Paper Money by Ken Follett Page A

he let that pass. He said: “Yeah. He was so careful, he died a pauper.”
    “But an honest one.”
    “Was he?”
    “You know bloody well he was, and never let me hear you say no different.”
    “I don’t like you to swear, Mum.”
    “You shouldn’t provoke me.”
    Tony ate silently and finished quickly. He emptied his teacup and began to unwrap a cigar.
    His mother picked up his cup. “More tea?”
    He looked at his watch. “No, thanks. I’ve got a couple of things to do.” He set fire to the cigar and stood up. “That’s set me up lovely, that breakfast.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Are you having a tickle?”
    This annoyed him. He blew smoke into the air. “Who needs to know?”
    “It’s your life. Go on, then. I’ll see you later. Mind you look after yourself.”
    He looked at her a moment longer. Although she gave in to him, she was a strong woman. She had led the family since the old man went: mending marriages, borrowing from one son to lend to another, giving advice, using her disapproval as a powerful sanction. She had resisted all efforts to move her from Quill Street to a nice little bungalow in 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, paperboys, workingmen, 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 thirty 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 reference 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 he was 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