Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding: A Funny Feel-Good Romantic Comedy (32 page)

Then the moment had gone. He was grinning, I was saying thanks in a breathy damsel in distress fashion, which he seemed to like. Then he tipped the suitcase back on its wheels and moved off under its weight back to his car. I walked quickly to the Ferry Terminal and didn’t look back until I went through the automatic doors where Rosencrantz was stood.
 

'What happened there?' he said. 'Are you okay? What did he say to you?' I told him about the encounter, then we saw their little Fiat move off toward the exit.

'Shit!' I said. 'We’ve got to follow them.'

'Hang on Mum,' he said. We watched as they left the car park, the toy-sized car in the distance joined a slip road, which ran beside the terminal. They passed us, then further down took a turn, and doubled back toward to the ferry.

'They’re taking their car on the ferry!’
 

'Should I change our tickets? So we can drive?' said Rosencrantz.

'No,' I said. 'Whatever it is we do, we need to do it on the boat. It’s an enclosed space.'

We walked shakily towards the ferry. It was small, old, and grubby. Cars were lining up to board via a ramp and foot passengers were milling toward a little bridge.

We kept our heads down and walked up the ramp. Once on board we found ourselves in a little carpeted staircase which stunk of coffee, cigarettes, and fuel.

'Come on Mum, let’s go up to the top deck,' said Rosencrantz.
 

It was warm and sunny on deck and we went to the railing on the side looking out to sea. There was a view down onto the lower deck where cars were pulling up to park in rows. I spied the Fiat with Sabrina and Simon pulling into the second row of cars from the stern of the ferry.

'Crap,' said Rosencrantz.

'What?'

'If we need to break into their car, then everyone up on this deck will see us.'

'Whoa, hang on,’ I said. 'What do you think we’re going to do?’

'Grab the money!'

'It’s in a locked bag. Well we think it is. What if they haven’t got the money?'
 

‘They
have
to have the money,' said Rosencrantz. 'Everything that’s happened in the last few months has led us to this moment.'

We both jumped as ferry’s horn blared. Slowly the side of the dock began to move away from us. We turned and the open sea beckoned. Rosencrantz flicked his cigarette into the choppy water below. We watched as Sabrina and Simon emerged from the Fiat and unloaded the suitcases. They dragged them slowly across the car deck.
 

'Man. Those are big suitcases,’ said Rosencrantz quietly.

'How much space do you think two hundred grand takes up?' I said. Rosencrantz googled it on his phone.

‘Well, if it’s in tens and twenties it could be twenty or thirty kilos… If it’s in fifties it would be around five kilos. Of course they could be packing to emigrate too,’ he said.

‘Who emigrates to Jersey?’
 

‘Bergerac did…’

’This is stupid. We don’t know
anything
for sure.’ Sabrina and Simon disappeared through the doors and off the car deck.

‘What if they come up here?’ I realised, in a panic.

‘I don’t think they will with those cases. I’ll go and check.’ Rosencrantz went off and came back a few minutes later.

‘They’re sat with the bags, on the bottom deck,’ he said. ‘It’s closed in with rows of seating.’

'You don’t think they’ll dump them overboard?' I said.

'And do what?'

'They could have someone waiting in a dinghy?'

'Don’t be stupid Mum. They’re gonna risk it in their car. They hardly ever search cars on the Jersey border. They’ll pretend to be holidaymakers. I bet they are going to bank the cash somewhere quiet. Jersey is the perfect place to make money vanish.'

All this ‘I think’ and ‘I bet’ was making me nervous.

'I should call Natasha,' I said. 'Leave a message about what’s going on here. If we’re really going to do something stupid, we might need a lawyer.’

I dialled her office at Spencer & Spencer and left a message with her Secretary, who didn’t seem too phased with what I was telling her.

‘I must remind you, Miss Hamilton is taking a holiday in the Maldives,’ she said.

‘Please just tell her, it’s important,’ I said. The Secretary reluctantly said she would. Then my phone rang. It was Wayne.

'Which boat did you get on Mrs. P?’ He said. I told him it was the 2pm to St. Helier.

'That’s a ten hour crossing!’
 

'I thought it was four hours?’

'No, we’ve made a mistake, that’s the one from Poole,' he said. 'At least you have time to finalise your plans… What is your plan?'

'I have no idea,’ I said.

'Well, I can help as much as I can, but your phone signal is probably about to run out at sea. If you need me to call the A-Team let me know soon,' he joked.

We found a bench and spent the next few hours debating what to do. There was no police on board, only at the other end when we got to the Jersey border. If we left it too late Sabrina and Simon could zoom down the exit ramp and escape.
 

We debated stealing their car keys, (tricky, illegal) or locking them in the toilet then calling the police (also tricky as there was only one toilet on the boat with a constant queue outside). We also thought about tipping off the Jersey Police (but as the ferry chugged onwards we realised we didn’t have a mobile phone signal).

We decided to have a break and went to get some food from the cafe; jacket potatoes with cheese and beans. We were looking out to sea when I told Rosencrantz about Wayne’s comment, about calling the A-Team.

There was a clatter as Rosencrantz dropped his plastic fork.

'That’s it!' he said.
 

'What?'
 

'The A-Team! When they were in a sticky situation, they used what they had, they used things lying around.'

'Well, they had an awful lot of stuff in the back of their van,' I said.

‘It’s the simplest things,' said Rosencrantz. He grabbed his jacket potato. 'What if we shoved this potato up their exhaust pipe?’

'Don’t be silly.'

'It’s perfect! It means their car won’t start… They won’t know what the problem is. All the other cars will pull away. They’ll be sitting ducks!’

Before I could say anything, he put the potato in the box and darted off. He vanished and re-appeared on the car deck. Quick as a flash he darted across, weaving through the cars and stopped by the Fiat, pretending to do up his shoelace. He was back within minutes.

'Mischief managed,' he grinned. ‘The car was also unlocked. I opened the boot a fraction and wedged a little piece of polystyrene in the lock, so it won’t close properly…’

'What do we do now?' I said.

'We wait.’

We had been awake for around twenty hours when we drew up in the port of St.Helier, Jersey. It was ten forty-five and dusk was falling. The engines droned as the Ferry powered its way into a gap between a larger more attractive ship. A rope was flung deftly out and caught by a young lad on the pier side. The engines cut out, and the ringing silence was filled with voices as they made their way toward the exit.
 

We stayed put in our spot and surveyed the people climbing back into their vehicles on the car deck. A clank signalled that the passenger ramp was down and foot passengers began to file off the ferry. This was followed by a deeper clang as the car ramp moved into place. A chorus of engines starting up roared into the summer evening, and when the gates opened the first cars started to move off.

'What if their car starts?' I said anxiously.

'It won’t,' said Rosencrantz. Although, he didn’t sound too sure.

There was a lot of exhaust smoke to begin with, and all of the cars seemed to be moving. Then we heard it; the high-pitched
rih rih rih rih rihrihrihrih
of an engine failing to start. More cars moved off and now the Fiat was an obstruction. A chorus of horns and shouting began. Sabrina’s window opened and her lethally manicured middle finger extended gracelessly into the air.

'Lets go NOW!' said Rosencrantz. We darted across the deck and down the central staircase, emerging out onto the half empty car deck. The beeping, shouting and exhaust smoke seemed to mask the madness of what we were doing long enough for us to reach the boot of the Fiat. Rosencrantz wrenched it open (The polystyrene had worked). Without a second thought, I grabbed at one of the suitcases and heaved it out onto the deck. Rosencrantz pulled out the second one. My nail scissors were ready in my hand. I dug them into a corner of the material and dragged them along, tearing the whole case open. I pulled at the contents searching for cash, but all that tumbled out was clothes.
 

Sabrina and Simon flew out of the Fiat. I reached into the ragged tear of the suitcase desperately, but all I was pulling out was jeans and shoes.

'What the fuck are you doing?' shouted Simon. I seemed to go deaf and cold all at the same time as panic swept through me. He raised his arm to hit me…
 

Then it began to rain down on us, like ticker tape at the end of a concert. Money. Fifty-pound notes were flying through the air. Slowly my hearing came back and I could hear screaming and shouting. People had stopped and were watching in amazement as money rained down around us. Simon was watching too, his arm frozen mid-air. Rosencrantz had got into the other suitcase! He was managing to hold Sabrina away from him, pull out handfuls of cash, and throw it into the air.

'POLICE!’ he shouted. ‘THIS WOMAN HAS HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS IN CASH! SHE’S A CRIMINAL!’
 

Sabrina broke free of his grip and clawed her nails down Rosencrantz’s face. I lunged at her grabbing a chunk of her blond hair and yanked hard. It came away in my hand and I realised I’d pulled out her hair extensions.

Simon saw what was happening and ran for it, darting and weaving through the remaining cars and people who had got out, who were trying to catch the money as it flew across the deck.

'STOP HIM!' I shouted. Within minutes the police were on board and Sabrina, myself and Rosencrantz were taken away. It took a few minutes before we realised we were being arrested with her…

I’m just in a police interview room, waiting. Rosencrantz is in another and I don’t know where Sabrina is. I’d better go, someone is coming through the door.

Saturday 13th August
 
13.48

TO: [email protected], [email protected]

We arrived back in Portsmouth on Friday lunchtime. It was cold and misty and we hadn’t slept for hours. We were lucky to be able to walk down the gangplank by ourselves. Sabrina was taken to a police car in handcuffs by two police officers. Simon hadn’t been so lucky. He had tried to jump off the boat and swim away; only, he had jumped off the wrong side, and landed on the concrete jetty. He’s in police custody in a hospital in Jersey with two broken legs and a fractured pelvis.

We had initially been arrested and questioned by the police. Sabrina had alleged that we were involved with the fraud - citing Adam as our connection. There was a scary few hours when, tired and emotional I thought they might buy her story. However, the phone call to Natasha had been worthwhile.
 

What I didn’t know is that her team at chambers had been working with the Met Police on the information I had sent, and Sabrina’s real name Sabrina Colter had flagged her police record, and the record of her boyfriend Simon. They had discovered that between April and August Simon had deposited forty-thousand pounds cash into his bank account, at a rate of several hundred pounds a day, despite being unemployed and claiming benefits. The Jersey police managed to recover all the money from the deck of the ferry, which came to one hundred and forty thousand pounds.

We had just checked into a hotel in Portsmouth when the phone by my bed rang. It was Natasha.

'Hello Coco,' she said. 'I’ve just been to visit Adam.'

'Is he okay? Is he hurt? How long is his sentence, can we get him off?' I sputtered.

'Calm down, please,' she said. 'I have an appeal hearing booked on Monday at The Royal Courts Of Justice, the appeal court on The Strand. I will present our evidence and push for a re-trial.'

'A re-trial?' I said in dismay. 'Did you hear what happened?'

'I’m just being conservative and cautious Coco, I think we have enough evidence for an appeal. However, we have to tread carefully with a Judge. I’ll plead strongly for Adam to be released on bail.'

'How does he look Natasha? Was he hurt in the fight?'

'He punched another prisoner in the prison library. It seems they have a copy of one of your books and this prisoner had written a defamatory comment about you.'

'Oh,' I said. 'What was the comment?' I heard Natasha turning pages and consulting her notes.

'It’s seems he wrote the word
slag
…’ It sounded so strange to hear the word ‘slag’ in her upper class accent.

'That’s what got him fifty-six days added to his sentence?' I said. 'The idiot. You wait till I see him.'

 
'Coco he is fine, he’s out of segregation, he’s not hurt, but he still can’t have visitors. Only his legal team can visit.'

'What should I do?' I said.

'You should sleep, you sound exhausted. The hotel is taken care of. Rest and drive back to London tomorrow. We need you fresh for Monday.'

I thanked her and hung up, then climbed into the soft warm bed and closed my eyes.

I woke up what felt like minutes later, but it was Saturday morning. I showered and met Rosencrantz in the breakfast room and we stuffed ourselves with everything we could from the buffet.

'I knew it was Sabrina,’ I kept saying. 'I knew it!’

 
We got back to London around mid-afternoon. Wayne and Oscar were waiting excitedly for us, and we sat outside with drinks and told them everything.
 

‘Ooh, how dramatic!’ said Wayne clutching at his imaginary décolletage.

‘Tell us the bit again where you yanked out her hair extensions!’ said Oscar.