PAPER MONEY by Ken Follett

Bournemouth, suspecting–rightly–that the old house and its memories

were a potent symbol of her authority. Once, there had been queenly

arrogance in her high-bridged nose and pointed chin; now, she was regal

but resigned, like an abdicated monarch; knowing she was wise to release

the reins of power, but regretting it all the same. Tony realized that

this was why she needed him: he was king now, and having him to live

with her kept her close to the throne. He loved her for needing him. No

one else needed him.

She stood up. “Well, are you going?” “Yes.” He realized he had been lost

in thought.

He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed briefly. He never kissed

her. “Ta-ta, Mum.” He picked up his coat, patted the dog, and went out.

The interior of the Rolls was hot. He pressed the button that lowered

the window before settling himself in the leather seat and pulling away.

He took pleasure in the car as he threaded it through the narrow East

End streets. Its shameless luxury, in contrast with the mean streets and

undignified old houses, told the story of Tony Cox’s life. people looked

at the car–housewives, paper boys working men, villains–and said to

each other: “There’s Tony Cox. He did well.”

He flicked cigar ash through the open window.

He had done well. He had bought his first car for six pounds when he was

sixteen years old. The blank Ministry of Transport certificate had cost

him the shillings on the black market. He filled in the blanks and

resold the car for eighty pounds.

Before long he had a used car lot which he gradually turned into a

legitimate business. Then he sold it, with the stock, for five thousand

pounds, and went into the long firm racket.

He used the five thousand to open a bank account, giving as a ponce the

name of the man who had bought the car lot. He told the bank manager his

real name, but gave a false address-the same false address he had given

the purchaser of the car business.

He took a lease on a warehouse, paying three months’ rent in advance.

He bought small quantities of radio, television, and hi-fi equipment

from manufacturers–and resold it to shops in London.

He paid suppliers on the dot, and his bank account was busy. Within a

couple of months he was making a small loss, and had a reputation for

credit-worthiness.

At that point he made a series of very large orders. Small manufacturers

to whom he had promptly paid a couple of bills of five hundred pounds

each were glad to supply him with three or four thousand pounds’ worth

of goods on the same credit terms: he looked like becoming a good

customer.

With a warehouse full of expensive electronic gadgetry for which he had

paid nothing, he held a sale. Record players, color television sets,

digital clocks, tape decks, amplifiers, and radios went for knockdown

prices, sometimes as little as half their retail value. In two days the

warehouse was empty and Tony Cox had three thousand pounds in cash in

two suitcases. He locked the warehouse and went home.

He shivered in the front seat of the warm car as he remembered. He would

never take risks like those again. Suppose one of the suppliers had got

wind of the sale? Suppose the bank manager had seen Tony in a pub a few

days later?

He still did the occasional long firm, but these days he used front men,

who took long holidays in Spain as soon as the ax fell. And nobody saw

Tony’s face.

However, his business interests had diversified.

He owned property in Central London which he let to young ladies at

extremely high rents; he ran nightclubs; he even managed a couple of pop

groups. Some of his projects were legitimate, some criminal; some were a

mixture, and others were on the nebulous borderline between the two,

where the law is unsure of itself but respectable businessmen with

reputations to worry about fear to tread.

The Old Bill knew about him, of course. There were so many grasses about

nowadays that nobody could become a respected villain without his name

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