PAPER MONEY by Ken Follett

Jesse sensed an ally. “Nothing I’d rather do, mate, but this fellow

wants to call in Kojak on’ the case.

The portly man wagged a finger. “I know your type-drive like a hooligan

and let the insurance pay. I’m having you up, Sonny Jim.”

Jesse took a step forward, clenching his fists; then stopped himself.

He was getting panicky.

“The police have got enough to do,” he pleaded.

The other man’s eyes narrowed. He had seen Jesse’s fear. “We’ll let them

decide whether they’ve got better things to do.” He looked around, and

spotted a phone booth. “You stop here.” He turned away.

Jesse grabbed his shoulder. He was scared now He said: “This is nothing

to do with the police’

The man turned and knocked Jesse’s hand away “Get off, you young punk–”

Jesse seized him by the lapels and pulled him onto his toes. “I’ll give

you punk …” Suddenly he became conscious of the crowd that had

gathered, looking on with interest. There were about a dozen people.

He stared at them. They were mostly housewives with shopping bags. The

girl with the tight trousers was at the front. He realized he was doing

all the wrong things.

He decided to get out of it.

He let the aggrieved man go and got into the van. The man stared at him

disbelievingly.

Jesse restarted the stalled engine and backed up. There was a wrenching

sound as the vehicles parted. He could see that the Marina’s bumper hung

loose, and its rear-light cluster was smashed.

Fifty quid to put right, and a tenner if you do the work yourself, he

thought wildly.

The portly man moved in front of the van and stood there like Neptune,

waving an officious finger. “You stay right here!” he shouted. The crowd

was growing as the row became more spectacular.

There was a lull in the oncoming traffic, and the cars behind began to

pull out past the accident.

Jesse found first gear and revved the engine.

The man stood his ground. Jesse engaged the clutch with a jerk, and the

van shot forward.

Too late, the portly man dived toward the curb.

Jesse heard a dull thud from the near side wing as he swung out. A car

behind braked with a squeal of tires. Jesse changed up and tore away

without looking back.

The street seemed narrow and Oppressive trap like as he hurtled along,

ignoring pedestrian crossings, swerving and braking. He tried

desperately to think. He had screwed it all up. The whole tickle had

gone beautifully, and Jesse James had pranged the getaway motor. A van

load of paper money blown on a fifty-nicker crunch:

Arseholes..

Stay cool, he told himself. It wasn’t a blowout until he was locked up.

There was still time, if only he could think.

He slowed the van and turned off the main road. There was no point in

attracting attention again. He threaded his way through a series of back

streets while he figured it out.

What would happen now? A bystander would phone the police, especially as

he had knocked down the portly man. The van’s number was in the little

notebook; besides, somebody in the crowd would have noted it too. It

would be reported as a hit-and-run, and the number would go out over the

air to patrol cars. Anything from three minutes to fifteen to get that

far. Another five minutes, and they would broadcast a description of

Jesse. What was he wearing? Blue trousers and an orange shirt.

Arseholes.

What would Tony Cox say, if he were here to be asked? Jesse recalled the

guvnor’s fleshy face and heard his voice. Tell yourself what the.

problem is, right?

Jesse said aloud: “The police have got my number and description.”

Think what you’d have to do to solve the problem.

“What the hell can I do, Tone? Change my license plate and my

appearance?”

Then do it, right?

Jesse frowned. Tony’s analytical thinking only went so far. Where the

hell could he get license plates, and how could he fit them?

Of course, it was easy.

He found his way to a main road and drove along until he came to a

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