Kitchen Knives and Questions.

Kitchen Knives and Questions.

The big man stood in the garden, looking up at the house. Planning was important, whether when intending an ascent of the North Face of the Eiger or breaking into a house in Wavertree.

A far more serious crime had already been committed. He was here to investigate, pass judgement, and carry out the sentence handed down.

The police were not involved, hampered as they were by the burden of proof, the requirement to show a raft of solid evidence. The big man had no use for documentary evidence and was not subject to the same constraints as a police officer. When threatened he took immediate action. He didn’t waste time looking for evidence; he stamped on the threat and killed it at source.

Doing the job himself wasn’t usual; any of his soldiers would happily have done the job. He’d felt strongly enough about this particular betrayal to make an instant decision, this was personal.

Entry to the house had presented few difficulties. He had all the skills necessary, had learned housebreaking while in his teens. Like riding a bike, it was skill once learned remained with you.

A man like himself had no attachments. He’d never owned property in his own name, never had a meaningful relationship, never kept a pet animal, never had a photograph of himself on display anywhere. He could pack a bag in 30 seconds, close the door behind him and move on, never to return.

It was the way he’d always lived. He’d lived his entire adult life on a diet of constant suspicion and acute paranoia and never regretted a moment of the life he’d chosen to lead.

The chosen methods by which he ran his empire were equally uncomplicated. No records, no paper trail, no data on a hard drive, no documents in a locked safe. Records were evidence and discovery of records could prove a risk to his liberty and make him a pauper.

It was not enough to arrest a drug baron and put him behind bars; nowadays it was about the money as well. The seizure of criminal’s assets was highly lucrative and a strong motive to act against a particular target. His assets were well hidden and all records relating to his capital were safely contained within the confines of his skull. He had the capacity to remember numerous account numbers, passwords and locations and never wrote anything down.

Entry couldn’t have been easier. No need for subtlety, not with a back- door key clearly visible in the lock through the tiny panes of glass in the door. It wasn’t ideal, but there would be no reason for the occupants to return by the back entrance and his work would be complete well before anyone noticed a broken window.

Stepping carefully over the broken glass, he moved on, pen torch held out before him, exploring each room in turn, noting the expensive fixtures and fittings. His income dwarfed that of the owner of this house, yet he had none of the trappings of wealth. They meant nothing to him. He’d not brought a weapon with him, preferring to use objects readily available at the scene. Kitchen cupboards and drawers were usually a reliable source and this kitchen was no exception.

A pair of curved secateurs, used to snip through the bones of a chicken and tasks of a similar nature, was in the first drawer he opened.

Very nice.

The same drawer provided him with a stainless steel blow torch bearing very little resemblance to the Bunsen burners of a school chemistry lab or the tool used by decorators to strip paint from wooden surface. ‘Thank God for the middle classes’, he mused. A kitchen could not be considered complete without something to melt the sugar crust on an egg custard. One simply couldn’t exist, darling, without Crème Catalan. He took the blowtorch and added it to his collection of tools.

So far so good, but the best was yet to come. The kitchen knives were a matched set, stored vertically on the wall and attached to a magnetic strip. Most of them looked as if they’d never been used, but that could soon be rectified. He tapped each in turn with an anticipatory finger before selecting the most promising. He had all he needed. Now all he had to do was wait.

The man who lived here had been careful. Clever too. He’d not been greedy, only skimming off a small portion of the vast sums that passed through his hands. He’d been trusted, had betrayed that trust. In different circumstances, he’d have been dismissed. Possibly the police would have been involved, the man facing  charges of embezzlement. That wouldn’t happen in this firm.

The big man had a system that had never failed. Trust nobody, assume everyone was a potential traitor. This was not simple theft, it was treachery. He’d checked, checked again, until he’d been certain. The man who lived in this house had stolen money from him. A great deal of money. He didn’t care about the money. That wasn’t the issue. It was a matter of trust. A breach of trust had consequences. Extreme consequences.

Car headlights illuminated the windows, were extinguished. Doors slammed. The big man moved silently from the kitchen into the hall. Not long now.

The woman opened the door, stepped inside, kicking off her shoes. The man behind her was laughing, enjoying some joke. He closed the door, turned around, saw the other man holding the woman, and the laughter died on his lips.

‘Deggsy,’ the big man said, ‘We need to talk.’

The woman turned towards her boyfriend, too frightened to speak. The big man, spun her around, punched her in the face, lowering her unconscious body to the floor. ‘No need to involve the lady,’ the big man said, softly. ‘No need to involve the young lady. We’ll just leave her here, shall we? While we have our chat.’

Deggsy looked at his girlfriend, her broken nose leaking blood onto the cream carpet. He’d have known why the other man was here in an instant, known the futility of escape. He nodded, following the big man into the kitchen where the knives were already laid out on the work surface.