Chapter 4
… and I wake, late, to the smell of breakfast. I wash, dress, and head down to the kitchen, where Elle is home-making a dish of granola.
I didn’t even know people made their own granola.
In the middle of the kitchen island there’s a breakfast so lavish – juice, muffins, scrambled eggs, toast – we could be in an American sitcom.
Jonny is on the ancient armchair in the corner – it’s one of those kitchens, the ones so cavernous they need ancillary furniture just to fill up the floor space.
He’s wearing the clothes he was in last night, and is still on his laptop.
I haven’t seen him more than a few feet away from that laptop yet.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning, Al!’ I get the sense, faintly, just the overwhelmingly obvious sense, you understand, that Elle might be a morning person. She’s not actually wearing a gingham apron, but she’d suit one.
‘Where did you get that kit? They don’t have any kitchen stuff here.’
‘This is all mine,’ she says. ‘Just because we’re in someone else’s home doesn’t mean we have to live like animals.’
The last time I stayed here, I lived on grubby takeaways, which I ordered to be delivered to – Rule 30 – the corner of the street, always paying in cash.
The time before that, I was temporarily on those meal supplement milkshakes, and got through about four buckets of grim grey sludge a day because I was convinced they were a superior means of leaving no trace.
I lost half a stone, all joy in mealtimes, and the will to live.
‘There’s nothing wrong with pre-prepared food,’ I say. ‘A lot of it is very healthy these days. Actually better for you than home-made stuff.’
Elle smiles and gives my torso the tiniest glance before going back to her pan. I can’t help noticing that a lot of the food in the fridge is from Waitrose.
‘How do you afford this stuff?’
‘We all have jobs as corporate lawyers,’ says Elle.
‘Really?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
She grins at me. ‘Jonny does a lot of work in crypto.’
‘Really? Trading it?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Jonny. ‘Mug’s game.
I teach other people how to trade it. To be fair, I do warn them they probably won’t make any money out of it, but that doesn’t seem to stop them paying a hundred and fifty quid a pop for an online course led by a silhouette in a hoodie.
’ He looks faintly troubled at how gullible people are, then shrugs.
I nod, then look back to Elle. ‘What about you two?’
‘Oh, we got an inheritance a couple of years ago, but it’s a bit vulgar to talk about all that, isn’t it?’
Before I can ask further, a voice in my ear says, ‘Boo.’ I jump, but it’s only Em, wearing a ridiculously fluffy dressing gown. A patch on the breast reads: CRIMINAL MEOWSTERMIND, with a picture of a kitten sitting at a nineties computer beneath a rainbow.
‘Good morning.’
‘Sleep well? No witch doctors visiting you in the night?’
‘Ha ha, yeah. No, no voodoo, thanks.’ I’ve resolved to be as personable as possible with these people. It’s only going to be a day or so out of my normal run, so I may as well be nice. ‘So … are you guys going to tell me where we’re off to?’
Em sits on one of the stools under the island and grabs a muffin from the central display. ‘Jonny, can you show him?’
Jonny swivels the screen as I approach. ‘Heard of Bridling?’
‘Cotswolds?’
Em nods. ‘Little hamlet in Oxfordshire. Always being listed as one of the most beautiful villages in the most stunning part of the loveliest county, blah blah blah. Worth killing to get a place there, all the agents say. About one house in four is a second home. And on the outskirts of Bridling …’ She leans over and tries to tap at the screen.
Jonny, subtly, pulls the laptop away so her finger doesn’t grease it up. ‘The perfect place.’
Jonny takes over. ‘Eight bedrooms. Properly old. Former vicarage. Must have been some vicar, though, because it’s nice.
Fully furnished and maintained, as far as I can tell from satellite photos.
And, crucially, owned by someone who we know is going to be out of the country for the next two months. ’
‘How do you know?’
He toggles a tab. ‘Flight data. The owner listed his address as this home on his BA flight. He’ll be in Dubai for ten weeks as of yesterday.’
‘How’d you access the flight data?’
Jonny wiggles his fingers.
Satellite photos! Flight data! I’m trying to act nonchalant, as though these are all well-worn tools on my own Bat Belt. ‘What’s the owner called?’ I always like to know an owner’s name. That way, when someone mistakes you for them and calls you by their name, you can respond appropriately.
‘D.H.’
‘D.H.?’
Jonny shrugs. ‘My database just has initials. I could get the full name, but it would take me a little while. Anyway, we have the flight dates there and back, so we’re good.’
‘How did you find the place?’
‘I’ve set up little snares for the top twenty postcodes we’re especially interested in. Whenever someone books a long trip from one of them, we look at the dates and fit them into the itinerary.’
‘I do the diary,’ says Elle.
I try to keep looking unimpressed. ‘Have you checked the security? Done a ground recce?’
‘We do all that later.’ Thank God. Something I’m more careful about than they are.
‘Have you checked the Land Registry to see who owns the house?’
This, incidentally, is one of my favourite things to do.
Did you know about it? You can search for literally any property in the country, and it tells you who last bought it, how much for, what year, and a few other fascinating little details.
All that for three quid, and then you can research the owner at your leisure.
It’s glorious. It’s clearly not one of Jonny’s favourite pastimes, though.
‘We haven’t, no. Is that something you do every time?’ I nod. ‘Doesn’t feel strictly necessary. Still,’ and here he makes a note, ‘accumulating unnecessary data frequently reaps dividends. I’ll have a look later.’
‘Are you sure it’s a second home? I only do second homes.’
‘I thought you were interested in how we operated, Al?’
I smile at Em. ‘Of course I am. Must be forgetting my manners.’
She smiles back, just as friendly, just as dishonest. And with that politely disagreed, we sit down to breakfast.
Eight hours later, night is throwing its ebon veil over the Ram’s Head, a charming pub-with-rooms in the heart of Bridling. It’s got an actual skull nailed above the bar, horns and all. A bit forbidding.
I wish we weren’t here. I wish we’d made our way into the house in daylight, unpacked, then gone out for dinner.
But these guys have their own method and they’re convinced I’ll convert once I’ve tried it.
I’d never admit it, but I’ve been impressed enough so far that I’m swallowing my better judgement to go along with them.
Little bit of life advice for you: don’t ever, ever swallow your better judgement. If we’d done it my way, there’s a chance I wouldn’t be writing this document at all, let alone typing it on a computer that has the words HMP brIXTON SUX carved into the side of the monitor.
But I digress.
The pisciners lazed around at the house until about eleven, then packed up. I did my usual fingerprint scrub, and while they weren’t quite as careful, thankfully we have similar notions about not nicking the silverware.
Then, after a lengthy get-out – Jonny remembered he’d forgotten to collect about six internal cameras – we drove to Bridling.
Or rather, I drove. As my contribution, I’d rented a van from my regular garage, so these three could leave their car in London.
Tariq, who runs Mr Toad’s Motors, was clearly surprised at me hiring anything bigger than a Mini, but he’s polite enough not to ask questions. Tariq is a proper gentleman.
We stashed the van off a lay-by, off a lane, off the main road linking Bridling to civilisation, then walked to the village and into the Ram’s Head.
It’s a stunning pub. The windows are mullioned (think I’m using that word right?
Each window is made of 150 tiny windows).
The tables are huge heavy oak numbers that probably date back to the Civil War, and the menu is in that tiny font which informs older punters, We’re going to flatter you into thinking that you’re young enough to read this without your glasses. Also, don’t look at the prices.
Now, I maintain that coming here in the first place was a mistake.
But Elle’s a foodie and insists we pass for visitors who are just taking in the local area.
I’m not convinced. For a start, it is extremely white out here.
There’s a preppy Asian family at one of the tables, but barring them, it’s monochrome.
Even Em and Elle look exotic, and Jonny is the only black guy in the place.
He doesn’t appear to have noticed, though, because he’s busy with a screwdriver and the remnants of a Rubik’s Cube.
The manager looked politely appalled when she brought our mains.
As for Bridling itself: we looked around on our walk through, and Em was right. This is a gorgeous village. They have a Norman church, for heaven’s sake, surrounded by an unkempt churchyard with crazily angled tombstones and galloping lichens. There is doubtless a functioning bell-ringing society.
The reses are des, too – the centre’s all charming thatched cottages opening onto the lane-and-a-half road, bigger detached places in the ‘suburban’ bit, then further out a few really grand houses, one of which we’ll be breaking into in about half an hour.
The high street is a parade of little antique shops and boutiques, plus one upmarket grocer’s – it’s so posh there isn’t even a supermarket, but there’s a Waitrose (of course) within a ten-minute drive. I’m impressed.