Chapter 4 #2
I can’t work these three out, though. I know Em and Elle are sisters, but I can’t decide if either of them is with Jonny.
Both? I suppose it’s possible, but they’ve given nothing away so far.
Although I think Em is single and straight, because contrary to all sensible pre-interlope rules, she has spent the last two pints giving the boy behind the bar a series of remarkably suggestive looks.
He – clearly an agricultural student and preoccupied with soil erosion or whatever it is they learn – has not reciprocated at all.
Elle has observed with faint amusement but not joined in.
Jonny appears to only have eyes for his Rubik’s Cube.
Mainly I’m still stunned that these people do exactly what I do, except – and, again, a team of award-winning CIA waterboarders couldn’t persuade me to admit this – with rather more technical proficiency.
I remind myself: Soft skills are real, soft skills are real, there’s a reason you’ve never been caught …
‘Al?’
‘Mm?’
‘Time to go.’ The light outside has softened enough that you could doubt your eyesight, and that’s the way they like it.
The golden hour has given way to rural murk.
Jonny picks up the bill, which comes to over a hundred quid – there really must be money in teaching suckers how to trade whatever the latest cryptocurrency is – then we gather our clobber and leave.
Em gives the barman a wink as she goes, which prompts a whispered chat with Elle about whether she should pop back here for last orders.
As we leave, the ram’s skull gives me one final encouraging grin.
It’s about a twenty-minute walk to the house, which is called Larksfoot.
(I once spent a year trying to stay exclusively in houses with names rather than numbers, just to see if they genuinely are much nicer.
Spoiler: they are.) But just before we get there – we’re climbing the hill leading out of the village, and thankfully there are no cars around – Elle gives a little squeak, and claps her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘What?’ says Em.
‘My coat.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s still in the pub.’
‘Oh. Sure?’
Elle gestures at her clearly uncoated torso.
‘How did you forget that?’
‘It’s not cold enough to feel it. And you were distracting me.’
‘What?’
‘By vamping at that eighteen-year-old behind the bar …’
‘Right, firstly he was twenty-two, secondly he’s called Marco, and thirdly, if I’d been vamping I would already have his legs wrapped—’
‘It’s all good,’ says Jonny. ‘I have the kit we need. Elle, just catch up in a bit.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to wait? Just in case there’s any—’
‘Nah, you go for it. You know how boring the first half-hour of most jobs is for you two.’
‘Want me to come with?’ Em asks.
‘Nice try. You stay here and show Al how we do it. I’ll tell Marco you say hi.’
Em grins. ‘Give me a ring when you’re close.’
Elle raises a thumb, and disappears back down the rapidly darkening lane. Then, a little voice whispers in my ear, there were three. Although I don’t think it would have made too much difference to what came next.
The grounds are surrounded by a proper wall, and iron gates ten feet high, with a keypad on the outside.
This surprises Jonny, who claims he does at least three virtual walk-throughs before each actual break-in, but who on this occasion was a bit stuck, because the road has become a lane and the Google Maps people clearly got bored or hungry before this point and turned back.
The guys only know how nice the house is because of some write-up it got in a glossy architectural mag a few years ago.
None of that gets us through the gates, but ‘It’s not a problem,’ Jonny says, and searches his leather satchel for a little palm computer which he proceeds to plug into the keypad.
He also shines a sideways light on the keypad, which shows him which buttons have been most frequently touched and drastically reduces the number of combinations he’ll have to cycle.
While he’s doing that, I refrain from pointing out that if they’d been here during delivery hours, they wouldn’t have had this problem.
Annoyingly, I don’t need to refrain for long, because after about ninety seconds Jonny murmurs, ‘OK,’ and the gates moan open.
He covers the sensor with a little tab so Elle can get in when she catches up.
Em and Jonny walk up the drive towards the house, and even though every instinct is telling me to skulk through the scrubby trees on either side, I accompany them.
They weren’t wrong about the place being a stunner.
Red bricks, interrupted by jazzy patterns, and from the size of the place the ceilings inside must be about twenty feet high.
I’d guess Victorian – either that or a very faithful reproduction.
It has a slight ‘medieval keep’ feel too – something about the shape of the rooftop, I guess, which is high and slanting.
You wouldn’t want to have to keep your balance up there.
The gardens are well kempt too, and too big for your average wealthy professional to keep in hand.
This place definitely has got a gardener, if not a few. We’ll need to watch out for them.
The curtains are closed, but some lights inside are on.
As we get close, I could have sworn that the configuration of lights has changed from when I first saw it, but I’m not sure.
Either I’ve made a mistake, or the timer set by the owner is a more complicated one than usual.
I don’t say anything, and we start circling the house. You genius, Al.
The security light snaps on at one point in our walkaround, and although I’m pretty used to them, I still jump, before feeling embarrassed about it.
No cameras, which is a relief, but Jonny tells me that even if there were any present, he would have ways of dealing with them.
He seems a bit disappointed not to show off the full package, to be honest.
The side door is locked, of course, but that’s what Jonny’s red backpack, patched with a label reading RIGHT TO PICK IT, is for. Three minutes later, the door swings open. Not that I’m threatened, you understand. Probably an easy lock.
I was worried that Em and Jonny would march in chatting away, so it’s a relief that they fall silent as we enter the boot room. There’s something about your first time in someone else’s home that puts you on your best behaviour.
The first proper room we enter is a formal drawing room, lit by the moon.
The curtains are twice my height, and the internal wall is lined with books.
Not any old stuff, either; big classy volumes coated in the leather of long-dead cows.
There is even – dream of dreams – a railed ladder running along the room.
These people must be posh. I’m going to really catch up on my reading, although it looks like I won’t be reading anything published after 1850.
The rest of the room is beautiful too – cream chairs and chaises longues, an ornate wooden writing table.
It’s lovely, but despite all its pricey furnishings and decor, the room as a whole feels a bit like it’s been stood up for a date; like it’s there for show, not for use. It’s all rather antiseptic.
The tables are cluttered with ornaments.
I’m relieved I brought my camera along to snap the way everything is arranged, so we can do a proper get-out.
It’s especially useful on longer visits, but even if I leave in a few days – which I almost certainly will – I guess I could send these three the photos, as an aide-memoire.
No harm in spreading good practice. Maybe I could become an interloping consultant.
We pass through into the front hall, the core of the house.
It’s austere and oak-lined, and has that weird double-porch arrangement you get in posh houses, where the outer porch is for the brollies and Barbours and generally stinks of dog.
The hall itself is properly grand. The two are linked by a wooden door with a lovely stained-glass window in the top half.
Off to the side is a huge modern kitchen, with a stack of abandoned crockery littering one surface in the dark.
From the hall, we drift in different directions.
Em glides up the stairs. Jonny turns left into the kitchen – I guess he’s intending to scan the ground floor for any internal security.
I head further back, to the rear of the house, where a strip of light beneath a door tells me there’s another timer switch operating.
The light is low, but as I open the door, it’s enough to show me I’m in a study, again lined with shelves.
Unlike the first room we entered, this one feels properly lived in; the small desk is covered in paperwork, there are heaps of books on the floor, and it’s a lot warmer than you’d expect of an empty home in early April.
It’s funny, the things you don’t see when you’re not expecting them.
I usually benefit from this quirk of the human brain – if people aren’t expecting to see me somewhere, as often as not their gaze will slip right away and they’ll forget all about me.
But now, looking at this cosy little study, I fall foul of exactly the same quirk, and it takes me several seconds to make sense of the shapes before me.
This really was the last moment I could have extricated myself from the story, if I’d been thinking straight. Turn and run, Al. Just pivot and sprint for the back door, and you’ll never have to see any of these people again.
Being – as we’ve established – too stupid for that, I stand and stare as the room resolves itself.
In the corner is an old, overstuffed armchair. In the armchair there is a middle-aged man, who is looking right at me. And in the middle-aged man’s hand is a small, pointy object I eventually recognise as a gun.