by Dan Clark
“Agreed. Now come on. Be quiet.”
They head to the side of the cottage and into the rear garden. An old Ford Mondeo estate with deflated tyres is rusting against trees at the back of the property. Carolyn notices an old sign on the bonnet. The faded balloons and pointed party hats imply it’s an old company vehicle.
Barry keeps the torch in the palm of his hand and only points it towards the ground. Carolyn heads over to a window and peers through it as he keeps his eye on the top floor windows.
Carolyn is looking into the kitchen. Like the Lloyds’ place it is small and messy, with the work surfaces covered with dirty dishes and takeaway containers. Barry examines the frame of the window; it’s small, and the wood is still in good condition.
The next window catches his eye and he shines the torch over it. Carolyn almost screams and tugs at Barry’s arm as she sees her own reflection in the window, mistaking it for a person watching them from the inside. Her heart begins to slow. She’ll probably laugh about it later. Barry picks his screwdriver at the wood, and splinters fall to the ground. She hears him grunt a little as he slides the metal ruler into the gap. The next noise is the window sliding up.
“You made that look easy. Have you done it before?” she whispers.
“These old cottage windows are ridiculous. The wood is so rotten with damp that it literally flakes off in your hand.” Barry hands Carolyn the screwdrivers and the keys to his van. “I’m taking one look around for that laptop. If I can’t find it, we’re leaving, okay?”
Carolyn nods and looks at the rotted window frame. “Um… I don’t think you’re going to fit.”
“What?”
“I’m not trying to insult you, but I can’t see you fitting through that gap.”
He shines the torch and looks back. He looks her up and down before stopping at her shoulders. She’s little more than half his height and definitely half his weight.
“I think you’re right. You’ll have to climb through and open the back door for me.”
Carolyn swallows and thinks for a moment. If the party shop owner wakes and somehow blocks her escape route, she’ll have no chance of protecting herself against him. Whereas Barry is huge; the fat man will probably tell him the combination to his safe if he raises his voice a little. Barry can make intimidating look easy.
“Okay, I’ll go in,” she says, not believing the words leaving her mouth. Where the hell has this newfound confidence come from? She wonders if it’s here to stay.
Handing the tools and van keys back to Barry, she grabs the torch and places her foot into his huge palms as he lifts her up on to the frame. Her heart is beating worse than when she played tennis with Simon. She pushes the thoughts of being captured by the man to the back of her mind, focussing only on the image of holding the laptop in her hands.
The thought of something going wrong preys on her mind. She prays that Barry won’t leave her; that he won’t take off down the path and dive into his van, leaving her to fend for herself. She also can’t blame him if he does; she understands it was a big ask. After all, she was the one who wanted to act brave and reckless and break the law.
Up on the window ledge, Carolyn shines the torch around the room. It’s a thin hallway with three doors leading off. Below is a messy wooden table with paperwork stacked high, and letters and envelopes scattered across the desk. Carolyn places half of her body weight on top, waiting for the table to give and alert the sleeping beast upstairs. It creaks a little, but it feels sturdy. She rests on it fully, feeling Barry remove his clutch from her arm – and with it the safety and security of him being there ready to pull her back out if anything goes wrong. She swallows again, this time much harder.
“There’s a door to your right,” Barry says, keeping his voice to a whisper. “It looks like it leads out to the garden. Go open it and let me in. You can wait by the van. Keep it running in case something goes tits-up.”
Carolyn steps off the table and turns to face him. “I’m going to go look for the laptop myself, Barry,” she says, her voice trembling with nerves.
Barry opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off.
“If anything happens, please go back to the van and take off, ok? I don’t want you to have to hurt somebody to protect me; it’s not right. But please… please alert the police! I’ll keep you out of it, don’t worry. Just ring up anonymously and let them know where I am, please.” Carolyn steps forward.
“Open the door and get back out here,” he whispers, reaching through the window to try to grab her.
She’s too far in and doesn’t respond.
Of course she’s hating every second of what she’s doing. But to ask him to break into somebody’s home on a hunch she has was just wrong. She knew it was wrong the second the idea came to mind. If she’s caught, she’ll accept the responsibility.
Carolyn takes a deep breath and heads through the narrow hallway.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Carolyn?” Barry tries again. Now she really is too far in to call her name again. He examines the frame. There’s no chance he’s fitting through without getting stuck.
What a crazy woman, he thinks, rubbing a hand over his head. He feels the small bristles of hair before holding onto the back of his neck. It’s a thing he does a lot whenever he’s nervous, especially while watching the football.
He heads for the back door and prays she’ll come to her senses and decide to let him in.
***
In the hallway, Carolyn keeps the torch pointing down, concealing most of the light against the sleeve of her jumper. The carpet is old and tatty. It looks as if it had been laid sometime in the seventies. The pattern has rubbed away from years of repeated walking.
She comes to the first door on her left and turns the handle. It’s nothing more than a small coat cupboard. It’s actually a similar size to the one in the party shop, only this cupboard has no corkboard with clippings of young girls pinned to it.
She closes it slowly and tries the next one, which is slightly ajar. Carolyn shines the torch around and pops her head through the gap. The kitchen. The digital time on the microwave shines back from the corner. There’s a low rattling hum coming from the fridge. Pizza boxes are stacked high alongside the cabinets, and dishes sit next to the sink, arranged from large plates to small bowls and pans. It looks as though there has been some attempt to keep the place tidy. Carolyn heads through the third door, giving it a quick flick of the torch to make sure she’s alone. Her heart is beating so fast with every step she takes. She comes to a set of stairs. The banister is cluttered with shirts, trousers and towels hanging loosely over one another. The space on the steps is taken up with shoes for different occasions: trainers, sandals, boots and lace-ups.
Carolyn studies the clothes. There is no women’s clothing, just large lounge trousers and even larger shirts. She steps closer to the stairs and stands perfectly still, holding her breath for utter silence and listening for snoring or footsteps before venturing any further.
Nothing. The place is quiet.
The furniture in the front room, like the wallpaper and carpets, is dated. Clothes have taken over the entire couch, again in a tidy fashion. Piles are arranged in garment choice: trousers, t-shirts and underwear. She shines the torch to the armchair facing the television. The fabric looks to have torn throughout the years and is now exposing the cushions inside which have yellowed with age and sweat. To the left of the chair, balancing on its wheels, is a dusty wheelchair. She heads over and examines the pictures on the fireplace, showing the party shop owner smiling next to an elderly woman. He looks at least ten years younger and with more hair than now. In the next one he is with an elderly man. Carolyn assumes they must be his parents. She scans the rest of the pictures before seeing two small wooden boxes, each with a silver plate attached to the front. The first says MUM, the second, DAD.
Against the back wall stands a bed. It isn’t a regular one though. This one is more of a heavy-duty care bed
that hospitals issue for bed-bound patients, and it’s covered in blankets and a thick layer of dust. Behind it, on the wall, are more pictures of the fat man with his arms around the elderly couple. There are no other people in the frames.
Something brushes against the top of Carolyn’s thigh and she spins around, expecting to come face to face with the growling snout of a guard dog, or with the man himself. She points the torch down. Nothing.
She lifts it back up and encounters a face smiling back at her. It’s a good job her throat is too dry and stops her from screaming. She holds the torch up to the figure standing tall and still against the back wall, waiting for it to gather its thoughts and rugby-tackle her to the ground.
Maybe she can make a run for it. The fat man wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. She’s seen how he struggles to walk. She could push things out behind her to block his path as she runs for the back door. But what if the key isn’t in it? No, she’d have to head back to the window. But could she make it through in time before he can grab her leg?
The torchlight beams on the handsome face of David Beckham. The cardboard cut-out is holding a white placard with the text Happy Birthday, and a small blank space to write in a name of your choice.
She’d laugh if this wasn’t breaking and entering.
Carolyn feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. She reaches in her jeans and pulls it out, in case it’s Barry warning her that a light has come on upstairs. The half of the screen that’s still working shows that it’s a message from her mother. She decides to read it later and puts the phone back in her pocket.
Carolyn heads back to the armchair. A small table sits directly in front, a dirty plate on top with opened envelopes held underneath. She pulls one out and reads the name, Mr Patrick Sawhill. She makes a mental note of the name, then sees a black leather case on the other side of the chair, next to the wall. The laptop.
She unzips the case and pulls out the laptop, then heads back through the house and makes it outside, unheard and unapproached.
“What the hell, Carolyn?” Barry whispers as he helps her off the ledge. He closes the window silently and they walk back to the van. “Why wouldn’t you let me in?”
“I didn’t want to involve you any more than I have already. If he caught you in there… I’d never forgive myself.”
“I can handle myself,” Barry sneers.
“That’s what I was afraid of. You shouldn’t have to attack a man who would only be protecting his home.”
Barry grunts and mumbles something under his breath that Carolyn doesn’t hear.
In the van, Carolyn starts up the laptop with trembling hands and places it on the dashboard between them. Her heartbeat is slowly beginning to return to normal.
“Are you ok?” he asks.
She nods, though her palms are clammy and she’s still running on adrenaline. It’s not every day that she breaks into a cottage and steals a laptop. Usually at this time of night she’d be at home, flicking through invoices with a calculator at her side.
The laptop starts up quickly and then prompts them for a password.
Barry looks at Carolyn and frowns.
“I thought that it might come to this. I just didn’t want to say it before and burst your bubble… or jinx us. So I didn’t mention it.” He leans over the keyboard and punches in 1234. The box clears his attempt and shakes, asking them for the password again. Next, he types Password, then tries it in capital letters. Again, it clears the box, shakes and doesn’t open.
“Try Mum and Dad,” Carolyn suggests. “They’re dead. I saw two boxes on the mantelpiece which look as though they contained their ashes. It’s just an idea.”
Again, wrong password.
“Shit!” Carolyn taps the side of her leg.
“Well I think that’s all we can do. I’m not sure how many attempts it gives you before it completely locks up. Do computers do that? Anyway, let’s return it.” Barry reaches for the door handle.
“Wait,” Carolyn says, thinking for a moment. She pulls her phone from her pocket and again sees the message from Jeanette on the home screen, but ignores it as she unlocks the phone. The dividing line across the middle has now grown since the incident with Owen, and makes it hard to search the internet properly.
“Can I use your phone?” Carolyn asks. He releases the door handle and pulls out his mobile, handing it over.
“Why do you need it?”
Carolyn doesn’t answer. She is too busy typing at the screen. She does a quick internet search and places the phone against her ear.
She frowns when no one answers, and presses Redial. The second call is answered, and Carolyn explains the meaning of her call and hangs up. She turns to Barry. “Do you know Stratton Road?”
He thinks for a moment, stroking at the stubble on his face. “Yeah, it’s not far from that function hall I saw you at the other day.” He turns on the engine and pulls out on to the road. “It won’t take us too long to get there.”
***
“I think we’re pushing our luck here,” Barry says, holding a hand to the back of his neck. “What if he comes down and notices his laptop is missing and calls the police?”
They’re sitting outside 82 Stratton Road. The road is dead. There are two houses further down, with lights showing in both windows, but no one else seems to be awake, apart from the person they have come to visit.
“He won’t come downstairs at almost eleven looking for his laptop. Stop worrying,” Carolyn says. “We’ll have it back in no time. We’re just borrowing it anyway.”
“Right. Borrowing it. I don’t think the police will accept that.”
“Terry said he can help us, and I think he can. Oh, do you have twenty quid on you until tomorrow?” Carolyn hopes she sounds more confident than she feels.
She would be lying if she says she hasn’t pictured being caught, sentenced and locked away in some shit-hole of a prison. She imagines that she’ll look like an easy target to the other women in there: the petty thieves, armed robbers and murderers.
Barry checks his pockets and pulls out a crumpled note. “Only a tenner, sorry,” he says, handing it over. “So, who is this person you think can help us?” Before Carolyn can answer, Terry creeps out of his front door wearing a dressing gown, and holding a small blue laptop.
He approaches Carolyn’s window.
“I know we agreed on fifty, but you’ll have to wait for the other ten,” Carolyn says, passing Terry the notes through the window. “I’ve only got forty on me.”
Terry sighs and rolls his eyes, grabbing the money from Carolyn before pushing it into his dressing gown pocket. He moves the thick, greasy hair from his eyes and opens his own laptop, attaching a cable from his to a port in the fat man’s – Patrick Sawhill’s – laptop. He types away as Carolyn holds the borrowed laptop out of the window of the van. Barry watches, looking from Carolyn to Terry.
“Who owns this laptop anyway? Who’s P?” Terry asks, typing away with superfast fingers.
“We also agreed to no questions asked, remember?” Carolyn replies, a little sternly.
Terry grunts, and a moment later he pulls out the cord attached to Patrick Sawhill’s laptop, then turns and heads back inside without saying another word.
“He’s a real charmer, isn’t he? Has he done it?” Barry asks.
Carolyn turns the laptop around. The password screen is now replaced with the default home screen, a picture of beautiful scenery showing a lake and mountains.
Scattered across the screen are plenty of folders and apps. Carolyn nods and smiles. Barry turns on the engine, pulls away from Terry’s house and parks in the next street. This one looks as quiet as Stratton Road.
The folders on the home screen have dates underneath. Carolyn clicks on the top one, and the file opens multiple pages that fill the screen.
“It’s some sort of invoice system. Bookkeeping maybe?” Carolyn suggests. She opens the next and it is the same as the one before: long lists with the same a
mounts. She continues to open folders and notices a pattern.
She turns the laptop around to face Barry. “This folder is MOL35,” she says, pointing to the top of the page. “It looks as if Patrick Sawhill, the party shop owner, is receiving all these credits – apart from this one and only outgoing.” She points to another name further down. Barry leans in close for a better look, and Carolyn goes on. “It’s the same as the other folders. Look, one hundred and fifty pounds paid to the code name B101 and the reference MOL35.”
“So? It’s just invoices from suppliers and customers. Looks pretty normal to me,” Barry mutters.
Carolyn shakes her head. “These aren’t accounts for a party accessories business.” She closes the file and opens another. “Something’s dodgy about these. I just can’t see what it is.”
“Doesn’t look like anything illegal to me,” Barry says.
She ignores his comment and opens others – more recent, dated during the last two months. Some names on the ledger have changed, but the main one, the one that the party shop owner pays out to, is at the top of every single document. B101, along with the same fee. Carolyn pulls out her damaged phone and snaps a few pictures of the laptop screen.
“What are you doing that for?” Barry asks.
Carolyn shrugs. “I honestly don’t know. It might seem useful in the future. These are code names, and the product codes aren’t the same as the ones I use to order flour or butter at my shop.”
“It’s different products than the ones you work with,” Barry says.
“That’s not it. They’re different from any other code I’ve seen before. I used to work in retail a few years ago. These are…” she tails off.
“These are what?”
“I may be wrong, Barry, but I think these are people. I think these could be payments Patrick Sawhill is receiving online.”
“Okay. Well, now you’ve seen what’s on it. Are you ready to return it?” Barry rubs the back of his neck nervously.
“One more thing.” Carolyn closes down the files and clicks the shortcut for the internet. The screen opens with an error message, stating there is no internet connection. She ignores this and clicks on Settings and then searches for the History tab, which still works offline. She clicks it and tuts as the screen loads.