the wrong house to burgle by glenn mcgoldrick · the wrong house to burgle “look at that...
TRANSCRIPT
The Wrong House to Burgle
By Glenn McGoldrick
Text Copyright @2017
Glenn McGoldrick
All Rights Reserved
For all you readers out there…
The Wrong House To Burgle
“Look at that idiot,” I said.
“Who?” Andrea asked.
“Him over the road.”
“Who?”
I turned away from the window, and watched her lifting
the cushions off the sofa. Our 5-year-old son, Jack, was
singing to himself as he helped her. “Range Rover Man,” I
said.
“What’s he doing?”
“Washing his Range Rover. Again.”
“Yeah?”
“It must have got a bit of dust on it since he washed it
yesterday. What a prick.”
“Yeah. Probably,” she said, now checking underneath
the sofa.
“What are you doing, love?”
“I can’t find my iPhone.”
An hour later I was looking for my watch.
“No, I haven’t seen it,” Andrea said.
Jack was sat next to her on the sofa. “What’s a Rolex,
dad?”
I ruffled his dark hair and said, “It’s my watch, son –
are you going to help me look for it?”
The three of us started to search the house, but Jack
grew bored and went to watch TV. When we entered the
Conservatory, Andrea tapped her fist on her forehead and
said, “Shit!”
“What?”
“I just remembered.” She pointed to the window at the
left of the conservatory doors. “When I came down this
morning, that window was open.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah, but I thought maybe we hadn’t closed it last
night.”
“Something’s not right here,” I said. “Did you find your
iPhone?”
“No.”
“Did you try ringing it?”
“Yeah, I used your phone. But it’s switched off - which
is weird.”
“Why?”
“Kenny – you know I never turn it off.”
I watched her considering possibilities, as she twirled
a finger in her black hair.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she said.
“Let’s check the camera.”
I went to the spare bedroom and took a seat at the desk
which held the keyboard and monitor. The image on the
screen showed an overhead of the hallway and the front
door, recorded by a camera mounted on the ceiling.
I rewound the recording to 11.30 p.m. and pressed
Play. Onscreen, Andrea and I climbed the stairs then we
disappeared from view – that’s when we’d gone to bed.
We always left a light on, so the stairs and hallway were
clearly visible on camera.
Clicking Fast Forward, I watched the screen closely.
Andrea joined me a minute later.
“Is Jack OK?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s just watching Peppa Pig.”
She knelt on the carpet beside me, elbows propped on
the desk; a few minutes passed as we watched the screen
silently.
“There!” she said, pressing the Pause button.
A man had appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Jeans,
trainers and a black T-shirt. Dark hair and a goatee. Mid-
twenties, I guessed.
The timer read 2.17 a.m. I pressed Play, and we
watched him search the pockets of each item on the coat
stand.
“Scumbag,” I said.
Then he looked up the stairs, his left hand resting on the
newel post.
“What’s he doing?” Andrea asked.
“Thinking about coming upstairs.”
“Jesus.”
We watched him for a few seconds, then he turned
away from the stairs and walked out of view.
“No,” I said.
Andrea poured a small whisky for both of us, then
joined me at the kitchen table. “Why not?”
“You think the police will give a shit about our house
being burgled? With my record?”
She took a sip from her glass and said, “It’s a burglary
– they’ll have to take it seriously.”
“They’ll ask a few questions, scribble in their
notebooks and have a good laugh about it on their way
back to the station.”
“What, then?”
I tapped my fingers on the table, staring at the amber
liquid in my glass. “If only I could get my hands on this
scumbag.”
“Maybe there’s a way,” she said, beginning to smile.
“What do you mean?”
“If he turns the iPhone on, then we can get a location on
it.”
“What? How?”
“There’s an app called Find My iPhone.”
“An app?”
“Never mind,” she said, trying not to laugh. She held
out her hand. “Give me your phone and we’ll see if he’s
turned it on yet.”
I watched some TV with Jack while Andrea took my
phone and went to find her laptop.
When she’d finished, she called me to the kitchen. We
sat at the table, and she explained what she’d done;
something about Google Maps and Street View, whatever
they were.
I nodded along while she talked, then said, “So it’s
number three?”
“Three or five.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Kenny, that’s as good as it gets,” she said. “You want
to have a go yourself?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “stop
complaining and tell me how good I am.”
“Sorry, love. You’re a genius with technology. And so
humble.”
A light rain fell as I drove to Middlesbrough, heading for
the address Andrea gave me.
“No rough stuff,” she’d said as I left.
It had been a while since I’d needed to get rough, and
when I did it would be only with scumbags and chancers –
no civilians ever got hurt. But since moving to Hilton I’d
left the dirty work to others.
But I was angry. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy,
creeping around our house in the early hours. He was in
for a surprise when I found him.
Finding Grove Street was easy enough, as I’d grown up in
a similar housing estate not too far away.
I parked on the even-numbered side of the road,
opposite numbers three and five. The grass in both gardens
was overgrown, and number five had an England flag
hanging from an upstairs window.
Not knowing which house it was, I couldn’t really start
knocking on doors. And I didn’t know who he lived with.
Better to wait, get him alone, no witnesses.
It was 7 p.m., so I switched on the radio news and
waited.
He came out of the front door of number three at about
7.30 p.m. He looked about five feet seven, six inches
shorter than me. The goatee made him look kind of
scrawny.
But he wasn’t alone. He was with a young girl, about
the same age as Jack. When they stepped onto the
pavement, he knelt down and tied the laces on her pink
shoes. Then they walked hand-in-hand, singing a nursery
rhyme together, past my car and on to wherever they were
going.
Shit. It looked like he was a father; maybe even a good
one. Maybe he wasn’t such a lowlife after all.
Andrea muted the TV volume, then I sat beside her on the
sofa and told her what happened at Grove Street.
“I couldn’t just beat him up in front of the kid,” I said.
“Why didn’t you just ask him for the watch and phone?”
“The kid threw me off.”
She tapped the remote control on her knee. “So what’s
your plan?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you’d handle it.”
“I will. I’ll think of something.”
“Well, make sure you do,” she said. “I want my bloody
iPhone back.” Then she got up and went to bed.
I was looking out of the window the next morning, when
Andrea came in to the living room.
“Have you seen that sign on his gate?” I said.
“Whose gate?”
“The Range Rover idiot. King’s Cottage, it says.”
She sat on the sofa, and opened a magazine. “Yeah?”
“He must have just put that up.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“How pretentious is that? It’s not even a cottage.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“There’s something about him…”
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I heard he beats his wife.”
“I heard that too. She does seem to wear sunglasses a
lot.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was true,” I said, looking
out of the window again. “And who’s the king supposed to
be? Him?”
“Well, he won’t be annoying you for a couple of weeks
at least. They’re going on a cruise.”
I joined her on the sofa. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“How do you know?”
“They were in The Falcon the other night, making sure
the whole village knew they were going on another
cruise.”
“And you’re sure they’re going tomorrow?”
“That’s what they said.” She closed the magazine and
stared at me for a couple of seconds. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason.…”
I took a chance that the burglar would be home, and my
luck was good – he answered the door at number three.
He looked like he recognised me, and I could see that
he was worried. Assuring him that I wasn’t going to hurt
him, we went inside to chat.
“I’ve got a little job for you,” I told him.
I left twenty minutes later, whistling, my Rolex on my
wrist and Andrea’s iPhone in my pocket.
It was Friday evening when I spoke to the burglar. On
Saturday the idiot and his wife left for their cruise.
I watched from my living room window, as they loaded
their luggage into a taxi and drove away – leaving the
Range Rover at home, parked behind the gate with the
pretentious sign on it.
Sunday morning, I looked from our bedroom window; I
was pleased to see that the sign and car had disappeared
from King’s Cottage. Andrea asked me why I was looking
so happy with myself, but I didn’t explain.
The idiot and his wife returned from their cruise
yesterday; I noticed a Police car outside his house in the
afternoon.
They were both in The Falcon last night.
“Shame about your Range Rover,” I said to him. “It
was a real beauty.”
“Yes,” he said. “How did you know it had been
stolen?”
“Oh, good news travels fast,” I said, and winked.
I watched the smug expression leave his face, then left
before he had time to answer.
Then I went to find the burglar, and buy him a drink.
Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed my stories.
Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let
me know your thoughts.
Until next time.
Glenn McGoldrick.
