’

      Sid thinks for a moment. ‘You’re right. What time does the party start?’

      I tell him that I have laid it on for when all the Rottingfestrians have trotted off to the rugby game and his face creases into a faint smile for the first time in days.

      ‘Frisky load of fillies, aren’t they?’ he says. ‘I won’t be sorry to get amongst that lot after what I’ve been through with their old men. Now we’ve only got to worry about stalling Rigby.’

      To my surprise, Rigby does not show up promptly at lunch time and it is only when the Rottingfestrians are having their last pint before leaving for the game that the Rolls slides up outside the hotel entrance. Its arrival draws a cheer from the crowd of half-pissed thicknecks milling about outside the bar and this does not go down well with Rigby.

      ‘Take a good look,’ he sneers, indicating the car. ‘It’s about as near as any of you will ever get to one.’

      This remark provokes an immediate outcry and Sid moves forward fast to avoid a possible lynching.

      ‘Come and have a drink,’ he says civilly. Rigby jerks his head towards the bar.

      ‘Not in here, thanks. I don’t like drinking with scruffy schoolkids.’

      ‘Come into the office.’ Sid leads the way to Miss Ruperts’ cubby hole and we are fortunate enough to find half a bottle of scotch that the old bat has left over from breakfast.

      ‘I’m not here to pay a social call. Are you ready to sign?’

      ‘We’ve given it a lot of thought–’

      ‘You’ve had a lot of time.’

      ‘–but we won’t be able to give you our decision until tomorrow.’

      ‘Right! Well, you’re going to have a sleepless night to think about it. I’m walking straight out of here and I’m giving my boys the go ahead to start moving in. You’d better start getting the cotton wool out of the medicine cabinet.’

      ‘Mr Rigby? How fortunate to find you here.’ The words fall from the lips of Doctor Carboy who comes bustling through the door carrying a bulging briefcase. Hard behind him is Miss Ruperts, her face flushed with what I imagine to be a few hastily snatched glasses of lunch.

      ‘Who is this?’ snarls Rigby.

      ‘I represent those interests of this lady and gentleman that are not covered by liquor, sex and drugs,’ says Carboy evenly. ‘I have been bringing myself up to date with their affairs. I had to go to London to read all the relevant Sunday newspapers.’

      ‘I’m not interested in jokes,’ says Rigby, sourly.

      ‘What a pity. With a face like that I’d have thought you would have had to have been.’

      ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted.’

      ‘No, I’m certain a man of your standing can be insulted anywhere. In fact, now I come to mention it, I’m certain a man of your standing could be standing anywhere. Like outside in the rain for instance. There’s a Rolls-Royce outside the front door. Why don’t you go and stand under it and I’ll tell you when it’s stopped raining.’

      ‘Do you know who I am?’ screeches Rigby.

      ‘Of course I do. You’re King Farouk’s younger brother thinking that nobody is going to recognise you without the flower pot and the dark glasses. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I know who you are. I told you when I came in. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already?’

      ‘Don’t beat about the bush, Walter,’ pants Miss Ruperts, casting about her for the whisky bottle. ‘Tell him. Odious little man.’

      ‘I beg your pardon.’

      ‘Not you, Walter! Him!’

      ‘Very well. If you insist, dear lady. I’m sorry, Ratby, I mean Rigby, but I’m afraid you’ve been taken over.’

      ‘What!’ Rigby’s face turns a different shade of scarlet.

      ‘Yes. The Rigram Property Company is now owned by a consortium in which my fair companion here is the major shareholder. Yes, Rigby, money talks, and to you it says: “Shove off and see if you can get a job posing for a Warfarin advertisement.”’

      ‘You expect me to believe that?’

      ‘I don’t care whether you believe it or not. Why don’t you ring your accountant? Mr Ransome, isn’t it?’ Rigby’s face achieves another remarkable change of shade. ‘How did you–?’

      ‘Suffice to say that we have ways, Rigby. Now if you will excuse me. I have to cut my toenails and I don’t want anyone to get hurt by flying trimmings.’

      ‘I’ll get–’

      ‘ “Out” is all you’re entitled to get at the moment.’ There is a hard edge to Carboy’s voice that suggests that he does not spend all his time helping old ladies across badly marked zebra crossings. Rigby looks round desperately.

      ‘You haven’t heard the last of this. I’ll be in touch.’

      ‘I’ll buy a pair of gloves just in case. Good afternoon.’ Carboy opens the door and Rigby storms out. The minute he has gone we both turn on Carboy.

      ‘Is that true? Have you really taken over that bastard’s outfit?’

      ‘Virtually. Miss Ruperts has secured a controlling interest in it. To all intents and purposes she is the owner.’

      ‘And you did all that in a couple of hours?’

      ‘I know the right people.’

      ‘I’ll say you do.’

      ‘I think a glass of champagne would be in order,’ trills Miss Ruperts.

      ‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Carboy. ‘Now what on earth is all that noise about?’

      We bundle out into the foyer and there is a tall geezer wearing a grey chauffeur’s uniform and a very worried expression.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘Bloody young hooligan has driven off in Mr Rigby’s Rolls.’

      ‘Where’s Rigby?’

      ‘He’s inside it!’

      ‘Blimey!’

      We join the drunken crowd of Rottingfestrians laughing and cheering on the steps of the hotel and follow their eyes towards the pier.

      ‘What’s Lofty going to do with him?’ Oh, so that’s it. I thought the big fellow had got the needle with Rigby. Little did I know how much.

      ‘Good God. He’s driving onto the pier!’ He is too. For some reason they have opened the gates and I can see ant-like figures hopping out of the way as the black shape zooms behind the ghost train.

      ‘He’s going it, isn’t he?’

      ‘Slow down Lofty, you Charley!’

      ‘Oh, no!’ The Rolls is now ripping down the pier like it is a runway.

      ‘What’s he doing?’

      ‘He’s pissed.’

      ‘He’s mad.’

      ‘He won’t be able to stop.’

      The last speaker is right. As we watch, horrified, the Rolls bursts through the barrier like it is made