How to Steal a Piano

by John Hughes

  “Why didn’t he do it himself?”

  “They shared the work between then. I think he and Joe did a bit more than work together.”

  “Were they lovers?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, yesterday, Joe was on his way from the office to his boss’s house with a briefcase full of cash – a lot more than normal because they’d managed to claw back a huge payment from someone. And, as Joe put it, he suddenly found himself on the wrong train and ended up in Hastings instead of Balham.”

  “With what in mind?”

  “To steal it of course. Run away and set up a business of his own.”

  “And this morning he walked away and left it all with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  PC Madeley appeared. “Sorry to interrupt, Sarge, but Peter is on the phone. He says it’s urgent. I think you should take the call.”

  “Thank you,” said Andy Rudge. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment.”

  “Sarge.”

  “Now, Henry, exactly how can we help you? Why are you here? I’m not quite clear.”

  “To confess to a crime. Theft. I told you.”

  “But you haven’t stolen anything. Joe did. You’re actually reporting a crime.”

  “Yes, but I have the money. I’m an accomplice.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well I’d like to take responsibility. I want you to punish me… on Joe’s behalf.”

  “Sorry, Henry, it doesn’t work like that.” Andy Rudge made to stand up.

  Henry grabbed his arm. “Please.”

  Another blast of stale breath. “No can do. Take your hand away, please.”

  Instead, Henry gripped harder. ”I insist!”

  It didn’t take much for Andy Rudge to extract himself. He was losing patience now, and not afraid to show it. He stood up and towered over Halitosis Henry.

  “Now listen to me. I am not going to pursue this any further. Henry, I don’t need to tell you that you’re in here all the time reporting crimes you’ve supposedly committed. It’s like a hobby of yours. There’s never any substance to any of them. Last time it was stealing books, the time before a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and the time before that it was some clothing if I’m not mistaken… from Marks and Spencer.”

  “TK Maxx.”

  “Whatever. The point is you’re in here all the time… every couple of weeks. You confess to crimes, all of them petty, and want us to arrest you and punish you. We humour you, and we play the game. But the fact remains that there is never a shred of evidence and, frankly, you are wasting valuable police time. This has to stop.”

  Henry held up the briefcase. “This is evidence,” he said. “And there’s nothing petty about a hundred thousand pounds.”

  Sergeant Rudge took the briefcase and examined it. “A perfectly ordinary, bog standard case. You could have bought it at any of half a dozen shops in and around Hastings. Debenhams for one, Marks and Sparks for another. Argos even.” He opened the lid and made to tip out the contents. “Empty. Not a pound coin in sight.”

  “It’s all at home, in a pile on the coffee table in my living room. No pound coins, all fifty pound notes. You are welcome to come round and see for yourself.”

  “Sorry, Henry, I don’t believe you. Nor do I believe that your friend Joe – if he exists at all – would walk away and leave it with you, just like that. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Henry tried to look coy. “Perhaps I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Joe and I argued about the money. The truth is…”

  “Let’s stop this now, Henry. I don’t believe a word. You’re a fantasist.”

  “I’d like to make a formal statement.”

  Andy Rudge pointed towards the door. “Enough’s enough. Off you go.”

  Henry stood up, closed the briefcase and headed towards the entrance. As he did his sullen expression turned to one of anger. He looked Sergeant Rudge square in the face and shouted, “Bastard!”

  “Ironically,” said Andy Rudge, “abusing a police officer is a crime.”

  “Really?” said Henry, anger turning instantly to eager expectation.

  “Yes. Regard this as a verbal caution. Now hop it.”

  Expectations dashed, Henry stood on the pavement outside, looking bewildered, not knowing where to go and what to do. Without any real thought process, he wandered down the street, into a pub and ordered a double Jack Daniel’s. What next?

  There was a young man leaning against the bar, on his own. Good looking, nice legs inside the tatty jeans. Probably in his mid-twenties. No, forget it. This was not the place to pick up. Just look.

  Half an hour later, Henry was stepping off a bus at the end of his street. He walked to the front door, fumbled for his key and let himself in. His flat was on the first floor and he trudged up the stairs feeling inordinately weary. Inside, he took off his scarf and jacket and dumped the empty briefcase on the floor. In the kitchen he boiled the kettle and made a mug of filter coffee with a dash of cold milk. From a cupboard he pulled out a half-empty bottle of J.D. and added a generous slug. Then he made his way into the lounge, slumped down on the sofa and took off his sandals, stretching his legs out and waggling his toes. A big one peeped out from a hole in his sock. He took a sip of coffee. It tasted good.

  He looked at the coffee table in front of him. What to do with all that money? He leaned forward, picked up a wad of notes and flicked through them. Must be at least two grand in this one alone, he thought. And the table was covered in them. Some loose notes had fallen onto the floor. He couldn’t be bothered to pick them up.

  In terms of the money, his conscience was clear. He had tried his best to report the crime – nay confess to it – and the police didn’t want to know. Okay, so he had a track record of not being honest and reporting things he hadn’t actually done, or at best expanded on the truth. They didn’t really understand, and he didn’t himself, not fully. The idea of being locked up, incarcerated, that’s what excited him and was at the core of it… and the notion of being punished by men in uniform. He liked that idea too. But he fell shy of actually committing real crime which, after all, was against the law.

  This time had been different. The crime had come to him, so to speak, and he had been entirely honest – well, perhaps not entirely. But the money was real, and had been stolen. He was sitting looking at it for Christ’s sake. Joe had been real too. Henry really had picked him up in the Blue Diamond and brought him back home. They had slept together and that morning he had looked inside Joe’s briefcase and seen all that cash. Joe had been very angry and gone out to buy some cigarettes. And to calm down.

  * * *

  Up until that point everything Henry had told Sergeant Rudge had been true. The lie was about Joe not coming back. He had. He returned an hour later, even angrier than when he went out. He shouted at Henry, called him a nosey, interfering, disgusting old poof with stinking breath. Ranted for a quarter of an hour in fact. It culminated in a death threat. Now Henry knew about the money, Joe hissed, he would have to die.

  They were standing facing each other in the lounge. Henry listened in awe, not saying a word; he was fascinated rather than upset or angry. He nearly giggled at the death threat. He didn’t hear the insults; he was focused entirely on Joe the man. He thought how much more attractive, how sexier he was when all worked up like that. He was getting turned on.

  Henry’s mistake was to say so.

  Joe hit the roof. His face turned scarlet with rage and he started to babble. From his jacket pocket he pulled out a gun. Henry’s eyes widened. No fear, no anxiety, just curiosity. Joe was waving it all over the place. His hand was shaking – he was out of control, ranting about Henry and how it was his own fault he
was going to die. Spittle flew everywhere and he started to foam at the mouth.

  There came a point when Henry decided he’d heard enough. Joe wasn’t turning him on any more; he was becoming boring. Unbeknown to Joe, Henry knew a thing or two about firearms. Guns fascinated him. He’d been in the army in his youth and a member of a gun club for many years. For a start he knew that possessing a handgun was illegal and had been since the Dunblane massacre. He could tell from where he stood that the gun was a nice piece – a Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver with 4-inch barrel firing .38 calibre cartridges. Or in simple parlance, a six-shooter.

  He could also tell that Joe had no idea whatsoever how to handle a firearm. He was scared of it, and his index finger seemed reluctant to make contact with the trigger. Henry watched, and waited for his moment.

  With sudden agility that stunned Joe, Henry leaped towards him, grabbed his gun arm with both hands and twisted it so that it bent backwards in a way nature never intended. Joe yelped with pain. Henry diverted one hand towards the gun and snatched it from his grip. He pointed it directly at Joe’s forehead… and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Henry drank the last of his coffee and J.D. and set his mug down on the floor. He looked across at Joe, sitting next to him on the sofa, bolt upright and staring wide-eyed into space. In the centre of his forehead was a ragged circle of coagulated blood. He sat exactly where and how he had conveniently fallen when Henry had shot him earlier that day.

  It was wrong not to have told Sergeant Rudge about the murder. Henry knew that. He intended to, but when he hadn’t been believed about the money it seemed hardly likely he’d be taken seriously about shooting someone dead. So he hadn’t bothered. There didn’t seem any point. Now all this money was his to enjoy, and he fully intended making the most of it. He’d already given it some thought. A Mediterranean cruise perhaps, or a trip to Vegas, or New York. Or all three! Then buy a nice property along the St. Leonards seafront instead of this pokey rented place in the seedier part of Hollington.

  But first, Henry thought with a sigh of despondency, he had better do something about the body.

  Vicar’s Wife

  The Reverend Adrian Prendergast, vicar of St. Peter’s, and his wife Susan had enjoyed nigh on ten years of blissfully happy married life together. He had a delightful parish in Loades-next-the-Sea, a quaint village on the Norfolk coast. He wasn’t an ambitious man but his Christian faith was profound and he took great satisfaction in tending to the spiritual and pastoral needs of his congregation which was small but for the most part mirrored his own deep religious convictions. He was held in high esteem by his flock.

  The couple had met when Adrian first arrived at St. Peter’s as a young curate. He was in his mid-twenties and Sue a couple of years his junior. She was one of the congregation and an avid churchgoer. Getting together had been a slow process; neither was experienced in such matters and by the time they had progressed to the point of becoming engaged, the incumbent vicar was due to retire with Adrian lined up to take his place. Their marriage and his promotion (if that’s the appropriate word) followed swiftly one after the other. They loved each other and were a good match, compatible in every way a vicar and a vicar’s wife ought to be.

  There was only one aspect of connubial life that had been problematic over the years, and that was what Adrian and Sue euphemistically referred to, if they ever referred to it at all, as the bedroom department… or sometimes you know what. The problem was in two parts.

  Firstly, Adrian was stringent in applying the rule that you know what was intended for the procreation of children and not for the mere enjoyment of the pleasures of the flesh. If you weren’t trying for a child then it was strictly out of bounds. Sue felt otherwise and was keen to use bedtime as an opportunity to show affection towards her spouse, whom she loved dearly. Besides, after ten years they were still childless and as far as she was concerned every opportunity was fair game by Adrian’s way of thinking. Nevertheless, she respected her husband’s beliefs and her feelings were supressed; it was not something they could easily discuss, or even discuss at all.

  Secondly, Adrian was extremely self-consciousness about his body. He never allowed Sue to see him naked. At bedtime he would habitually disappear into the bathroom to undress and return wearing pyjamas that revealed nothing at all. When it did happen, you know what took place in the dark; never in the morning when it was light. Sue on the other hand was relaxed about such things and quite comfortable wandering around in bra and knickers, or even completely naked, though she was aware that Adrian never looked at her when she did. Nor, if the opportunity ever arose, would she be averse to showing her affection fully as the sun rose and the day dawned. Although not tried and tested, she was a morning person in that respect, she felt certain.

  Despite their differing, and mostly unspoken, attitudes towards this area of potential disharmony, it was very much kept in its place between them. In the grand scheme of things, the bedroom department was not a major issue; it was a side show. There were many other aspects of life, both spiritual and secular, of far greater significance.

  To put the record straight, Adrian and Sue were neither prudes nor introverts. At times they bordered on the gregarious. Adrian was the life and soul of the party at all manner of social occasions within the parish; he could make a whist drive simply buzz with excitement, and a post-christening bash bounce along nicely. Equally, Sue shone at W.I. meetings – the chairwoman no less – and was the leading light in organizing charitable events such as jumble sales and car boot sales. Nor were they averse to a tipple now and then, above and beyond communion wine; there was nothing in the scriptures counselling against, in moderation.

  In fact, it was alcohol that was almost invariably the key that unlocked the door to the bedroom department. Without it there was a strong chance that you know what would never take place at all. Once in a while they retired to bed a little on the tipsy side. Sue would take the initiative and kiss her husband, then take his hand as they lay in bed and place it somewhere on her body, by way of encouragement. If that led to anything, it was usually over quickly. Practice makes perfect, there is no doubt, and the lack of it has the opposite effect. Premature ejaculation was almost inevitable; frustrating for Sue. She would turn her back to him in bed afterwards, pray, and try hard to avoid the temptation to finish the job herself, not always succeeding.

  With their tenth wedding anniversary looming, it was Sue’s suggestion that they go away to celebrate. In all that time, apart from their honeymoon, which had been spent on a walking tour of Northumbria, they had not had a holiday. Adrian often said that he could not understand the need to take a break from a job that he loved so much. Sue had no argument to the contrary; however, she made a clear point over breakfast one morning that this would not be a holiday as such, rather time out to celebrate and reflect upon ten years together. It would have greater meaning if spent away from parishioners, pastoral duties, and their home turf. To her delight, Adrian nodded in acquiescence and that afternoon she began searching the internet. She knew to avoid anything too expensive or exotic as Adrian would turn it down flat. She was determined that it should be abroad, and somewhere hot, so she concentrated on package holidays in Southern Europe and around the Mediterranean.

  By teatime she had found what she imagined to be the perfect location; a village on the Greek mainland called Stoupa, on the coast of the southern Peloponnese peninsula. Flights, transfers and accommodation in an apartment just a short stroll from the beach were all included; and the price was reasonable. The photos looked delightful. Adrian was interested in history, and an additional attraction for him, she thought, might be the fact that Stoupa was in the Mani region, where many events from the history of ancient Greece had taken place; the home of Olympia and the city of Sparta. At dinner, she told him all about it and afterwards showed him photographs on the Thompson website. He pulled a face at the price and mumbled
a few things about getting cover for the parish while they were away. Then, to Sue’s huge relief, he said: “Alright, let’s go.”

  The next morning she had it booked.

  Their anniversary was a month away, in early September, so the timing was perfect; the schools would be going back and the resort not too heaving with tourists. The wind tends to build up around the Med towards the end of the season, but it should still be hot. Adrian was very well organised and as the date for the holiday approached he gradually put in place all the necessary arrangements to ensure his parish survived during his week away. He had an assiduous curate in Nigel Pugh who could be relied upon to hold the fort, not to mention some trustworthy church wardens. Sue, meanwhile, freed up a morning to nip into King’s Lynn and do some holiday shopping, consisting mainly of buying an adaptor plug, a money belt, a couple of second hand novels from a charity shop, and a new swimming costume. She toyed with the idea of a bikini but decided against; Adrian would almost certainly disapprove.

  Their actual anniversary was a few days before their departure and they celebrated modestly at home with a few close friends.

  When departure day arrived, Mr Rogers, the kindly if somewhat vulgar parish treasurer, insisted on driving them to the airport. He was outside the vicarage in his Vauxhall Mokka at 5am prompt.

  “Bloody hell of a time to be up,” he moaned.

  “You did offer,” Adrian reminded him.

  “Too kind for my own good.”

  At Stansted they thanked him profusely and Mr Rogers promised he’d be waiting for them on their return. He had the details of their flight and would check it was on schedule before setting off to collect them – “to avoid a bleeding waste of a trip”.

  They were in good time and once they’d checked in their luggage they sat in the departure lounge and drank prosecco. Sue could tell that Adrian was preoccupied; no doubt mulling over in his mind the arrangements to make sure nothing had been overlooked. She hoped he would be able to chill out while they were away and not spend the entire week fretting over how they were coping without him.