Chapter 1 #3
Why isn’t he in yet? Oh, wait, I know – he’s been trying to open the deadlock on the door, which I’ve already unlocked.
He’ll think it’s jammed or something. I can practically hear how angry he is just from the way he’s struggling with it.
As he’s doing that, I look down, and observe with faint amusement that I’m still holding the WORLD’S BEST DADDY.
I pop it on the ground, outside, below the window.
He won’t see it there, unless he decides he left his passport in the garden.
Eventually, he stops attacking the deadlock – is he thinking?
Is he getting suspicious? – and goes for the main lock instead.
Now he’s coming through the front door. All I have to do is listen out for his direction of travel, ease my head out, shut this last window, go the opposite way, and shelter until he’s off the premises.
Simple. I look up. Good, I shut the skylight window.
Even now, I find the time to congratulate myself on sticking to my rules.
Too late, I realise I should have just thrown the passport into the front hall, so he thought he’d dropped it on his way out, and hidden behind the curtains until he left. Well, we are where we are, as they often say in Shit Creek.
He’s moving right, towards the kitchen. I think so, anyway. This is a hell of a way to test my directional hearing.
No, he’s definitely heading into the kitchen; I can hear his footsteps change as they hit tiles.
I pull my head out, slide the window shut, grab the bag and the mug from the ground, and run like hell towards the left-hand side of the house, where the shrubs will hide me.
I’m in among them. His shadow breezes through the orangery – he’s glancing around as he goes – and then he’s in the living room.
Did I leave anything in there? I’m sure I didn’t.
Almost sure. If my heart keeps beating this fast, he’ll think there’s a cat purring in the garden.
Breathe, Al, breathe. He won’t be able to see me, not from here.
He’s spotted his passport. Phew. He’s picking it up, pocketing it, then he moves towards the door. My three-week holiday is back on. Oh, I owe the god of blaggers a sacrifice tonight.
He turns around.
He’s standing in the living room, looking down at the coffee table in front of the sofa. I want to scream at him: what are you doing, Mr L? Catch that plane! Earn some money! Visit Petra on your day off!
He takes a step towards the table. I can’t see what he’s looking at. And then I remember it.
The coaster.
He’s wondering why, when he left his coasters neatly stacked in the middle of the table, one of them is out now.
He leans down and puts his hand on it, curled into a fist so the backs of his hairy fingers touch it. Then I realise the really bad thing. I only took the mug away about thirty seconds ago. The coaster will still be warm.
He picks it up and looks around the room, and then – this is when I know things are about to get spicy – he pretends he hasn’t noticed anything. He draws his phone from his pocket, acting nonchalant, and it doesn’t take too much wit to guess the three digits he’s about to dial.
If I had known then that this was the most relaxed I’d feel for the next several weeks, I might have lightened up a bit, or possibly just handed myself in then.
But as I don’t know any of that, I reason that the most important thing is to stop him ringing the police.
There are enough fingerprints in that house to identify me, and they’ll go on file, and although that wouldn’t mean instant arrest, because nobody’s caught me yet, they would create an awful precedent.
So without even thinking about it, I am already moving from the shrubs to the side of the house, out of his field of view. Now I’m glad I unlocked the side gate during the Golden Half-Hour. See? The rules will always protect you.
What am I wearing? A shirt and dark jeans, shoes that wouldn’t look out of place on a professional.
This outfit will do. I haul the bag over the wall separating the property from next door – I’ll come back for it later – and chuck the mug into the overgrown bit of the garden.
Then, as I approach the front of the house, I stamp loudly on the gravel before knocking with as much authority as I can on the open front door. My hand is shaking.
‘Hello? Is there anyone here?’
Lethbridge pops into the hall. I’m taller than average, but he’s taller than me, and it looks like every drop of blood in his body is currently in his face. He lowers his phone.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Mr Lethbridge? Paul Lethbridge? You’re the rightful owner of this property?’
‘Yes. Why—’
If you let people finish their questions, you never get anywhere in this life.
‘Mr Lethbridge, I’m glad to meet you.’ I step forward and offer a hand.
‘My name’s Rob Lind. I’m with the Metropolitan Police.
We’ve been following a criminal who we have reason to believe has been operating in this area recently.
We think this house may have been his next target. Have you been at home all morning?’
‘I … No, I’m going away. I just came back because …’ He waves the passport he’s holding. I let my expression grow grave.
‘I see. It’s possible he would have come in just as you left, sir. That’s exactly the sort of move we think he’d make. Do you have a few minutes to discuss this?’
The phone in his hand is burbling something. He looks down, dazed, and presses a button to end the call. Excellent. I’ve got him in a hot state. He doesn’t know which way is up.
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Are you familiar with the name the Ocelot? No? He’s the individual we’re after. Nicknamed for a vicious little South American creature. Cat-like, dextrous, and dangerous when cornered. He’s an aggressive intruder, very violent when he gets the opportunity. Are there valuables on the property?’
Mr L gestures helplessly behind him. ‘There’s a safe in the study …’
‘That would undoubtedly have been his target. Do you have reason to believe the property has been compromised?’
‘There was a coaster … I’m sorry, this is all a lot to take in. I’m just trying to get a flight …’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Lethbridge, I don’t think you’re going to make your flight. In fact, I think it would be best for us to spend a few minutes going over the house. Would that be all right?’
Ten minutes later, I’ve fixed the whole thing up.
It was a moment’s work to rebolt the orangery window I’d climbed out of.
He’s shown me the coaster, and I’ve managed to question him about it and its temperature so much that he’s not sure of himself any more.
Maybe he did leave it out. Also, I’ve put gloves on – I had a pair in my pocket for emergencies (Rule 4) – and I’ve tried to smudge any fingerprints I might have left around the place, although you’ll never catch them all.
I’ve reassured him there’s no sign of the sort of forced entry the Ocelot specialises in, and offered him a few home-safety recommendations to boot.
Back in the front hall, I give him my phone number so he can ring if he has any concerns.
I also advise him to wait a few days to call (‘we’re so busy, you see, and this will give us time to get everything together’) – that should help degrade any DNA I’ve left in the place – then shake his hand again.
He thanks me. He’s going to try and get a night flight, and ask a friend from the village to look in every day or two. No harm done.
As I head down the drive, I pass Dev, still waiting for his irascible customer.
I give him a businesslike nod, then walk on.
Once I can see he’s safely back on his phone, I slip into the side lane, from which I’ll be able to climb into the next-door property to retrieve my bag.
Then I lean against an old dry-stone wall and almost throw up from the postponed terror of it all.
Right. Now I have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.