Picture You Dead

17

Tuesday, 24 September

Basic physics. But not something they’d ever taught him at school. Two people sleeping in a closed room create warm air. As it hits the cold glass, condensation forms. Archie Goff had learned over the years that once there was heavy condensation on the glass, it was a pretty reliable indicator the occupants of the bedroom were soundly asleep.

And now, as he watched through his night-vision binoculars, sure enough, his buddy Mr Condensation was there. By midnight, the bay window was getting a little wet. He got the jitters, as he always did at this moment. Pulling on his tight-fitting, unlined leather gloves, then gripping his torch in his teeth, he reached into the sack and pulled out the cardboard box. Opening the lid carefully, he lifted out the now dozy bird and, with a quick movement, snapped its neck.

Then, dead crow in one hand, sack in the other, he walked in his sneakers, softly, softly, towards the lower bay window, the drawing room, where on a previous survey he’d seen the tell-tale flashing red light of an alarm sensor high up on the wall.

Held his breath.

Listened.

Sweet silence.

He swung the weighted sack back, then hard forward against the large pane of glass, shattering it. Immediately, he hurled the crow through the gap, straight up towards the blinking red light.

An instant later he heard the wailing siren of the alarm.

Yes!

He retreated across the lawn, took up his position behind a Japanese cloud tree, and raised his binoculars. Some moments later he blinked as a light downstairs flared in the green glow of the night-vision lenses. He watched old man Fry in pyjamas appear close to the window, holding a shotgun, then look down at the crow. Archie could see him mouth the words, lip-reading him.

Fucking stupid bird.

Fry leaned down, picked it up by its feet and lobbed it back out through the broken window, onto the lawn.

Archie knew the Frys had the kind of complex burglar alarm system, favoured by wealthy homeowners, which would require resetting by an engineer. He was betting Martin Fry wouldn’t bother with that now and would wait until morning.

Sure enough, the old man turned and called out to – presumably – his wife. ‘A ruddy bird! Flown through the bloody window! I’ll let the alarm company know.’

The old man faffed around for some minutes, disappearing briefly then returning and taping what looked like a square of cardboard over the busted frame. Then the light went off.

Archie tossed the brick into a dense bush and waited. Half an hour. With the empty sack tucked down his front, he made his way over to the bay window. He pushed away the temporary cardboard and reached down his gloved hand for the latch, hoping there wasn’t a window lock, but not a problem if there was. He had a glass cutter on his tool belt.

The latch lifted and the window opened silently. He hoisted himself up on the frame, ignoring the pain from his arthritic joints, found a purchase for his hands inside, and swung himself in, dropping silently to his feet on the carpet.

First rule, before he began work on any job, was to find a backup exit. He shot his torch beam around the large room, divided by two marble columns, and could see it was a treasure trove. Silver ornaments on every surface, on tables, on shelves, and in a number of fine antique display cabinets. Then out into the hall, with more silver on every surface, which he eyed greedily.

Along, past a grand staircase and through a doorway into a warm kitchen with patio doors on the far side. As he had expected from the plans on his phone.

Perfect.

Softly, he made his way across the conservatory, past the large, cushioned wicker chairs and sofa, to the doors. His escape route!

He kneeled and slid the bottom bolt then reached up and released the top one. He tested the handle and pushed one door a fraction. It opened easily. He left it ajar. Now he had two escape routes, should he need them.

Grabbing all the kitchen towels he could see, he returned to the hall, and began scooping up every silver object, wrapping each in a towel, then dropping them into his sack. On some jobs he would have checked for a hallmark, to make sure he wasn’t wasting time with silver-plate, but here he knew it was all going to be pukka.

Next, he turned right through a door which, from his memory of the plans, should be the dining room. It was. And more ornate silver, some of it quite large. Two pairs of small candelabras sat on the table. He laid them in his sack, too.

He checked the drawers of a large cherrywood sideboard, after lifting all the silver from the top of it, starting bottom upwards, so there was no need to close a drawer before opening the next. But there were just plates and linen in these.

His sack was already heavy. And he was heady with excitement. He’d no idea how much value he’d taken already, but if his source was right, he must be well into thousands of pounds, if not more. Perhaps way, way more. The Frys had single pieces worth upwards of £20,000 each and some way higher than that. Most of what he was taking would end up in the melt, which was the safest way to dispose of it. No trace. He was in a treasure trove, and he was on a roll!

Just the drawing room to go, maybe chance a look around for the safe, and then he’d be out of here.

As he went back into the hall a light, shining from halfway up the stairs, blinded him.

‘Stop right there, you bloody bastard, or I’ll shoot!’ a coarse male voice that sounded like it meant business yelled at him. ‘I will shoot! I assure you!’

Archie froze. Dazzled with light and panic.

His brain swirled with confusion. How? How the hell?

He thought of Isabella. His promise. Doing night work as a security guard.

He was shaking, totally panic-stricken. Could he run with his loot?

‘One move and I’ll shoot, you scumbag! Stay right where you are!’

Archie knew just one thing, clung to that one thing. The man would not shoot him in the back from fear of being prosecuted. Still gripping the sack, he spun and fled towards the kitchen.

‘Stop! Stop right there! Stop! I will shoot!’

In the jigging light of his torch beam, Archie sprinted around the island unit, across the kitchen and through into the conservatory. He reached the patio door, pushed it further open and ran through out into the night air.

Free!

He knew that the far end of the Frys’ land ended at the woods. He began to sprint towards them.

Then the ground disappeared under his feet.

For a fleeting instant there was just nothing. He was falling.

Then he was underwater, choking on warm, chlorinated water.

Ridiculously warm, like being in a bath, his brain messaged him, for just a fraction of a second, before he got another message.

This time it was delivered by a pyjama-clad old man, standing at the edge of the swimming pool, as Archie broke the surface, gasping for air and coughing up water. Martin Fry was shining a flashlight and pointing a double-barrelled shotgun down at him.

‘Don’t even think about trying to get out,’ the old man said. Then he kicked Archie hard in the face as he made a last, desperate try.