Chapter 12 #2
Then Andrew jumped from the fence, into a manicured border. Freezing as the security light clacked on.
Count to ten . . .
And the lights clacked off again.
Soon as they did, he was on the move – hoofing-it across the lawn to the back door without setting the motion sensors off again. Because people never set this stuff up properly.
There, he dropped to one knee and a gloved hand appeared on screen, holding an Electric Pick Gun. Then an angry buzzing noise as it vibrated in the lock, and the back door swung open.
You know, probably didn’t need to see the whole thing in real time.
He clicked fast-forward and the video whizzed through the utility room to the kitchen, then into the hall – focussing for a moment on the security system. A fancy bit of kit, and expensive with it. But no sodding use if you didn’t arm the thing.
The camera whooshed around the ground floor, then swept upstairs. Mirror. Empty bedroom. Box room. Then the kid’s room. Then Natasha Agapova’s boudoir.
Andrew slowed the video for the exciting underwear rummage, then sat back, chewing on his thumb as Natasha and DS Davis arrived.
‘Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss Agapova? Natasha Agapova?’
‘Go away, I’m not in the mood.’
‘No. Sorry. Yes. But I’m with the police, see? Detective Sergeant Davis. Can I come in? I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Did he sodding ever.
Just hearing the man’s voice was enough to make Andrew’s balls clench again. He hit mute, and watched in silence as the camera scurried down the corridor to hide in the child’s bedroom, behind the door.
Holding his breath as the footage replayed the horrible scene where DS Davis almost caught him. Not daring to exhale until the vicious bastard headed back downstairs again.
Andrew sagged in his seat, willy drooping like a little wrinkly chipolata.
Maybe it’d be better to shred everything right now? Get rid of it all. Leaving nothing behind to connect him to the house, or Natasha, or the terrifying monster with the warrant card.
Onscreen, the night-vision goggles rushed to the window, peering out between the curtains. Zooming in on DS Davis as he dragged his unconscious victim to the boot of his car.
Wait a minute . . .
Andrew thumped the spacebar, pausing the video.
DS Davis’s Vauxhall Astra filled the laptop’s screen, and right at the bottom of the image, clearly visible and sharp as The Knife, was the car’s number plate.
Will you look at that.
A wee smile tugged at the corner of Andrew’s face.
Maybe he didn’t have to delete the footage after all?
Maybe this video was his own personal Cashline machine, and DS Davis was the banker.
And maybe the vicious, violent bastard wasn’t so scary after all.
Because how difficult could it be to track someone down from their number plate? Pretty sure there were AI tools on the dodgier bits of the internet that would do it in seconds.
Piece of cake.
Andrew cracked his knuckles and got to work . . .
The moon had barely risen, just skimmed its way along the horizon. It was still swollen and baleful, but now it was beautiful too. Because the night had gold in its mouth.
Andrew sidled over to the garden incinerator and peeked inside. Nothing left but ash and some blackened rubble – all of which was getting bagged up and ditched in a roadside bin somewhere, tomorrow, while he was out getting some stuff to celebrate his newfound wealth.
Maybe pick up some prawns and steak and champagne. Hell, why not a lobster too? Live a little.
Mum would like that.
But first:
Andrew settled his bum against the patio table, grinning as he tapped away at his phone – slipping into DS Davis’s DMs on a secure messaging app, because he wasn’t an idiot.
YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM BUT I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
SEND.
Perfect.
Andrew took a sip of Red Bull – as if he wasn’t fizzing enough already – and settled back to wait.
Not for long though, because the reply came dinging right back.
UNKNOWN:
You’ve got the wrong number.
Oh really?
His thumbs flew across the screen.
NATASHA AGAPOVA SAYS DIFFERENT
I’VE GOT YOU ON VIDEO!!!
WANT PROOF???
Didn’t take more than a couple of seconds to bring up a still of DS Davis dragging Natasha out to the kerb, with a lovely view of the bastard’s face.
SEND.
And off it went, scurrying through the aether, like a bubonic rat. Bringing the plague to DS Davis’s life.
This time the reply took a lot longer.
Andrew saved the contact into his phone, giving it an inconspicuous name to avoid suspicion.
Ding.
MURDERING BASTARD:
What do you want?
There we go.
THOUSAND QUID TO START WITH
IN CASH!!!
THEN WE’LL SEE
SEND.
Ding.
MURDERING BASTARD:
When. Where.
Maybe best not to give the bastard time to plot and plan.
DUTHIE PARK
20 MINUTES
INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW
SEND.
Well, they’d follow soon as Andrew had figured out what they were. But arranging an anonymous ransom drop had to be fairly straightforward – happened all the time in films.
Bound to be websites telling you how to do it, if you knew where to look.
Because Andrew wasn’t an idiot – after what DS Davis did to Natasha Agapova? He was taking zero risks.
Ding.
MURDERING BASTARD:
How am I supposed to get my hands on ￡1,000, in cash, in twenty minutes?
Sorry, mate.
YOUR PROBLEM NOT MINE
DUTHIE PARK
20 MINUTES
SEND.
Out in the field, a dark, pointy shape turned into a fox, bounding through the hip-high barley, on its way towards the airport.
It paused, nose up, as if catching a whiff of just how all-conquering and impressive Andrew was.
He toasted the fox with the can of Red Bull, one predator to another.
Still nothing back from Davis.
Off in the distance, a door opened, letting a bass-pounding thump of music out, then clunked shut, leaving nothing but silence behind.
Andrew checked his phone.
Five minutes and counting.
Maybe he’d over-egged it, and twenty minutes wasn’t enough time to get that kind of cash together? Not like the banks were open, was it? And you could only take out a few hundred at a cash machine.
Yeah, this might’ve been a mistake.
Should send Davis another DM, telling him tomorrow would be—
Ding.
MURDERING BASTARD:
OK.
Oh yeah.
Andrew threw his head back and howled at the moon.
Out in the field, the fox hunkered down, disappearing into the barley, then sprinted away, leaving the stalks shivering in its wake.
DS Davis was now officially screwed, and soon as Andrew had finished bleeding him dry, he’d turn the bastard in – cos the cops couldn’t cover for him with the whole thing on video.
Or even better: bleed Davis dry, then sell the film to the papers. Get one last payday. And then the cops wouldn’t have a choice. No way they could cover this up with Davis’s face splashed all over the Daily Mail, or The Sun.
Ha!
Turned out Andrew’s visit to Natasha’s house hadn’t been such a disaster after all . . .