Seven Daze (16 page)

Lying on the bed, he added up his takings while taking a look at the laptop. He thought he had just over seven hundred quid plus the electricals. Grand total, thirteen hundred tops. Not bad, but he was still a day or two behind. Tonight had been the night too, the biggest day of the week.

Sighing, he went back to the laptop. Definitely the city worker’s. Virtually everything was password protected; emails, some piece of bank software and most of the files. A few personal files, letters to their landlord about leaks and a CV were the only viewable things on there. Though he knew it would take ages, he started to uninstall the software and files. Like a twat he hadn’t brought the power lead and guessed, with his luck, the power would run out midway. He’d leave the iPad and ask about it first; he hadn’t a clue what sort of security they had.

He thought about sending Charlotte another message. It was only twelve, but she’d been quiet for over an hour. He reckoned she must be asleep. He wondered if her lump of hair fell down while she slept. Did she subconsciously move it back up, or was that just an awake thing? Yawning, he looked at the clock. Realistically, there was still more work to do. Pubs would be clearing out soon. People would be milling round the streets either going to clubs or home. A few of them would have overdone it; they’d be lying in a gutter somewhere or taking a few minutes rest on a seat. Their wallets would be nearly empty but easily pliable. However, ten grand was a long way off and petty theft wasn’t getting him near it.

He lay back on the bed. There had to be a better way. A way that didn’t involve stealing directly from people. Ten grand was a huge ask, and to do it a hundred quid a go was too much to ask. No, he needed to think of something bigger.

Waking from what felt like his best ever sleep, he hit the shower.

Morning. Off
to work. Catch you later x,
the text that woke him said.

Have
good day. I’m off to bosses house for Sunday lunch.
He’d half fed the lie yesterday. It seemed reasonable enough that someone who’d moved to London would no doubt be bored of hotel meals and would be invited by a workmate or boss. He hoped it added realism.

Breakfasting on sausage, egg, beans and toast with the other hairless and hopeless guests, he then booked and paid for another two nights. The receptionist was different but possessed the same customer service skills as her colleague. As Jim went back to his room, he bumped into his neighbours who’d obviously had a late night and even later start.

“Morning,” she said. “How’s breakfast?”

“Awful,” said Jim, opening his door. “At least it’s not burnt.” Smiling then closing the door, he didn’t like to add the sausages were nearly raw if not partially alive.

Rechecking his stash in the cold light of day, which by rights should be approaching five grand, was a gut-wrenching disappointment. He was nowhere near. He could flog the gun for a few hundred if it came to it. But he knew he should keep it until the last moment. Just in case he needed it for an armed robbery.

Pocketing his gloves, he left the hotel to a drizzly Sunday. Taking the tube to Piccadilly, he kept looking in the glass, mirrored by the dark tunnels, expecting to see a face there. A face with a blonde lock of hair that wouldn’t stay attached to its head. A friendly face with a big smile.

He had it bad and he knew it.

Sighing, he looked at the tube map printed on the train’s side. He wondered just how many people looked at it every day for want of anything better to do. Whether they’d forgotten a book, read the paper too quick or were avoiding eye contact with a psycho, everyone read and reread it. He thought that the map with its simplified and downright incorrect geography must be the most viewed map in the country. Pondering that maybe subliminal messages had been hidden inside, he gave it another look. One definite benefit was everyone knew how to spell Aldwych.

At Piccadilly, he wandered round. He didn’t know what had drawn him here. Virtually no way to make ten grand. It might be a good place for wallet filching; everyone taking photos of the pretty lights, heads facing upwards and away from prying fingers. But, he’d given up on that. It was the easy way out, yet it wasn’t even a way out. He’d never get enough that way. He needed to think of a big job, not waste his time wandering about.

A touristy smiling couple walked towards him. Resplendent in their waterproof jackets and visible camera, they looked confused at a map.

“Excuse me, sir.” The obviously American man spoke with the sort of accent Jim thought only existed in parodies.

“Yeah,” Jim replied. He’d made eye contact with the woman, then man. He knew it’d be impossible to relieve them of their worldly, yet heavily insured goods. The crowds were just too thin.

“How do we get to Lye Cester Square from here?”

“You mean Leicester Square? Up the top, turn right for about a mile then you should see it on your left.”

As they thanked him, Jim wondered where those directions would lead them. Middle of the Thames probably. Continuing to walk away from Piccadilly towards Soho, the real futility of this came back. He’d only four days left. Wherever time was flying to, it wasn’t doing it productively. Finding a coffee shop, he ordered a tea and sat in the dry.

He had to do a big job tomorrow. And the day after. He’d no chance otherwise. This afternoon was different, of course, but he needed to plan what he’d been putting off.

Slurping his tea, he thought of bookies, banks and post offices. No one else held the sort of cash he needed. Banks were a no go. Too many cameras, security guards and do-gooders. Post offices? Maybe. Not here, not London. Maybe borrow a car, take a trip to a village in Buckinghamshire or Berkshire or Twatshire or wherever.

He sighed and sipped his tea. This wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t have time to find a good place, stake it out and get a second car to swap for the getaway. That was last resort territory. Plus, most post offices had time delays on their safes. The time delay was usually just long enough for the police to arrive.

Back to bookies. An upmarket bookies might be good for a few hundred, but the real money, the big amount he needed, wouldn’t be in the till. The big money would be in the night safe, dug deep into the floor. The keyholder or holders wouldn’t be around, or in some cases they wouldn’t even hold a key. Private security firms did. If he could disable the security alarms and cameras, take in some heavy duty cutting gear, the money would be his. Alone though, with three days to find somewhere and stake it out? No chance.

Back to square one.

His tea finished and the rain nearly stopped, he stood up. Once more he wondered where the hell he could get ten grand in four days.

His phone beeped. Charlotte.

First
meeting done,
just waiting for next to arrive x.

Jim sighed as he typed,
Good luck x.

This thing between them wouldn’t go anywhere. If by some fluke he did get ten grand, how long before she found him out? A month, two maximum. How would he support himself? Realistically, if he fleeced her, he’d be doing her a favour.

“The girl needed teaching a lesson,” Harry would probably say. “It’s a tough old world out there, cookie. And the Charlotte cookie needed toughening a bit more. Too trusting, that was that gal’s problem.”

Thinking again of her smile and that lump of hair, he shook his head. A bookies. It had to be a bookies. Maybe a jewellers. Continuing his stroll, he ended up near Carnaby Street. Finding a party shop that wasn’t too expensive, he bought a Darth Vader mask. Though poorly made from Chinese plastic, it did the job of covering his face and the eyeholes were big enough to see out of.

An idea struck him. He’d later wonder where the hell it came from. But, it just appeared like the proverbial bolt from above. Geoffrey. Geoffrey Morgan. The man responsible for this. The man who’d had the nerve to have a heart attack instead of being shot. Why should he get off scot-free?

Fiddling with his phone while avoiding a sudden shower, Jim typed,
Did you hear
how Geoffrey is? x
He couldn’t work out if the x should go before or after the question mark. Either way it didn’t look right. He sent it anyway.

A minute later the reply came,
OMG. Totally forgot. I ring hospital
x.

He shook his head. She was too good to use in this way.

“You bastard,” he muttered while hovering in a clothes shop doorway. “Utter bastard.”

When the reply came,
Still in hospital, recovering
well x,
he thanked her and started towards the tube and the East End. Today had just got busier.

The High Street that led to the Queens Arms was back to its usual quiet dearth after the hustle, bustle and bloodstained antics of a Saturday night. In the pub, Tim by Four and Mick the Prick were playing pool and on their second pint. Despite not having worked for two days, Mick was still covered in a sheen of plaster. Jim got himself a quick pint.

The lads were on good form and looking forward to their outing. As Jim explained the plan, Tim had the most questions. As he was on licence, Jim could only try his best to assure him that the plan was sound. The pint quickly finished, Jim squashed into the middle passenger seat of Tim’s work van as they headed towards north London.

“You brought the decorating gear?” he asked.

“It’s all in the back.”

Mick produced a joint from his shirt pocket as the transit chugged through the streets. Jim hadn’t thought of him as a pothead, but he supposed he hadn’t really thought of him at all. When Mick handed him the part smoked spliff Jim shook his head. “Paranoid enough already without that.”

Mick shrugged his shoulders and passed it to Tim. “Paranoia on a job’s a good thing. Keeps you on your toes.”

With the van filling with second-hand heavy, earthen smoke, Jim thought he might as well have had a chug on it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last smoked; it would have been sometime inside, but because of the smell smoking was always awkward. Harry wouldn’t let him bring it near the cell.

The van nearing north London, he felt light-headed. While Mick talked of his previous jobs Jim realised he wasn’t as honest as he looked. Only difference was he’d never been caught.

Finding the street proved hard. One-way systems the fault; they made travelling a bigger chore. Eventually finding the tube station, Mick used an A to Z to guide them to the flat. As they waited outside, looking up at the windows, a sicky feeling rose in Jim’s stomach. It wasn’t second-hand smoke either. His survival rested on this job. It had to be a big one. The messing round and wallet filching had ended. The big time had arrived.

“We all set then?” asked Tim.

“Yeah. I need a wallpaper scraper and screwdriver,” said Jim. His head had returned fully from its half trip to spaceville. The thought of concrete wellies had once again worked.

They hauled the gear they thought was needed to the front door. Tim was carrying a trestle table, several rolls of wallpaper and a toolbox. Mick had another table, a mound of plaster-covered sheets and a toolbox. Jim had two large toolboxes and a couple of power drills. Quickly pushing the scraper under the front door lock, the door sprung open with unnerving ease. Mick nodded appreciation. “Good training,” said Jim. Piss poor lock he neglected to add.

Trundling to the second floor as quietly as possible, Jim sighed when he saw the locks. A five lever Yale and two deadbolts, one of them head height. “Gloves on lads,” he whispered. Drilling the deadbolts out was easier, if noisier than he’d hoped. So far there was no neighbourhood interest. Jim suspected the other tenants were practising the age-old London tradition of keeping to themselves. That didn’t stop them ringing the police. He knew that. He could only hope they wouldn’t.

Despite the screeching of drill bit on metal, even at slow speed, they were inside within two minutes. Raif’s flat was a typical two bedroomed conversion. The once stunning three storey, five bedroom house has been converted into four flats. Raif’s occupied most of the first floor and was probably the largest in the house. The cramped kitchen cum living room had furniture crammed into every available space. Photos of the happy Raif and his girlfriend lined the walls.

Checking the furniture, the two-piece sofa was new, mass produced and not worth selling. The music system however was compact, new and valuable. The plasma telly though almost stunned Jim when he looked at it. It was huge. Tim reckoned it was fifty inches. Even if it wasn’t, it was almost as large as the trestle tables.

“We’ll think about that,” said Jim as he helped unroll the sheets of wallpaper onto the floor.

Walking through a narrow hallway, Jim peeked in the bedrooms and bathroom. Nodding, he suggested they started in the main bedroom first. The planning in the pub had paid off. Within minutes the three of them had emptied almost everything that was Raif’s into the sheets, clothes included. Everything belonging to his girlfriend was put to one side. Socks, coats, bank statements, trousers, shoes, the sly
Big Uns
magazine hidden under the wardrobe. Absolutely everything that was Raif’s was nabbed.

Working back through the spare bedroom into the living room, Raif’s life was laid out on the floor. The pathetic collection of clothes, bills, statements and knick-knacks from his youth wasn’t much to show for a life, but he was losing the lot. Filling the empty toolboxes and sheets, there was still room for a laptop, iPad and gold-plated carriage clock. Jim pondered the carriage clock. It could be hers, a family heirloom even. The principle had been made though. Everything male had been removed. If a couple of borderline goods joined the swag, it was bad luck.

Jim raided the drinks cabinet taking a couple of nice malts but leaving the Baileys and Creme de Menthe. The bathroom also produced a selection of shower gels, razors, expensive aftershaves and any soap that wasn’t pink or smelt of flowers. The final, and Tim informed Jim rather petty, act was to cut Raif’s picture out of any joint pictures on the wall. Jim tried to explain he had to; it would send the police on a different track to just theft, but the pair remained unconvinced.