Consequence (2 page)

He sat himself down on a black leather sofa, watching as his companion walked to his side. A glance passed between the pair, unseen by the homeowner. She stared at her own twiddling thumbs, nearly jumping out of her skin when a chirping ringtone cut through the silence.

Michael Richards smiled as the sound of the tubular bells lifted from inside his jacket. He pushed his hand inside the cotton material and pulled out a mobile phone, alight with a blue screen and alive with a melodic tune.

“Sorry,” he said to the woman. “I have to take this. You don’t mind do you?” he asked pleasantly, gesturing to the door.

She shook her head with as much politeness as she could muster and Richards walked out of the room, moving the phone to his ear as he disappeared.

Phillips smiled reassuringly at the older woman and lifted his hand out of his pocket. “As I was saying,” he began, “your car was involved in a smash and grab at a jewellery store--”

“I didn’t…” she interrupted worryingly.

“It’s okay. We know you have nothing to do with the robbery. The thieves were caught by CCTV; they both have extensive criminal backgrounds and are well known to us.” He paused to admire a large landscape painting of the Cumbrian countryside, hanging next to a fifty inch 3D television.

“That’s a very nice painting. I’ve always admired the Lake District, have you been there recently Mrs Robinson?”

A look of bewilderment crossed the woman’s face; she followed his gaze and shook her head. “No, no it was a gift. Look, can we please get back to the car?”

“Of course,” Phillips paused to fire one last admiring glance at the painting. “We have yet to track down the two criminals involved. There is a high risk that they have dumped, burned or resprayed your car by now I’m afraid.”

“Oh God,” she uttered in disgust.

“Yep, life’s just one big kick in the balls aint it,” Phillips mumbled, glancing passed her and admiring a large collection of vintage LPs -- perfectly manicured in plastic wrap and dotted along a large oak bookcase.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing Mrs Robinson. Now, I’m afraid I will need details of your whereabouts from last night to, well... now really.”

“But why? You know it wasn’t anything to do with me don’t you?” she asked with sincerity.

“Of course, but we still need to run checks, routine business that’s all. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

Phillips pulled out his notebook again and flipped to one of the many blank pages. “Right Mrs Robinson. First off, where were you at 8 o’clock last night?”

He listened as she spoke, nodding every now and then when he felt appropriate. His hand constantly scribbled on the notepad, drawing unrecognisable pictures and patterns.

3

“Thanks for all your help Mrs Robinson; we will get in touch when we have more information.”

Johnny Phillips and Michael Richards walked briskly down the gravelled driveway, the soft pebbles crunched noisily beneath their feet. Only when they heard the front door slam shut behind them did they speak.

“So, did you get it?” Phillips asked.

“Yes, I got it,” Richards said smugly, tapping his heaving gut.

Phillips smiled broadly.

“Why do I always have to be your
partner
?” Richards queried.

“What?”

“You get to be the fucking
Detective Inspector,
I have to be your
partner
, you could at least introduce me, give me a name, or a title, not just a fucking
partner.
”

“Stop bitching would you, does it really matter?” Phillips blasted as they exited through the gates to the large house, their feet finding concrete.

“I guess not,” Richards yielded.

They halted next to a parked car. Both men silently clambered into the vehicle with Phillips sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Well, let’s see it
fat boy,
” Phillips joked inside the confines of the car.

Richards smiled and took off his jacket. Underneath he wore a white shirt, wrapped over what appeared to be a large beer belly.

Unzipping his shirt Richards revealed a large cast around his midsection, made from a mixture of latex, cardboard and plastic, it had been tied to his stomach with thick string and a line of masking tape. It served as a large Kangaroo pouch underneath his clothes; it had no top and was completely hollowed out down to his groin.

Johnny Phillips’s eyes lit up when he saw the contents of the pouch. “There’s gotta be at least ten grand in there!” he said excitedly, staring at the piles of bound notes inside the papier-mâché pouch. “Did you get in okay?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on the money.

“Yes. It was pathetic, any idiot could have cracked it, even you,” Richards said smiling.

Phillips shook his head, “If you weren’t carrying all that cash I’d kill you for saying that,” he said.

They both laughed. Phillips rolled his chair back and ducked below the steering wheel. Seconds later he emerged with the engine roaring; both men were grinning widely as the stolen Jaguar pulled away down the quiet country road.

4

Howard Price drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. The oak construction cushioned each blow, absorbing the sound. He released a long sigh, and lifted his eyes from his musical exploits.

His office was immaculate as usual. The claret carpet was as fresh and colourful as the day he’d bought it. The pristine furniture looked laminated through the thick varnish and the manila walls shone with pride, donning Howard’s exploits.

He ran his eyes over the framed articles and certificates on display.

“
Howard Price Inherits SightSys
”
declared the bold words on the oldest newspaper clipping. The front page article pictured Howard in his early twenties, a look of contentment on his face as he stood in front of a multi-storey building.

“
Record Profits for SightSys
”
read the next, a couple of years younger than the first, this time only the building could be seen.

“SightSys Sets Plans for Larger headquarters”

“Software Company SightSys Breaks the Mould”

“Howard Price Enters the Rich List”

The wall was like a timeline, from left to right, with the declarations of news-printed success ending at the door. Howard’s eyes scanned the final one.

The article had been taken from an international magazine and chartered his success. He had inherited the business from his father, a man whom Howard hardly knew and a man who had put his work before his child -- he had died in a hit and run incident twenty years ago, leaving the business to Howard, his only son.

All of this, and Howard’s rise to greater power and fortune with the software company, had been documented in the article. A picture accompanied it. In it he was standing outside his mansion, a look of great pride in his eyes, his wife and daughter by his side.

He smiled at the sight of his pretty seven year old child, who had been incredibly excited at the time, so much so that Howard had been talked into buying over thirty copies of the magazine so she could show her friends at school.

A static voice bellowed out from the surface of the solid oak desk,
“Mr Price, your wife Elizabeth is on line one. Should I put her through?”

Howard frowned and pushed the intercom. “Just tell her I’m on my way. I’ll be there in half an hour.” A buzz greeted him when he released his finger from the button.

His gaze fell onto a framed picture by the intercom, looming proudly over the silent device. The picture inside the silver frame had been taken on his daughter’s seventh birthday party. She was dressed in a pink ballerina’s outfit, with two small yellow flowers entwined in her long golden hair. Her features were set into a wide grin, her innocent blue eyes staring straight at the camera. Her mouth was rimmed with chocolate cake and some of the sticky substance had even reached her dimpled cheek and the tip of her nose.

Howard grinned at the picture and at the memories, but that smile faded when he caught sight of his own reflection in the polished silver. Signs of stress and sleep deprivation screamed out from the deepest recesses of his middle-aged face. Pits of the deepest black dug into the soft, wrinkled flesh under his eyes, the whites of which were speckled with red blotches.

His strong cheekbones and heavy jaw hid a weakened man. He was only forty-three but his rough skin, his thin pale lips and his tired eyes, displayed the portrait of a man at least ten years older.

He turned his face away from the fatigued reflection and slowly stood up. He could feel his legs and lower back stiffen as he rose, creaking like a farmhouse door.

Walking across the plush flooring, which indented like wool beneath his feet, he took his coat from a sleek metallic coat stand in the corner of the room and slowly slipped it over his upper body.

He took one final look around the office as his arms slid through the satin-lined sleeves. His eyes fell upon the many plaques and framed items on the other side of the room.

Certificates awarded in the Company’s name.

Framed covers of successful software programs.

Certificates for personal achievement, including completed college and university degrees.

He stopped to admire a colourful painting behind his desk. It was a picture of the company headquarters drawn in crayon. In front of the unstable, scraggly building stood two matchstick figures holding hands, one was almost taller than the building, the other was much smaller, its head decorated with yellow crayon to emphasise an abundance of bright, light hair.

The grin returned to his ragged face.

5

Phillips yanked the steering wheel, violently dragging the car to one side. Richards slammed against the passenger-side door, his body unprepared for the instant action. His face slammed hard against the glass, leaving an imprint of his cheek on the humidity freckled window.

“What the fuck?” he rasped, bringing his hand to his throbbing jaw.

Phillips regained control of the car just as quickly as he had lost it. He continued to drive at a steady pace.

“
I said:
We only need another fifty-thousand and we’re sorted,” Phillips repeated smoothly.

“Why the fuck did you swerve?” Richards asked, ignoring the comment.

“Because you weren’t fucking listening, you’ve done nothing but stare at that fucking money since we left the house.”

Richards nodded in agreement. “Fifty grand,” he muttered to himself, watching the empty road ahead. “Reckon we’ll do it?” he asked, turning towards his friend.

“Of course we fucking will,” Phillips stated confidently. “Seven years of this shit, hundreds of fucking cons and fuck all to show for it. We’ll make it because we
need
to fucking make it.”

“Seven years and nearly one hundred thousand in the bank,” Richards corrected.

“It’s not enough.”

“We have the house and the flat as well.”

“Still not enough,” Phillips’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead. “The house is worth one hundred and fifty at the most, and the flat is worth fuck all. Fifty more and we can start work on the shop. Put some decent money in our hands.”

Richards nodded and drifted into his own thoughts. For two years they had aspired to something bigger, something better. Tired of a lifetime of small cons and cheap thrills, they decided to open up a betting shop. They had sought the location and thought of countless ideas to make extra profit from the shop, none of which were legal.

The legal business venture would not only help to hide their illegal earnings from the tax man but would give them a valuable source for new cons and tricks. Phillips had always said that gambling was a fool’s game, and in the world of professional gambling, the fools carried credit cards and left their rational thinking at home.

A gambling license wouldn’t be hard for them to acquire, the world stank of corruption and Phillips had his nose in every crevice.

“We can get some cash from this,” Richards said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the car.

“Not much, you know the score: Pritchard will give us seven hundred tops. There are too many two-bit, fucking lowlife car thieves around here; he can afford to pay peanuts.”

“We could ask for more,” Richards offered.

“It’s a fucking chop shop not Halfords; we get what we’re offered.”

“But--”

“But nothing,” Phillips cut in. “If you want more you ask him your fucking self.”

The image of Robert Pritchard’s aggressive and intimidating frame popped into Richards’s head. He could almost feel himself being castrated as he imagined himself asking the madman for more money.

“Seven hundred it is.”

6

Price slammed the door of the Mercedes shut behind him.

He checked his watch: 12:36

Somehow he’d managed to shave ten minutes off his journey, a journey he had become accustomed to over the years. He knew every inch of the journey. Every landmark, every stretch of road, the best places to overtake and, more importantly, he knew where all the speed cameras were.

He wasn’t a fast driver; he usually stuck to the speed limits, his great punctuality and ability to stick to a strict timetable meant that he never needed to rush. This afternoon his mind had been elsewhere, and his speed had matched the thumping drums of classic rock as he allowed the sounds of his music collection to swamp his instincts.

The air had grown colder as the day rolled on. A light fog glittered in the distance and dragged a musky humidity through the air.

The facade of the mansion before him was decorated with an expansive, colourful garden, donning a variety of beautiful plants, bushes, and even a solitary tree which stood tall near the entrance to the house, its long branches dangling over a tall iron gate.

The driveway stretched a hundred yards from the gate to the white front of the garage, every inch of which was covered with gravel. The silver Mercedes wasn’t the only car parked on the plush walkway, in front of Price’s expensive vehicle sat a compact and sporty Toyota. Its sapphire colour dulled by the greyed afternoon skies.