Free Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer Page A

tephen Bradley was delivering a lecture on
group theory at the Mathematics Institute in Oxford to third-year
undergraduates. He had read with horror that morning in The Daily Telegraph of the collapse of Discovery Oil. He had
immediately rung his broker, who was still trying to find out the full facts.
David Kesler seemed to have vanished without trace.
    The lecture Stephen was giving was not going
well. His mind was preoccupied to say the least. He only hoped that the
undergraduates would misconstrue his absent-mindedness for genius rather than
recognise it for what it was–total despair. He was at least thankful that it
was his final lecture of the Hilary term.
    At last it ended and he was able to return
to his rooms in Magdalen College, wondering where to start. Why the hell did he
put everything into one basket? How could he, the cool, calculating don, have
been so reckless and so greedy? Mainly because he trusted David, and he still
found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved. Perhaps he
shouldn’t have taken for granted someone he had helped at Harvard would
automatically be right. Damn it all, he hadn’t been a brilliant mathematician.
There must be a simple explanation. He must be able to get his money back. The
telephone rang. Perhaps it was his broker at last?
    As he picked up the phone, he realised for
the first time the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.
    “Stephen Bradley.”
    “Good morning, sir. My name is Detective
Inspector Clifford Smith of the Fraud Squad, Scotland Yard. I was wondering if
you would be kind enough to see me this afternoon? ”
    Stephen hesitated, thinking wildly for a
minute he had done something criminal by his investment in Discovery Oil.
    “Certainly, Inspector,” he said uncertainly.
“Would you like me to travel to London?”
    “No, sir,” replied the inspector. “We will
come down to you. We’ll be with you at four o’clock.”
    “I’ll expect you then. Good-bye, Inspector.”
Stephen replaced the receiver. What did they want? He knew little of English
law and hoped he was not going to be involved with the police as well. All this just six months before he was due to return to Harvard. Stephen was now beginning to wonder if that would ever materialise.
    It was an interminable wait until four o’clock
and the knock on the door made him jump. The porter announced: “Mr. Smith and
Mr. Ryder, sir.”
    The detective inspector was about five feet
eleven inches tall, somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His hair was
turning grey at the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original
black. He was dressed in a shabby suit more indicative, Stephen thought, of a
policeman’s pay than the inspector’s personal choice. His heavy frame would
have fooled most people into thinking he was rather slow. In fact, Stephen was
in the presence of one of the few men in England who fully understood the
criminal mind. Time and time again he had been behind the arrest of
international defrauders. He had a tired look that had come from years of
putting men behind bars for major crimes, and seeing them freed again after
only two or three years, living off the spoils of their various shady
transactions. The force was so understaffed that some of the smaller fry even
got away scot free because the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions
had decided it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper
conclusion. On other occasions, the Fraud Squad just did not get the backup
staff to finish the job properly. The detective inspector was accompanied by
Detective Sergeant Ryder, a considerably younger man–six feet one inch, thin in body and face. His large brown eyes had a haunted look
against his sallow skin. He was at least dressed a little better than the
inspector, but then he probably wasn’t married, thought Stephen.
    “I am sorry about this intrusion, sir,”
began the inspector after he had settled himself comfortably in the