Don't Trust Him

by Lisa Cutts

  The occupant, Mrs Simpson, a woman in her late fifties, got up from her kitchen table, hands shaking slightly as she walked towards the tall figure casting a shadow into her hallway.

  Everything in the house, including the house itself, was bought and paid for after her husband died, leaving her comfortable but heartbroken.

  She was still in the grieving process, which was probably why she’d been caught off-guard when she answered the phone to DC Mark Frinton that morning.

  Another rapping on the door as she moved towards it, the outline of a motorcycle helmet clear through the frosted pane.

  She picked up the envelope containing her bank card from its place on the occasional table by the front door.

  With a deep breath, she opened the door and attempted a smile at him.

  The man standing in front of her was dressed in black, the black motorbike helmet only letting her see a flash of his white, youthful face. Their eyes met for the briefest period before he took the padded envelope, stuffed it inside a bag he wore across his chest and strode away towards his motorbike.

  Heart pounding in her chest, Mrs Simpson watched him drive down the street before closing the front door. The relief was too much, and as she steadied herself against the table, the two detective constables who had been waiting upstairs ran down to catch her before her knees buckled under her.

  ‘Come and sit in the kitchen,’ said one of them.

  ‘You did brilliantly,’ said the other.

  Mrs Simpson looked up into their concerned faces, hands supporting her as they guided her back into the kitchen.

  ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’ said the younger of the two men. ‘You look a little shocked by this and I don’t want to leave you here on your own.’

  She felt the sting of tears form in her eyes and searched her trouser pockets for a tissue.

  ‘My kids will think I’m a stupid old woman for falling for that phone call this morning,’ she said, unable to stop herself from crying.

  ‘No, they won’t,’ said the older one. ‘Firstly, I reckon they’d be more annoyed that you didn’t want them here. Secondly, what’ll make them proud is that you quickly recognized it as a scam and called your bank, cancelled the card and dialled 999.’

  The three of them sat in the kitchen, a ticking clock and restrained crying the only sounds for several seconds.

  ‘I know you’ve explained this once,’ Mrs Simpson said, ‘but what happens now?’

  ‘The courier is only a small part of it all,’ said the older police officer. ‘To tell the truth, we’re not all that interested in him. We follow him and he leads us to whoever’s behind this.’

  ‘How often do you catch the people behind it all?’ she asked as she dabbed at her eyes. Even through the tears, she couldn’t fail to notice the looks the policemen exchanged.

  ‘In all honesty, Mrs Simpson, not that often.’

  Chapter 15

  Dane had been noticeably quiet since they’d walked out of the Fraud Department’s briefing at HQ. Sophia had driven them back to East Rise in near silence, the couple of attempts at conversation being stifled by her colleague’s refusal to be drawn into talking to her.

  As she reversed into a parking space at the police station, she suddenly felt a bit sorry for Dane. He didn’t have much service in the police, was one of the ‘new breed’ of fast-track detectives, and was probably feeling way out of his league.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked him as he went to release the door as soon as the car had come to a stop.

  He gave a shrug. ‘I thought I was coming here to work on murders and I feel as though I’ve been shafted with some bloody telephone scam crap just to keep the new boy out of the way.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she said, edge to her voice she hadn’t intended.

  He paused, the door open an inch or so. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said. ‘And you’ve been even more stitched up by babysitting the newbie.’

  Sophia laughed, and then said, ‘I’m sorry, but you do look very pissed off. It’s not ideal for me either, you know, but at least it’s something different.’

  Dane threw himself back into his seat, ran his hands through his hair and said, ‘But why all the mystery? That briefing was pointless. We don’t even know where the target premises are, they didn’t even seem to know the names of the people behind it all. It was less of a briefing and more of a game of Guess Who?’

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘fancy grabbing a coffee and talking it through? Fraud’s something I’m not too familiar with either. After ten years at Major Crime it’s hardly my area of expertise, but whatever we’re investigating, the process is very similar.’

  He looked over at her, hands now down on his thighs. He gave her a smile and said, ‘Better than that. How about a proper drink? On me to say thank you for showing me around today and putting up with my crappy mood.’

  ‘You’re on,’ she said. ‘I’ll just take my paperwork and the car keys back to the office.’

  ‘Would you mind taking my notebook too?’ he asked. ‘I need to make a quick call before I leave.’

  It seemed unreasonable to say no. Sophia was, after all, about to go back inside the building, yet she would have thought he’d want to say goodbye to his new colleagues in the office on his first day.

  He smiled again. It reached his eyes.

  She took the book he held out to her and walked back inside the police station while he stayed in the yard, mobile clamped to his ear.

  It wasn’t a date, she knew that, yet it had been over two years since someone had last taken her out for a drink. Perhaps it was about time she got over her terrible break-up and got on with life. Shaking her head at the memory of the screaming and shouting when it had finally all gone wrong, Sophia swiped her card at the scanner and let herself into the office. What exactly had she been doing in such a dire relationship?

  She wandered along the corridor to the banks of desks, said goodbye to the couple of people still around, threw the paperwork on her desk and hung up the car keys on their hook.

  Dane was good-looking, seemed bright and had a steady secure job. It appeared foolproof. She might even enjoy herself and have a few drinks.

  Sophia made a detour to the ladies’. As well as wanting to brush her hair, reapply her foundation and a spray of perfume, she wanted to make sure her almost-to-its-limit credit card was tucked safely inside her warrant card.

  It wasn’t much use, yet she didn’t want Dane to pay for the drinks if they stayed for more than one.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror, looked herself in the eye and muttered, ‘Don’t sleep with him on the first date. You’ve waited over two years to have sex, so another month won’t matter.’

  One final glance in the mirror and Sophia walked out of the toilets and to the car park in search of Dane.

  He wasn’t there.

  For a second she wondered if he’d gone back inside after all, but dismissed that as he had no reason to. The yard was a reasonable size; it held over fifty vehicles when full, yet she could see pretty much all of it, and it was empty of people.

  Sophia took her phone out to ring him and then thought better of it. If he’d disappeared, she most certainly wasn’t going to run after him. She might not have been on a date for a very long time, but she wasn’t about to be treated like this.

  She’d walked to work that morning to save herself both petrol and parking costs, so the twenty-five-minute walk home would do her good. By the time she arrived home, she would have worked off her anger. To think she had actually felt sorry for the prick.

  Letting herself out of the side security gate, Sophia glanced up and down the road.

  Dane was leaning against a wall, watching her.

  There was no smile, no attempt on his part to make his way to her from across the street.

  For a moment, she thought about turning and going straight back inside, or just walking home.

  ‘Well?’ she shouted at
him, anger showing in her voice, irked that he had made her so furious. ‘Are we going for a drink or not?’

  She knew he could hear her. Even though they were on separate sides of the street, not only was she hollering at him, there was no traffic, no background noise and he was looking straight at her.

  When he pointed to his ear, shrugged and said, ‘What?’ it was the final straw.

  Fuming, she turned and walked back towards the rear gate of the police station, scrabbling in her hand-bag for the security pass she’d had in her hand only seconds ago.

  Sophia’s offended senses blocked out the sounds of Dane’s heavy footsteps as he raced across the road towards her.

  Hand briefly touching her shoulder, not to stop her from leaving, just letting her know he was there, he said, ‘Sorry, Soph, I really am. I’ve got a terrible sense of humour and I’m messing this up. One more chance?’

  She turned to look at him, then indicated they move to the farthest point of the pavement away from the police station’s public entrance.

  ‘Listen, arsehole,’ she said. ‘I do not need the likes of you dicking me around, okay? I’m tired. I work long hours and if you want to go for a drink, that’s fine, but don’t for one second think that pissing me about like some bloody love-struck teenager is going to either ingratiate me into your heart, or anywhere else for that matter, or make me want to work with you ever again.’

  On a roll now, she saw the start of a smile appear at the corner of his mouth, so carried on. ‘Don’t try to mug me up, and definitely don’t laugh at me or I’ll have your bollocks on a spike. Good-looking you might be, but it doesn’t make you any less of a wank-stain.’

  She paused, more for breath than effect.

  ‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry. Secondly, drinks are on me, plus cab fare home. Thirdly, no one’s ever called me a wank-stain before, so shall we celebrate that with shots?’

  Sophia looked away, her turn to hide the start of a smile.

  ‘You’d better be sorry, good you’re paying, and finally, Jäger bombs, and I know just the bar.’

  *

  Ensconced in a booth at the back of Sophia’s favourite bar – and the only one in East Rise that made anything like authentic cocktails – she watched Dane order their drinks. Downing shots with him was not going to be her most sensible move, but it was one she knew, with a sigh, was inevitable.

  True to his word, Dane bought the first round and came back with a tray containing four shots and a jug of lager.

  ‘Who else is coming?’ she asked.

  ‘Thought you might want to pick which one you want, you know, so you don’t think I’ve spiked any of the shots. The ones you don’t want, I’ll drink first.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘It’s not hard to tell you’re a copper. Worked on many rapes, have you? The only blokes who’d think like that are police and sexual predators.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not both?’

  ‘You probably are.’

  He shifted over to her in the booth, propped his elbow on the back of the seat and said, ‘Seems a bit dangerous to come for a drink with me in that case.’

  ‘It’s always a good idea to get to know your colleagues,’ she said, lowering her gaze to the tray of drinks. ‘You can have that one and I’ll have this one. You go first.’

  Dane seized hold of the glass, lifted it to his mouth and downed it.

  She watched him lick his lips before she took her turn.

  ‘Lager?’ he said.

  She shook her head and picked up another shot. And then the fourth.

  ‘You’re buying, right?’ she said. ‘But prosecco now, please. I don’t want to get too drunk. I’ve got work in the morning.’

  Once again, she watched him walk to the bar, a warmth spreading throughout every part of her body.

  She was pretty sure it wasn’t caused by the alcohol.

  Then

  The risk that came with holding weapons to people’s heads in banks was putting me off. Technology was starting to improve and the financial world was getting wiser in its attempt at protecting itself, and – just as annoyingly – at alerting the police. Even they seemed to be getting their act together. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all, so until something else came up, houses it was.

  Even though breaking into houses didn’t give me the same thrill as armed robberies, it was a safer option.

  As much anguish as it caused me to admit it, I loved being armed. Why wouldn’t I? I went from being the most important person in the room to everyone else knowing that I was the most important person in the room.

  Kudos.

  It wasn’t all about that, of course: it was also about the money.

  I could make a few thousand from an armed blagging, yet the risk was great. I wasn’t entirely stupid – get caught with a gun and the result was going to be a lengthy stretch. Going to prison didn’t frighten me, but I felt too much pride at knowing I hadn’t, as of yet, got caught. That was the main thing.

  An unblemished record.

  The thought made me smile as I sauntered along the side of the faux-country house, which tried to give off the impression that it was a stately building, but had all the hallmarks of being designed by someone with more money than taste.

  With minimum effort, I was over the fence running side-on to the eyesore of a house, and into the garden. It was already getting dark and I had seen the young couple go out some time ago. My recce meant that I knew they lived alone, didn’t have a dog and the burglar alarm could be overcome in seconds. Besides, the house was in the middle of nowhere.

  Something told me this was going to be very lucrative.

  Five minutes later, having found a ladder in the unlocked shed – careless – I had sprayed foam into the alarm box, propped the ladder next to an open bedroom window and was about to make my big entrance.

  All without breaking a sweat.

  I literally shimmied up the metal rungs of the ladder, lifted the window and stuck my head through the gap. Holding my breath, I listened.

  Nothing.

  All I could hear was my own heart thudding. It was still exciting, even if I didn’t get off on it as much as waving a weapon around.

  Deciding it was now or balance precariously on a ladder all night, I squeezed a shoulder through and leaned down to grab the handle on the larger of the windows.

  For a minute it didn’t budge, and I had visions of running back down the ladder and smashing a panel in the kitchen door.

  My panic was short-lived, however, as the handle turned and the window opened.

  It took another minute or so of manoeuvring myself a few rungs down so I could get inside the bedroom, dirty footmarks on the windowsill, probably on the floor too as I dropped to the thick carpet.

  It wasn’t to my taste, none of the decorations of the vast house were, but I could tell expense when I saw it.

  This was clearly a guest room and not where the good stuff would be.

  I made my way from room to room, confident that turning on lights with my gloved hand would not attract attention from non-existent neighbours.

  Then I hit the jackpot. A study with a safe.

  Usually I wouldn’t waste my time with a safe. I had neither the skills nor the equipment to break into one.

  What I did have, however, was a tremendous amount of luck: the key was in the lock.

  I tiptoed across to the safe – quite why I felt the need to in an empty house, I couldn’t fathom – and I turned the key then the handle.

  Still unable to believe my good fortune, I doubted there would be anything inside.

  Some days, it felt good to be so wrong. Piles and piles of cash sat in front of my eyes. Mostly fifty-pound notes, along with stacks of twenties and, as if an afterthought, a handful of tenners thrown in for good measure.

  I sat on my haunches, gloved fingertips drumming the side of my head.

  I was torn, so torn: if I took the lot, I was probably looking at £250,000.
The problem was, I didn’t think I could carry it to the car hidden about a mile away. I’d need to grab some bags, or possibly even pillowcases to put it all in, but then the risk of being seen would increase enormously.

  For a second, I played along with this fantasy in my head, and then I did the sensible thing.

  Grabbing a couple of bundles of the fifties and five bundles of the twenties, I estimated that I had about £50,000 or so.

  My hand hovered over the remaining wads of cash. This was the big one – I knew it. And it wasn’t that I had any qualms about taking money from the smug prick who owned this monstrosity if I thought for one foolish minute that I might get away with it. If I was a desperate man, he might even be the sort of person I’d think of working with. Whatever he was up to, it was lucrative, and I wouldn’t mind being in on it.

  The desk next to the safe was probably worth more than all the money in my one-bedroomed flat. He might not even miss the money.

  I was sweating like a bastard now and I badly needed to piss.

  Getting away from here and hoping that my exploits remained undiscovered was never going to work, even if I retraced my steps and made it look as though I hadn’t actually got inside. The owners would know I’d foamed the alarm.

  I didn’t have time for this. I knew the chinless wonders who lived out here in the middle of nowhere wouldn’t be home for hours, but I needed people to see me miles away. It paid to be cautious. It was why I was good at this.

  Fifty grand would suit me just fine, for now anyway.

  I crammed the cash inside my jacket and decided to run down to the front door and leg it. It seemed an easier option than trying to climb back down the ladder, especially with my pockets bulging with cash.

  For caution’s sake, I stuck my head out of the study and waited. Just to make sure.

  So far, so good.

  I got to the top of the stairs, appreciated the ornate wooden balustrade and polished escape route, barely had time to run an eye over the portrait of the couple whose money I had just stolen and made it to the door.

  On full alert, I heard a car in the distance.