New Directions (8)

Normally it was an hour’s drive to Dev’s from Celia’s village, but ten miles east on the M4 the snow had been more successful at screwing things up. Just after Reading, traffic slowed to a crawl while the police sorted out a meeting between two vehicles. Judging by the two blokes giving animated details to a traffic cop while his partner swept bits of SUV off the inside lane there were no injuries, except to prides. The hold-up gave me time to think while we shuffled along.

This all started as a favour. There was no payment except for a tankful of fuel courtesy of Dev. I’d expected to find either an old lady bordering on dementia who’d forgotten the rent or a dead one. All I had to do was let Dev know why he wasn’t getting his rent and get on with my own business. Even if he asked me to wait for that swindling little rat and show him why it was a good idea to give Dev the money it was alright by me. I needed the exercise. But this was a very different game.

I didn’t know how Dev would react when I told him someone was casing Celia’s home with a view to rob her. Most people would argue it was a police matter. If Dev chose that route I was out. Tangling with coppers was way off my to do list, even asking one for directions made me nervous.

I wouldn’t blame Dev if he handed the fake letter over at the local cop shop. As far as he knew the law would take its course. Someone would go down and he’d get his money back. Justice would be done . . . except it wouldn’t. The uniforms might pass it “upstairs” to the fraud squad, but I’d bet a year’s income they would do fuck all about a robbery until it happened. They’d spout the usual bollocks: CID are short staffed; we need proof before we can make an arrest. At best they might get a local candy-car to pass by for a week or three – if they remembered.

I asked myself why I should care about a rich old maid who knew nothing about the real World and was daft enough fill her house with precious objects without taking any security precautions whatsoever. She almost deserved to be robbed, she might as well put a sign up in the garden.

But I did care and I knew why: the shock of a robbery could kill the old girl. Then a sickening thought crossed my mind. Was that the intention? After all, somebody had to benefit from the fortune in her trust fund.

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