When I finally find Maurice Butterfield’s house, I am blown away by how absolutely stunning it is. It is clearly no older than perhaps ten years, but it has been constructed in a mock Tudor style to sit well amongst some of the older dwellings along the banks of the River Mole.
If I had to take a guess, I would say that I am looking at somewhere between two-and-a-half and three million pounds’ worth of real estate. This is a huge sum of money, even for an Assistant Chief Constable, but I’m not here to value his house or ponder on the source of his wealth. I am here to help Darren gain an advantage when he shows up to rob the place tomorrow night and, looking at the house now, he is going to need all of the help he can get.
The house is at the very end of a cul-de-sac, is fully detached, and entry from this side is controlled by an access gate facing the road. From the gate to the house, there is a graveled driveway of around 30 meters with beautifully manicured but, unfortunately, well-floodlit lawns to the left and to the right.
On either side of the house, I can see alarm boxes, which probably contain the bell mechanisms, and I can see at least two CCTV cameras covering the front of the house. Almost certainly, every door and window will have alarm contacts and I also wouldn’t put it past Butterfield to have pressure mats underneath the doormats and carpets at ground level. If I am right about what is inside the house, he will have every reason to want to have maximum protection in place.
Disappointed with what I have seen at the front of the house, I cross a bridge to the opposite bank of the river in the hope of finding a better opportunity. If I can find one, I am hoping that a professional burglar like Darren will also find it.
Butterfield’s house is seated directly opposite a recently restored red-brick eighteenth-century water mill, but the river is more than thirty-meters wide and at least seven or eight-meters deep, judging by the size of the barges and private yachts using it. The daylight is already fading. I can’t see as clearly as before, but the back of the house seems to have the same level of lights and cameras as the front.
The only possibility I can see is where the rear garden meets the edge of the river. There is a thick clump of reeds and small trees that could hide the approach of anyone attempting to access the garden from the river, but that would mean swimming or approaching by boat. I don’t know what Darren would choose to do, but I have no intention of waking up in bed and explaining to Billy why I am soaked to the skin.
The Cobham and District Rowing and Yacht Club is less than a mile further down the river. I am confident that I can steal a kayak and approach under cover of darkness, but I need to pick up a few supplies first. With just ten minutes to spare before closing time, I find a hardware store and quickly gather up the items I need.
The old fella behind the counter keeps a close eye on me as I move around the store. I can hardly blame him, though — my scruffy appearance is made worse by the fact that I haven’t shaved for nearly a week, and he only relaxes when I hand over the payment.
I set off for the short walk to the Yacht Club and arrive just after seven-thirty. By now, it is completely dark and any club activities have finished for the day. The car park is around half full and there is music coming from a clubhouse positioned around twenty meters from the edge of the river.
Beyond that, I can see the boat sheds, a small marina, and a row of floating pontoons. A few people are still mingling and packing away equipment for the day, but none of them gives me more than a cursory glance as I confidently enter one of the open-front boat sheds in search of a kayak.
If I have learned nothing else from my undercover work and dream travel, I have learned to act like I belong. And so far it seems to be working, despite my appearance. Inside the shed, the lights are off, but the lights from the car park outside are enough for me to be able to find the kayak storage area quickly. The kayaks are stacked neatly on ‘A’ frame racks and clearly Cobham must have a low crime rate because there are no padlocks and chains and most are so lightweight that one person can easily lift them off the racks.
I choose a small, single-seat kayak and select a lightweight paddle from a large selection stacked against the wall and I carry them to the front of the shed. There are now just two teenage boys and a middle-aged woman standing next to the pontoons chatting.
I don’t want to risk walking out whilst they are still there, but equally I don’t want to get caught inside the shed, so when they are still there after another fifteen minutes, I decide to brazen it out and I carry the kayak along the pontoons and carefully place it into the river. Then I awkwardly climb in with my bag of supplies and think to myself so far so good, until a female voice calls over to me.
“Hey, excuse me. You do know that it’s not permitted to be out on the river after dark? It’s not safe with all the boat traffic.”
As I turn, all three of them are walking towards me and I consider feigning ignorance until one of the boys pulls his companions back.
“Never mind that, Charlotte — that’s Paul Bailey’s kayak. He’s bloody stealing it!”
The woman shouts for the boys to go and call the police, and then she runs towards the water’s edge, shouting at me, “You, stop there, the police are on the way. You won’t get away with this.”
I won’t get away with it if I hang around to wait for the police and before she gets to the edge of the water, I am already paddling as hard as I can down the river towards Butterfield’s palace. The only way they will catch me now is if the river police are close by or one of the rowing team gives chase.
Both scenarios are highly unlikely and as soon as I am far enough away for the Yacht Club to disappear from view, I slow down to try to save my energy.
It’s now 8.15 pm and the rear of the house is illuminated by spotlights and the light from the moon. As anticipated, though, the height of the reeds and the low profile of the kayak means that it is virtually impossible for anyone to see me from the house and I edge the kayak silently through the water and into the thick cover.
Getting out is even more awkward than getting in and by the time I have made it to solid ground my shoes and the lower six inches of my sweats are soaked and covered in thick mud from the river. I’m never going to make it to the house without being picked up by the cameras, but I’m not so concerned about that.
I have a rock-solid alibi for where I am today. My main concern is not to leave any obvious traces of an intruder being here, so reluctantly I take off my shoes and leave them at the water’s edge to minimize any muddy footprints near to the house. A few lights are on, but I watch the house for nearly an hour without seeing any signs of movement.
This is a big house, so it doesn’t necessarily mean that no one is at home, but the lack of movement so far probably means that they are out. The longer I wait, the more likely they are to come home; so without waiting any longer, I dash across the garden and pull open the door to a large shed. Inside it is well laid out with garden tools, flowers pots, compost and a pristine-looking ride-on lawnmower. The item I am looking for is hanging horizontally on the wall at the back, and as quietly as I can, I lift the aluminium extension ladder off the retaining hooks. Without this, I would have been well and truly screwed. There is no way on earth I would have been able to reach the alarm boxes and cameras without it.
With the same brash confidence as before, I pull the hoodie down low over my face and carry the ladder purposely around to the front and then lean it up against the side of the house. I am hoping that if I am seen, the good folks of Cobham will assume that I am just a handyman carrying out repairs, instead of a murdering con up to no good.
Disabling the alarms and cameras is not my plan tonight; most modern systems come with a failsafe that would send an automatic message to a police station or monitoring center in the event of power failure or a system interruption. The best I can hope for tonight is to make it more difficult for Darren to be detected if he does trip any alarms or cameras.
To that end, I go to work on the came
ras and spray the lenses lightly with a thin coating of acrylic glue. I don’t want to obscure the lenses completely and alert anyone to an immediate problem, so I spray just enough to distort the image and make it hazy. As an added measure, I adjust the angle of the cameras very slightly so that they are not facing directly onto the garden. My next trick is to squirt expanding foam into the alarm bell boxes. This will set as hard as concrete in a few hours. It won’t stop the alarms from being tripped, but it will stop the bell from ringing and alerting the neighbors.
With the front of the house complete, I repeat the process for the back and then I return the ladder to the shed and retrieve my shoes. I don’t know if I have done enough to guarantee success, but I feel better knowing that I have improved Darren’s chances a little. Everything else is up to him and based on his prolific criminal career and experience, I am more than hopeful of a positive outcome. One way or another, within five or six hours of waking up, my world is going to change again.
With one last look back at the house, I make my way back through the mud and the reeds and after two failed and clumsy attempts, I am back in the kayak and steering myself towards the bridge across the river.
Drowning myself or steering into the path of one of the larger vessels on the river would have been an obvious choice as a stimulus for getting home tonight, but watching the expanding foam in action has given me a far more interesting idea. Safely under the bridge and out of site, I drop the paddle into the water and retrieve the can of foam from the bag.
Even after just fifteen minutes, the residue on the nozzle is already hardening and it takes me a few minutes to clear it sufficiently. I have no idea how this is going to go, but if this doesn’t kill me, the river will most certainly finish me off. I squirt a small amount of foam into the river to check the flow and then I push the nozzle as far into my nostril as I can and press down hard on the trigger.
The chemical reaction when the stored foam leaves the can is instantaneous and my brain begins to be starved of oxygen within seconds. The foam expands into every corner of my nose, mouth, and throat and my vision blurs. I hold on as long as I can, but unable to hold out any longer, I roll the kayak to the left and my head cracks against one of the bridge columns, and I disappear into the blackness of the river.
Present Day – Monday, 19th February 2018
“Jesus Christ, Sean, do you ever bloody sleep the whole night? It’s not as if we have anything exciting to get up for, and what the fuck are you doing anyway?”
When I woke up, it was just after five in the morning and, after getting my bearings, I had remembered the mud on my shoes and sweats. There was also mud all over the bottom of my bed sheets, so as quietly as possible I stripped the bed and attempted to rinse everything off in the small steel sink in the corner of our cell without waking Billy up. I was doing quite well until I slipped on the wet floor and knocked over our table, sending Billy’s tea mug and various other items scattering across the floor.
“Sorry, Billy, I had a bit of an accident and was washing my sheets, then I slipped. Sorry, go back to sleep.”
My mention of an accident has piqued his curiosity, and he has no intention of going back to sleep yet.
“What kind of accident? Did you piss the bed?”
Annoyed and in no mood for a conversation, I ignore the question. “Just go back to sleep, Billy.”
“Oh my God, you did, didn’t you? You bloody well pissed your bed — that is fucking classic! How old are you, Sean? That’s got to be worth a few quid to buy my silence.”
I’m glad that it’s still dark and he can’t see the color of my sheets or he would really lose his shit, but now I am really annoyed, and I snap at him.
“Yes, Billy, I fucking pissed my bed and unless you want me to rub your nose in it, I suggest you roll over and go back to sleep.”
“Alright, Sean, calm your tits there, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I used to piss my bed regularly … until I was nine,” he adds sarcastically.
I give him one of those if-looks-could-kill stares and he rolls back over to face the wall sniggering to himself.
I get back to the scrubbing and finish just before unlock. When Billy wakes up, he has momentarily forgotten our early morning conversation but is reminded when he sees my sheets hanging over the edge of the sink. His face breaks out in a huge smirk.
“Don’t even think about it, Billy.”
“What? I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Good, don’t, this never happened, do you understand?”
“Of course, it never happened. You didn’t piss your bed last night and you won’t be known as the swamp rat from now on.”
Despite my earlier annoyance, I know if the shoe were on the other foot, I would be having as much fun with him as he is with me. I laugh and call him a cheeky fuck and then we head off to the bathrooms to start the day.
It’s Monday morning, so during breakfast Cartwright and Taylor are back in their usual position next to the tea urns. The food is barely palatable at the best of times, but with so much on my mind today, my appetite has gone completely and after just a few mouthfuls I push my tray to one side and get up to fill my mug with tea.
If all has gone to plan with Darren, Jean should be here within a couple of hours of the planned drop-off to her office. My mind is filled completely with what my next steps should be and, clearly, the stress is showing on my face as I approach the urn.
“What’s wrong with you, McMillan? You’ve got a face like a slapped arse. What’s up, didn’t you have a nice weekend at the Hotel Meerholt?”
Taylor laughs at his boss’ joke and, given the last conversations I had with this pair of clowns, I am surprised at their attitude, but I don’t rise to it.
Whatever I have over them in private, I can’t expect them to show me any special consideration in front of the rest of the prisoners. Equally, I can’t afford to push my luck. Butler’s deadline is fast approaching and I don’t want to do anything to rock the boat when I am this close to getting what I need.
“Just a bit tired, sir. I couldn’t sleep last night.”
Cartwright almost looks disappointed that I didn’t give him any back chat, so he turns on the sarcasm again to assert his authority over me.
“Aww, did you hear that, Officer Taylor? Prisoner McMillan didn’t have a good night’s sleep. Well, tough titties, McMillan. Get your fucking tea and move along!”
I am only too happy to oblige and I return to my table and sip on my tea to delay the return to my cell for as long as possible. While I have been up at the tea urn, someone with a stronger stomach than mine has finished off my breakfast. When I look around all I see is innocent faces, but I don’t give a shit, they are welcome to it. My plan is coming together and I won’t have to eat much more of this garbage anyway.
Even after less than a week inside, it is already feeling like ground-hog day. When I get back to the cell, Billy is back on his bunk reading his comic books and will probably be fully engrossed in them until lunchtime. After that, he will probably go for a wank and then sleep until dinnertime.
It’s the same routine for him day after day and it doesn’t seem to bother him in the least.
He doesn’t have a watch and probably doesn’t have much concept of time, but for me the monotony is probably one of the worst parts of being in prison. Today is going to be particularly bad. I took as long as I could over breakfast and was one of the last to leave the canteen, but it is still only 8.40. I am around two-hundred pages into Papillon and I concentrate as hard as I can to take my mind off the wait, but the time goes painfully slowly, until Officer Bayliss comes into the cell at 11.45 and my heart skips a beat.
“On your feet lad, you’ve got a visitor.”
I knew that Darren would come through and I am on my feet and walking towards Bayliss full of hope. This is it; this is the beginning of the end for Butterfield and Douglas. When I see Jean, I am going to hug her whether she considers it appropriate or not.
/>
My joy is short-lived.
“Not you, McMillan; the visitor is for young Billy.”
My heart sinks, but I am happy for Billy, who looks surprised to be getting a visitor, so this must mean that Jean has managed to get his request approved.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone, Mr. Bayliss — are you sure the visit is for me?”
“We don’t make mistakes, McGuigan, now get a move on, lad, or I might take this one for myself. I don’t know how you managed to swing it, but you don’t want to miss this visit.”
Billy swings his legs over the side of the bunk and follows Bayliss out of the cell.
I am disappointed, but it’s still early yet. There will be a lot for Jean to take in and, knowing her, she will want to be fully clear on what she has before she comes to see me.
I settle back down on my bunk and immerse myself in the world of Papillon again. Thirty minutes later, I am so deeply engrossed in reading about his latest spell in the world of solitary confinement and darkness called ‘Seclusion’ that I don’t notice Officer Bayliss standing in the doorway to my cell until he coughs.
“It looks like it’s a lucky day for both of you, McMillan. You must have some influential friends; this visit has been given top priority. Come on then, don’t keep them waiting, get a move on!”
I am shaking as I follow Bayliss out onto the landing, not through fear, but because of the gravity of what is about to happen. Jean wouldn’t have come so quickly if Darren hadn’t delivered something substantial.
This stopped being about Paul Donovan even before his untimely death at the hands of Detective Superintendent Clive Douglas and this was never really about me.
Whatever happens to me, as long as I stay alive in the real world, I will always have an opportunity to wind the clock back to save myself.
The Network Page 14
