

CROSSED WIRES

SAM QUARREL

WORMWOOD

Plop!

Jack stared in disbelief at his mishap, no tragedy. Just moments before his mobile phone had been firmly held in his hand. Yet now inconceivably, some might say impossibly, it sat in six-inches of water at the bottom of a toilet bowl.

'YOU – BASTARD! I – don't – 'effing – believe – it!'

Furious at the treachery, he kicked out at the toilet. The soft leather shoe wasn't in anyway equal to the stout porcelain. The subsequent excruciating pain from several rearranged metatarsals only fuelled his resentment to towards his wayward phone as he hopped around the cloakroom clutching his foot and whimpering venomous oaths.

He was truly beside himself with anger. He hadn't been deliberately toying with it by dangling it precariously between his fingertips; he hadn't had it on his upturned hand like a waiter with a serving tray positively encouraging a calamity to happen while his attention was distracted as he was preparing for what is euphemistically called a 'comfort break'. No. Until the moment it shot out of his hand like wet bar of soap, the phone had been solidly in his grasp with not the slightest indication it wasn't going to stay that way.

Glaring at his latest bit of electronic wizardry lying at the bottom of the still pool like piece of aquarium architecture, his fury was marginally tempered by the fact that what had motivated his attendance in the toilet had yet to commence. But strangely and infuriatingly, the bodily function that had seemed so pressing while sat at his office workstation, and ultimately that which was solely responsible for this disaster, had deserted him.

By rights, in an instinctive reaction, he shouldn't have hesitated to plunge his hand in to the watery depths to retrieve the mischievous device, but even though he hadn't as yet gone about his business, there was nothing to say what appeared to be just clear water didn't contain a significant volume of someone else's pee whose kidneys were far more industrious than his own.

His hand move towards the handle to flush as a precaution, but snapped back instantly realising his hygienic prudence would result in the phone accompanying the suspect liquid around the U-bend to the land of Never-to-be-seen-again.

He yanked up his shirt sleeve then with a quick dart, like a heron diving for a fish, he plucked it from the bowl. Now holding it gingerly at arms-length, he steered the phone away from further watery jeopardy and placed it upright on the window sill to allow it to drain. Having thoroughly cleaned his arm up to his elbow, not once, but three times over, he cautiously sniffed at his forearm to detect the remains of any disturbing odour over and above that of the perfumed soap. Satisfied he wouldn't spend the rest of the day walking around smelling like a cat's litter tray, he turned his attention to the dripping mobile.

The thin trickle of water at its base indicated immediately that his latest piece of tec, which was at the cutting edge of all things in Phone World, and unlike his wrist watch that was guaranteed waterproof to fifty metres, hadn't passed the submersion test at a mere six inches.

He wound toilet paper all around to absorb the water and, still cursing under his breath, he trudged back to the office. He flopped into his seat, propped the tissue-bound device against his computer monitor and with zero enthusiasm resumed his work reading through a fresh torrent of emails.

Patrick, one of his colleagues from the Accounts Dept. – a complete moron incidentally – walked by.

'What's that?' he said pointing to what looked like a miniature version of an Egyptian mummy.

'M' phone,' Jack said sharply.

'That must be one of those Tutum-car phones.'

'Hilarious. Now piss-off.'

'What happened?'

'It got wet.'

Patrick glanced out of the office window to see what the weather was doing.

'It's not raining.'

Jack ignored him, hoping he'd take the hint and bugger off.

'So how did it get wet then? Knock a drink over?'

'It got splashed in the toilet,' said Jack fending off the interrogation with a half-truth.

'Did you switch it off?'

Jack looked up at him quizzically.

'If it's wet – durrrh!' Patrick said smirking. 'You don't want the power on – short circuit – phone is no more – bye-bye – yes.' As he turned away, he added, 'I just hope someone doesn't call you in the next few minutes.'

Jack hadn't considered that possibility, but he certainly wasn't going to give Patrick – the only man still to think that multi-coloured hooped Tank-Tops combined with a slap-headed, comb-over hairstyle was bang on-trend – the satisfaction of knowing it.

'Course I have.' Jack jumped out of his seat and grabbed the phone. 'Got to get rid of this bog paper.'

With some urgency he strode across the open plan office to the staff kitchenette.

Amy, one of the document production specialists, which were once plain old secretaries back in the day, was there making a cup of coffee. Her habitual fondness for short skirts and tight tops were a daily feast for the eye, but today Jack was too preoccupied in rescuing his prized possession.

'Hi, Jack. Do you want a drink?'

'No. I've got to sort this out.'

'What is it?'

'Phone.'

Amy seemed to accept the curt explanation and departed with her coffee.

Jack peeled away the soggy paper and tossed it in the bin. The battery cover still had a damp sheen around the edge. He prized the back plate off and was about to remove the battery pack when the text-alert tone sounded. The surprise nearly caused him to drop the accursed thing. He frantically wrestled with the battery, but the phone bleeped to say it had received a message before he finally managed to hook a fingernail underneath the power supply and pull it out.

His relief turned to anger. He knew instantly who had stitched him up and had deliberately tried to blow a circuit by sending a message – Patrick. And Jack fully intended to let his feelings be known on the matter. That phone had cost him nearly three-hundred quid and having a twat like Patrick try to wreck it was totally out of order.

He stormed through to the accounts section.

'You think you're funny, don't you.'

Patrick stared up at him with genuine surprise. 'What are you on about?'

'You know perfectly well.'

'What?'

'My phone – you sent a text – deliberately to bugger it up.'

'Wha–at! I didn't – honest.'

'So it was a coincidence then,' Jack said sarcastically.

'I haven't even got your number.'

'Yeh, whatever. If this is ruined because of you . . .' Jack growled, leaving the terrible retribution in store hanging in the air, mainly because at that moment he couldn't actually think of a suitably dire punishment that wouldn't get him sacked or arrested.

Still seething, Jack returned to his workstation and stared contemplatively at the computer screen. How long should he leave it to dry out before using it? He scrutinised exposed innards of the phone looking for evidence of residual moisture. There didn't appear to be any, but it would have only taken the tiniest drop to fizz a component and make the phone history. He was tempted to put the battery back in and give it a go, but then he had another idea – a brilliant one at that. He bounced out of his seat to head for the toilet again – this time to take advantage of the recently installed super-powerful Dyson Airblade hand dryer. His line manager, Paula spotted him.

'Jack, where are you off to? Are we going to get any work out of you today?'

Jack held up a hand and rubbed his stomach with the other. 'Give me five. Bit of a gippy tummy. Curry last night.'

Paula – a plump spinster of the parish, who lived alone with her cat; a large framed picture of which was unsurprisingly to be found sitting in a prominent position on her desk – tutted. The picture of her bloated feline also doubled as her computer wallpaper and Facebook profile photo demonstrating not only her devotion to the mangy creature, but also how truly sad she really was.

'I'll need that report by lunchtime without fail.'

There was plenty of time for Jack to prepare the sales report and at that moment restoring his phone was his greater priority over some arbitrary, not really urgent, other than someone throwing-their-weight-around, dead-line. Anyway he hadn't lied as such – he had had a curry last night – only that his stomach was fine – it was the closest thing to cast iron to be fashioned out of organic material.

The Airblade lived up to its hype. Such was the power of the hand dryer that it caused the skin on the back of his hands to ripple from the jet blast. Having ensured all parts of the phone had been adequately exposed to the hurricane, Jack took a deep breath and slotted the battery back inside. He popped the back cover on and nervously hit the operate button.

It normally took a few seconds to respond and for the phone to come to life. Perhaps it only was a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity before the start up screen appeared. People say when an anxiety is alleviated that: 'They breathed a sigh of relief,' but Jack really did, long and hard, several times over.

The little envelope at the top of the screen reminded him of Patrick's stupid prank. He opened the text expecting something pathetic like: I told U 2 turn it off, but it wasn't.

It simply said: I'm leaving you. Goodbye Harry

So who the hell was poor old dumped Harry? He checked caller ID, but it was 'Unknown'.

'At least it works,' he muttered to himself.

Jack strolled back into the office a man at a greater ease with the world. Even with Paula being on his case yet again the moment he reappeared didn't piss him off as much as it normally would.

'Jack, I need that report.'

'Ten minutes.'

'Five!'

Jack dropped into his swivel chair, but seeing as he was on the boss's radar he resisted the urge to do a couple of 360 rotations by way of a playful preliminary to the mind-numbing chore.

He opened Excel and fed in the numbers from the pile of reports on his desk. It was boredom personified, and not what he spent three years at college for.

'Get a degree,' they said and the world would be his oyster they said. So he got a degree – a 2.2 in Media Studies. Did a world of televisual fame and fortune open up for him? No. Left with thirty grand's worth of student debt and the closest his job as sales administrator in Castle Homes – A Housebuilder of Distinction got him to the creative arts was producing an occasional PowerPoint presentation for the Board.

Fifteen minutes later he sent over to Paula the completed report with the latest sales figures for each of their new home developments. There was no email in return acknowledging a job well done. He wouldn't have expected one even if he had flashed the report over instantly. Common courtesy was the first victim of the company's new strive towards efficiency in the workplace.

A determined bit of clock-watching finally willed the sluggish hands of the office clock to one. Most people ate at their desks checking emails between bites of their lunch perhaps in the belief such apparent devotion to their job earned them a few brownie points with the management. Jack wasn't in the business of accruing brownie points and often didn't bother to eat either, but he always made a point of taking his full hour's break away from the office.

As Castle Homes head office was situated on a drab out of town business park, which being a car ride from anywhere, meant there was nowhere close by to buoy his dispirited soul for that golden hour of freedom. There wasn't even a local shop within walking distance and, without a thought to the hundreds of workers confined in their offices, not single outside bench had been provided for anyone just to sit and take in the air.

Due to the uninspiring surroundings, his phone had become his lifeline to while away his sixty-minute reprieve from the shackles of his desk.

Jack slipped into his regular spot – a recessed doorway on a vacant office building. He pulled the phone from his pocket relieved once more to discover it was still working. He tapped on the icon to open his personal emails. There was one from a job recruitment site. He opened it with little enthusiasm; he had long since given up on finding the perfect job that he and he alone was nailed-on for. Yet more out of curiosity than expectation, he inevitably glanced at what was newly posted. It actually amused him to see how far wide of the mark the advertised role was from the one he had quite clearly inputted: Media Manager (for which he believed himself amply qualified).

Today's red hot opportunity within the 'Media' apparently was for a trainee manager within the McDonalds fast-track graduate scheme – starting salary £20,000. It was more than he was on with Castle Homes, but the thought of becoming a burger-flipper, albeit one with a managerial role was deeply depressing, as was the website's seeming inability to anything like correctly filter his quite specific requirements.

He checked his Facebook page to see what his pals were up to. His mate, Kelvin had posted pictures from his holiday in Mexico. He had to admit Cancun did look pretty cool. He gave the post a 'thumbs up' and sent a comment: "Lucky bastard!"

Within seconds the message alert tone trilled.

'Blimey, he's on it,' Jack thought.

He opened the text: 2 – 0 against the Spurs. Up the Happy Hammers. Your team's shite.

Jack smiled. He wasn't into football, so it definitely wasn't something Kelvin would text him. Jack didn't understand how, but it must have been another message for that loser Harry, whoever he was. Harry's luck wasn't improving either. First he was dumped and now his team had lost. Harry will probably get home and find his dog has run out on him.

There was no number listed at the bottom of the text. Jack checked the call records, but the number didn't appear there either. He shrugged it off as a glitch in the system.

Timing his return from lunch down almost to the second, he returned to his desk. Patrick floated by the moment his backside touched the seat.

'How's the phone?'

It was intended for anyone in the office who cared to listen to be a concerned enquiry, but the gloating undertone gave it away as the snide remark he would have expected from that dipstick.

'Fine,' said Jack then vaguely recalled that Patrick was a Tottenham supporter. 'I see you got beat by West Ham,' he added as a calculated dig back.

Patrick stopped and swivelled round. 'West Ham?'

'Yeh, two – nil.'

Patrick looked at him quizzically. 'What are you talking about?'

At this point Jack was on shaky ground. His lack of interest in football meant he knew precious little about it. He had no idea if the text related to a Premiership league match, a cup game or something European. If challenged he would struggle.

'I heard they lost.'

'Well you're wrong,' snorted Patrick. 'For your information they haven't played each other so far this season. And I expect when they do, if anything, it'll be two – nil to the Spurs. Furthermore, Spurs are at home to your mob on the 5th of November and trust me the fireworks won't be coming from the Hammers.'

With that Patrick spun round with a look of smug self-satisfaction and strode off.

Nothing pissed Jack off more than Patrick getting one over him. Determined to prove him wrong, he Googled the latest results. He punched in: West Ham 2 v Tottenham 0

The first half-a-dozen search results related to a game two seasons ago in May. Jack narrowed down the search criteria: 'West Ham 2 Tottenham 0 - September 2019'

Plenty of results, but not unlike the recruitment site, Google's search engine wilfully ignored the quite specifically inputted data and returned over three-million hits loosely based on one or any combination of the seven search terms, but nothing that offered any definitive evidence to support the anomalous text.

Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw Paula was watching him. He quickly closed Google and reopened his emails. Surfing the Net was deeply frowned upon unless it was explicitly work related.

All new starters at Castle Homes were warned that the in-house IT guys monitored every click of the mouse, every page viewed and every site visited. Anything remotely iffy and they faced instant dismissal. Checking for a football result wasn't iffy, but with Paula on his back, Jack didn't want to give them any more ammunition than they had already to get rid of him – his recent six-month appraisal hadn't been exactly glowing.

Jack thought no more about the weird texts until he got home.

He had been living with his girlfriend for about five-months in a one bedroom rented flat in an inauspicious part of town known locally a 'Beirut'. But it was all they could afford.

Once inside and with the front door locked – very securely locked: Mortise, Yale, bolt and padlock – it was home from home if you don't mind living in a war zone. The flats, which backed onto a main railway line, were almost one-hundred percent investor owned and rented out. Uncared for by the tenants, the management company and the landlord owners in equal measure, it quickly earned a well-deserved reputation as a place to avoid after dark, unless of course obtaining illegal substances, purchasing sexual favours or driving cars around in insanely fast circles was an attraction.

Jack's girlfriend Jill, or JJ as he sometimes called her (Jill Jones) – a neatly traditional alliterative pairing of boy and girl, but one fraught with some unfortunate associations, which, setting the obvious nursery rhyme aside, included male and female ferrets – made it increasingly clear she was unhappy there. The strain on their relationship was beginning to show.

They had been going out for eight months and until they moved in together they had got on fine, seeing each other most nights of the week. It was to be expected that they rowed a bit, mainly over trivial things, little power struggles, which, being so young, neither recognised as such. His dad, a man who habitually viewed life as being a glass half-empty, took delight in warning him from behind his newspaper that going out with someone wasn't the same as living with them – oh, no, not by a long chalk. He spoke as someone who bore the deep scars and disappointments of personal experience.

It was during their first holiday together, two weeks in Rhodes that their relationship truly blossomed in the Greek sun, sea and sand, aided by a considerable amount of sex. It was towards the end of the fortnight, when they stood holding hands on the promenade watching the sunset over the still blue Mediterranean that both realised neither wanted that closeness, that sense of oneness and inseparability to end – for their relationship to go back to how it was before. It was as though they read each other's minds in deciding at that very moment to get a place to live together.

'Get it all in writing.' His father insisted. 'Don't trust anyone.' (Being something of his mantra)

'It's a standard lease.'

'Your deposit – I bet you won't see that again. These people are all con men. They always find an excuse not to give it back.'

Jack shrugged off his father's cynicism. He wouldn't allow his father's contempt for his fellow man to tarnish the bright golden future Jack foresaw for them both once they had their own place.

Soon reality struck.

They still got on well, but very soon she became restlessness, nagging him about how terrible the neighbourhood was and how she never felt really safe there. At first Jack tried to defend the indefensible.

'The flat's not too bad. We haven't been burgled, have we.'

It was an observation unlikely to put her troubled mind at rest. If only he could get a better job with more money they would be able to afford to find a place that wasn't in the arse-end of town. If he earned a lot more he could save enough for a deposit on their own flat – a nice place; a place where Jill would be happy and they could make their life together; Roses around the front door rather than a steel security gate.

Jill was a trainee hairdresser and as such was paid a pittance, so at the present time only he, with his college degree, had the potential to deliver them from the ghetto, but was failing miserably.

Jack normally got back from work before she did, but it didn't inspire him to prepare a lavish meal in anticipation of her homecoming. The inspiration he sought was among the bundle of takeaway menus upon which their diet heavily relied.

She would normally text him once she had parked up in the car park in order that he came out to lead her under escort into the flat. Come rain or shine, day or night it had become a ritual regardless of any true peril, and one that was a continual reminder to Jack of her increasing dissatisfaction with their situation.

While waiting for her summons, Jack toyed with his phone. He checked his emails, Facebook and Googled a couple of job recruitment sites. It startled him when the phone suddenly rang. She was earlier than usual. He didn't even check-out the number before answering.

'Hi – I'll be two seconds.'

After a short pause a man's voice, which sounded far away like an old fashioned long distance call on a landline, said, 'It that Harry?

Jack was thrown for a second having expected Jill.

'Er, no,' he said confused.

'Is that 0–7–9–1–9 – 4–9–4–9–1–5?

'Yes.'

'Is Harry there? Harry Smith?'

'No. I don't know a Harry.'

The caller then rang off. Jack checked the caller ID – 'No Number'.

The Harry phone thing was getting very weird. Then something occurred to him. He had always assumed it couldn't happen – it was impossible, but just maybe the same number had been issued twice or somehow this 'Harry's' number had been redirected to his phone, which would have pissed Jack off no end. He'd had the same mobile number since he was twelve and to have to change it now would be a real bummer letting everyone know. Then another thought popped into his head. It was disturbing enough for him to cry out: 'Shit!'

His phone had been cloned. Some bastard was probably running up a huge bill at Jack's expense.

He had heard of scams in which premium rate numbers are deliberately rung, feeding their grossly inflated cost directly into the scammer's bank account only for the unsuspecting mark to discover a month later when their statement came through.

In something close to panic, he went on the Internet and logged into his phone account. He hardly dared to look as the screen loaded. He fell back in the seat and breathed again. There were no excessive usage charges. Not yet any way. He checked the call records. Nothing stood out as unusual.

Another 'no number' text arrived which was as likely as not for this Harry character. He was seemingly more popular than Jack, but not in a good way. Jack chuckled, taking a moment to speculate on the latest misfortune fast coming Harry's way:

"Your test results are positive – six-months to live."

But it was a results app – a horse race at Kempton Park.

The top pay-out is the 3.05 – a dead heat between The Huntress & Farmers Boy – at odds of a 500 - 1.

Jack wasn't into gambling, or even knew how to fill in a betting slip, but that race would have been worth putting a tenner on.

Casting his mind back to the advent of the 'Harry' thing, it had to be due to the phone getting wet. It had caused crossed wires or a short circuit inside and perhaps this Harry guy's phone had an almost identical number, perhaps one digit different to his and that's why these calls and texts were diverting to him. He racked his brains – had the caller definitely repeated his own number back to him? He replayed the conversation in his head – it sounded like his own number, but he could have misheard, possibly, maybe.

His phone rang again. This time it was Jill. He dutifully donned his shoes to go over the top into hell-fire corner, a.k.a. the car park, and dutifully led her to safety inside.

He didn't mention the phone business as she tended to worry about things like that – 'dodgy phone calls' as she called them. Most people got pissed off by PPI calls – not Jill, with her it was instant paranoia – how did they get her number! She couldn't accept that it was just a robot randomly dialling until it got a hit – she believed she had been specifically targeted and every moment she was on the phone the evil wrongdoers were downloading her detailed personal information from its electronic memory to fleece her accounts or using her identity for nefarious means.

With no more unusual activity on the phone that night or all of the next day, Jack assumed whatever component within the electronics that had caused the malfunction had finally sorted itself out. There was almost a sense of disappointment about that. He could no longer indulge in a little schardenfreude at Harry's expense. The guy was obviously a total loser and the caller last night certainly wasn't a mate calling for a chat, more like someone chasing an unpaid debt.

Jack was driving home from another monumentally boring day at work, when his phone rang. He had no qualms about picking it up and answering it – illegally. When cupped in his left hand to his ear it was practically invisible, so he gambled that he could bluff it out even if he was pulled by the old bill. 'Just scratching my ear, officer.'

'Yello,' he sang out cheerfully expecting Jill.

'WHERE'S MY MONEY, YOU FU . . .!!'

Jack wrenched the phone from his ear and nearly lost control of the car. Even holding the phone at arm's length it sounded like it was on speaker.

'TOMORROW! If I don't get my money tomorrow – YOUR A DEAD MAN!'

Jack fumbled in panic to hit the disconnect button. Concentrating on keeping the car on the black stuff had momentarily taken a back seat as nearly did he when he careered onto the pavement and narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a concrete lamp post. The pedestrians passing by weren't too impressed either, chuntering and shaking their heads. Apart from the fact that he was hanging over the kerb at a precarious angle with just one wheel on the road, Jack gave them a withering, 'So what's your problem?' glare back.

Having seen off the disgruntled local peasantry, Jack grabbed the phone hardly daring to see who the hell had called – 'No Number'. With his heart racing and hands trembling, he took deep breaths to steady his nerves and rationalise the situation. Apart from his student loan, he didn't owe anyone a bean. He couldn't imagine the Student Loan Co. getting that uptight about the tardy repayment of his debt, so the terrifying outburst must have been directed at poor old Harry Smith. Boy, that guy's life's is one serious crock of shit.

Having calmed down, Jack's thoughts turned to the caller's intended recipient. He sincerely hoped Harry's calls were getting through to him or he would have quite a shock coming when Mr Angry turned up on his doorstep, rips his arm off and beats him over the head with the thick end.

While still parked, not only illegally, but also lamentably as though the car had been hastily abandoned after a police chase, he punched in his own number. Under normal circumstances it should be engaged, but just maybe it might just get through to this Harry character. It was an engaged tone. Jack's finger hovered over the keypad – perhaps a text would do it. Then what should he say. How could he subtly tell someone they were dead meat if they didn't pay up what's owed to this very angry man, apart from – 'A word to the wise – some guy is going to kill you if he doesn't get his money .'

He punched in his own number again and typed:

Harry – pay up or something serious is going to happen to you. Take this as a warning from a friend.

He hit send.

The little arrow graphic repeatedly scrolled up the screen until it was sent. Jack could do no more than that. Almost instantly his phone trilled to indicate it had received a text – his own text came back to him. It was possible it was duplicated on Harry's phone, if not Harry won't know what's about to hit him – or perhaps he will when Mr Angry knocks on his door carrying a baseball bat.

The event played on his mind all evening. He kept anxiously looking at the phone expecting it at any moment to ring yet again with an enraged psycho man screaming and shouting and threatening all sorts. He hadn't dared tell Jill. She would have had kittens. Jack knew the calls weren't for him – he wasn't the one in trouble – yet just the thought of someone that out of control, that irate, who might conceivably redirect that anger against someone else if he didn't get what he wanted – who might just somehow discover Jack's identity and come after him if for no other reason than being an innocent witness to those declared murderous intentions. There was no logic to this dread, but he couldn't shake it off. As his stomach churned, a quiet voice of reason rationalised his fears, dismissing them as groundless – Jack's anonymity was assured, he wasn't involved, no blame or association with the hostility could be laid at his door – it eased his anxiety for only moments before a panic attack overwhelmed him again.

He had a troubled night sleeping, waking almost every hour. Come the morning, he had arrived at a solution. Not in the least satisfactory, but one that seemed the only option.

He certainly couldn't afford to just chuck the phone away – it had cost a fortune to buy and equally would cost another fortune to replace it. He had insurance, but he feared the company would try and wriggle out of it if he said he had merely lost it – these companies were well used in fraudsters trying to get a replacement for a duff old phone by claiming they had 'left it on a bus'. In the long dark hours before dawn, he had hatched a plan. It was simple, and more importantly, believable. It seriously aggrieved him to do away with his smart new bit of tec, but he would only do so once he had removed the SIM card containing all his personal data for insertion into a spanking new phone courtesy of the stymied insurance company.

'Yes, sir,' said the desk sergeant. 'How can I help you?'

'I've come to report a crime,' Jack said maintaining firm eye contact with the burley policeman.

It's a well-known trait that liars have a trouble looking people in the eye. A simplistic bit of psychology that failed lamentably when applied to renown bull-shitters such as politicians and estate agents, but used in combination with Jack's winsome smile couldn't fail to convince the old bill he was an honest and upright citizen.

'I've been mugged.'

The sergeant raised an eyebrow slowly looking Jack up and down. 'And when did this incident occur?'

'Last night.'

'And where?' the sergeant asked, still not sufficiently motivated by the preliminary details of the dastardly crime to pick up a pen and make some notes.

'Railway Street – they call it Beirut,' Jack added quickly expecting the copper to nod wistfully at yet another reported incident from the neighbourhood's crime capital.

The sergeant's blank expression didn't change.

'Were you hurt?' he said looking Jack up and down again.

'Um, no.' Jack replied slowly, adding brightly, 'I suppose I was lucky.'

'Hmm. So, was anything stolen?'

Jack wasn't a great actor. He had a degree in media studies, but his ambitions lay solely behind the camera. He was aiming for 'distraught', but RADA was unlikely to be on the phone anytime soon.

'My new phone, damn it!'

'I see. Hmm.' The copper finally picked up a pen and opened his log book. 'Can you describe this attacker? Height, colour, size, what he sounded like?'

'It was dark, but it was a big bloke with a knife.'

'A knife – right.'

'Yeah. He just said, "Give us your phone." So I did.'

'Hmm. Did you get a look at his face?'

'No. He had a ski mask on.'

The sergeant looked at Jack long and hard.

'Have you tried phoning the number to see if anyone answers?'

'Er, no.'

'Let's give it a go shall we,' the copper said with a hint of a smirk. 'Number.'

Jack pretended to struggle to recall it to add to the impression he wasn't simply a cocky chancer who had all the answers off pat.

The copper picked up the desk phone and dialled Jack's number. Jack was pretty confident he wouldn't get a reply as his 'stolen' phone was sat in his pocket and turned off.

The copper stood for a moment listening to Jack's amusing outgoing message but clearly failed to appreciate the comedy gold on offer.

'This is Police Sergeant Adams. You are using a stolen phone. This can be returned to the police station and left anonymously in the 'Returned Stolen Items' bin and no further action will be taken against you.'

'Do many people do that?' asked Jack, mustering as much innocence as he could.

'Nah.' The copper found that funny and chuckled to himself. 'Okay, so you need a crime number for the insurance company, I presume. It was insured, I take it? Everyone mugged nowadays always seem to have insurance on what's nicked.'

'Yes,' Jack said vaguely, 'I think I took out insurance. Is that how it works?'

The copper didn't reply. His pen was poised over the log book. 'Phone – make, serial number?

'Galaxy S12. Oh, the serial number? Ah.' Jack tried not to smile at the idea of whipping it out of his pocket and reading the number off the case. 'I don't know, but it has got a distinctive case though – it looks like a house brick.

'House brick,' the copper repeated with a sigh. 'Name.'

'Jack Best.'

'Address . . .'

With the official printed slip confirming the crime number now in his possession, Jack intended to contact the insurance company in the evening. Phoning too hastily might arouse their suspicions as too calculating, and if he had a couple of beers before making the call, he'd be more relaxed – his story was less likely to be questioned or the lie dissected and picked up by the electronic eaves-dropping equipment on the lookout for vocal stress indicative of a fraudster telling porky-pies. First though, he had to dump the evidence.

He had been reluctant to do so before getting the police crime number should they not have played ball. But it had been seriously taking the piss to have it nestling in his pocket at the same time as spinning the yarn to the copper. Fortunately, he'd had the good sense to switch it off before going into the station. Jack smiled, imagining if he hadn't – to explain that would have required a bit of fast talking.

It should have been the easiest thing in the world to dump a small object like that. His first thought was to drop it down a drain through the grating. But as Jack wandered the streets paranoia ate away at him. If someone saw him or it was picked up on CCTV and they put two and two together – it would be, 'Jack, how could you.' from friends and family and, 'You're nicked, old son.' from the police.

He wasn't a natural villain, lacking a devious mind and the requisite self-confidence to be any good at it, but then it came to him – killing two birds with one stone. He was starving. There was a good Chippy on the way back to Beirut.

With the little wooden fork, he ravenously tucked into his large portion of chips even though they were steaming hot and burning his mouth. When he'd scoffed the lot having barely come up for air, the empty polystyrene carton was the perfect sized coffin for burying the evidence. Careful that no one saw him, he slipped the phone inside and closed the lid ensuring the plastic tab clicked into place keeping it shut.

As he continued homeward, frustratingly, he passed not a single litter bin.

'Bloody ridiculous,' he muttered.

He even went the long way that took in a few shops, none of which had the courtesy to install such a simple civic amenity. Then he got a break. The unfamiliar route took him into a street where residents had put out their bin bags for collection – and he saw one that had been left untied. Jack eyed it cautiously, then scanned the area carefully checking if he was being observed. There wasn't a soul about. Why there should have been any hesitation to put his rubbish in with someone else's rubbish, he didn't know, but it was something that just wasn't done – an illogical social convention.

He sidled up to the open bag and swooped down, depositing the incriminating box inside with a single movement. Satisfied with his crafty sleight of hand, he sauntered off.

He'd had a couple of beers as he planned, but he was still nervous, mainly because he hadn't told Jill any of it and he feared her (over) reaction if she found out. She was even more strictly law-abiding than he usually was, and having 'lost' his phone, which is what he intended to tell her, her obligatory distress call from the car park would go unanswered, instantly putting her in a stroppy mood that inevitably lasted all night. Neither would she accept a simple explanation as to what happened and leave it there. The Gestapo had nothing on her interrogation technique, which was basically that of a broken record. But it was essential to keep her on-side and off his back because he needed to borrow her phone to ring the insurance company without her suspiciously earwigging the conversation.

He took up station outside the entrance to the flats to await her arrival. Most of the blocks residents were unknown to him by sight. Paths crossed occasionally, but at best, any acknowledgement was a grunt or more likely no acknowledgement at all. A couple of people walked straight into the building without a sideways glance, while one individual returning home, who looked as though he'd had a bad day selling the 'Big Issue' in full hoodie regalia and accompanied by a growling pit bull pulled along on a piece of string, actually bumped into him seemingly oblivious to Jack's presence. (Jack certainly wasn't going to be the one to point out to that the lease explicitly states no pets are allowed, let alone a shitty, vicious animal like that).

He saw Jill's car pull into the car park. She hadn't looked up and seen him before slotting into the bay. By the time Jack had strolled over, she had already reached for her phone to make the mandatory call for back-up. He tapped on the window surprising her. The look of alarm didn't morph into a smile of affection or appreciation at the recognition of her guardian angel, but an angry scowl.

'What the hell are you doing?'

'I saw you pull in.'

'Why did you want to frighten the bloody life out of me like that. God . . .!'

Jack bit his tongue – no rowing tonight or at least until he'd used her phone.

He was agitated from the moment they entered the flat as he tried to find a way to bring up the subject of the loss of his phone – slip it into the conversation, casually, low key, matter-of-fact.

'What! You are such an idiot! And since when did you go to the library? I bet you didn't even go back to look for it?'

'Of course I did. There was no way it was going to still be there, not round here.'

'Did you ask at the counter?'

'It was probably them who nicked it.'

Jack seized his opportunity during the lull in the recriminations.

'I need to phone the insurance company – can I borrow yours?'

'Are you sure the policy covers idiots?'

'I got the clause specially added to the cover.' Jack was proud of himself for his restraint and having a witty come back to boot. Normally a full-blown row would have ensued at that point, but not before he had made the call.

'I want pizza tonight,' Jill said tartly.

She knew he disliked pizza – one of the few traditional fast foods he did hate – but it was to be his penance.

The call to the insurance company went fine. He didn't hesitate or deviate from his story. The claims adviser was most sympathetic – she actually made Jack feel guilty with her gentle compassion, sharing in his pain as he recounted the terror of the fictional knife attack. Both were nearly in tears by the end of the call.

The upshot was that the insurance company agreed immediately to replace the 'stolen' phone with the latest model, which was a notch-up even from his old one and barely a month since that original version had been launched. They said it would arrive within a week.

A week at work without his phone to relive the tedium during breaks and down time was a grim prospect, but it was tempered by the excitement of the expected replacement. It also gave him time to work out an explanation as to how he managed to retain his original number without revealing he'd removed the sim card (why?) before the phone was 'lost'. Special dispensation by the network provider for a valued customer? He didn't know if a provider would ever do that, then again, no one else would either. It did occur to him also that the 'Harry' issue with the phone wasn't down to the hardware, but was a glitch on the sim card, if so, it defeated the whole enterprise. He had an anxious to wait to find out.

It was an extraordinarily long week at work. As a child of the new millennia, the distraction offered by phone technology was a true addiction and not having one for a whole 98 hours produced as much the same physical withdrawal symptoms as going cold-turkey on hard drugs. He was listless and irritable – unable to sit still or concentrate – he lost his appetite. He fidgeted endlessly, drumming his fingers and basically didn't know what to do with himself. Only when the slim parcel was delivered on Saturday morning did the symptoms disappear – or more precisely, after he had danced about the place like a hyper-active child on Christmas morning.

He immediately put it on charge and for the next hour wore a furrow in the carpet going back and forth to check the progress. Although not fully charged, he could wait no longer. He popped the back off and inserted the sim.

'Right, here we go.'

He pressed the 'On' button. Start-up was much faster than his previous model and within moment the phone was ready. He opened 'Contacts' and there they were all the old names and numbers. The sight of them brought a smile to his face. It then the text notification bleeped. That was the real test. If he and Harry were still connected via the sim, he had to accept the inevitable and switch to the new card supplied with the phone and all the ensuing aggravation that would cause.

The new texts were all for him. Even the previous texts in the Inbox for Harry had gone. Jack punched the air. A right result.

Jill, nor anyone else queried the discrepancy over retaining his original number and soon thoughts of pulling off his 'perfect crime' receded, overtaken by the mundanity of life: work really getting him down – more rows with Jill, usually about nothing, their motivation a thinly disguised commentary on their circumstances – never having quite enough money to do what he wanted etc.

Jack's search for a new, better paid job took on a far greater urgency, but no fresh opportunities opened up for him. He was close to despair as he saw a break-up looming – one flaming row away from her packing her bags. Work-wise, he even applied for promotion within Castle Homes, but was told the post had been filled even when he knew it wasn't.

As a treat, he had bought tickets for an organised Guy Fawkes Night firework display in the park on the other side of town. Jill grudgingly agreed to go. It didn't draw them together in mutual appreciation of the aerial spectacle on view. As much as Jack enthused about the 'Ooo –– ahh' inducing sights and sounds, Jill was determined not to be like-wise enthralled – it was all too noisy and too cold.

Driving home in the car, the silence only broken by the radio, the news came on followed by a sports report. Jack's ears pricked up when he heard a football result: West Ham 2 – Tottenham 0

'Wow,' he said under his breath. 'That's weird.'

Jill didn't pick up on his sudden interest in football – something he'd always professed to hate. For Jack, hearing that score brought all the phone business back to him: the texts, the calls and especially what might have happened to their intended recipient, one of life's big-time losers, Harry. Yet it was the football result that played on his mind – a lucky guess by one of Harry's mates? But why send such an unambiguous and definitive text message? As a supporter, you can hope for a result like that, but why state it so categorically three months before the outcome would be known?

A notion was forming in Jack's head – quite ridiculous – but if nothing else for his own amusement he intended to check out.

When he got home, he Googled 'Kempton Park' the horse-racing course. The text relating to the dead heat finish hadn't stated a date, but Jack recalled the names of the two horses involved – The Huntress & Farmers Boy. The website gave a list of the up-coming meeting, but not the runners and riders.

Jack Whatsapp'd his mate Kelvin, who liked a bit of a flutter and asked him when the horses running in each race are declared. Kelvin came back to him – 'Normally about five days beforehand. Why?'

Jack didn't reply. He went onto the Sporting Life website and checked out those race-carded for Kempton in the next couple of days, but neither horse was running. A strange obsession overtook him that had him Googling both The Huntress & Farmers Boy, race horses that very much existed, for any indication when they will be running and importantly, running together in the same race at Kempton – although by that stage, Jack would have placed a handsome bet even if they were running in the same race on the moon.

Sitting at his desk at work wasn't exactly the best place to finally discover what he had hoped to see. For a moment he stared incredulously at the screen then forgetting his surroundings and the morgue-like atmosphere in the open plan office engendered by the management, he leapt out of his seat and punched the air with an unrestrained cry of, 'YES!' Jack barely noticed that every pair of eyes in the room were on him as he calmly retook his seat grinning from ear to ear.

At lunchtime tucked away in his door recess, he checked his bank account. It was overdrawn – naturally – but just how much should he risk gambling. After all, it was still a gamble whichever way you looked at it. Someone correctly predicting the score in a football match at that distance in time may have been just super lucky – possibly a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of genius – a tale to dine out on forever – an infinite number of monkeys and an infinite number of typewriters, and Shakespeare, blah, blah, but it also perhaps represented a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Jack. One-hundred pound stake returns an unbelievable fifty thousand. Was that enough? It would be for most people, but if wanted to buy somewhere nice, with local house prices as they were, he'd need an awful more than that knowing the amount of mortgage they could afford. A six-hundred pound bet would return enough to ensure their troubles were over – yet six-hundred pounds meant going well over the overdraft limit. If the bet didn't come in, it was financial meltdown – bills not paid by the bank, including the rent, their cars needing to be powered by thin air and they would be able to buy nothing to eat for two weeks. And how would he explain that to Jill, who would be grabbing her coat and leaving for good as soon as she discovered what he had done.

Now when it came to it, he was losing his nerve. It had all seemed so certain – the gods had smiled upon him with the horse racing tip to end all horse racing tips. By some magical, truly inexplicable process, he had received a life-changing message (well, two) from the future. Jack imagined explaining this to Kelvin, and his reaction.

'Piss off! I think you're losing it, mate.'

If the situation was reversed, his response wouldn't have been dissimilar. He intended to blow six-hundred quid on something that was totally impossible and too mad even to contemplate. It even crossed his mind that the whole thing was a scam. If the scammer sent out enough texts with various combinations of predicted scores in that football match, one was bound to be correct. Yet where was the scam and the money to be made from the horse racing prediction? And how, three months ago, would the scammer have known which horses were running in that precise race. Football scores are one thing, as fixtures are made well in advance, but not horse races, and why choose a dead heat, surely the least likely of all outcomes?

Jack swung to and fro between chancing it and playing safe (not to be made a mug, never to be lived down, and leave them destitute). A true spirit of adventure would grab him – to take life by the balls – only for that spirit to drain away again when a small voice in the back of his head reminded him how ridiculous it was to risk so much – his relationship with Jill, the rent money, the ability to feed themselves – on a text, written by someone he didn't know intended for someone else he didn't know, which had to be a prank wind-up.

As the weekend approached, Jack became increasingly restless, unable to sit still for five-seconds. He fiddled endlessly with his phone. Not actually doing anything with it of a practical nature, but playing with settings, finding things it did that he'd never checked-out before. He skimmed Facebook entries, unable to concentrate on any new notifications, but above all, time and time again he checked the Kempton race card to make sure his pair of horses were still running. In a way he hoped they weren't – one had been withdrawn – because it would relieve him of that impossible decision. Neither had – both were still due to run.

Saturday morning, he called Kelvin.

'How do you put on a bet?'

Kelvin explained. It was the Idiots Guide to gambling, including the nugget, 'You get better odds from the bookies at the course.'

'Much better?'

'Can be.'

That set Jack thinking. Horse racing, as either a spectacle or a means to lose the shirt on your back, had never been an attraction, unless it involved a booze orientated charabanc in the company of like-minded souls – but for the sake of getting better odds it was worth the effort of going to the course. He mentioned it to Jill.

She just looked at him for a moment. 'What? Since when did you like horse racing? Are you mad – we need to go shopping.'

The Saturday supermarket run was a ritual, but not one anticipated with pleasure (any of life's little treats he sought to acquire were summarily ejected from the trolley and firmly placed back on the shelves). Take away fast food was their default position for hearty sustenance, but in between, sensible staples were also needed, duly acquired on a Saturday afternoon (the shop wasn't so busy). It was bordering on heresy to propose veering from that strict tradition.

'I thought it would make a change.'

'You're acting really weird lately.'

'We can go shopping tomorrow.'

'Saturday afternoon is when we go. It's the only time I get off.' (It wasn't true – she didn't work Sundays, but seemingly that didn't count)

'I thought it would be nice.'

'Weird.'

Jack was intimidated by the sights and sounds. Naturally he'd seen horse racing on TV, but witnessing it first hand: the crowds, the noisy hustle and bustle, even the smells were quite over-powering, especially as the responsibility for their six-hundred pounds in his jacket pocket weighing so heavily upon him. Standing alone among the crowd drawn from all walks of life, perhaps including the criminal class, he guarded it closely.

He had drawn the money out the day before with the customary shopping trip, (which won't even take place should he blow the six-hundred quid), skilfully renegotiated into a selfless solo run on Sunday.

He hung back initially, getting the lie of the land and a feel of how it all worked in the betting ring. He watched the mug punters perusing the bookies odds boards looking for the best deal to throw away their money on. There was no shortage of them, observing few returning to collect any winnings. Jack had a desperate fear he'd soon be joining the ranks of the if only's with its resulting catastrophic economic fallout.

The Tannoy announced the next race – the 3.05. Jack's heart missed a beat. This was it, now or never – which, he hadn't yet decided. He felt in his pocket for the wad of cash. He went to pull the bundle out, but as if he was at war with himself – his arm was frozen inside his pocket, unable to move in the grip of two equally determined forces. He thought of the life-changing pay out – three-hundred thousand pounds – not one, not two, but Three! – Hundred! – Thousand! That elation was crushed by the stomach wrenching thought of blowing six-hundred quid on something that was crazy – a message across time – he really was off his head. Strangely, being so absorbed wrestling with the money, he had somehow made his way over to the stand of 'Barney Bundell & Sons'

'Yes, sir.'

Jack suddenly realised where he was. His head snapped up in shock. He did a fair imitation of a goldfish before anything like sound emerged.

The bookie, an older man, presumably the Barney of Barney Bundell & Sons said, 'Do you want to put a bet on, son?'

The words just tumbled out of Jack's mouth. 'Farmers Boy and The Huntress.'

'Each way – 5 to 1.'

'No, a dead heat.'

Barney frowned, perplexed, casting a glance over to the guy making the book.

'Sorry, son, but you do know what a dead heat is?'

Jack assumed it was the same as in any other sport. 'Yeah. What odds you'll give me?'

Barney glanced at his man making the odds who, shrugged and said with a smirk. '500 – 1?'

'Okay.' Jack finally extracted his hand from the pocket clutching the thick wad of cash. 'Six-hundred pounds on that, please.'

Barney's eyes widened. 'Are you sure, son. I don't want to take your money.'

Barney's words and actions were out of kilter as he nearly snatched the cash out of Jack's hand. He handed him his betting slip calling to his bookman, 'Six-hundred pounds – The Huntress and Farmers Boy, dead heat 500 to 1.'

The bet was duly inscribed in the ledger.

'Do I come back here for the money? Have you got enough to pay me?'

'Don't you worry about that, old son.'

Both Barney and his bookman were struggling, and as Jack turned away, they could hold it in no longer. Both erupted in fits of laughter. Jack wanted the ground to open up. What had he done. It was insane.

He couldn't watch the race, secreting himself in a toilet cubicle with his fingers in his ears to ensure he couldn't hear it called either. He checked the time on his phone. It was quarter past three. His race was literally run. He emerged to a hubbub, noisier than he'd experienced after the previous races. The first person he saw, he desperately wanted to ask the result, but was in dread of the answer.

As the man approached Jack, he was shaking his head. 'Well, what do you reckon on that then.'

Jack took a fearful breath. 'What?'

'The result. I reckon I know who won, but it's not down to me.'

Won!

The stranger passed him by without further clarification. Jack felt sick. His world folded in on him and as he wandered outside, momentarily the sights and sounds, the crowd, the race course, nothing existed but the crushing realisation of his stupidity.

Even the Tannoy announcement didn't register until he heard: '. . . is declared a dead heat . . .'

His head snapped up and he grabbed the arm of the person standing nearest to him.

'Which race,' he demanded.

The stranger didn't look overly please at being manhandled, growling, 'The last one, of course. What's your problem?'

Jack had momentarily cast accepted social etiquette aside, i.e., accosting a complete stranger and fiercely hung onto his arm. 'Which horses?'

'Not mine!' the man said shaking him off. 'The Huntress and Farmers Boy.'

Jack's stood open-mouthed in disbelief as his head swam. The man and his little group edged away muttering, 'Another piss-head who can't take his drink.'

Jack didn't hear the comment, he was too preoccupied with getting back to the betting ring before Barney Bundell & Sons did a runner with his winnings. As he approached, it did look suspiciously like Barney & Co were fast shutting up shop.

'Hi,' said Jack, trying to sound casual, as if winning three-hundred grand was an everyday occurrence.

'Oh, hello, son.'

Barney didn't look the same man. He seemed to have aged thirty-years. His face was grey and he looked visibly shrunken – his hands had developed a geriatric tremor – a man whose bleak future now perhaps lay only in a bottle of scotch and a loaded revolver. The bookman at his side was like a shell-shocked soldier standing with a slack-jawed, thousand-yard stare.

'I won.'

'Yes, son. You did.'

Jack hovered expectantly looking to each man in turn.

'So . . .'

Barney turned to his bookman, 'Pay the man.'

'We – we can't – not all of it anyway. We 'ain't got that much cash here.'

'What we got?'

'Ten grand.'

'Give it 'im.'

The bookman pulled open the bookies traditional top-framed leather briefcase, dipped his hand in and began gathering the cash, but had second thoughts. He reclosed the bag and thrust it towards Jack.

'Keep it. We won't be needing it again.'

Jack reluctantly took it. 'So, when . . . ?' His mind was going at a thousand miles-an-hour – were they intent on just walking away and reneging on the bet? What proof did he have that it was made at the odds agreed? Was Barney Bundell good for all that money even if he actually intended to honour Jack's win?

In his anxiety over his six-hundred quid and in pure naivety, Jack hadn't considered the likelihood of Barney having such a huge amount of money on course or if he had, being prepared to part with it.

'And what about . . . ?' Jack wasn't one of these forceful aggressive types – he played fair and expected others to (okay, the little bit of chicanery with the insurance company was a lapse) – so if Barney just walked away now, he had no idea what to do.

'No one will ever say Barney Bundell wasn't an honourable man. It'll clean me out – my retirement is on permanent hold.' Barney pointed to his bookman. 'This guy's getting the sack, but, son, you'll get your money.'

Although Jack was the aggrieved party, he still didn't feel he had the upper hand in the situation.

'When?' he asked meekly.

'By next week.'

Jack did all he could not to blurt out, 'How do I know you won't just disappear into thin air and stiff me out of the money, you two timing bastard?' but instead asked hesitantly, 'What, here?'

'No, son, I won't be back here for a while,' Barney said with a derisive snort. 'Here's my card – call me on Thursday.'

Jack took it, glancing at the details – Barney Blundell & Sons Bookmakers: Established 1976. It gave an email and telephone contact, but no address.

'So . . . ?'

'We'll arrange to meet up and I'll pay you.'

Jack felt powerless to ensure this pledge would be fulfilled and was reluctant to leave.

'Son, be careful with all that money going home.'

Jack smiled glumly sensing he had been stitched-up big time. 'I'll keep this betting slip until . . .'

'Yes, son.'

Jack turned to trudge off.

'Son,' Barney called him back. 'What's your name?'

Jack hesitated. Caution dictated anonymity. 'Me – Harry Smith.'

Although that made him chuckle, Jack walked away with mixed feelings – firstly he had ten whole grand on him, but secondly, the overwhelming feeling that the life-changing sum he was due was unlikely to materialise. Ten grand will go a long way, but it wouldn't get them out of Beirut and into their nice new home.

He sat in his car with the briefcase on his lap, hugging it. It had a heady aroma of money, lots of money and he was loathe to let hold of it and set it aside on the passenger seat. He had visions of sitting at a set of traffic lights and an opportunist thief spotting it, yanking open the passenger door or smashing the window and making off with his treasure trove. His pushed the bag deep into the passenger footwell, threw his coat over it to keep it out of sight and set off home.

'While you've been off enjoying yourself wasting our money, I was nearly arrested. It's lucky for you they know me. You've got to go and sort it out – NOW!'

Jack stood on the threshold. The rosy glow of having a small fortune in his possession instantly vanished under the onslaught.

'What?' he stammered.

'The petrol station – I filled up and my card was rejected. I felt like a criminal in front of a whole shop of people. It was so embarrassing. They took my name, my address––'

'Alright, alright, I'll sort it. Which one.'

'God – everyone was staring at me. I didn't know where to put my face. And then––'

Jack held his hand up. 'Right, you said, I'll sort it. Which one?'

'The Esso – they were all looking at me. I'll never be able to in there––'

'I'll sort it!' Jack reversed back out and slammed the front door behind him.

Sat in his car clutching the battered briefcase to his chest, he took a moment to calm down. She did have point – it wouldn't have been pleasant and it would have been highly embarrassing. He'd make it up to her.

Having paid for the petrol and bought her a big bar of chocolate – the petrol station wasn't the ideal place to find an appropriate gift by way of amends – he returned to the flat.

'Sorted,' he announced.

'Not for me though. How can I ever go there––'

'Here y'are' Jack said thrusting the chocolate at her, followed by a £100 in cash from his winnings. 'I won some money.'

'Well, we've got absolutely no money in our account, I checked – we're so overdrawn. What have––'

With a little theatricality, Jack played the ace up his sleeve. 'Look.'

He produced the briefcase hidden beneath his coat. 'Get this,' he said with a flourish, up-ending the case and tipping all the cash onto the floor.

'What?' Jill said incredulously.

'I won.'

'But . . .' Her incredulity turned to a scowl. 'What did you do with our money?'

'I had a lucky bet – an investment.'

'You could have lost, you idiot!'

Jack stooped down and threw a pile of money in the air, watching it flutter down.

'Well, I didn't, and there could be more from where that came from.'

'More?'

'They didn't have enough to pay me.'

'How much?'

Jack suddenly became reticent to manage her expectations. He had no guarantee there would be more.

'They need to work it out.'

'I don't know how you could have done that – risk all our money! And made me look a fool.'

Jack bit his tongue. There was just no pleasing some people. 'I'll go in late to work Monday to pay it into the bank first thing.'

'Perhaps I need to go. Otherwise you might be tempted to bet it all on something else on the way.'

'You can't carry all that money around – perhaps we'll both go.'

Having paid the money into the bank – the cashier eying them suspiciously and secretly conferring with the manager over the huge cash deposit – Jack finally relaxed. He had had nearly no sleep for the last two night worrying the cash might be snatched by a burglar – literally from under his nose. That he had put the cash-stuffed briefcase under his pillow, and it being hard and stinking the bedroom out with the accumulated years of much handled bank notes, was as much the cause of his insomnia as was his anxiety over it being nicked.

She wasn't easily going to let him forget the awkward issue at the petrol station, but the reality of becoming suddenly unimpoverished raised her spirits. Seemingly there was now an extensive array of urgently needed fashion items and clothing to be acquired, expensive make-ups to be bought and lavish holidays to be booked. As for Jack, being flush with money in the bank for once was great, but the real prize – the remaining two-hundred and ninety grand – was still as far away as ever – like a crock of gold at the end of a rainbow and perhaps just as unattainable.

Although the cash had been deposited, the betting slip hadn't left his side for a moment. It was the only tangible link to the fortune that was rightly his. Finally Thursday came. He made the decision to call during his lunch hour – it wasn't ideal to conduct such a life-changing negotiation stood in an office block doorway at the mercy of the elements, but he had read somewhere that you can be more assertive when standing up as opposed to slumped in a chair – and Jack needed all the help he could get.

'Typical,' he muttered to himself, looking outside at the rain lashing against the windows. The car it had to be, sat inside, therefore immediately putting him at a disadvantage.

For once, he was counter-clock watching – willing the hands not reach one o'clock. It should have been like contacting Camelot to claim your prize on a lottery ticket, but he felt more like Oliver humbly requesting more porridge and likely to be responded to in much the same way. He tried to look on the bright side – he had ten grand in the bank that he'd never had before or was ever likely to, but the goal – a better life with Jill – to escape from Beirut – was still just a distant dream.

Time ticked away in the car. He had sat there for over twenty-minutes with a finger poised over 'call'. In his head, he had practiced his opening gambit – no nonsense preliminaries, straight to business: 'Where and when do I collect my money – today!'

That'll make them realise he isn't to be messed with. He took a deep intake of breath and hit 'call'.

Within moments a continuous unobtainable tone came back at him. Jack checked the number on Barney Bundell's business card and redialled. It resulted in the same unobtainable tone. Jack checked and double checked the number, slowly and carefully entering the digits – unobtainable.

Jack felt sick – stitched up.

For the first time ever, Jack rushed back from lunch early. He leapt on the computer and from the business card punched in Barney Bundell's email address.

Subject: Dead Heat at Kempton Park – Payout

Hi Barney – there seems to be a problem with your phone.

Contact me urgently

Then Jack hesitated – how should he sign it off? Jack Best or Harry Smith? It had been a throwaway line at the course, a silly joke for his own amusement, but Jack felt uneasy continuing the deception, but he had little choice. Barney might be knocking on a bit, but he was unlikely to forget the name of someone who had so totally cleaned him out.

Cheers

Harry Smith

Jack added 'Request Read Receipt' and hit Send.

He sat staring at the screen in a despondent daze. Only two words came into his head: Stitch-Up. He was a mug to let them get away with it – but what else could he have done? And more importantly, what can he do now – call the police?

He did a Google search on 'Barney Bundell'. There were Facebook listings for the name (but Facebook was one of the sites specifically barred from use in the office at Castle Homes – A Housebuilder of Distinction). He could have used his smart phone to trawl the site, but with just a few minutes left before he was due to restart work, a detailed hunt for Barney – two-timing – Bundell would have to wait until he got home. He quickly scrolled down the Google page. There were a couple of other entries, but none referred to Barney Bundell & Sons - Bookmakers.

Jack got through his work like an automaton, while inside his mind veered between extremes: one of upbeat reflection – ten whole grand in the bank which he had had to do nothing for – and fury that he had been had over, and the life-changing sum for his and Jill's future had been snatched from his grasp.

During the evening, he was preoccupied with searching the internet for his Barney – Bastard – Bundell, yet it fail to yield any information on the character or his business – it was as though the man didn't exist. It dawned on Jack that Barney Bundell was the bookies trading name – his true identity protected, perhaps for this very circumstance. Neither had he had an acknowledgement that Barney had read his email. Jack had to wait until he was back at work to send a stronger-worded follow-up as coming from his personal – jack.best@ – email address would only add confusion. He sent it at work next day, but still got nothing back.

A week past and Jack had resigned himself to being only ten-thousand pounds better off. He even took some comfort in reflecting on Harry Smith's turbulent life by comparison, and how the racing tip of all time could have dragged him out of the mire. But once a loser, always a loser! Jack also reflected on the (unnecessary?) disposal of his original phone – killing the goose that laid the golden egg – and what other texted gems sent from the future he might have earned massive rewards from. But that was done and he should be happy with his lot – then again, if he ever saw Barney Bundell again . . .

Careful to ensure Paula was away from his desk, to keep abreast of world news, well, celeb goss anyway, Jack opened the Bing search engine. He scrolled across the clickbait news headlines, ignoring the political crap, to find any juicy snippets he ought to be in the loop of when a picture jumped out at him, accompanied by the heading: Honest Bookmaker Seeks Mystery Punter.

There was a mugshot of Barney Bundell holding open a briefcase stuffed with cash. Jack clicked onto the story. He swore as the item took an age to load, the usual ton of advertising bollocks taking priority. Finally, he was able to get to the story. Barney Bundell wanted to honour the pay-out that was due to Harry Smith, but the mystery punter hasn't come forward . . .

Jack fell back in his seat hardly daring to believe the money could still become a reality. A more cynical thought entered his head: Unsurprisingly, the mystery punter hasn't come forward because the, oh so, honourable Barney Bundell had given totally duff contact details. But this was Jack's chance. In the full glare of publicity, Barney could hardly renege on the deal now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paula had returned to her desk and it didn't take long for her to be on his case.

'That report, Jack.'

'Yep. I'm on it.'

Carefully positioning himself to screen his internet activity from her watchful gaze, he discretely obtained the telephone number of the newspaper, which was the source of the story, the Sun. Grabbing his phone, he jumped out of his seat and darted towards the toilets. Paul watched him all the way with an disapproving scowl.

Sitting in a toilet cubicle, he called the number. It was briskly answered. Normally Jack was slick and witty on the phone with an easy charm, but today he stumbled over his words in a mish-mash of utterances that barely made any sense – to himself included. With a level of patience that was commendable, the receptionist picked the essential bones out of his enquiry and put him through to the features section.

Jack took a deep breath and launched into yet another blundering exchange that was cut short with a brusque, 'You're the sixth, Harry Smith we've had today.'

'I'm Harry Smith.'

'They all said that.'

'I am Harry Smith,' Jack insisted, but wavered. It was turning into a scene from Sparticus, and it didn't help that he wasn't really Harry Smith either. 'I've got the betting slip.'

'They all said that too. But most importantly, the real Harry Smith has come forward and has received his winnings from Mr Bundell yesterday.'

'Yesterday! But . . .' Jack sat speechless for a few seconds processing the information, the reality biting.

'Who claimed it!' demanded Jack.

'Who'd you think – Harry Smith, durr-brain', That the features editor didn't actually utter the insult was to his credit, but it was implicit in the sarcastic retort.

Jack spent the remainder of the afternoon in a daze, a festering resentment growing into a furious rage. He couldn't believe at one stage he had even felt pity for that bastard, Harry Smith (assuming of course it was same guy). And what about Barney Bundell, was he 'effin blind or something. Not that Jack had any idea what Harry Smith looked like, but unless he was a long lost twin brother, that silly old sod, Barney should have known the bogus claimant was a different person. Then again, perhaps it was a scam – yeah, that was it, he and this Harry Smith were in it together. The winnings are seemingly honoured, so Barney Bundell & Sons can proudly proclaim their virtuous business practice, yet secretly they are not out of pocket by a cool three-hundred grand – stitched-up like a kipper.

Jack sat morosely watching TV, but not really watching it, while Jill bounced around the flat, her spirits buoyed by their windfall. He ignored it when her phone rang. She stopped skipping around the place full of the joys of spring and picked it up.

'Oh, okay. Yes, he's here. I'll just pass you over.'

Jack swung round. Who would call him on her phone?

'Hello,' he said hesitantly.

'Jack Best?'

'Yeah, that's me,' Jack said trying to place the familiar voice.

'This Sergeant Adams at the local nick.'

Jack froze. What did he want?

'I have some good news.'

'What?' Jack asked cautiously.

'We found your phone.'

'Really?'

'We'd like you to come to the station to identify it.'

'The station – right, okay.' Jack's mind was doing overtime – How could they have found it? – Will the insurance company be informed? – His spanking new phone might have to go back? – Worse, would forensics reveal his fingerprints on the chip carton?

'This evening?' suggested the copper.

'Oh, I . . .' Jack needed to stall them. He had to recall the exact details of the yarn he spun before going to the station – for that he needed more time. 'Look, I can't drive, I've had a couple of drinks. What about tomorrow when I finish work?'

Jill glanced at him puzzled, aware he hadn't had a drop all night.

'No problem, sir. We'll send a squad car to pick you up. Twenty minutes?'

'Yes, I suppose. Okay.' Damn.

He handed Jill the phone. 'They're picking me up in twenty minutes.'

Jill wasn't the only one to be perplexed by the civic generosity of the Constabulary, but Jack sensed a darker motive afoot.

'Thank you for coming, Mr Best. Would you like to come this way.'

If Jack was concerned on the journey to the police station, his fears grew as he was led to an interview room by a detective sergeant and not his old sparring partner Sergeant Adams. Surely, a simple ID and handover with perhaps a form or two to be signed was the procedure for returning stolen goods, not the involvement of detectives, unless . . .

'Take a seat. My name's Detective Sergeant James Burton.' Burton gestured for Jack to sit then pointed to another figure already sat in the room. 'This is Detective Constable Carter.'

Carter made no acknowledgement of the introduction.

Jack slowly sat down. 'Brilliant – you found my phone,' he said attempting to sound overjoyed at its recovery. RADA was still unlikely to be beating a path to his door.

Burton's unreadable expression didn't change. The detective sergeant had an unnerving stillness about him as though in freeze-frame. The intensity of his motionless silence was overwhelming and Jack used all his willpower not to fill the void with babble – babble that might just talk himself into trouble.

'So . . .'

Burton still didn't speak, but from a desk drawer produced an evidence bag and through the clear plastic, Jack saw inside his distinctive old brick-like phone.

'Great – it looks like mine.'

'Yes, we thought so too.' The detective sat down and fixed Jack with a probing stare. Silence filled the room again.

Jack offered a flicker of a smile. 'Do I have to sign something?'

'Not yet.' Detective Burton leant back in his chair and with a sudden change of manner asked casually, 'How long have you known Harry Smith?'

Jack wasn't a poker player. His jaw dropped open with a patently false reflex denial. 'I – I don't.'

'So, how is it we found your phone at his address?'

'I – I don't know.' Jack genuinely didn't understand.

'When's the last time you saw Harry?'

'I haven't.'

'Haven't, what?'

'I don't know him.'

'Jack, you'd best tell us what happened. You're only making it harder for yourself.'

Jack was reeling, but not yet KO'd. 'It must have been him who stole it from me.'

The detective went into freeze-frame mode again irresistibly forcing Jack to carry on spluttering out his concocted version of events.

'Yeah, that had to be what happened. You caught this geezer then – banged to rights is he? People like that––'

'Jack,' Burton said suddenly, cutting across him. 'Harry Smith is dead.'

'Oh . . .'

'And Jack, we think you might have had something to do with it.'

'What! Dead, how? No.'

'Jack, tell us what happened.'

'What – dead. Really?'

Burton stood up. Whether it was mandatory to do so or it just carried more authority being on his feet, but without any preamble the detective stood up and read Jack his rights.

Jack stared up horror-struck, instantly abandoning his right to remain silent. 'You can't be serious!'

'Murder is a serious matter, Jack.'

'Hey, wait, I don't know this bloke. Why––'

Burton cut him short by pointedly placing Jack's phone in the middle of the desk.

'From you, I believe.'

Jack leant forward to see what was on the phone. A text was showing.

'Harry – pay up or something serious is going to happen to you. Take this as a warning from a friend.'

Jack fell back in the chair, his head spinning.

'Yes, but . . . I . . .'

'A squabble over money was it, Jack? A drug deal gone wrong? How long have you been dealing? Was Harry Smith your supplier?'

'No, you don't understand – it was someone else who was after him.'

'So you do know Harry Smith.'

'No.'

'But you admit you've been dealing drugs.'

'No.'

'Jack, you're trying my patience. Just tell us what happened – get it off your chest – you'll feel better. Snapped in the heat of the moment – he provoked you beyond breaking point – we all get aggrieved if we believe we've been conned. What was it, eh?'

'I haven't killed anybody.'

'It doesn't have to be this way, Jack. Save yourself the trouble, tell us what happened – you'll tell us in the end – they all do.'

'Look, you won't believe me.'

'Try us. Was it an accident?'

'No. Yes. Sort of – with my phone.'

'You reported it stolen – a mugging. But your friend, Harry Smith seems to have got hold of it – don't you think that's a bit strange?'

'He's not my friend!'

'Business associate then.'

'No.'

'So how do you account for the fact that he is in possession of your phone?'

'Perhaps he was the mugger, or the mugger sold it on to him.'

'So, explain the text?'

'I told you someone else was after him.'

'This is all rather convoluted, Jack. I see a much simpler explanation. He owed you money, for what, drugs, surely not just payment for your 'stolen' phone, and you killed him.'

'No. It must have been the other guy.'

'How could you possibly know that, Jack, if, as you claim, you don't know Harry Smith.'

'My phone got wet.'

Burton went into freeze-frame mode.

Intimidated by the silence, Jack needed to come up with some answers quick.

'It went wrong. His calls diverted to my phone – and, and there was a threatening call, so I decided to warn him. That's all.'

Jack waited for Burton's reaction, but Burton remained on pause.

'Look, I've never killed anybody, well, except on X-box.'

'Jack,' Burton said suddenly reanimated. 'Where were you in the evening of Wednesday 24th, between 8.30 and midnight?'

Jack had to think. Weekdays merged into one with only the weekend standing out when they did something – go to the cinema, meet friends and sometimes eat out, a curry mainly. But Wednesdays were different – that was darts night at the pub. He played in a team. A few regulars who had come together as the White Hart Warriors – all pretty useless and had only one win in the league (a win in the sense that they had been awarded the points after the Royal Oak Rangers were no shows for a match), but importantly he had a hatful of people in the pub to give him an alibi for that night between those times.

'Playing darts,' he said confidently.

'Where?'

Jack explained.

'I see. We will check.'

'No probs.'

'Okay,' Burton said slowly, realising he hadn't got his man banged to rights as he assumed. 'You are still a person of interest in this enquiry. The evidence on this phone is quite damning, as is Harry Smith's possession of it, but for now you are free to leave. Don't think about leaving the country.'

'We've booked a holiday to Greece.'

'Unbook it.'

'Is okay to go back to Beirut though?'

Detective Sergeant Burton didn't appreciate Jack's sparkling wit, which may or may not have accounted for the fact that he had to make his own way home – no return trip courtesy of a Constabulary vehicle.

'What are you going to do with your new phone – give it back?' Jill's concerned enquiry forced Jack to reveal the police hadn't give him back his old one as it was 'material evidence' in a murder case, not that he had told Jill that.

'I told them to keep it. Donate it to the Widows & Orphans Fund.'

'What about the insurance company – you should tell them.'

'Yeah, I'll give them a call.' Jack had no intention of doing so. His alibi was solid enough as regards the murder, but suspicions might be alerted if the insurance company discovered the circumstances of the 'stolen' phone's recovery.

On that point, Jack racket his brains, imagining every scenario, not least the million to one chance of how the now late Harry Smith came into possession of it. Was Harry Smith a bin man (in modern terminology – a household waste relocation technician) by day and a drug dealer by night, who happened to stumble across the chip carton by accident on his rounds? Had a third party found it and sold it onto him? There are no college courses or careers advice flyers on becoming a drug dealer, but from what Jack understood the standard business model involved the use of multiple mobiles, mostly untraceable pay-as-you-go burner phones, hence, Harry may have snapped up Jack's if offered to him at a knockdown price.

But even so, the shear amazing coincidence almost couldn't be a coincidence at all – fate and all that stuff. Was someone watching over him and Jill lending a helping hand with their financial predicament, directing them towards a win of a lifetime – a guardian angel?

If everyone was assigned a guardian angel to look out for them and nudge them from jeopardy, Jack reckoned Harry Smith's was on holiday.

After the squeaky bum time of 'helping the police with their enquiries', Jack's thoughts once more turned to the two-hundred and ninety grand. Had Barney Bundell genuinely handed over that amount of money to Harry, assuming it was the same Harry? Was that why Harry was murdered? Murdered by Barney – a contract killing, a hitman – to get his money back? If it was, it wasn't very subtle, especially as it was all over the papers. Or perhaps Mr Angry had finally caught up with Harry, perhaps having also seen the article in the Sun?

Jack knew he should let it drop, but he couldn't. He needed to find out a bit more about the dead man – especially how he was murdered – baseball bat, stabbed, shot, mown down in a hit and run, chainsaw (that would have been messily unpleasant for all parties concerned and no doubt the noise would have incurred the wrath of the Neighbourhood Watch) – and where he lived, presuming it was in the immediate vicinity. To that end, Jack went online checking the local newspaper's website to see if they had covered the story. There it was:

Harry Smith, 27, a local business man, murdered.

It was accompanied by a photo of Harry Smith.

Jack studied the image. Harry didn't look like a drug dealer – he was clean shaven with dark hair in an unfussy style and looked absolutely nothing like Jack. (Barney Bundell had to be Mr Magoo to believe he and Harry were one and the same) Jack read the short article, which gave little away beyond naming the street where it occurred. It was a street that vaguely rang a bell with Jack. He Googled a map of the area that highlighted the road. Jack stared at the screen in disbelief. That was impossible. It was the street where he dumped the phone and something told him that the bag of rubbish he dumped it in was Harry Smith's. Wow! That was just insane. How does that work? The mind-blowing coincidences aside, Jack wondered what Harry, the 'local business man' had done with all that cash from Barney Bundell, assuming they weren't in cahoots together. Sensibly paid it into the bank as he and Jill had done or kept it as ready capital to finance his drug operation and move him into the big time? Would the police be aware of his (Jack's) windfall? The death of a known drug dealer would have obviously resulted in a search of their house to find his stash and maybe some cash about the place, but they wouldn't have expected to find nearly three-hundred grand sitting there. And would Harry Smith be dumb enough to keep all that money about the house knowing the police might bust the place at any time or having someone from the shady circles he moved in opt to share in his good fortune? Unless of course that's exactly what happened. Or perhaps not, and his murder was totally unrelated. Dying peacefully in old age and drug dealing didn't go hand in hand. So just maybe the money was still out there – somewhere.

Jack slowly drove down the road – not too slow as to draw attention – but slow enough to rubber-neck the house where the murder took place. It wasn't hard to find. The blue police tape around the front of the property marked it out as did the three floral tributes laid against the garden wall proving at least someone was moved by his passing. Jack drove on intent on finding somewhere to park to return on foot for a closer inspection.

Initially he walked by on the other side of the road, glancing over at the house just long enough to establish there was no one around. He reached the end of the street and stopped to ponder his next move. Expertise on house-breaking and burglary wasn't on his bucket list, so the techniques were sketchy and drawn from TV shows and therefore he had no intention of attempting to put those unreliable methods into practice. Not only that, but the presumed thorough police search of the premises would have discovered the cash anyway. His thoughts then turned to the floral tributes.

Crossing the road, he walked back towards the murder scene. He stooped down and read the cards attached to the bouquets noting with interest who had made the effort:

"Miss you, mate. RIP – Eddie"

"Such a dear boy and such a loss – Love Aunty Joan"

"We built the business together. Chariot Mini Cabs won't be the same without you. Steve"

Obviously, Harry's ex hadn't been inclined to florally express her grief at his passing or too many others come to that. But perhaps there was a clue in those who had. Jack thought he could safely rule out Aunty Joan as having involvement in nefarious deeds. Eddie? Possibly. His business partner, Steve?

Satisfied, Jack strolled back to his car. Steve – business partner or business partner in crime?

Not being of a criminal bent, Jack tried to get into the mind-set of a small-time crook. Where would Jack have hidden the money if he was in the same situation? Buried in the garden? A lock-up? Entrusted it to a friend – his pal, Eddie? In his own situation, would Jack have felt comfortable with handing over a life-changing sum to Kelvin for safekeeping? Sadly, not. He had known Kelvin almost all his life and they were best mates, but with that amount of money at stake, it would strain any loyal friendship, possibly to breaking point. So, if Jack had that sort of cash laying around, he would want to keep a very close eye on it 24/7, not far from his side at all times. Naturally out of sight, but close enough by to ensure it wasn't accidentally discovered while he wasn't around or chanced upon by some thieving bastard. As Jack drove home, that's all he could put his mind to – where would he, hence, Harry hide it?

He hadn't been home long before a call came in for him, on Jill's phone (which instantly didn't bode well).

'Jack, we need you to come to the station. We have more questions we need to ask you.'

Right, okay. When? Uh-huh . . .' Jack handed the phone back to Jill. 'I've just got to pop out.'

'Was that the police again?'

'Yeah,' Jack said with a nervous smile. 'There's a muddle over the phone or something. Won't be long.'

'Take a seat, Jack.'

He slid into a chair while Detective Sergeant Burton remained standing. Detective Constable Carter again was in the corner of the room, almost as if he was a permanent fixture.

'What's going on, Jack?' Burton posed the question then went instantly into freeze-frame.

'With what?'

Burton remained on pause.

'I don't know what you mean.'

Pause.

Inside, Jack was panicking – he must have been spotted outside Harry's house. Suspicious or what! Should he explain about his money? The preposterous bet and Harry claiming to be him and taking his winnings? Jack had a firm alibi for the evening of the event, but if the police were looking for a motive, then three-hundred grand was more than enough. Yet how could he explain taking such an interest in the crime scene without the finger of suspicion pointing at himself?

'Can I have my phone back yet?'

Burton suddenly sat down and leant across the table.

'We know about the money, Jack.' Burton's eyes bored into him to gauge Jack's reaction.

'Money? What money?' Jack cringed inside – he was shit at that feigning innocence stuff.

'Where is it, Jack. We now know why you killed him. One of your underworld contacts was it? A contract killer?'

The only contract killer Jack knew was a mate of his called Trev – it went with the territory as a pest exterminator – but beyond that, any associates within the hard-core criminal fraternity were thin on the ground.

'Are you ready to tell us what happened, Jack? How much did you have to pay to kill him – five-hundred, a thousand? Not a bad returned to get nearly three-hundred grand. So, where' the money now?'

You might well ask, thought Jack. 'I don't know.'

Jack instantly realised he had made a damning admission – that he, Harry and the money were conclusively interlinked.

'Make it easy on yourself – we can search your flat. I'm sure Miss Jones won't take too kindly to that.'

Too right. She'd have packed her bags before they said, 'Police – open up'.

'Look,' Jack said. 'I won some money at the races and Harry Smith claimed it––'

'So you killed him.'

'No. I've never met, Harry. Perhaps the bookie, Mr Bundell had something to do with it? To get his money back.'

'But you agree you had a strong motive – three-hundred thousand is a lot of money.'

'But I didn't know where Harry Smith lived.'

'But your 'stolen' phone was found at his house.'

'Yeah, but . . .'

'And with a with a threatening message sent to him – by you.'

'It wasn't threatening – I was warning him about the other bloke.'

'Jack, we both know there is no 'other bloke' don't we. The sooner you admit it, the sooner we can move on.'

'There's nothing to admit.'

'How long have you known Harry Smith?'

'I don't.'

'How is it, he collected your so-called winnings? Mr Bundell confirms the man who won all that money gave his name as Harry Smith. So who really won all that money – to my mind, it was Harry Smith and you found out and murdered him for it.'

'No. That's not true. I won it, but I said my name was Harry Smith – it was a joke.'

'The only joke here, Jack, is that story.'

'I've still got the betting slip.'

Burton wasn't to be deflected. 'So why choose the name Harry Smith – a bit of a coincidence wouldn't you say?'

'It just came to me.' Jack held his head in his hands unable to believe he had just said that.

'You're in a lot of trouble, Jack. Unless you can give me a better explanation than that, I will need to hold you for further questioning while we broaden our enquiries.'

'I can show you the betting slip – Barney Bundell will confirm it is legit.'

'Have you got it on you?'

'Yes,' Jack said hesitantly. He had carried it everywhere and would be mightily reluctant to part with it, especially as it suited the police for it to disappear, strengthening their case against him. 'I've made copies,' he blurted out, clumsily suggesting they would tamper with evidence to harm his defence.

'Photoshop, Jack. We need the real thing.'

There was a knock and Sergeant Adams poked his head around the door.

'A word.'

Burton got up and left the room.

Jack glanced over to Carter and offered a flicker of a smile. There was no acknowledgement in return from Carter. If a career in the police didn't work out, Carter could have got a job in a shop window or a waxworks. Or maybe, with all the funding cuts, Madame Tussauds had been employed to make-up the shortfall in police manpower. Barring heat-waves, one stood on every corner would go a long way to reduce crime.

Jack checked his watch. Burton had been gone an age.

Finally, he re-entered the room and said briskly, 'Okay, you are free to go.'

Jack didn't know if he was addressing Carter or him.

'What, me?'

'Yes. There's a new line of enquiry.'

'Right.' Jack was confused. 'So . . .'

Burton seemed reluctant to offer further clarification. Finally he said, 'We have a new prime suspect.'

After all the excitement, life returned to normal (-ish). The six-thousand, five-hundred and forty seven quid in the bank (having paid for holidays, a complete new wardrobe of clothes for Jill and a few boys toys for him) was a comforting cushion against the financial strains of the modern world – no longer being one unexpected big bill away from destitution – but Jack never quite let go of the thought of all that money that should have been his.

The story final came out during the trial. Harry, small-time drug dealer, joint owner of Chariot Mini Cabs and compulsive gambler, had been killed by his business partner, Steve. Seemingly, Harry had run up vast debts in the company name to feed his addiction of which Steve was completely unawares until the bailiffs knocked on the door. Steve confronted him, demanding the winnings from Barney Bundell to pay off all the creditors. There was a struggle and in Steve's own words, "He came at me like a man possessed – I had to shoot him."

The prosecution pointed out that unless Harry Smith 'came at him like a man possessed' walking backwards, it was difficult to explain how Harry was shot in the back. Steve's defence was that Harry turned around at the last moment. No one believed him and he got 15 years. As for the disputed cash, it had never come to light.

Jack eventually got his old phone back having been released as part of the evidence following the conviction. He wasn't slow to experiment and see if he received any further 'Harry' texts. Sadly there were none.

Their windfall threatened to dwindle away further when Jack's car died and a replacement urgently needed to be sought.

'Kelvin, I need a new motor. Know anyone selling one cheap in good nick?'

'A mate of mine says they're auctioning off the cabs from that firm where the guy was murdered.'

'Chariot Mini Cabs?'

'That's the mob. Saturday morning. This mate of mine reckons they'll be as cheap as chips – may be a little toppy on the mileage, but they were all regularly serviced. You might want to get down there and check it out.'

Jack wandered among the row of the once mini cabs neatly parked-up awaiting a less tax(i)ing new home. The venue was the local football team's car park, sadly, now lacking financial support from their previous sponsor, the demised Chariot Mini Cabs. In lieu of using their grounds for the auction, some of the cash to be raised was to be earmarked for the team's equipment pledged in the original deal.

Jack wasn't much of a car person – he drove them, but knew precious little about what to look for in a good one. Mileage naturally, tyres obviously and importantly good body work and interior – straight, undented and without nasty scrapes or dings, no tears or signs of wear on the inside – but as for the mechanical side, he hadn't a clue. Some of the cars on offer he ruled out immediately. They may have had a Formula 1 engine, but a rip in the driver's seat or knocked-about alloys were an instant a no-no.

There were three cars, all different makes, that passed the aesthetics test, each had a gaggle of interested parties peering earnestly under the bonnet. Jack would have joined them, but quite frankly he wouldn't of had any idea what he was looking at. He contented himself to sit inside each in turn scouring them for fault and gauging if they felt right. One did – a Ford Mondeo. According to the brochure, it was a 2.0 litre Zetec – guide price £2500.

That was the one to go for – lot 8.

Jack waited patiently for lots 1 to 7 to sold. The auctioneer then announced lot 8 with a brief description as it drove forward stopping among the bidders.

'Excellent specification on this Fond Mondeo – I'll start the bidding at £1500.'

Immediately hands shot up.

'£1600.'

Still plenty of hands.

£1700, £1800, £1900.'

Barely a hand went down.

Jack had set himself a limit - £3000, not a penny more. Even that hurt breaking further into their windfall.

At £2800 only two hands went up. Jack couldn't see who the other bidder was beyond an out-stretched arm waving the auction catalogue.

At £2900, Jack gave himself a pep-talk not to get carried away. He had promised Jill that three grand was the absolute maximum-maximum he would be prepared to spend.

He bid £3000 and held his breath. It seemed like an eternity before the auctioneer said, 'Any advance on £3000, going . . .'

The other bidder was back in. Jack swore under his breath.

'I have £3100, any . . .'

Jack's hand shot up.

'£3200 - £3300.'

His arm had a mind of its own and it bid again. The other bidder came straight back.

'Sold! – and now onto lot 9 . . .'

Jack had just bought a car, estimated value £2500, for five grand. He didn't know how it happened. As the bidding went up and up, Jack felt like an impartial observer watching two desperate bidders slug it out – and now he was five – whole – grand worse off with a high mileage, run of the mill car and very little in the way of savings left in the bank.

He drove home in his new car with sinking feeling in his stomach. It went all right except for some irritating squeaks and rattles, plus some ominous blue puffs of smoke out of the exhaust when he put his foot down. He saw trouble ahead, bigging-up the car to justify its cost. Two thousand above the absolute maximum, not one penny more, figure of three grand was going to be a tough sell.

Worst of all, he didn't know why he competed so fiercely to get it. Was it because it was a challenge – beating the other guy – not letting them win? Jack had never felt that way about anything else before – that desperate need to be top dog. He wasn't into machismo posturing. Like a red mist descending, he had been overtaken by the madness of the auction room.

Jack hadn't really registered it before, but a motor bike had been behind him for quite a while and if his memory wasn't playing tricks, it was since he left the auction. The rider had to be that rare thing – a biker without a death wish, who didn't feel the need to overtake everything in his path regardless of the peril, but hung back a respectful distance steadily going with the flow. Jack thought no more about it.

He steered the car into its parking space back at the flat. He got out and walked around it admiring its saving grace, the good body work. He slotted the key into the boot lid to inspect inside, but it wouldn't turn. He tried the second key he had been given and that wouldn't turn either. Perhaps it needed a jiggle. He jiggled alternate keys for nearly an half-an-hour, but the boot lid resisted all attempts to open.

He swore under his breath. He had bought half a car – half he could use anyway. He stepped back. Logically it was an inanimate object, but never-the-less, Jack believed the car was being wilfully obstinate to spite him, and needed teaching a lesson. He strode purposefully towards the flat in search of a jemmy. Fortunately he couldn't find one and in the time-out looking for something appropriate, he came up with a more sensible strategy. He called the AA. As a member, part of the AA's remit was sorting out keys and locks.

Two hours later the AA man arrived and an hour after that he conceded defeat.

'Sorry, Mr Best, but this is beyond me. It needs a specialist looking at it.'

Jack assumed, wrongly, that the AA man was a specialist in that sort of thing.

'I think you need a Ford main dealer.'

Main Dealer, set alarm bells ringing, being synonymous with rip-off expensive.

'Why won't it open?'

'This isn't a standard lock. It must need a special key. There are some that replacements can only be obtained with the suitable certification. Didn't the previous owner give you any paperwork?'

'I've only just got it. I haven't checked it all out.'

'Best try that first before having to dismantle your car to get it open.'

'Dismantle?'

'If all else fails, they might need to use an angle grinder.'

Jill asked him how his new car was. That he didn't enthuse over it should have told her something – as he should have told her something – the real price he paid. The next time she gets a bank balance it'll smack her between the eyes, immediately followed by her smacking him between the eyes.

In the middle of the night a car alarm went off. The flats were double glazed, but this one was loud enough to wake the dead. Car alarms were going off all the time where they lived – sometimes more than one at the same time and it wasn't a rare thing to see an empty parking space in the morning where a car stood the night before – the owner wandering around in a daze unable to believe that its absence from where they thought they'd left it wasn't just a memory lapse.

After what seemed an eternity at that hour of the night, the deafening alarm stopped, but not five-minutes later it went off again. Jack peered out of the window. The council's thrift in turning off street lights after twelve meant all that was visible were the flashing hazards. Worryingly, they looked close to the bay, if not the bay, where he had parked the Mondeo.

He flung open the window and shouted, 'Oi!!!'

He heard footsteps running away. Within seconds, a motor bike started up, and without even switching on its lights, it roared off down the road. Jack raced to find a coat and shoes. He came down the communal stairway two steps at a time and sprinted into the car park. Not having the presence of mind to grab his phone for its torch app, he was plunged into virtual darkness and had to grope his way towards his car. It was still there. He felt all the way round. No glass smashed, doors still locked (the nifty set of alloys all present and correct). He thought he had dodged a bullet until he got to the rear end. The smooth contours abruptly ended at the rim of the boot lid – now jarringly bent and misshapen from someone having a right go at, yet surprisingly the mangled lid was still firmly shut

'I don't 'effin' believe it!'

Jill was waiting for him when he trudged back in. She don't have to be a mind reader to know there was a problem.

'It hasn't been nicked has it?'

'Someone tried to break in to the boot. Completely knackered the bodywork.'

'It could be worse.'

'No it couldn't,' thought Jack. The bodywork was the best thing about the car.

'You'll need to phone the insurance company and you might need to tell the police.'

Insurance company: Older, high mileage car – write-off value bugger all, certainly nowhere near even half of the five grand he paid.

'It might not be as bad as it seems,' Jack said, knowing full well it was.

And it was. An inspection in daylight confirmed all Jack's fears. The boot lid was only fit for scrap and the body shell housing it not much better. He set off for work. Regularly checking his mirrors for more worrying signs of the blue puffs of smoke, he noticed a motorbike behind him. Not being a 'bike' person, he had no idea of the make or model, but it did look identical to one that had followed him yesterday. Unlike yesterday, this time it was in much closer attendance. The black helmet and dark visor gave no clue as to the rider, but Jack didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to make a connection between the attempted theft last night with the now twice pursuing biker.

Like a smoke screen, the worrying emissions from the exhaust temporarily obscured the trailing motorbike, but when the fog dispersed it was there doggedly keeping station a couple of car lengths behind. The motorbike following him now twice might have been pure coincidence – there had been enough of those recently – but Jack tried accelerating to shake it off. That was the test – would the bike keep pace? It did – Jack was no doubt that he was being tailed.

He was due in work in fifteen-minutes, and would have to leave his car in the company car park unattended and at the mercy of another break-in attempt. Even broad daylight couldn't guarantee its safety.

Jack knew the route to work like the back of his hand, but even so he should have been paying attention as he approached a set of traffic lights. Distracted by what was going on behind him, it was only at the last second he saw the lights had changed to red. Hitting the brakes hard was accompanied by a huge cloud of dense smoke from the exhaust, which undoubtedly accounted for the fact that moments later there was a loud bang as something smashed hard into the back of his car. It jolted him back in his seat at the same time as there was a massive thump on the car roof and the black helmeted head of the motorbike rider appeared hanging down over the windscreen. It wasn't raining and there was no visible evidence of moisture on the glass, but unaccountably the automatic wipers came on and as if playing a game of bat & ball, proceeded to bat the lifeless head back and forth across the windscreen.

The prostrate biker showed signs of reviving. Jack leapt out of the car.

'Are you all right?' Jack asked as the biker, groaning loudly, attempted to peel themselves off the roof.

By now, traffic had stopped and people emerged from their cars to assist. Most did, but some took out phones and began videoing – to help the police in their later enquiries? – live streaming to their YouTube account more like. A couple went into full documentary mode, earnestly commentating on the dramatic scene for the benefit of their internet followers.

Several willing pairs of hands helped the biker off the car roof. One, possibly a devotee of Casualty, urged caution fearing the consequences of moving someone with potential spinal injuries. The biker's active involvement in the rescue seemed to negate those fears. The Casualty aficionado then stepped in and practically wrestled the biker to the ground manhandling them into the recovery position. The biker struggled to get up, but Casualty man was having none of it. 'Once the paramedics are here – okay!'

Jack stepped back from the scene to inspect the damage – no carnage – inflicted upon his car. The front wheel of the motor bike was effectively inside the boot, the lid of which ironically had been finally cajoled into opening by the impact.

I'll be late for work, was his first thought, then he stared down gloomily. He couldn't even get to work, today or any other day now. Situated on the out of town business park, Castle Homes wasn't easily accessible by public transport, requiring from where he lived, at least two changes of buses, which had a notoriously little regard for timetables. And there was the money – he would be lucky to get two grand out of the insurance company and no telling how long before they were prepared to pay up.

Almost mechanically, to restore some sense of natural order, he pulled the motorbike out of the back of his car. It came free minus its front wheel, which remained lodged in the boot. Laying the remainder of the bike down on the road, Jack heard the fast approach of sirens. Within moments emergency service lights were flashing all around. The police quickly took charge.

'Who was the driver of the car?'

Jack reluctantly stepped forward. Under normal circumstances, the blame for a rear end shunt was always placed on the vehicle behind, but the fog of smoke emitted by Jack's car would go a long way towards mitigation and possibly lead to a prosecution.

'Have you got your licence on you?'

Jack produced it from his wallet.

The policeman scrutinised it and said, 'I'll need to take a breath sample.'

Having been breathalysed and found okay, the attention turned to the casualty. Paramedics were in attendance and had sat the biker down on the kerb. Removing the helmet, it came as a shock to discover the motorcyclist wasn't some young tearaway, but a silver-haired lady in her later years.

'What's your name, love,' the paramedic asked.

Still delirious, the woman replied slowly, 'Joan.'

Aunty Joan!

They helped her onto a stretcher.

Absorbed in the activity, nobody had noticed that someone had detached from the concerned onlookers and crept towards Jack's car. Heads immediately turned when the person took off like lightning with a briefcase tucked under their arm. Jack recognised it instantly – it was the case that Barney Bundell had handed over to Harry Smith containing all his money. Jack swung round to take up pursuit, and although the sneak thief was fast, he wasn't very observant. In charging head long across the road to make his escape, the driver of the white van had little chance to avoid him. There was a screech of tyres and a sickening crunch that sent the robber sprawling to the floor while throwing the briefcase high into the air. As the case hit the ground it burst open scattering cash like confetti.

The plight of the elderly biker was instantly forgotten as the onlookers, en-mass took off to gather the booty. There was much pushing and shoving, but within moments the road was picked clean, followed by the scavengers vacating the scene in short order. Jack stood distraught. He had two big handfuls of cash, but it totalled no more than five-hundred pounds out of the three-hundred thousand that was his.

The police were sympathetic, although they did asked a few searching questions regards the cash's provenance, but they said with so many involved, it was impossible to go after the culprits with any chance of getting his money back.

Jack's guardian angel had let him down big-time. While waiting for the insurance company to cough-up enabling him to buy another car for his commute, he had been to the doctor's claiming he had whiplash and was duly signed off work.

Stuck in the flat all day was pretty tedious. There was only so much you can do on social media. In that part of town, it wasn't a place to go out for a pleasant stroll either, not without fear of being genuinely mugged. The only change of pace came was when Jill got home. He took his frustration out on her and she took her anger out on him for blowing all their money. It was loud and acrimonious, but if nothing else it alleviated the boredom.

While searching for something vaguely interesting to watch on YouTube, his phone trilled, yet it wasn't his new, all sing, all dancing one, it was his old brick look-a-like phone. It had received a text. That was somewhat of a surprise as the old phone didn't have a sim card, and as far as Jack was aware, without one, any electronic communication with the outside world can't happen. Intrigued, he opened it.

Last night's winning lottery numbers are . . .

It listed six numbers and the bonus ball, but no date.

'Fu . . .!'

Jack rushed to find a pen should the text somehow self-delete. He noted them down. His heart was beating fast.

'Surely not.'

There was a sudden reality check – perhaps they really were last night's winning numbers. He Googled it. Completely different. He checked previous weeks winning numbers – nothing like them. It was more than common for people to stick with the same numbers week in, week out – believing special family events as in birthdays would ultimately bring them good luck (perhaps not factoring that it excluded half the possible Lotto numbers) – while some believed the impish gods of fortune would punish them should they ever dare change – but Jack now had reason to believe such a strategy might reap a substantial reward.

'You don't normally take an interest in the lottery.'

'I bought a ticket.' Not mentioning that he had set up a standing order.

'Any more money you want to throw away!'

'It's only a couple of quid.'

'There's something on the other side I want to watch.'

'They don't do a program any more – they just give out the numbers.'

'Jack––'

'Shush, listen.'

. . . tonight's winning Lotto numbers, as confirmed by an independent adjudicator, are . . .
