by Lisa Cutts
I ran a well-practised eye over the back of the property, not stepping back too far. You never knew who could be watching from an upstairs window in the adjoining street. It didn’t quite have the same nerve-tingling anticipation as strutting into a bank and pointing a gun at someone’s head, but it would do. For now.
Needs must, and all that.
The kitchen top window was open a fraction. Wherever possible, I liked to make a discreet entrance: any damage was immediately discovered by frightened, and sometimes furious, owners on their return. I had learned the hard way to keep a low profile.
This house had great potential.
As I looked round the garden for something to stand on, I took in the weeds and general neglect of the place. The back of the house told a very different story to the front.
Perhaps I had this all wrong and there was no money here at all.
I picked up a rusty garden chair, cautious that it would hold my weight, and placed it in front of the kitchen window. Making sure I wasn’t about to go through the seat, I climbed on and took a better look at the inside of the house.
The state of the kitchen almost made me gasp. I caught sight of myself in the window, shaking my head slowly.
This was clearly a room that had last seen an update shortly after the war: lurid yellow flowers the size of a newborn adorned the walls, the free-standing cooker, surely a museum piece with its grill at the top, four-ring burner and single tiny oven. The place looked moderately well-kept considering it must have been something like fifty years since it was done up.
Instinct told me to climb down off the chair, go through the gate and forget the place. But something was stopping me.
Old people. And old people usually had loads of cash.
I leaned in through the window and released the catch at the bottom.
The only sound I made was a soft squeak as the sole of my training shoe made contact with the draining board. The only sound I heard was my own breathing.
I crouched on the surface, conscious someone might be home.
Creeping like an actual burglar, I made my way through the kitchen to the hallway. It had a clear plastic runner down its entire length. Something I hadn’t seen since I was a child in the 80s, and something I was pretty sure hadn’t been manufactured since.
An open drawer caught my eye as I tiptoed along my cheap plastic childhood memory. I opened it to reveal a bank card and seven, no, eight twenty-pound notes. I stuffed the cash into my pocket. The bank card was too risky.
My gloved fingers pulled open the rest of the drawers and cupboards, but there was nothing worth stealing. Disappointed that I was risking so much for a pathetic £160, I froze.
There was definitely someone upstairs moving around.
Well, this house wasn’t going to burgle itself.
I took my favourite balaclava out of my pocket, pulled it over my face and headed for the stairs.
Chapter 12
Over the years, Harry Powell had broken bad news, been the brunt of families’ despair, suspects’ anger and been in more volatile situations than he cared to remember. Few came close to the level of hostility that was currently pulsing around Ron Bloomfield’s living room.
‘You know what my family’s been through, do you?’ spat Tanya King at him. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, standing in front of her, both of them centre-stage in a macabre theatre of torment neither wanted a starring role in, yet both refusing to back down for wildly different reasons.
‘I was the officer who found Linda Bowman’s body,’ Harry said. He wanted to explain, not make a point, although he saw Tanya’s shoulders drop an inch at this. Someone in the room let out an audible breath.
‘I wasn’t the senior investigating officer on that murder because I was a witness. I knew Linda and her husband.’
Tanya kept eye contact with him while rapidly blinking.
‘I’m telling you this,’ said Harry, as he looked at each of the four people in the room, ‘because it’s important you understand that we investigated Linda’s murder and two people were charged.’
He paused.
‘Those two people,’ he said, now looking straight at Tanya, ‘as everyone here knows, were your mother and your brother.’
Shouting broke out among the family, some who had been seated stood up and the angry Australian man took a step towards Harry.
‘Enough!’ shouted Harry, his face now as red as his hair. ‘This is about Jenny, so please listen to what I’ve got to tell you.’
Ron Bloomfield started to speak, voice almost a whisper.
The Australian opened his mouth to say something.
‘Let Dad speak,’ said Tanya.
The hush was instant.
‘You’ve found a body . . .’ Ron slowly blew the air out of his cheeks, squirmed in his seat. ‘Have you found my wife?’
Without being asked, Harry took a seat on the sofa opposite Ron.
‘The simple answer is we need confirmation,’ said Harry, ‘but we have found a body and we believe the body to be a woman.’
Harry turned to his right, addressing the young woman he could now hear blowing her nose.
‘You’re family too?’ he said.
‘We weren’t related,’ she said. ‘We were friends for a long time. I’m Cathy Walters. I was at court from time to time. Just wish now I’d have been there for her that last day.’
There was more crying into her tissue.
Once more Harry addressed the family. ‘I’ve seen to it that DNA samples have been taken to the forensics lab as a matter of urgency. They’ll then be run through the Missing Persons’ Database.’
Harry waited for a second and as Ron opened his mouth to speak said, ‘Can I ask, Mr Bloomfield, why you didn’t let us know immediately that your wife hadn’t returned from Crown Court that day?’
At least he had the decency to avoid looking straight at Harry when he said, ‘We . . . er . . . hadn’t been getting on too well, and so, I . . .’
‘Didn’t come to the trial?’ asked Harry.
More sobbing and crying.
‘Don’t you dare upset my dad,’ said Tanya, fists clenching and unclenching.
‘It would have helped if we’d known straight away that Jenny didn’t come home,’ said Harry raising his voice. ‘You only let us know two weeks after she was last seen leaving court. We’ve carried out checks on her mobile phone, credit and debit cards and, as you know, they haven’t been used.’
‘Someone must have seen her,’ said Tanya.
Now wasn’t the time for Harry to explain that with so many CCTV cameras being lost in the cutbacks and with two weeks wasted, months later they had little chance of ever knowing what had happened to Jenny Bloomfield.
Chapter 13
Sean Turner had always been ambitious; he simply didn’t want to work hard for anything. Becoming a criminal had therefore seemed like natural career progression, only he hadn’t expected it to be such hard work.
He came from a long line of people who operated outside of the law: some were alive, some were dead, and some were incarcerated. The most important thing to him was keeping on top of his game and sussing out new ventures. He currently had a couple of very successful enterprises on the go and things were on the up.
The Boundary pub had turned out to be a goldmine. He knew that he could trust Sheila to store the goods, and operating his couriers out of the pub was working like a charm.
‘We’ve got about five minutes until the driver gets here,’ said Sean to Milo. In response, Milo used one hand to shove a second bacon sandwich into his mouth and gave Sean a thumbs-up with the other.
‘Enjoyed that, then?’ said Sean. He didn’t wait for a reply before adding, ‘I’m going to run upstairs to make sure all’s well before we collect the packages.’
‘Want me to go, boss?’ asked Milo, words partially obscured by the noisy scoffing.
‘No, you relax. Let your food go down,’ said Sean a
s he pushed himself off the bar stool. ‘Besides, I want to make sure they’re all up to speed with what’s going on.’
Sean liked to surprise his employees now and again, make sure they were doing as they were supposed to. He paid a reasonable wage, not to mention a little profit-sharing now and again, so he expected a bit of loyalty.
As he made his way through the pub’s kitchen towards the staircase, he stopped at the bottom to hear what his three business associates were doing in the living room above the pub. He could hear someone talking, but other than that, silence.
That was a good start.
He crept up the staircase – the old floorboards were creaky, but practice had taught him which steps to avoid. He didn’t want to alert them to his approach.
When he reached the closed door he paused again, one hand on the door handle, ear cocked towards the room.
The conversation he heard warmed his heart.
‘Hello, there, Mrs Simpson,’ said a male voice. ‘This is Detective Constable Mark Frinton from East Rise CID. Can I just confirm with you your date of birth, please?’
A pause.
‘Thank you, Mrs Simpson, that matches the records we’ve been sent through from your bank about some unusual activity on your account. Now, what . . .’
Sean heard his worker clear his throat before he said, ‘I know, I know. That’s why I’m calling so that we can sort this out. I work for the Fraud Department and so that I can speak directly to your bank, what I need you to do is confirm which bank and branch you use . . .’
Another pause as Sean opened the door and crept inside.
‘DC Mark Frinton’ acknowledged him, as did the two women in the room, who smiled.
Sean stood behind his would-be police officer and read the details he’d scribbled down on the pad in front of him.
‘Thanks for that,’ said ‘Mark’. ‘Now, before I ask you to read out the long number on your card, I’m going to give you the police CID number for the Fraud Department. Okay, so write this number down and call straight back and ask for Detective Constable Mark Frinton on extension 3838, and they’ll put you through to me so you can be reassured you’re actually speaking to the fraud team.’
With a smile, Sean wandered over to the table piled high with packages. As he heard the unsuspecting Mrs Simpson hang up the telephone to supposedly dial her local police station, Sean opened a couple of the boxes. Rolex watches peeked back at him.
He glanced around, amused by how gullible people could be as the bogus police officer handed the phone to one of his accomplices. She waited until Mrs Simpson had finished pressing the numbers on her keypad, expecting to connect to the police, but instead, the open line merely put her back through to a shitty little living room above a terrible pub in south-east London.
‘East Rise Police,’ said the woman now holding the phone. ‘How can I help you?’
The simplicity of it was breathtaking, yet more lucrative than selling drugs, not to mention with better clientele.
‘DC Mark Frinton, extension 3838,’ she said with a well-practised warmth to her voice. ‘Yes, madam, he’s certainly one of our fraud officers. He’s right here on the police system. I’m putting you through now.’
She hit the mute button, handed the phone back to the man sitting next to her and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before sifting through the pile of bank cards in front of her.
Sean waited while Mrs Simpson gave her home address, the PIN number of her debit card, confirmed her daily limit and promised to wait in for the courier sent by her ‘bank’ who would collect the card so that a replacement could be sent out the same day.
Phone call finished, Sean said, ‘Nice. Going okay?’
The three nodded enthusiastically until the woman sitting nearest to him, long blonde hair swept into a ponytail, the only one not to have spoken so far said, ‘It’s only the third one we’ve managed this morning, though. Two didn’t call back and one told us to fuck off.’
The change in tension in the room was immediate. Sean perched himself on the edge of the table, stared at each of them and said, ‘Best you all pull your socks up, then. If you don’t get on with it and get me ten grand by the end of the day, I can always find you jobs as my couriers.’
No further threat was necessary. Three pairs of worried eyes looked back at him and three heads nodded with more enthusiasm than was necessary.
‘Stella,’ Sean said to the fake police switchboard operator, ‘are those cards you’ve got there any good?’
‘I’m about to bag them up for the next cash-point run,’ she said, reaching across for a pile of envelopes, pen at the ready to write the PIN number on the inside flap of the respective envelope. ‘He’ll be here in five minutes.’
Sean stood up again and walked over to the Rolex watches. Picking one up, he pointed to its face and said, ‘Well, he’d better hurry up before these cards are burned. Even old Mrs Simpson isn’t so stupid that she’ll leave it days before she calls her actual bank.
‘Pass me one of those carrier bags, Stella,’ he said. ‘It’s not often I drop by to see you all, but now I’m here I may as well do a bit of shopping.’
He took the rubber glove offered by Stella and picked up six or seven watches, three Mont Blanc pens and threw in a diamond ring for good measure.
With a final glance across the pitiful room, paint peeling from its brown ceiling, a threadbare carpet and £30,000 of fraudulently obtained goods, Sean wished them a lovely day and added, ‘Don’t forget, I want ten fucking grand by the end of today.’
Several seconds later, Sean was back down in the bar. ‘We’re off in a second, Sheila, love.’
She stood behind the bar drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘Don’t forget to give us a kiss goodbye,’ she said to Milo.
They made their way to each other across the ten feet or so of unpolished, dusty wooden floor, Sheila now with the tea towel over her shoulder and Milo with his arms out.
‘Fuck’s sake, you two,’ said Sean as he headed for the door, ‘it’s like a poor man’s Love Island in here. Pack it in.’
He unbolted the door and looked cautiously out into the street. It didn’t pay to attract attention to the place, and it certainly didn’t much lure in paying clientele, even when it was supposed to be officially open.
‘Motor’s here,’ shouted Sean over his shoulder, no desire to look round and see the antics going on. ‘Take this carrier bag and see you in the car.’
He walked out and jumped into the front passenger seat of the black Mercedes.
‘Silly bollocks’ll be out in a moment,’ said Sean to the driver as they sat, hazard lights blinking, driver tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Milo climbed in the back and earned himself a glance from Sean.
‘I take it after all that bloody nonsense you at least managed to pick the carrier bag up?’
‘Course,’ said Milo.
‘You’re going to have a busy couple of days knocking that lot out,’ said Sean.
Milo opened the bag, rummaged around and pulled out a small black box. He gave an appreciative whistle as he set eyes on the diamond looking back at him.
‘Nice,’ he said, ‘and worth a fortune.’
‘It is,’ said Sean, ‘and I know just the buyer.’
Then
Knives, I liked knives. The blade was always the understated means of frightening the absolute fuck out of someone, and so nice and quiet.
In a quintessentially English village, there was nothing quite like a rural, isolated Post Office. There was nothing quite so bloody vulnerable either.
I couldn’t risk getting the bus to this one, as its far-flung location meant there was only one every hour. Someone would remember me.
Instead, I drove to a nearby lane, jumped out of my car and changed over the number plates with a set I’d nicked that morning from a car at the train station.
Keeping my breathing steady, palms sweating a little more than I’d have liked – kn
ives were so up-close and personal, downside being I had to touch people – and I was ready.
The feel of the mask in one jacket pocket and the serrated hunting knife in the other made my heart rate soar as I drove back towards the Post Office.
The glass-fronted shop told me that it was empty, all except the middle-aged woman arranging copies of My Weekly and The People’s Friend, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.
Perhaps it was time for a real challenge.
Still, I parked a few feet from the door so I was out of her immediate eye-line, pulled the Halloween mask over my face and burst through the front door, knife held out in front of me.
She screamed, naturally.
I smiled, although it was wasted as she couldn’t see my face behind the devil’s mask. She could, however, see the glint of the blade.
‘Money, now,’ I shouted.
She froze, started to say something.
‘Fucking now,’ I hollered, making a grab for her putrid mustard jumper and almost lifting her off her feet towards the counter.
‘Timer,’ she stammered as she tried to turn her head to look at me.
‘Eyes front,’ I said, losing it with her now. How long did she think I had?
‘It’s on a timer,’ she rasped as I dragged her behind the counter towards the safe.
‘Open it,’ I said, knife at her throat.
‘Please, please,’ she said as she felt the metal threaten to pierce her skin. ‘It’s on a timer and won’t open until my husband comes down this afternoon.’
‘Till, till,’ I said, unable to believe that she’d risk having her neck sliced open for money that wasn’t hers, although annoyed that this wasn’t going the way I’d wanted.
Her fat little fingers frantically pressed the buttons to open the till drawer behind the completely redundant security glass.
It opened to reveal about four hundred pounds. At this rate, I’d be doing this again in a day or two.
It was probably time to go back to burglaries.
Chapter 14
The motorbike courier knocked on the door, gloved fist banging on the glass.
