Short Fuses (Four short stories)

SHORT FUSES

  By Stephen Leather

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  Published by:

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Stephen Leather

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  BREAKING IN

  STRANGERS ON A TRAIN

  INSPECTOR ZHANG AND THE HOTEL GUEST

  CAT’S EYES

  THE BOMBMAKER

  THE LONG SHOT

  THE DOUBLE TAP

  THE BIRTHDAY GIRL

  HUNGRY GHOST

  THE VETS

  BREAKING IN

  House-breaking was a victimless crime, pretty much. That was what Richie Grout thought about his chosen profession. For a start he almost never did any actual breaking when he did the entering. There were more than enough unlocked doors and open windows around, even in South London. Nine times out of ten his method of choice was to shin up a drainpipe and into a bathroom window. Most people seemed to think that windows above ground floor were somehow unreachable. Big mistake.

  And when he was in the house, he never – repeat never – hurt anyone. That was an absolute rule. If there was someone moving around, he left. Like a bat out of hell. He’d never had a confrontation, and he never would. But he knew that if he was ever confronted then he’d either run or he’d raise his hands and surrender. Grout was a thief, not a mugger. He didn’t carry a weapon of any kind, not even a knife.

  Not that he’d even come close to being caught in the act. Grout was too clever for that. Too clever and too prepared. He’d ended up in court, that was true. But that was always because he’d been shafted when he was trying to unload the stolen goods. And a couple of times he’d been caught by CCTV. But he’d never been caught red-handed and he planned for it to continue that way.

  The things he stole were insured most of the time. And if they weren’t insured then that wasn’t his fault, was it? Insurance wasn’t expensive and if you couldn’t be bothered taking out insurance then you shouldn’t start whining when someone takes your stuff.

  So all in all, there were no victims. Just the insurance companies. And they were worth billions so screw them. He looked up at the drainpipe and took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. He was wearing his usual house-breaking gear – black jeans, black Nikes and a grey hoodie. He had on tight-fitting leather gloves and a small black Adidas backpack in which he had a small Magnalite torch, a set of night vision goggles, a mobile phone jammer and a nylon bag that when unrolled was big enough to hold a 32-inch flat screen television. That was one of Grout’s favourite items. Televisions, BluRay players, laptops, anything like that was an easy sale. But he knew a fair bit about antiques and paintings so he always had a good look to see what was on the walls and in display cases.

  He tended not to get jewellery because people kept stuff like that in their bedrooms and Grout broke into houses when people were asleep. That was when they left windows open. When they went away on holiday they locked everything and set their alarms. When they were asleep in their bedrooms they felt secure and they let their guard down. That was when Grout would move in.

  His technique rarely varied. Up the drainpipe and through the window. A quick check of the upper floor to make sure no one was awake. Then downstairs, keeping close to the wall to minimise squeaks. He’d unlock the back door, then do the same with the front door. That way he had his escape routes ready. If anyone came downstairs he’d be on his toes and away, no fumbling with keys or bolts or chains.

  The next step was to check for car keys. His van was parked close by but if he could find the keys then he was more than happy to relieve the owners of their vehicles. Some people took their car keys up to the bedroom but most left them in the kitchen or the hallway. The people in the house he was about to burgle had two cars. The guy drove a BMW 3 Series and his wife had a red Mini Cooper. The BMW was in the driveway and the Mini was parked in the road. Grout would be happy with either. Stealing cars was another victimless crime, he reckoned. Anyone who didn’t have their car insured for theft was just asking for trouble.

  Then it was time for a quick look around for valuables, then off into the night. Simple. And nobody got hurt. He’d arrived at the house at just after two o’clock in the morning and all the lights were off. The couple were always in bed by midnight, regular as clockwork. He took another deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and grabbed the drainpipe. He climbed easily, letting his legs do most of the work, and within seconds he was alongside the bathroom window. He reached for the latch, unhooked it, and slipped inside.

  He stood by the shower for a while, his head cocked on one side as he listened intently for any sound that the occupants were awake. If he did hear anything he would be back out of the window and down the drainpipe. But there was nothing. He smiled to himself. It was always during the first few minutes of entering a house that he had to fight the urge to burst into the bedroom and shout “Surprise!” at the top of his voice.

  He knelt down, took off his backpack and opened it. He slipped on the night vision goggles and switched them on. Soon everything was bathed in a greenish light. He took out his mobile phone jammer, a cigarette-sized stainless steel box with three aerials of varying lengths, and switched it on. It would neutralise any mobile phones within fifty feet. He put his backpack on, stood up and listened carefully again and then eased open the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall. His heart was racing so he forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He kept his back to the wall as he tiptoed down the stairs.

  He stopped when he was half way down. There were three doors leading off the ground floor hall. One led to the kitchen, one to a dining room and the third to the sitting room. The sitting door room was open. Grout stiffened as he realised there was a man standing by a large sofa. He was wearing a pair of night vision goggles similar to Grout’s.

  Grout froze, wondering what the hell was going on. The man with the night vision goggles was holding something. A knife.

  Grout took a step back up the stairs and a board creaked. The man in the goggles turned to look in his direction. He was a big man, wide shouldered and with bulging forearms. He was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and tracksuit bottoms. And on his feet, the sort of paper shoes that forensic scientists wore on the cop shows that Grout loved to watch.

  The man with the knife straightened up. Grout turned to run back up the stairs. That was when the man standing behind Grout slammed something hard against the back of his head and everything went black.

  WHEN GROUT opened his eyes his head was throbbing. He started to lift his right hand but realised that it was taped to the arm of a wooden chair. So was his left hand. He blinked his eyes, wondering what had happened. The lights were on and the curtains were drawn. His night vision goggles were on the coffee table. There was a flatscreen TV on one wall and a Bang and Olufsen stereo on a shelf
but Grout was no longer thinking about what he could steal.

  The Big Man stood next to the table. He had taken off his own goggles but was still holding the knife. It was almost a foot long with a wooden handle. A carving knife maybe. Something that belonged in the kitchen. There was blood along the length of the blade. Grout realised that the man was wearing pale blue surgical gloves. He frowned. All the thieves he knew wore gloves, but he’d never heard of anyone wearing latex ones.

  “He’s awake,” said the Big Man. His head was shaved but there was enough hair growing back to suggest that even if he didn’t shave he’d be pretty much bald. He had pale blue eyes, thin bloodless lips and large, slab-like teeth. He moved to the side and Grout saw someone else sitting on the sofa. It was guy who lived in the house, the driver of the BMW. His head was slumped on his chest and there were flecks of blood on his shirt.

  A second man walked in front of Grout. He was short, just over five six, and wearing a brown leather jacket that looked as if it was a couple of sizes too big for him. Like the Big Man he had paper covers over his shoes and was wearing blue surgical gloves. He peered at Grout and nodded. “Told you he’d wake up sooner rather than later.”

  Grout tried to move his legs but realised that they were also taped to the chair.

  “You could have killed him, knocking him down the stairs like that.”

  “I didn’t have time to do anything fancy,” said the Little Man. He was holding sheets of kitchen roll. He had a pinched, rat-like face and some sort of growth on the side of his nose.

  “Stairs clean?”

  “Done and dusted,” said the Little Man. He gestured at the knife in his colleague’s hand. “Are you planning on taking that with you?”

  The Big Man grinned. He went over to the sofa and took a close look at the man slumped there.

  “Is he dead?” asked Grout.

  “Not yet,” said the Big Man.

  “Who are you?” asked Grout. “And what the fuck’s going on?”

  “We were about to ask you the same thing,” said the Little Man. He opened Grout’s backpack and took out the phone jammer. He switched it off and showed it to the Big Man.

  “Nice bit of kit,” said the Big Man.

  “Stops people calling the cops,” said Grout.

  “You don’t say,” said the Big Man.

  The Little Man put the phone jammer and the backpack on the coffee table next to Grout’s goggles. “Got all the gear, haven’t you?” he said. “The jammer, the goggles. You’re a real pro.”

  “I do my best,” said Grout.

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “The internet,” said Grout. “You can get anything on the internet.”

  “And you’re doing what? A bit of thievery?”

  “That was the plan. Take what I can, hopefully lift one of the cars. Look, you can just let me go, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “How did you get here?” asked the Big Man.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I want to fucking know,” said the Big Man. He raised a shovel-like gloved hand. “And if you’re not a bit more forthcoming you’re going to be getting a slap.”

  “I drove,” said Grout quickly. “My van. Renault. Outside.”

  “Keys?”

  “My pocket.”

  The Big Man lowered his hand. ‘That’s better. ”  He turned to look at the Little Man. “What do you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s up to her, right?”

  “Are you going to call her?”

  The Little Man nodded. “I’ll have to.” He bit down on his lower lip. “She’s not going to be happy.”

  “Shit happens,” said the Big Man. “She gets paid to make the big decisions.”

  “What decisions?” asked Grout.

  The Big Man pointed at Grout. “Speak when you’re spoken to or I’ll knock you out again.”

  “I’ll call her now,” said the Little Man. He took his phone out of his pocket and walked into the hallway.

  “You can just let me go, I won’t say anything to anybody,” Grout said to the Big Man.

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “Look, you broke in, I broke in, you and me are the same. Live and let live, hey?” Grout forced a smile. “Honour among thieves, right? Professional etiquette they call it.”

  “We’re not thieves, sonny,” said the Big Man. “What’s your name?”

  “Grout. Richard Grout. My friends call me Richie.”

  “Yeah? Well, Richie, you chose a hell of a time to go house-breaking.”

  “I think of myself more as a cat burglar than a house-breaker,” said Grout.

  The Big Man chuckled. “Do you now?”

  “Yeah, I don’t usually break in. I’m the Drainpipe King, me. Always take the easy option, that’s my philosophy. Why smash a window when there’s usually one open?”

  “Makes sense,” said the Big Man. “And you’ve got the figure for it. What do you weigh? Sixty kilos?”

  “Just about,” said Grout.

  “See now that’s perfect for shimming up and down drainpipes. Unless they’re plastic. So what do you do? Case the place before?”

  Grout nodded. “Yeah, I walk around, see what’s what. Make notes in a little notepad I carry. During the day I see what windows are open and then I check at night. Then I look to see what time they go to bed. Try and see who lives there, too. If there’s a baby then they’ll be up and down all night. If there’s an old fellah then he’ll be going to the toilet every hour or so. Trick is to find someone on their own with a job because they go to bed early and sleep through the night. Couples are okay, best if they’ve both got jobs. But no kids. If I see that a house has got kids then I give it a wide berth.”

  “And you make a good living?”

  Grout shrugged carelessly. “Can’t complain.” He looked over at the man on the sofa. His head was slumped on his chest as if he was sleeping. He grimaced and looked back at the Big Man. “So who are you, the cops?”

  The Big Man grinned. “Do we look like cops?”

  The Little Man came back into the room. “She’ll call us back,” he said.

  “How did she take it?”

  “Mad as hell, but it’s not like it’s our fault. I told her the little bastard came in through the bathroom window.”

  “Who are you?” asked Grout. “And what are you doing here? What’s going on?”

  The Little Man walked over to Grout and stood looking down at him. “We’re the ones asking the questions,” he said. ‘That’s why we’re walking around and you’re tied to the chair.” He looked over his shoulder at the Big Man. “We need to get it done, the timing’s got to be right,” he said.

  “What about him?” said the Big Man, gesturing at Grout.

  “Whatever we do with him, we still have to take care of business,” said the Little Man.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said the Big Man. He knelt down, placed the knife in the right hand of the man on the sofa, then slowly drew it across the man’s left forearm, a deep cut that went from the inside of the elbow to the wrist.

  Grout yelped. Blood spurted from the wound, over the man’s shirt and trousers. The Big Man released his grip on the man’s hand and straightened up.

  “What the fuck?” shouted Grout.

  “Keep your voice down or we’ll gag you,” said the Little Man, pointing at Grout’s face.

  Blood continued to pump from the wound and Grout’s stomach lurched. He shuddered and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t like the sight of blood, huh?” asked the Big Man.

  Grout took a deep breath, fighting the urge to be sick. He turned his head from the sofa and opened his eyes again. The two men were standing in front of him, smirking.

  “So you’re like what, MI5?”

  “Doesn’t matter who we are, sonny,” said the Little Man.

  “Yeah, you’re MI5. Spooks. Like that TV show.”

  “We’re no
thing like Spooks,” said the Big Man.

  “More like James Bond,” said the Little Man.

  “Yeah, but Daniel Craig, not Roger Moore,” said the Big Man.

  “He was good in Moonraker, that was a fun film,” said the Little Man.

  “But not real.”

  “They’re films. It’s all make believe.”

  “But that’s what you are, right?” said Grout. “Spooks.”

  “We don’t call ourselves spooks,” said the Little Man.

  “Agents, then,” said Grout. “Secret agents.”

  “We’re secret, that’s for sure,” said the Little Man, and he laughed. “Secret fucking squirrel, that’s what we do.”

  “You break into places, don’t you? I could help you. I could sign up.”

  “Sign up?” said the Little Man. He laughed again and turned to look at his companion. “Did you hear that? He wants to sign up. Have you got an application form with you?”

  The Big Man laughed.

  “I’m serious,” said Grout. “I could help you. I’m the most prolific housebreaker in Croydon. No one breaks into more places than me.”

  “Is that right?” said the Big Man.

  Grout nodded enthusiastically.

  The Little Man looked at his watch. “She’s taking her time.”

  The Big Man shrugged. “She has to clear it at the top. Close to the top anyway. That means getting someone out of bed.”

  “Look, you could use someone like me. I could get you into places.” Grout could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. He tried not to look at the body on the sofa.

  “Yeah?” said the Little Man.

  “I can get in anywhere, pretty much,” said Grout. His mouth was dry and it hurt when he swallowed.

  The Little Man pointed up at a sensor in the corner of the room. Red and green lights were winking. “What would you do about that? It’s a motion and heat sensor. Sets off the alarm. And the alarm here is linked to the cops.”

  “Not a problem,” said Grout. “I always break in when they’re asleep and if they’re in the house then the alarm is switched off.” He grinned. “Easy.”

  “Yeah, but what if the alarm is on? Suppose you get in and the alarm is beeping which means you’ve got fifteen seconds to enter the four-digit code. What do you do?” Grout shrugged.

  The Little Man grinned and took a something out of his pocket. It was about the size of a small phone.

  “You need one of these. If you haven’t got one of these then you’re fucked with a capital F.” He put the gizmo back in his pocket. “And what about the lock? You can pick a lock, can you?”

  “Some,” said Grout, but he could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

  “So take the lock to this place,” said the Big Man, gesturing at the door. “It’s a six pin cylinder and saw-resistant lock with a triple striker. You could pick that, could you?”

  “Probably not,” said Grout.

  “Well I can,” said the Big Man. He nodded at the Little Man. “And him, he can reverse engineer any lock to produce a key in less than two hours. Now that’s the real skill.”

  “Why do you need a key if you’ve already broken in?” said Grout.

  “Sometimes you have to go back, and lock-picking is a pain in the arse,” said the Big Man.

  “You mean steal the TV and then go back for the stereo?” said Grout.

  The Big Man chuckled. “Something like that,” he said.

  “I could learn stuff like that,” said Grout. “I’m a quick learner.”

  “Did well at school, did you?” asked the Little Man.

  “Nah, I was crap at school. But the teachers were tossers. Wasn’t my fault. But getting into houses, that I’m good at.”

  “Yeah, pity they don’t teach it at university,” said the Big Man. “Get yourself a BSc in house-breaking.”

  “You know how much I made last year?” said Grout.

  The two men shook their heads.

  “A hundred and twenty grand,” said Grout. “That’s what I got in my hand, cash, for what I took.”

  The Big Man nodded, impressed. “That’s more than I earned,” he said.

  “But we get a pension,” said the Little Man.

  “There is that,” said the Big Man. “And job security, of course.”

  “What I’m saying is, I can work for you. I could be a big help.”

  ‘Yeah, but how many times have you been in court?” asked the Little Man.

  “Never been caught,” said Grout. “Not red-handed, anyway.”

  “I said in court. You’ve been in court, right?”

  Grout grinned. “Loads of times,” he said. “But never been sent down. Always wear a suit to court, I do. And my old mum turns up and says what a tough childhood I had because my dad left and that I’m about to join the army and I get a letter from one of my old teachers saying what a good kid I was so I get a slap on the wrist and that’s all.”

  “But that’s your problem right there,” said the Little Man. “You’re in the system. You’re known. The whole point of what we do is that no one knows us. We’re the grey men. You’re too high-profile.”

  “So? So what are you going to do? You’re going to have to let me go sometime, aren’t you? Just let me go and I won’t say anything. Why would I? I broke in, didn’t I? It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone, is it?”

  “Yeah, but you’re a talker, Richie. You can’t help but run off at the mouth. You’ll tell someone.”

  “I won’t, I swear.”

  The Little Man laughed. “Like you swore on a stack of Bibles in court that you were innocent, right? You’re a thief and a liar, Richie, there’s no way we can believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Grout.

  The Little Man shrugged. “That’s not my call.”

  “At least tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “That’s need-to-know. And you don’t need to know.”

  “What’s the harm?” said the Big Man. “No matter how this pans out, telling him won’t make any difference.”

  “You tell him, then,” said the Little Man.

  The Big Man shrugged. “Do you know who he is?” he asked Grout. He jerked his thumb at the body on the sofa. “The guy whose car you were going to steal. Have you any idea who he is?”

  “Works in an office, doesn’t he? Always wears a suit. Carries a briefcase.”

  “Surveillance not your strong point, then?”

  “All I care about is when he gets home and what time he goes to bed.”

  “And you don’t know where he’s from?”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Yeah, well we care,” said the Big Man. “He moves money around the world. Money that gets used by terrorists. Money that’s used to kill people.”

  “So you’ve killed him, is that it?”

  “Somebody had to stop him, and stop him quickly,” said the Big Man.

  “So why are you still here? Why didn’t you just do it and leave?”

  “Because we have to set the scene,” said The Big Man. “That’s what we do.”

  “And we’re bloody good at it, too,” said the Little Man.

  “I don’t understand,” said Grout, his brow furrowed.

  “Of course you don’t,” said the Little Man. “Why would you?”

  “We tell a story,” said the Big Man. “We tell a story to explain why he killed himself.”

  “But you killed him?”

  “Yes, we did. You know that and we know that but when PC Plod arrives he’s going to put two and two together and get four. He’s going to find a woman upstairs who’s been stabbed in the chest a dozen or so times. He’s going to find a man on the sofa who has cut his own wrists with the same knife. Then he’s going to look a little deeper and see that she wrote on her Facebook page that she was about to leave him. And on his Facebook page they’ll see that he wrote that he’d never let her go, that he’d rather kill
her than let her go to another man.”

  “There’s a dead woman upstairs?” said Grout. “His wife? She’s dead, too?”

  “What we call collateral damage,” said the Little Man. “But she was as bad as him. Birds of an Al Qaeda feather.”

  “So you killed them both and make it look like he killed her and then killed himself?”

  “That’s what we do,” said the Little Man.

  “And you do that for the Government?”

  “Depends what you mean by ‘the Government’. I doubt that the Prime Minister knows we’re here. Or his deputy. Probably no one in the cabinet knows the nitty gritty. But we’re G-men, all right. Bought and paid for.”

  The Little Man’s phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket. He pressed the phone to his ear and turned away. Grout heard him say “okay” three times and then he put the phone back in his pocket.

  “What?’ asked Grout. “What’s happening? What did they say?”

  The Little Man ignored Grout and turned to look at his companion. “She says green light.”

  “That’s that then,” said The Big Man. He bent down and picked up a black leather holdall.

  “Green light?” said Grout. “What does that mean?”

  The Big Man put the bag onto a table and unzipped the top. He took out a roll of duct tape and a polythene bag.

  “Doing it here?” asked the Little Man.

  “Be easier to handle as a dead weight,” said the Big Man.

  “Guys come on,” said Grout. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “We do,” said the Little Man.

  “It’s what we get paid for,” said the Big Man. “Just relax, it’ll be over soon.” He put the polythene bag under his arm and tore off a strip of duct tape. Just as Grout started to scream, the man slapped the tape across his mouth, pulled the bag over his head and began to wind duct tape around his neck.

  Grout struggled but with his arms and legs bound to the chair he could barely move. His chest heaved as he fought to breathe. His lungs were burning and there were tears running from his eyes. The Big Man continued to wind the duct tape around Grout’s neck, tighter and tighter. Condensation on the polythene blurred Grout’s vision but the last thing he saw was the Little Man looking at his watch, an annoyed frown on his face. Then everything went black.

  * * *