Tommy repositioned himself into a cross-legged pose and snatched damp clumps of grass in each hand as he waited. From a distance he could just make out the metal railing that ran around the park. Beyond it, he could see the rear of the target house. He kept his eyes fixed to it. He could not get this wrong. Tommy really needed those guns.
His eyes flitted to his Casio calculator watch, which he’d stolen as a child, and pressed the well-thumbed button on the side which illuminated the small screen. It was time. This was the first step on the path that he had been searching for his whole life. It wasn’t how he had envisaged making a difference, but sometimes you have to do something wrong to make something right.
Tommy stood up and wiped away damp grass from over his damp backside, as he stared into the darkness in front of him. He walked thirty steps, just as he had rehearsed twice already in the daylight, until he reached the black metal railing with the spear-top finishing. On the other side of the railing was a muddy path, running along one side of the park, popular with dog walkers and joggers. Tommy slipped out leather gloves from the side pockets of his black bomber jacket and pulled them on tightly. The railing was about chest height, so it didn’t take much effort to heave himself up, place one leg on the flat between the spears, and lift himself over. He landed on his black boots and had to steady himself as he found his footing in the wet mud. In front of him was the back of a row of large, detached houses. The walls around the back gardens were low, with a break for a wooden gate, designed so that the home owners had a picturesque view of the park. Safety came in the form of Big Brother. Tommy could feel the numerous security cameras at the backs of the houses and hidden in trees, all pointing blankly at his face.
He crossed the muddy path, reached over the low gate and found the latch. He pushed open the door and stepped tentatively into the garden, expecting the motion sensors to flood him with bright light. That didn’t happen. Somebody had done their job.
Tommy pressed the side button on his Casio. The timing was perfect. He looked across at the large patio door with the blacked-out glass, and could just make out his reflection. He crossed the garden path and walked towards it.
Chapter 20
Sophia’s only cleaning job on Mondays was at 5.30 p.m. The majority of her jobs throughout the week were in the morning, but this particular homeowner liked to inspect her work when he returned home at seven. She didn’t know the owner’s name. In fact she hardly knew any of the names of the homeowners for whom she cleaned. They were just addresses to her. This one was 102 Clareville Road. It was the only house on her rota where she had to be vetted, her background thoroughly checked and asked to sign form after form, including a non-disclosure agreement.
Sophia had been cleaning this house two evenings a week for just over a year, and she hardly ever spoke to the homeowner. His phone was constantly attached to his ear, muttering his disdain through his red face at whatever was bothering him that day. He’d leave Sophia a tip on the worktop without so much as eye contact or words of gratitude.
The tips weren’t great, and the tight shit never allowed her to put the heating on. It didn’t disturb Sophia that he would soon be a target for a robbery. Maybe it disturbed her a little, like a pinch, but any doubt was quickly dissolved as she reasoned that his insurance would see him right. It was a victimless crime. Besides, wasn’t it time that she had a break from the monotony of her crappy life?
Determined not to be late, especially today of all days, and not relying on the unreliable tube timings, Sophia left sixty minutes early for her sixty-minute journey.
On the tube she dipped marshmallows into her hot chocolate as she searched online for the cost of a professional photographer, and the cost of hiring a studio where she could lay down her tracks. She couldn’t help but drift… Simply Sophia sprawled across an album cover, her sitting on the kerb of a busy road, looking moody as traffic passed her by. That’s the image she would go with: moody, cute, sneakers, knee-length dress, leather jacket, a little like Lily Allen before she’d lost the plot.
With a jolt, popping a hole in her daydream and causing her to drip hot chocolate on her white uniform, she realised that when she’s inevitably questioned by the police and they looked through her phone, they would surely notice from her search history that she was searching for a professional photographer and trips to Paris – as though she was expecting to come into a large sum of money.
Sophia cursed loudly under her breath and then apologised to the man next to her, who had been encroaching on her seat the whole journey. She shifted across closer to the window and his elbow slipped away from her arm. She gave him a look, indicating that he should get to terms with personal space, and shielded her phone away from him as she went about deleting the search history, knowing full well that it wouldn’t make a difference. Someplace, somehow, everything is recorded. She put her phone away in her handbag before she could get herself into more trouble.
Sophia stepped off the tube at South Kensington. Not wanting to turn up half an hour early, she started to walk slowly, but it was so cold that she found herself pacing just to keep warm. She arrived twenty minutes before her shift. She’d never been early before – late plenty of times, but never early – and she wondered how suspicious that would look, especially as she’d always felt that the street was occupied by suspicious minds, cautious of anyone of a lesser standing.
Rather than hover outside in the dark, with twitching curtains around her, she decided to start her shift early. The house key was kept with the neighbour, and after every shift returned to the neighbour. Sophia knocked on the door.
‘Good evening, Mrs Carson.’ Sophia smiled brightly as Mrs Carson opened the door. She was wearing fluorescent lycra jogging bottoms.
‘Sophie,’ Mrs Carson said, frowning at her smart watch wrapped around her thin tanned wrist. ‘You’re early. I’m in the middle of warming down.’
‘Sophia,’ Sophia corrected for the hundredth time. ‘I know. May I have the key please?’
‘I was just warming down,’ Mrs Carson reiterated, as if the whole world must stop so she could stretch out in front of her great big log fireplace, Sophia imagined, as her eyes fell onto the key right there on the mantel. ‘You’re going to have to wait, young lady,’ Mrs Carson huffed. Sophia opened her mouth just as the door shut in her face. Not slammed, but loud enough to make a point.
God, Sophia thought, how could I get in more trouble for being early than I do for being late? She sighed, folded her arms tightly, and stamped on the welcome mat to stay warm, but the cold found a way through her cheap, knock-off coat.
At five-thirty exactly, Mrs Carson opened the door wearing a bath robe and a towel wrapped high on her head, looking flush from a hot shower. Sophia was frozen to the spot, colour drained from her face, her knees knocking and her teeth chattering.
‘Next time plan your journey accordingly.’ Mrs Carson handed the key over, and Sophia just knew that she was smirking under her snarl.
Sophia thanked her and walked away. Her hands shook as she inserted the key into the front door and let herself into the house. Feeling rightly rebellious, she swiped the digital thermostat all the way up to thirty-two and slid down against the radiator in the large whitewashed hallway. As the heating kicked in and the shivering subsided, she leaned forward with her head in her hands. A bad feeling threatening to overwhelm her.
Nothing bad had really happened, not really. Yeah, those stupid searches on her phone, and that fat sweaty guy on the tube who had kept brushing his elbow against her like it was some sort of mating call. Then the little episode with Mrs Carson, leaving her freezing her backside off on the doorstep as she buggered off for a bubble bath. Nothing bad, just first world problems. But she couldn’t seem to shake off that bad feeling.
With force, Sophia shook her head clear of it as her body warmed. She had a job to do. She removed her shoes and placed them on the door mat and padded through the hallway, the under-floor heating warming her nylon-c
lad feet as she stepped into the living room. There wasn’t a Christmas decoration in sight. Not surprising, the homeowner seemed the type of person who despised festivities.
Like the hallway, like every other room in the house, the spacious living room was whitewashed and in stark contrast the furniture was black. Black sofa, black coffee table, black lamps, even the worktops and cabinets in the adjoining open-plan kitchen were black against white, giving the place a seventies monochrome effect. It wasn’t in poor taste, but it wasn’t to her taste either. It needed colour, it needed a woman’s touch. Sophia snorted to herself. Even with the money coming her way, there was no way that she could afford a place like this, not even close enough for a deposit. It would be like a drop in the ocean. But it would be a start. It may be a cliché, but you really did need money to make money, and Sophia was going to make sure her unexpected windfall served its purpose.
At the back of the living room was a huge bi-fold, four-pane patio door, which led to the garden. Behind the garden was the park. In the park, Tommy was waiting.
Sophia walked across the living room, her body moving of its own accord as her mind tried to rein her in. She reached the patio. Her eyes fell to the key resting in the lock and her heart leaped. She averted her gaze and rested her forehead against the cold glass and looked out into the dark at the silhouette of a thick apple tree, its branches scratching softly against the thick glass. She stared at it as it stood perfectly at peace, never putting a foot wrong, literally. It reminded her of a children’s fable that her parents never read to her. Not Hansel and Gretel, the other one, she couldn’t remember which. The one with the poisonous apple. She could feel the tree looking down at her, in every sense of the word, taunting her, daring her to pick out the most delicious-looking apple and to hell with the consequences. Too late, she thought, she’d already taken a bite out of it and she was hungry for more. Without another thought, she snatched her eyes away from the tree and turned the key in the lock.
Job done. Her part anyway.
Sophia let out a long sigh, leaving a cloud on the glass, and watched it slowly disappear into nothing. She checked the time on her watch, and, not trusting the cheap time-piece, she turned to double-check on the huge black clock above the black mantelpiece on the white chimney breast. It was five-forty-five.
At six it would take place. By six-thirty it would be over.
All Sophia had to do was stay out of the way and get on with the cleaning. At seven, the owner would return home from work and deliver her a measly tip. He probably wouldn’t notice anything amiss immediately. Sophia would return the spare key to Mrs Carson next door, and then head home where she would wait anxiously for it to kick off. The police would eventually knock on her door and question her about the break-in. She’d be ready. Her story would be straight.
The plan now out of her hands, and with nothing more she could do, Sophia wandered into the kitchen to get on with her chores. Out of her bag she took her own washing-up gloves – she hated the thought of using somebody else’s. In the kitchen sink there was a cereal bowl, a plate and a jam-stained knife. She slipped on the washing-up gloves and rinsed the three items, and stacked them in the dishwasher, which wasn’t near enough full to be switched on, but switch it on she did. She disinfected and wiped down the mostly clean black worktop, apart from where, if you looked carefully, there were small crumbs of toast. She ran a cloth over it and collected the crumbs in her hand and disposed of them in the kitchen sink and ran the water.
She checked the time on her watch, and then double-checked it again with the wall clock. It was five-fifty-five. Sophia risked a glance at the patio. She had been told that under no circumstances was she to make contact with Tommy. He would be in and out as planned.
Sophia willed her heart to quit beating so fast.
She glanced around the kitchen, it was gleaming without her having to do much. She could wipe the fridge door down, but she’d be doing it for the sake of doing it. Same with the fitted oven and hob. She could mop the floor tiles, but she’d just end up leaving water marks. It was better left alone. So, armed with her disinfectant spray and J-cloth, she moved into the living room, looking for something easy to clean. There was a film of dust on the Sky Box. She sprayed once and ran the cloth over it, and then looked around to see what else could do with a wipe. There was a faint coffee ring on the glass coffee table, and she knelt down beside it.
The patio door slid smoothly open and closed again, and she felt a presence behind her.
Sophia removed the high-end glossy magazines and broadsheet newspapers from the coffee table and placed them on the floor and sprayed the disinfectant twice on the glass, expecting to hear the man shuffle past her, out of the living room, into the hallway and up the stairs to the master bedroom, where, in the back of the fitted wardrobe, was a wall safe. Sophia had never seen it, but Samuel Carter had confirmed. How he knew wasn’t her business.
Tommy was to empty the safe and then come back downstairs and simply leave with the contents of the safe, the same way that he had come in.
That was the plan. That’s what was supposed to happen. Instead, she could feel a tickle at the back of her neck as she sensed him moving closer to her. Sophia braced herself as he sat himself down on the armchair by the coffee table that she was cleaning. Sophia didn’t turn to look at him, but from the corner of her eye she could see black muddy boots planted firmly on the floor, legs spread in black jeans and two leather-gloved hands resting on his lap.
Samuel Carter had said it would take Tommy anywhere between ten and thirty minutes depending on the complexity of the lock on the safe. Sophia didn’t know what the contents were, nor did she ask. These kind of operations and that kind of information, she surmised, was strictly on a need-to-know basis, but she imagined it was jewels, possibly cut diamonds in a maroon velvet pouch, or gold bullion, or even some highly confidential documents that would be worth a lot on the black market or the Dark Web. She had read something about the Dark Web recently. Either way, it was none of her business, she had carried out her part professionally. But this guy! What was he playing at? Sophia had to break protocol. Take control.
‘Upstairs,’ Sophia whispered, without looking at him. ‘Master bedroom. At the back of the wardrobe.’ Surely he’d been briefed! Sophia looked up at the wall clock, it had just gone six. ‘You haven’t got long,’ she said, as she methodically ran the J-cloth in small circles over the disappearing coffee ring.
‘It’s okay,’ Tommy said, calmly, as though everything was okay, when quite clearly it was pretty far from okay. He was on a clock, she knew that and he should, too! From whatever little she knew about Samuel Carter, it was clear that he wasn’t the type to leave anything to chance. Everything had to run like clockwork. The hell was this guy thinking? Was she the only damn professional there?
‘You haven’t got much time,’ Sophia said. ‘He’ll be back in an hour.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, again.
Slacker! His lax attitude could cost her. She was taking all the risks here. He would walk away, it was she that would have to face the police and provide a statement. Sophia had to put him in his place, pull rank; she was, after all, a partner.
Infuriated, or trying her best to act it, she threw down the J-cloth onto the coffee table with intent and shifted on her knees towards him.
‘Go! Now!’ Sophia snapped and then blinked slowly as she took him in.
Tommy was younger than she expected, and beautiful with it. Sandy brown hair flopped boyishly over his forehead. A smattering of light freckles around the bridge of his nose. His eyes were small and wide and caramel, protected by long curly lashes that had no place on a man. Sophia was immediately conscious that she was on her knees and that her uniform was stained slightly with hot chocolate, and that she was still wearing her bloody washing-up gloves whilst pointing the disinfectant spray at him. She tucked a loose hair behind her ear and her lips parted for an instruction that just wouldn’t come.
He tentatively touched the side of her face, and with the other hand he placed the tip of a rather large knife under Sophia’s chin.
Chapter 21
Jay
I started my car and cranked up the heating. As I waited for it to warm up I tried to get my head around what had just happened. It finally made sense how Omar knew me: his father was once like a father to me, but it didn’t explain what the fuck he wanted from me.
Adeel-Al-Bhukara recruited me in the early part of last year, plucking me off the streets of Hounslow and plonking me down in a room full of wannabe jihadists. I was his favourite. I know that sounds wank, but it was true. Even though there were others in the group, stronger, more capable and fully committed to The Cause, Al-Bhukara always heaped praise on me, his arm around my shoulder a burden. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t know what he had seen in a small-time drug dealer. Until, that is, I found out that Al-Bhukara and my father had been close friends. Whilst my dad built Ghurfat-al-Mudarris, Al-Bhukara had been here in London keeping a watchful eye on me my whole life, and reporting it back to my dad until it was declared that I was fit for purpose.
Ultimately, it was my father who had engineered my recruitment and, ultimately, it was me who had engineered his downfall.
I located the video that I had made at the posh coffee joint. I turned up the volume and pressed play. The screen was black as the phone had been face down on the table throughout, and the sound was a little muffled by the polite hubbub of customers. I wasn’t hearing anything but noise. I hooked up my phone to the car system and changed the sound settings, dropping the bass and turning up the vocal, and replayed it.
Ride or Die - Jay Qasim Series 03 (2020) Page 10
