Casanova by Mark Arundel

Everything was going well. It felt like being on holiday.
    An electronic rendition of “Rule, Britannia!” broke my peaceful contemplation. For some reason the K106 has it pre-programmed, not that a reminder was necessary.
    I answered the call in good spirits.
    The young man’s voice on the other end said, ‘This is Hoagy. We have some new information.’
    I didn’t respond.
    Hoagy continued and said, ‘We’ve had a small team working non-stop on the hole at the bank. The team is a mixture of computer experts and forensic accountants. They’ve made an initial report. It doesn’t look good for Casanova.’
    ‘Is Bazzer there?’
    ‘Bazzer,’ he repeated. ‘Who’s Bazzer?’
    ‘He wanted to call you Sundance.’
    ‘Oh, yes, umm, no, he’s not here. He knows I’m talking to you. He told me to call you.’ There was a pause. ‘Why did he want to call me Sundance?’
    ‘...because you look like a young Robert Redford.’
    ‘Oh yes, I see.’
    Perhaps he didn’t know who Robert Redford was but he wasn’t going to admit that to me. He didn’t ask anything further.
    ‘Why doesn’t it look good for Casanova?’ I said.
    ‘Oh yes, well, because the money was transferred electronically using a senior clearance code. Someone has deleted all the files subsequently and the security records that the system should generate automatically are missing from the network log. However, a second imprint of the clearance code needed to authorise the transaction was stored on a duplicate system, used as a backup in the event of a primary system failure. The senior clearance code used was Casanova’s.’
    ‘Does it have to be him?’
    ‘Well, all senior employees at the highest level have a unique code that they create personally and are supposed to keep completely confidential. The security system culture is taken very seriously at the bank.’
    ‘Where did he transfer the money to?’
    ‘We don’t know yet. The team are still working on that.’
    ‘Do we know anymore about his possible location?’
    ‘...umm, no we don’t; not that I’m aware of anyway.’
    I ended the call. Hoagy was starting to spoil my good mood.
    The sun bounced sharply off the dry, salt stained tarmac and forced me to pull down the visor. I searched for my sunglasses and pushed them on.
    The lake appeared; flat and glassy, dotted with painted wooden houses along its banks stepped between the fir trees like strings of decorative lights.
    I followed the road beside the water, sweeping back and round until the flat gave way to the rising terrain. The slow gradient took me higher with deceptive ease. I caught a glimpse of a snowy peak high in the distance through the trees and realised the mountains were not far away.
    Before long, I began the ascent in earnest. Gently at first, with a sweep and a rise, and then tighter turns, zigzag hairpins with long drops that encouraged concentration and respect.
    An occasional house, or shop or garage appeared, built were a level step naturally allowed or someone had persuaded to allow.
    At this height, the ground was white with snow and the roofs of the buildings held a thick wedge that glistened in the sunlight, but luckily, the road was still clear. It obviously hadn’t snowed recently and even when it did, the snowploughs were always quick to get things moving again.
    The diesel engine pulled easily, even on the steepest slopes and I began to enjoy the constant winding of accelerate, brake, accelerate. Just as my rhythm was displaying all the balance of an Icelandic rally driver, the road straightened and I was there.
    The village was compact as though squashed by the enormity of the mountain. Shops, restaurants and hotels lined the main road and for some reason made me think of a Wild West town from an old cowboy movie. I half expected to see the town Sheriff step through a pair of swinging saloon doors and rub his silver star with pride. What I actually saw, of course, were people dressed in thick,