Chapter 3
Beware of pickpockets! Keep a close eye on your personal belongings. If you see something suspicious, report it to the police immediately!
Warning to tourists
Kate
“The Red Lady has been causing trouble in St. James’s Park for centuries.
According to legend, she was murdered by her husband, who decapitated her and threw her head into this very lake.
She’s been wandering through the park ever since, searching for her missing head,” said the guide of the haunted walking tour.
He spoke in an eerie tone, although there was nothing spooky about his story in broad daylight, even with the dark rain clouds hanging overhead.
It was actually pretty boring, but I couldn’t complain, since I had not paid for the tour.
I’d been following the group for a while, hoping to steal a wallet or something else of value. I’d not had any success so far.
I’d stolen two hundred pounds in the last few days.
It wasn’t bad, but the worse the weather, the harder it was to get at money.
The tourists’ coats became bulkier, which complicated picking their pockets.
And they were more likely to mill around in restaurants and shops, which made begging even more futile and unappealing.
As if it weren’t already humiliating enough.
Most of the time, people like me, with our cups and baskets for begging, were ignored.
People pretended we didn’t exist and clung on to their change with misplaced concern as they swept past us, assuming we’d spend anything we got on alcohol and drugs.
But in reality, most of us were just hungry.
“People have reported seeing the Red Lady near the lake. If you come here at night, you might just get lucky too,” said the tour guide and motioned the group to move on while he cast me a warning look.
I didn’t know whether he’d seen through me or just didn’t want me listening for free to a monologue he’d clearly learned off by heart.
Either way, it was my cue to leave. I adjusted the straps of my rucksack and made my way to the public restroom.
Getting in cost a few pence that had to be paid with a credit card, but the people who cleaned the facilities knew me.
Today it was Ada who opened the barrier and let me slip through.
I washed my hands thoroughly before pulling my toiletry bag out of my rucksack so I could brush my teeth and wash my face.
I used a public shower occasionally, if I could afford it.
After I was finished, I said goodbye to Ada and wandered through the park in the hope that I’d come across some heedless tourists walking around with their wallets in their trouser pockets.
St. James’s Park had been my home for a while, and I knew its paths like the back of my hand.
I’d tried out various new sleeping places in the last few months, but of all the outdoor locations, this park was my favourite.
It was central, and there were the public restrooms and St. James’s Café.
They knew me at the café too, and every so often, I got free food at the end of the day.
The park was beautiful, with centuries-old trees and lovingly tended flower beds.
Wherever I looked, there were birds and squirrels preparing for winter, and in the summer, the lawns were littered with peanut shells, evidence of tourists feeding the park’s wildlife.
A little snack kiosk caught my eye as I walked around the lake.
I usually paid it no attention—everything was so expensive—but today I didn’t ignore it.
There was a queue, and last in line was a man who looked like he’d been born grasping hundred-pound notes.
I had him sussed out immediately. If you lived on the streets long enough, you developed a sharp instinct for people.
This man wasn’t just acting like he was important; he really was.
He clearly didn’t come from new money either.
He wasn’t someone who walked around sporting flashy brand logos.
No, this man wore elegant leather shoes and a tailored coat that fit his broad shoulders like a glove. The guy clearly came from old money.
I got in the queue behind him. He smelled good.
Not of expensive perfume, but something else, something more subtle.
Perhaps his shampoo, or the fabric softener his housekeeper used.
He had thick black hair and good posture, and he was relatively tall.
At five foot one, I barely reached his shoulders.
The man’s phone rang, and he reached into his coat pocket to pull it out. It was a brand-new iPhone and must have cost a small fortune. He hesitated before answering.
“Yes?” His voice was warm and deep. Soothing.
The person on the other end said something I couldn’t hear.
“I’m taking a break,” the man said.
“. . .”
He sighed. “No, I’m not at the hotel.”
“. . .”
“Because I had to get out,” he answered, irritated, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Yes, he blatantly had money, but perhaps he wasn’t as important as I’d assumed him to be. Important people didn’t justify themselves. They were arrogant enough to believe they didn’t have to.
“. . .”
“I’ll be back in time,” the man promised before hanging up. He sighed again and slid the phone back into his coat pocket before pulling out a little box. He opened it and popped something into his mouth. A sweet or a piece of gum, I assumed.
I observed the man’s movements carefully until he reached the front of the queue, where he ordered a coffee to go.
I glanced around. When I was sure no one was watching me and that he was distracted, I slipped my hand into his coat pocket and nimbly pulled out his phone.
Quick as a flash, I dropped it into my own pocket before he noticed.
He said goodbye to the man behind the kiosk and left with his coffee, and then it was my turn.
I treated myself to an overpriced cookie and paid for it without a hint of remorse, thanks to my loot.
Because if I sold the treasure now stowed away in my coat pocket, I could pay off most of the money I owed Randell.
I cast a glance behind me and watched the man walk away obliviously.
I felt an unexpected stab of guilt for having taken an expensive phone rather than the usual handful of cash.
But I forced myself to brush the feeling aside.
The guy was practically drowning in money, and if he wanted to, he could probably buy ten iPhones without batting an eyelid.
My safety, on the other hand, depended on me paying Randell.
“It’s terrible what his father did to those women.”
I glanced at the kiosk owner and noticed he was also watching the man walk away, shaking his head indignantly.
He caught my confused look. “You don’t know who that was?”
“No.” I hadn’t seen the man from the front.
“Henry Darlington. Richard Darlington’s son.”
“Oh,” I said.
I looked back again, but Henry Darlington had disappeared.
So his father was the monster I’d inadvertently ended up protesting against a few days ago.
Still, I couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across my face.
If it really was Henry Darlington’s phone I had in my pocket, it was worth far more than I’d initially thought.