‘You could say that.’
‘House burglaries? That’s your thing?’
Archie nodded and ate some more. ‘And yours is?’
‘I was fitted up by the police. Isn’t that what everyone here says?’ He shrugged. ‘You make good money burgling?’
‘Yeah. Good enough, yeah.’
‘How much is good enough?’
‘Five to ten grand.’
‘A day – or a week?’
‘Yeah, a week, maybe, if I get lucky.’
‘If I was to do what they think I did, know how much I could make in a day? Twenty grand, sometimes a lot more. Hypothetically, of course. Ever thought about doing something different? The world’s moved on, mate. The internet and drugs, that’s where the real money is today. Scams and dealing. Burgling’s shit, isn’t it? You’re out in horrible weather, got to deal with dogs, lights, alarms and always the risk of getting caught. Seems to me that burglars are extinct.’
Archie bristled. ‘You’re calling me out of touch?’ Sajid was a muscular hunk who worked out in the gym every day. It wouldn’t be a smart idea to pick a fight with him, but his cocky arrogance was sure pissing him off.
‘Just saying.’
‘Saying I’m old?’
‘Know what they say about new technology, Archie?’
Archie shook his head.
‘Technology’s like a steamroller. If you’re not riding in the cab you’re part of the road.’ Sajid ate another mouthful of his food.
Archie stared at him. Maybe he was right, and he was just part of the road. Not even a motorway, just some sodding, crappy old B-road.
‘How many times have you been inside, Archie?’ he asked.
‘A few,’ he replied defensively.
‘Like three times? Five? Ten?’
Archie realized he’d actually lost count. ‘Maybe ten, maybe more,’ he said, and ate some more of his own food in silence, as the cricket came back on, distracting his cellmate.
Sajid didn’t speak again until the next commercial break, when Archie was scraping the last of the custard from the edges of the foil dish. ‘You’re how old?’
‘Sixty-four,’ Goff replied.
‘You’ve been inside ten times, or even more, right?’
‘Uh huh.’ He licked the last sweet drops from his plastic spoon.
‘You’ve got six kids with three different wives, you told me last night, right? You don’t see any of your exes and you’ve only got one kid who speaks to you, your daughter who’s studying to be a vet?’
‘So?’
‘Do you own a property?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet? What does that mean?’
Archie shrugged. ‘I’m waiting for the big one.’
‘The big one? A burglary that’s going to earn you enough to buy a property for cash, because you wouldn’t get a mortgage in a million years.’
‘What of it?’
‘You don’t strike me as being an idiot, mate. But you’re gonna need two hundred K minimum to buy anything other than a shithole. What kind of burglary’s going to net you that kind of dough?’
Archie stared into the empty aluminium carton. It was a good question, he knew.
With a kinder tone now, Sajid said, ‘It’s not too late. You’re not an old man – yet. Why’ve you stayed with burglary, when you know you’ll keep getting caught? Haven’t you ever thought about nothing else? You’re not a bad-looking bloke, you’re in shape, there’s plenty of wealthy widows out there who could be rich pickings for you.’
Archie shook his head. ‘If you’re so smart, how come you’re in prison?’
He smiled. ‘My first time and my last. Like I said, I was fitted up.’
‘I thought the same, forty-five years ago, Home Secretary.’
‘And you never once reconsidered what you were doing?’
Archie put his tray on the floor then sat bolt upright and a smile set his face alight. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Not once. It’s the adrenaline, you see, the rush, the buzz. When it goes right, there’s no feeling like it.’
‘And when it goes wrong, you’re banged up in here with a bunch of mostly losers. How does that make you feel?’
Archie shrugged. ‘You know what, Home Secretary, I actually like it here. I’ve got television, the electricity’s paid for, the grub’s decent, and I’ve got my mates. And I don’t have to do my head in filling in tax forms. What’s not to like?’
He wasn’t about to share how much he missed Isabella.
23
Saturday, 28 September
Even this early, the cool September air was full of promise. A cloudless sky, the faintest hint of a sea breeze, a day to make anyone feel optimistic. And Harry Kipling was feeling very optimistic indeed, less so Freya.
At 8.30 a.m. they stood outside the grounds of the historic Lancing College, a little bleary-eyed from their early start, sipping their thermos flasks of scalding coffee, and munching on the egg and tomato sandwiches that they had made for their breakfast. Warned that it could be a long wait, they’d also brought along a packed lunch and plenty of water in a cooler bag.
Harry was glad they’d made the decision to come early, because there was already a sizeable queue gathered here, many sporting summery hats and caps of every shape, size and colour. There was a buzz of excitement, of anticipation, and many of the crowd of people were in a chatty mood. Harry and Freya learned that some had just come along in the hope of being caught on camera, so they could tell all their friends. Others had brought a vast assortment of stuff, some clearly junk, some family heirlooms, some items, like theirs, which they had picked up at a car boot sale and were hoping they would turn out to be worth a fortune.
All around them, amid a sea of the branded red umbrellas and small white marquees, people clutched unwieldy packages, some of them parcelled in newspaper, or bubble wrap, or in supermarket carrier bags, as well as many unwrapped objects. A woman stood near them holding a set of fire dogs; another a wooden side-table; another a small rocking horse, and another a cake stand. There were objects of every different size and shape. It felt like they were in a rather posh, modernist take on a jumble sale, Harry thought. Except no one was buying anything. They were all here to get an expert’s appraisal on the objects they had. And all hoping for magic words from the expert. That the ugly vase they’d put flowers in, or the dreary bowl they fed their dog from, would turn out to be something from an ancient Chinese dynasty.
One excited couple they’d chatted with told them they had a Chinese marble-top table which had been collected from their home yesterday, by the show, because it had sounded of interest. They were hoping to be told it would be worth enough at auction to pay for the new kitchen they were planning.
Freya eyed the large Lidl carrier bag containing the bubble-wrapped painting on the ground beside them, propped against Harry’s right leg as he ate. Tired, because she didn’t do early mornings well, and especially not on weekends, she said, ‘There’s no wind, this would have been a great day to be on the beach with our paddleboards.’
‘Well, if we’re lucky and get seen early, we could get back in time to have an afternoon on the beach – and luxuriate in the knowledge that we’re now millionaires!’
She put an arm around him, leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘My big dreamer! Let’s try to manage our expectations, eh? I don’t want you setting yourself up for a big disappointment.’
‘I know. I’m not expecting it to be anything other than a copy and pretty much worthless.’
She stepped back and looked at him with the impish expression she had when she was teasing him and which he always loved. ‘Fibber! I don’t think you are expecting that at all.’