The Guilty Couple(18)
‘How?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘How’d you think?’
‘Smithy … I can’t go back into my old house. Even if I still had a key, which I don’t, I’m not allowed anywhere near it. Dom took a restraining order out on me. I could end up back inside.’
‘You won’t if no one catches you.’
‘Forget it.’ I dip a couple of chips into peri-peri sauce and chew on them. ‘I’m not a criminal.’
‘How’s that working out for you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re innocent, right? You spent five years in prison, lost your business, got shafted by your divorce, you’re sleeping on a mate’s sofa and you can’t spend time alone with your daughter. And you still want to play by the rules? Be legit? Why don’t you just bend over so they can shaft you again?’
‘Fuck off, Smithy.’
‘I think you’ll find I’m not the one getting fucked.’ She sits back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. ‘Honestly, take a look at yourself. You told everyone who’d listen that you were going to prove your innocence the moment you got out, you stood up to your dickhead padmate and you took a punch to help Theresa out. And now you’re a pussy who’s going to roll over and let your ex win?’
I lean forward, elbows on the table. ‘I’m not a … I’m not letting him win.’
‘No? Then what has he lost? Look,’ she unfolds her arms and counts on her fingers. ‘Your ex shafted you. The police shafted you. The legal system shafted you. No one’s gonna gallop up the King’s Road on a white horse and save you. You need to save your fucking self.’
‘But I … I haven’t got the first clue how to break into a house.’
She grins. ‘Well then, it’s a good job you know me.’
Chapter 12
DOMINIC
Dom strolls from one room of the sizeable Chiswick house to the other, his notepad in one hand and his Dictaphone in the other. His messenger bag is slung across his body; in it are his electronic moisture meter, a torch, a laser tape measure, compass, digital camera and various other bits and bobs he needs in order to complete a valuation survey. His phone, in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, has been vibrating intermittently ever since he left the office but he’s ignored it. He told his PA, Maira, that he was going home early with a migraine and gave her strict instructions not to contact him until the evening, even if it was urgent. That hasn’t stopped some of his clients from ringing him directly and he knows he’s going to have a shit ton of work to catch up with once he’s finished this job.
It’s the third house he’s visited since he left work and it’s the most stunning one yet. It’s a recently completed chapel conversion with period features, three bedrooms, four bathrooms and two reception rooms. His jaw actually dropped as he walked into the spherical living room with its white arched columns and stained-glass windows. It was like being in an ancient Greek domicile rather than a converted church. Not that the conversion hasn’t modernised the place – it’s full of glass and light with a chandelier made up of interlinked glowing circular hoops. It’s more like a work of art764 than a light. For all its beauty, though, it’s not the sort of house he’d want to live in, even if he could afford it, but he could imagine a film or rock star living here, or a family member of a UAE sheikh.
He lifts his Dictaphone to his mouth and is just about to make a comparison between this house and other homes in the area when his other jacket pocket bleeps. Sighing, he reaches in and pulls out his burner phone.
Well? the text message reads.
He taps out a response. I’d agree with the £5.5 million valuation.
His phone bleeps again. And what are you going to value it at?
He grits his teeth – he can feel the last vestiges of his professionalism draining away – and types back. £7.5.
There’s no going back now. When he files his inflated valuation he’ll have crossed the line between professionalism and criminality. His signature on that document will make him an accessory to mortgage fraud.
Chapter 13
OLIVIA
It’s been two days since I took Smithy to Nando’s and now we’re sitting in a bus shelter about two hundred metres from my old home. Dressed in dark colours with our hoods up we look like a couple of teenaged boys on their way to the skate park. It would be funny if I wasn’t so terrified. It’s nearly twelve thirty and Smithy’s spent the last ten minutes trying to talk me out of going back to Ayesha’s. The plan we made that had me buzzing with excitement as I filled my belly with peri-peri chicken now feels fraught with danger. I shouldn’t be this close to my house, it violates the terms of my licence, and if anyone reports me to the police I could find myself back in prison.
‘Liv,’ Smithy gives me a nudge. ‘Your ex is at work, your daughter’s at school, we can nick the memory stick from the security cameras, and you know the code to the alarm.’ She pauses. ‘You sure the CCTV system doesn’t upload to the Cloud?’
Another ripple of fear passes through me. So much could go wrong. ‘The old one didn’t. Hopefully Dom hasn’t replaced it.’