Authors: John Macrae
Kent
If you’re going south, always make sure you buy a ticket
north.
If you don’t want to leave a trail, that is.
The following Thursday I left the office mid morning, with an authorisation for expenses to do a job in Peterborough. It was one of
Mallalieu’s
sops to my dignity even though I did the business on the telephone in less than ten minutes. The rest of the day was my own.
I bought a first class railway ticket by cred
i
t card at King's Cross, threw it in a waste bin and took a car hired under a false work name down to Kent. If anyone ever checked, I'd gone north; the plastic put through King's Cross would prove it. It wasn't much of a cover story, but it would survive a casual check, and might discourage further investigations.
By late afternoon I got down to Pluckley. I parked the car near the house, about 20 metres off the road back in a ride. I splattered a little mud around, especially on the number plates back and front, took my little green backpack nicked from Training Wing stores long, long ago, and locked up after preparing the interior. A scent spray, pair of women's shoes and a box of tissues on the passenger seat; a cheap flat cap on the steering wheel. Anyone looking in would think that it was a courting couple, or a man and woman out for an early evening stroll at least. Draping a branch across the entrance to the ride, I set off towards the house. At the edge of the woods I squatted down and examined the building from what I had decided was the best observation point. A thin drizzle began to fall and in the gathering dusk I made a final check of the contents of the little back pack.
Any policeman seeing the bits I laid out on the ground would have had a fit and nicked me for 'going equipped for burglary' on the spot. There were two torches, one of them a big police four-battery MagLite, black masking tape, a collection
of unconventional
tools, thin nylon climbing rope, a black ski mask, a small but interesting collection of
medical goods
left over from the Spicer job that any budding anaesthetist would have been proud of, a couple of different knives, and a sock, amongst some other odds and ends. I carefully filled the sock with soil and tied it tightly. Then, because I wanted to go anyway, I pissed on it, and put it in a nylon expanding umbrella sheath, to turn it into a heavy and workmanlike soft cosh. I checked my watch, double-checked the car keys, quietly repacking the backpack and keeping an
eye on the house. Last of all,
I pulled on the ski mask hood and sat down to wait.
No lights were on, so, as soon as it was dark enough, I eased through the bushes, and, sticking to the deeper shadows, slipped noiselessly up to the house. I was feeling pretty relaxed, knowing that the coast was clear. Varley was out, and Mrs V. was in Wales. The utility room window was my goal. Sure enough, the little top window was open, as it had been on my recce, and I found a box to stand on, slid one of my coat hanger wire probes in and lifted the catch. Within seconds I had the window open and could clamber into the room.
I stood silently in the dark, listening to my heart and the hiss of my own breathing. Through the ear holes of the mask no other sound could be heard. Closing the window - but leaving it unlatched, in case I needed to bug out in a hurry - I examined the door into the kitchen with the little pencil torch, then tried the handle. It was locked with an expensive Chubb dead lock. Using a
small Jap
an
ese battery
sabre saw, I carefully drilled a hole and sliced the wood round the lock. The door creaked gently open, leaving the Chubb sitting forlorn in its jamb, as I moved softly into the blackness of the house.
Nothing stirred. The ticking of an old grandfather clock hung heavy in the warm darkness. In the black hood and overall, I felt hot and sweaty. Covert methods of entry, the CME of ‘Chubb the Lock’, our instructor in the Manor years ago, had never been my strong skill. Jeremy and Andrew had been much better, I recalled. Inconsequentially, I wondered whatever happened to Gus and Tony, the instructors of my youth. The small pack lumped heavy on my shoulder blades. It was a lot to carry, but had proved its worth.
I moved quietly into the living room and recced my exit routes should anything go wrong. The alarms were useless and switched off. I left one of the downstairs windows unlocked in case I needed to get out that way, and walked the course to the back door and the utility room again in the dark. You can't be too careful. As I did so some outside lights came on. That gave me a fight. I froze. But there was no-one there. It must have been security lights on a time switch. Sure enough, as I stepped into the hall I noticed that there was a light on upstairs.
Then I telephoned Varley's office and asked to speak to him, using the heavy Glaswegian. An answer machine informed me that ‘the office was closed, so please leave a message.’ Satisfied, I hung up and carefully unscrewed one of the telephone wires from the junction box. Then, having checked all my kit again, I drew the curtains except for an observation crack and settled down to wait for my quarry, in a comfortable chair in the living room covering the drive and front door. I was ready for my prey. I knew from his secretary that he was ‘planning to be at home this evening.’
Although I was alone in the warm darkness, with only the ticking of the clock from the hall and the pale green glow of my watch for company, I felt no inclination to doze. I could feel the sweat in my armpits and I ran through the options while I waited. I wasn’t quite sure what I would have to do or what the outcome would be.
Eight o'clock; nine o'clock, came and went. I began to get restless. Wouldn't Varley ever appear? What if he'd stopped off at his mistress's? Gone to the pub? What if he had decided to go to some friends? What if he brought someone back with him? A chill breeze was springing up outside and I could feel the sweat cooling on my back as if in sympathy. The grandfather clock bonged for ten o'clock, and I checked my torch again.
Suddenly car lights flashed in the drive and crunched up on the gravel to park outside. This was it. I checked my pack on the floor, took the cosh in my right hand, the powerful MagLite torch in my left and stood up. As the car lights went out, I saw with relief that it was Varley's Bentley. And he was on his own. No girly to keep him company. I glided quietly to the hall and waited behind the living room door as his key scrabbled in the lock. For a moment he was silhouetted against the paler darkness framed by the front door. I heard him swear softly as the light didn't work. He wasn't to know that the bulb lay on the hallstand where I had carefully placed it earlier.
Grumbling under his breath, he moved down the hall towards me until I could smell the drink on his breath. When he was close enough, I stepped silently in front of the shadow and shone the four battery MagLite full beam in his eyes. He halted, blinded and surprised, and I hit him once with the torch, hard, high on the shoulder.
There was a distinct crack, like a carrot snapping. His grunt of surprise at being dazzled turned to a gasp of pain and he tumbled to the ground. I stepped back as he fell, keeping the torch full on his face.
Varley lay curled up in the foetal position, eyes tight shut, a gloved hand clutching his shoulder, absorbed by the pain and shock. A low whimpering escaped from his clenched teeth. I had hit him too hard, and it looked as if I had broken his collar bone.
"Get up," I whispered. "Get up."
You have to see these things from the other guy's position. He'd come home, probably over the limit on booze, come into his own house , been dazzled by blinding light and then
suffered the most excruciat
i
ng explosion of pain, without a sound. No wonder he was in shock.
He looked full into the torch beam, eyes screwed up. His mouth was bleeding slightly where he had bitten his lip or tongue. "Who is it? What've I done?" He moaned.
I was silent, knowing that silence and the fear of the unknown would evoke far more terror than any thing else. "Why? Who are you?" he whined plaintively. "Why?'
I stayed silent. Even with a damaged
s
houlder and useless left arm, Varley could still be dangerous. I was counting on staying ahead by psychology and shock
"Why?" he cried again; then, to my utter amazement, he lowered his head from the glare and burst into tears. "Why?"
I slipped the cosh into the overalls and moved round behind him. Seizing the coat collar, I pulled hard to drag him to his feet, but he was a dead weight and screamed as the broken bone ends grated together. I couldn't hold him one-armed.
"Get up," I whispered again, and nudged him with my toe. Like a petulant child he lashed out with his good hand, connecting with my knees. Instinctively I swung the big torch against his head and he shrieked in fright. Then I stood back. He was moaning and blood dribbled from a cut ear. "No, no, no!" he moaned.
"Get up," I whispered again. "Now!" Whimpering, he levered himself to his feet, taking the weight on his good arm. I stood back, noting the dangling left hand. The collar bone on that side was clearly gone, and he was in shock all right. He stood, swaying stupidly, his face smeared with blood and tears in the torchlight. I pat searched him. His mobile was in his pocket. I smashed it on the floor.
"Turn round," I whispered. Making odd snuffling noises, he did so and I prodded him into the living room. He stumbled forward in the dark, right hand clamped on his ruined shoulder. Keeping the torch on him, I hissed, "Stop!" While he stood weeping and grunting with misery in the torchlight, I shut the door.
Then I padded to the door, called loudly, "You two wait outside," and snapped the lights on. He stood in the middle of the room, blinking like a stag at bay, craning his head to look at me then fearfully at the door.
The psychiatrists told me a long time ago that black clothing evokes fear. I must have got his attention then, in black overalls, black hood and thin black gloves. Varley probably thought I was the devil incarnate fresh from hell, to judge from his expression.
"Who are you?" he groaned. "What do you want?"
Unbidden, he slumped onto an armchair and gasped with pain. "Oh my God, God... " He voice trailed off. I was nonplussed for a second, but daren't lose the initiative.
"Stand up," I hissed. "Stand up." But he just moaned and shook his head. "If you don't stand up," I heard my voice say, sibilant and menacing, "I'll hit you again."
"No, no ... " he blubbered and lurched to his feet. He was weeping uncontrollably now, deep in his own misery.
"Open the safe," I hissed. "Now."
He shook his head dumbly. "I'll not tell you again," I whispered. "Open the safe'"
He swore at me. "No." His voice trailed off into obscenities.
I slipped out the sock, heavy in my pocket, and switched the torch full on his face again as I moved closer. "No!" he screamed, backing away. "No! Don't hurt me again!"
"Why not, Varley? You've hurt lots of people, haven't you?"
"No, never ... how?" He was backing away, whimpering in terror. "Oh God, please don't hit me again." His face was a gargoyle of contorted fear and pain.
"How?" I mocked. "What about those tourists? The travel firm? The copper swindle?"
He had backed up to the sofa now and could retreat no further. Yammering with panic, he gabbled, "Yes ... no; but I didn't hurt anybody. We went bankrupt. It wasn’t my idea….it was the Indians. It was only money."
"Only money?" I sneered. "Only money? Only
their
money, you thieving bastard. Only
their
fucking lives. What about the lives, the people, Varley? Or are they only little people, eh? Don't they count? Because you can't see them? You ...
“and
this time I did hit him, hard in the side of the ribs with the wet sock full of sand. And I meant it.
I was angry, with a red mist that made me hit home hard.
He screamed and fell back onto the sofa, and I stood over him breathing heavily, trying to control my rage, disgusted with him and his snotty-nosed snivelling terror, his lack of conscience and my own involvement with him. My mere presence there with him made me feel dirty, as if he'd somehow sucked me into his pain and fear and misery, for which his own greed and corruption were really responsible. He sprawled sideways, wheezing and whimpering alternately. I felt sickened both with him and myself. I was losing control. That’s not like me. I’m normally Mr Control.
"Get up." He shook his head. "I can't," he mouthed.
"Get up or I'll break your arms," I heard myself say, and with a sobbing, clumsy misery he lurched to his feet.
"Now open that safe." For a split second he hesitated, and enraged by his
obstinacy
and pain and fear, I hit him again, high on the left arm. He screamed and stumbled against the fireplace where he vomited. I fought to control my temper. Such misery and fear from a bully like Varley made me feel disgusted. He made me feel no better than him.
"Open the safe, Varley," I said in a reasonable whispered tone and trying to control my temper. "Just open the fucking safe. After all - it's only money. You said so yourself." He shook his head and I raised the sock again threateningly. He screamed, and broken
, cowered
against
the
mantelpiece
. "No
, no. Please. No."