Page 63 of The Impossible Fortune (Thursday Murder Club Mysteries #5)

Ron shakes Bill Benson by the hand. ‘Nice place you’ve got down here,’ says Ron as they enter the vault.

Bill nods. ‘Decorated it myself. You want to open the safe?’

Ron nods in anticipation. ‘What happens if we’ve got the code wrong?’

Bill shrugs. ‘Mayhem. Whole place shuts down. Only happened once before. We had to sit tight until Nick and Holly both came down to override the system.’

‘Well, they’re not going to do that this time,’ says Connie.

‘No,’ agrees Bill. ‘So maybe don’t get the code wrong.’

Ron looks at the piece of paper in his hand. The code, written neatly by Ibrahim. Holly’s numbers first – 416617 – and then Nick’s – 217495. The first one worked out by Elizabeth, the second by Kendrick and his new love interest.

Of course the next question is: in which order do you put the codes? Nick’s code, then Holly’s code? Or Holly’s code, then Nick’s code? A lot rested on that decision. It was Ibrahim – clever fella, that one – who remembered Holly at dinner saying, ‘Always Holly and Nick.’

Holly and Nick. Always in that order. Well played, Ibrahim.

The digits on the safe have a slight greenish glow in the dim light.

Ron looks at the number 4 button. Holly, then Nick.

Easy. He realizes he’s singing to himself.

The West Ham anthem, ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’.

It always calms him. He used to sing it to Jason in his cot.

He reaches the line Fortune’s always hiding …

I’ve looked everywhere , stops, and shakes his head.

Ron’s been having a little trouble lately.

Nothing to worry about, he’s sure, but Pauline’s been on at him to see the doctor.

It started with his shoelaces. He found he was fumbling at the knots, his fingers not quite doing what they were told.

He’d laughed it off, but last time he went shoe shopping, he’d bought slip-ons, and now that’s all he wears.

No one’s noticed. Or, worse, everyone’s noticed and kept quiet.

For Joanna’s wedding he knew he wouldn’t get away with slip-ons, and Pauline had tied his laces for him, like a child.

He was holding his pints in both hands now too, like you used to see the old boys do in the East End. His grip didn’t seem to be there any more.

It was probably nothing. But everything was nothing until it was something.

‘Come on, Ron,’ says Connie. ‘You want me to do it?’

‘I’m perfectly capable,’ says Ron.

He’s not though. The numbers are close together. He can feel his fingers trembling in his pocket, and he knows it’s neither nerves nor the cold. Ron needs this safe open. For once in his life, this is no time for bravado. He turns to Connie.

‘Could you?’ he asks.

Is this what it comes to? Every day a new indignity. Every day a man who has never asked for help suddenly relying on kindness. What must Pauline have thought, tying up his laces? Ron thinks back to the man in the pub, having his food cut up for him. Bit by bit you return to childhood.

‘Bit nervous, fingers shaking.’

Bill rests a hand on his elbow. ‘Same.’

Ron looks down and sees that Bill is also wearing slip-ons.

Connie, in what appear to be jewel-encrusted stilettos, takes the piece of paper from Ron. ‘So this is the order?’

‘Holly first, then Nick,’ says Ron. ‘It’s always been that way round. Business cards, legal papers, all that. Ibrahim spotted it.’

‘Did he?’ says Connie, looking at the numbers again. ‘It’s definitely logical.’

‘Definitely logical,’ agrees Ron. ‘Stands to reason. You know Ibrahim.’

‘But …’ starts Connie, shaking her head. ‘If you’re going to go to all the trouble of having a code …’

Ron stops to think. ‘Why not add one little twist?’

Connie looks at him and nods. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Ibrahim was sure though,’ says Ron.

‘He’s always sure,’ says Connie. She’s right about that. ‘But what would you do, if you were Holly and Nick?’

‘Me? I’d swap them round,’ says Ron.

‘So would I,’ says Connie.

‘Either way,’ says Bill, ‘I’d rather not get stuck down here. It’d be a hell of a job to get us out. Fire service, probably police, maybe even TV when the word got out we were trapped. Lot of questions about what we’re doing.’

‘Is there food down here?’ Ron asks.

‘I’ve got a KitKat,’ says Bill. ‘I’ve had my lunch already.’

Connie and Ron look at each other. Ron gives a little nod.

‘Nick, then Holly,’ says Connie. ‘If we’re right, we’ve got three hundred and fifty million. If we’re wrong, we’re those Chilean miners.’

‘Good lads, those Chilean miners,’ says Bill.

Connie steps up to the safe. She says each number out loud as she presses the buttons. ‘Two, one, seven, four, nine, five …’

‘In fact, I think I ate the KitKat too,’ says Bill.

‘Four, one, six, six, one, seven.’

For a moment nothing happens. Deep, deep underground, in a place where no outside sound or light has ever reached, the ex-miner, the drug dealer and the man with the shaking fingers hold their breath. Ron looks at Bill; Connie looks at Ron. They all look at the safe door.

Ron shakes his head. ‘I think we’re –’

There are three quick beeps, and the safe springs open. Ron puts his hands on his knees in relief, as Connie reaches in and takes out a piece of paper. Ron rights himself, and she hands it to him.

‘That’s it?’ he asks.

Connie runs her finger along the paper. ‘See all those numbers and letters? That’s the key, it’s a sort of account number. Proves the Bitcoin’s yours.’

‘Seen it all now,’ says Bill. ‘Your pals are going to think you’re a hero, Ron, old son.’

‘I doubt that,’ says Ron.

‘You want me to send you back up?’

Ron looks at Connie. ‘You ready?’

Connie nods. ‘You?’

Ron lets out a deep, deep breath. ‘Not really, Connie. But here we are.’