The Plotting Shed (Sam Trowel: Special Patrol Youth Book 1)

by Tim Flanagan

  Luckily, the back garden wasn’t watched over by any of the neighbours. There was a kidney-shaped patch of grass that hugged an opposing-shaped pond. Whilst tall grasses thrust upwards out of the water, more gnomes dangled their tackle down in the hope of catching a bite. Not that anything could possibly be living amongst the green, sludgy water. At the top of the garden was a wooden shed tucked beneath the mature canopy of a chestnut tree.

  I cupped my hands against the large window at the back of the house and looked into what I assumed was the dining room. A highly polished dark wood oval table was in the centre of the room, surrounded by four matching chairs. The top of the dining table was partially covered by a half-completed jigsaw puzzle and a yellowing lace doyley. There was a sideboard pushed against one wall that displayed a variety of ornaments and photo frames, nothing that would at first appear to be unusual in any elderly person’s home. I was fooling myself if I expected it to be that simple. Arthur wouldn’t forge banknotes in plain view of the window.

  I moved over towards a door, narrowly avoiding getting decapitated by a washing line that stretched from the house wall to the side of the shed. Through the window of the back door, I could see inside the kitchen and a used breakfast bowl and spoon sitting beside the sink, waiting to be cleaned. I tried the door handle—it was locked. I chewed the inside of my mouth and thought about how I was going to get into Arthur’s house. I would have to ask Mr Burbridge for some lock-picking equipment if he expected me to do this sort of thing on a regular basis. I glanced around the back garden. Apart from the stagnant pond water, everything looked incredibly neat and well cared for—the trimmed edges of the lawn, the hanging baskets, and the carefully weeded borders—but there was one thing that looked out of place. On the patio were some glorious pots of flowers, with the exception of one, which was turned upside down. I lifted it up and discovered the reason why. Hidden beneath it was a small brass-coloured key that I hoped was the spare to the back door in case Arthur should lock himself out.

  There was a part of me that felt guilty entering Arthur’s house uninvited, but I was on a mission. A crime was still a crime, whether it had been committed by an evil scientist or a terrorist with toothache. Arthur was stealing money.

  The key turned easily inside the lock, and the door swung into the kitchen. I took a cautious step onto the vinyl floor. The kitchen was basic but tidy. A ready-made meal for one was sitting beside the microwave, still in its box, ready to be cooked and eaten later. I opened a few of the cupboards, but they contained nothing that was unusual for a kitchen. I walked through into the dining room that I had seen through the window and looked at the partially constructed jigsaw puzzle. I couldn’t resist slotting a piece into the picture but quickly refocused on the real reason I was inside Arthur’s house. The cupboard at the side of the room had various bottles and fine-cut glasses as well as a stack of photo albums and bank statements. Framed photographs of family members past and present watched me disapprovingly from the walls as I moved through an open-plan archway into the main living area. There were two comfy chairs, one obviously used more than the other, as it was surrounded by a neatly folded newspaper and the TV remote control as well as a selection of sweet packets. The other chair, whose arms were covered by small lace squares, didn’t look as if it had been sat in for some time. I presumed the second chair was the one Arthur’s wife had preferred to sit in when she was alive.

  Seeing the chair began to make me feel even guiltier about being there—was Arthur just a lonely old man whose routine morning walk was his only form of contact with other humans? Was there another reason behind Arthur only paying for things with twenty-pound notes? Maybe he was collecting small change for charity. Or maybe he was an obsessive collector of different dated coins. There could be another reason—a purely innocent one I hadn’t thought of. I tried not to look at Arthur’s shrine to his dead wife again and instead continued on my mission. Mr Burbridge would want to know one way or another.

  As with the kitchen, the living room had nothing that seemed out of place. If Arthur was printing money, there would be machines of some sort. A computer printer at the very least, and so far, the most technical piece of electronic equipment I had seen was an oscillating denture cleaner.

  The staircase was next, made narrower by the long metal grab rail that was screwed into one wall.

  Upstairs in the bathroom, a wire rack above the bath supported laundry that was drying, and a small cupboard containing a huge variety of cleaning sprays and mousses—many more than one man could possibly need—was tucked in the corner.

  Opposite the bathroom was a bedroom, the door left ajar where the bottom of the door brushed against the carpet, preventing it from closing completely. Inside was a wardrobe that held a variety of pale shirts and trousers. I checked behind the clothes just in case there was anything hidden at the back, but all I could feel was the wooden back. Other clothing was neatly folded inside drawers. A few books stood on top of the bedside table, but again, nothing out of the ordinary. I was really getting the feeling that I might have made a mistake, but there was still one more room to check.

  Between the bedroom and bathroom was a second room, the door to this one shut tight. I pushed against it with my shoulder, as it seemed to be stuck in the frame. As it finally gave in to my weight, it opened into a smaller room but immediately hit something. I stuck my head through the narrow gap to see what had stopped it. What I saw made me realise that there was no way Arthur could be using this small room to make his counterfeit money. It was stacked high with boxes, piles of paper, and unused furniture, evidence of a move from a larger property, of items that had never been sorted out. In some ways, it looked a bit like our garage at home, only ten times worse and wedged into a space that was half the size.

  I had to admit that it appeared that Arthur might be innocent and was everything that he seemed—an innocent elderly man who followed the same routine every day. Nothing sinister or unusual. I felt deflated. But, worse than that, I felt dirty. Saddened by my suspicious mind and disappointed that I had invaded a pensioner’s home. My first assignment for SPY seemed to be a dead end. Maybe working for SIS was not going to be as much fun as I had first thought.

  With heavy feet, I made my way back downstairs. I looked at my watch—Arthur would be enjoying his cup of coffee by now, and here I was intruding in his house.

  As I was about to leave the kitchen, I decided that the decent thing I could do would be to do something nice for Arthur as a sort of anonymous apology. At the sink in the kitchen, I picked up a sponge, turned the tap on, and began to wash his breakfast dishes—it was the least I could do for him. As I scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit of muesli that seemed to have become welded to the bowl, I stared out of the window and admired Arthur’s garden. I then began searching around the kitchen for a towel to dry the bowl with—it wasn’t fair to leave the job half done. Beside the sink was a short metal rail with two towels neatly folded and hanging from it. As I pulled one off, I noticed a thick white cable running up the wall. At the bottom, just above the skirting board, it was plugged into a wall socket. However, higher up, nearer the ceiling, the cable disappeared through a hole in the wall. I opened the back door and looked at the outside wall from that angle. At the point where the cable left the kitchen, it stretched all the way across the garden to the shed. What I had thought was a washing line when I nearly got my head tangled in it earlier was in fact an electric cable, taking power to the shed.

  With the tea towel still in my hand, I walked up the narrow path towards the shed. There certainly wasn’t anything unusual about having electricity in an outside shed, but it was the only place I hadn’t checked.

  The wooden door was secured by a large iron padlock on a bracket. I automatically checked around the ground for an upturned pot that might be hiding a key, but this time, I wasn’t so lucky. The back of my neck began to tingle, the hairs standing on end. If Arthur cared more about what was inside the s
hed than he did about the security of his house, then maybe there was something very valuable hiding behind the door. But how was I going to get in? I looked at the padlock—the iron loop was thick and not likely to break. However, the bracket that held the door closed was only screwed in place.

  Knowing what I must do, I returned to the kitchen, hung the towel back on its rail, found the cutlery drawer, removed a knife, and walked back up the path. Back at the shed, I positioned the thin end of the knife into the crosshatched gap on the top of the first screw and began to turn it. The knife worked well as a makeshift screwdriver, and within ten minutes, all of the six screws had been removed. The lock, still attached to the bracket but not the door, fell to the ground. I pulled the door towards me and glanced inside. Hanging neatly along one wall were normal gardening tools, cleaned and placed in an orderly manner. However, on the opposite side were items not normally found inside a shed. The first thing I noticed was a small laptop computer sitting beside a laser printer. I smiled to myself as I looked along the bench. To collect the paper that got ejected from the printer, there was a wire tray. Inside the tray were several sheets of paper, each with three identically printed twenty-pound notes. I had never doubted it for a second! Arthur was much more than a placid pensioner—he was a fierce forger.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Production Line

  I followed the fake-banknote production line around the shed. Once the sheets of paper had been printed, they were trimmed and positioned on top of a wooden block. The block had a square indentation in it, exactly the right size for a note to sit in. However, on closer inspection, I could see that the inside of the indentation was not completely smooth. Around the top edge, some writing was raised. I traced my finger over it, feeling the letters that stood out, and read the words—The Bank of England. I picked up a note from the top of a small pile beside the block of wood. Where the printed wording was on the paper, it now stuck out slightly. Arthur was using the block of wood to push small bits of the paper out so that it appeared that the writing was raised and making it appear as authentic as possible.

  But that was just the first stop on the conveyer belt. Moving along the bench, I came to some money that was laid out beside a used jam jar and a cork from a wine bottle sitting on a narrow tray. I picked up the cork and furrowed my brow. What could Arthur possibly be using a cork for? I thought to myself.

  Turning the cork over in my hand, I was surprised to see the face of the queen looking back at me. I picked up one of the notes and held it towards the light that came through the open shed door. It was then that I saw her again. When light shone through a banknote, it showed a watermark—the queen’s face was the watermark on the fake twenty-pound notes. Next, I unscrewed the lid from the jam jar. A thick, colourless liquid that looked like oil was inside. A thin solution of oil on paper would make it transparent—good enough to fool most people that it was a watermark. I was beginning to have an appreciative respect for Arthur, who had found simple ways to convincingly recreate the security features on a banknote.

  Farther along the bench, the final stage consisted of some silver paint, glue, and several brushes. This, I presumed, was where Arthur added the narrow metal line that ran vertically across the surface of a banknote. Pegged to a coat hanger were eight finished banknotes, complete with fake silver strip, oily imitation of a watermark, and raised writing. If you didn’t inspect them too closely, they could easily pass for the real thing.

  I checked my watch. I had spent too much time looking through the house and shed. Arthur would be arriving back home soon. But what should I do now? The evidence was all here—all I needed to do was report back to Mr Burbridge and convince him to search the shed of a lonely old pensioner. But would he do that just on my advice? No. I needed evidence. I would have to take something to prove that I was right. I unhooked two of the banknotes from the coat hanger and placed them inside my pocket.

  Opening the shed door just a crack, I took a cautious glance down the garden path towards the house. Nothing appeared to be different. No old man was looking around his kitchen, wondering who had washed his breakfast dishes. I stepped out of the shed, picked up the lock and bracket, and began reattaching it to the door using the knife to turn the screws back in their holes, except that I couldn’t find two of the original six. After inserting the four screws, I stood back. Apart from the slight angle at which the bracket now hung, it should pass without arousing too much suspicion. I didn’t want to spend any more time searching for the missing screws, so it would have to do.

  I walked back to the house, replaced the knife in the drawer, locked the door behind me, and placed the key back under the plant pot where I had found it. Keeping myself as close to the wall as possible, I made my way around the side of the house towards the front. I crouched down beside a bush and looked out into Wensleydale Drive. Everything seemed to be quiet.

  My bike was not far away. All I had to do was casually walk away from the house, past the ornamental gnome, which seemed to be eying me suspiciously, and I would be home free. Just as I readied myself to leave, a hunched figure hobbled round the corner, plastic carrier bag in one hand and walking stick in the other—Arthur was back. If I left now, he would see me, and I didn’t want him to become suspicious and close down his little forgery operation before I could get the chance to inform Mr Burbridge. I would have to find another way to leave that wouldn’t draw his attention.

  From where I was hidden at the side of the property, I could see the neighbour’s house. The two side gardens were bordered by a low wooden slatted fence. With my nimble youthful limbs, it shouldn’t be too much trouble to climb the wall and drop over into the neighbour’s garden. I moved along the side wall towards the back of the house so that I could take the few steps over to the fence without being seen from the road. I reached up, hooked my fingers over the top, then scrambled my feet against the wood until I got enough grip to lift the lower part of my body onto the top. I was now lying down, balanced dangerously along the narrow ledge of wood that was the top of the fence panel.

  But not for long.

  My weight on the fence made it lean towards the neighbour’s garden, and I quickly toppled off and landed on top of an unsuspecting large tortoise. The seat of my trousers slid off the thick shell, and I landed in a pile of slimy lettuce leaves and old grass cuttings. Apart from the wizened sausage-shaped head of the tortoise that eyed me curiously from beneath his shell, my fall over the fence did not appear to have attracted any unwanted attention. Placing a limp piece of lettuce in front of the tortoise, I patted its shell and moved along the fence towards the front of the property, where I should be able to see Arthur as he approached his house.

  Arthur’s neighbour had a gate at the side of their property, no doubt to keep the tortoise from escaping. I opened it a crack and watched Arthur slowly walk past. I needed to stay were I was to avoid arousing suspicion. The best time to make my move would be just after Arthur opened his front door and stepped in. With his back to the road, a safe getaway was assured.

  I waited.

  Click, click, click. His stick tapped against the pavement.

  I still waited.

  At this rate, if Arthur moved any slower, he’d end up going backwards, and I’d be queuing up beside him to collect my own pension.

  Click, click…

  Arthur stopped. I held my breath and squinted through the crack between the gate and the wall. Had he spotted something? Was there something unusual about the way I’d left his house (apart from climbing over a fence and sitting on top of a tortoise)? Was there something about the building that I had unknowingly disturbed that betrayed my presence? Was the ornamental gnome in the front garden some sort of surveillance alarm? What could he have noticed?

  But then I saw him look at the tip of the walking stick and pull something soft and elasticated from it. Chewing gum. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  And waited some more.

  Come on, Ar
thur, I urged him along. Didn’t he have some farmers’ radio show to listen to or the shipping forecast to check?

  Arthur scraped the tip of the stick on the ground and began moving once again.

  I was beginning to get pins and needles in my feet from crouching in the same position for so long.

  Finally, Arthur reached his front door, fumbled with his keys, found the correct one, and slotted it into the lock. As he stepped into his house, I pulled open the gate and began casually walking away from his neighbour’s house towards my bike. As I undid the lock, I glanced back down the street towards Arthur’s house. At that moment, his front door opened. Arthur reached out and placed an empty milk bottle on the path, raised his head, and watched me untangle the lock from a railing. I swung my leg over the saddle and began to pedal away, glancing once over my shoulder at the calculating stare from Arthur Longsocks’s sunken face. There was no way he could know I had been inside his shed—it was probably just the consistently suspicious stare that he gave every young person.

  I turned away, trying not to appear to be in a rush, and headed in the direction of town. Inside my coat pocket, I now carried proof that Arthur was at the centre of a counterfeiting operation. The fake notes would be enough to convince Mr Burbridge to send the police to visit Arthur, and all the rest of the evidence was sitting in his shed for them to discover.

  I pedalled down the road I had followed Arthur along the previous day and stopped at a set of traffic lights beside the familiar entrance to the indoor market. An elderly couple stood talking, whilst an old man leant against a wall, reading a folded newspaper. Various hunched figures pushed trolleys along the pavement or carried their heavy shopping bags that seemed to stretch their arms nearly down to the ground. This really was a town that was overpopulated by elderly people. Whichever direction I turned, I felt as though I could feel their eyes watching me.