We weren’t grifters. Gabriella and I. Grifters were American. Here in England a Grifter was a kids bike from the 1980’s. But we did con people out of money. And in this case, if all managed to get back to the plan, property too.
The thing about a sting is that after all the planning it really does help if you remember to turn up.
It was with a ba-ba-ba baaa baaa that my so-called partner announced – by text – that she wasn’t going to arrive in time for the handover. Of course she would still want her share of the cash but I suppose I couldn’t hold it against her. She’d been there through all the preparation and was there when we heard the two male voices coming from the table behind us. delivery
“So this old woman,” said the first voice, a man who would later turn out to be called Doug. “She inherited it and just doesn’t want it?”
“I’ve been a solicitor for ten years,” said the subsequently named Lloyd. “And this is the first time an opportunity like this has come up.”
Our own conversation immediately stopped. Gabriella and I stared at one another and listened. It was almost too good to be true. These guys were going to pretend to put this old woman – Mrs Caston’s house on the market at a fraction of it value. Of course as it wasn’t really on the market no-one would be interested and so in an act of kindness they would offer to take it off her hands.
We couldn’t let this travesty occur. Allowing these two men to fleece an old woman out of a small fortune. No way. We had to slip in there, Gabriella and I. We could do the same thing. But we could do it better and we could do it slicker.
Weeks later I sat in my car waiting for the solicitor and Mrs Caston to arrive at the house for the exchange. I flipped down the sun visor and lifted the panel covering the mirror. Inspected the top third of my body. Suit was starting to look worn. Straightened my tie. Reached inside and touched the top of the envelope sitting in the inside pocket.
My finger ran across to the sharp, folded corner then I put my hands back on the steering wheel and looked out at the house. It had to be worth… Millions? Maybe. And we were going to get it for thousands. It was amazing how gullible people could be – when Gabriella had gone visit Mrs Caston she had come back practically rubbing her hands. The old woman had inherited the house from…
“My Aunt,” Mrs Caston said and took off her glasses, rubbing them with a corner of her cardigan.
“And there was no will?”
“No,” she shook her head and squinted. “She had children but where they are… Dead? I hope not. Missing? Certainly. So I was the only surviving relative.”
“Did you ever meet them?”
“What?” she replaced the glasses and stared at Gabriella’s mouth.
“Meet them. Did you ever…”
“Yes. No. We didn’t speak. I heard she had children but didn’t know their names.”
The audio recording Gabriella had made combined with her director’s commentary had proved to be the key to the whole operation.
The old woman was a pretty straightforward mark. With Gabriella posing as my solicitor and me posing as one of the ‘missing’ children. Swooping in at the eleventh hour with – and this was our masterstroke – a letter from the Aunt promising the house and its contents to me.
Finding a copy of the dead Aunt’s signature wasn’t difficult. A quick spot of afternoon breaking and entering while good old Mrs Caston was at the bingo and I easily found one of last year’s Christmas cards and then, through the magic of Photoshop, we had in our possession a letter.
The one in my pocket.
When the old woman arrived she barely glanced at it. Which was a shame because we’d done a good job. Postmarked on just the right date, deathbed apologies, promises to change the will.
“It was all too late,” the old woman said as she clasped me to her.
She smelled like wet tarmac but I remained resolute and dutifully hugged back.
Ladies and gentlemen, the award for best performance in a long lost family reunion goes to…
“Is that the letter?” her solicitor was opening files from cases in the boot of his car.
I nodded and handed it over.
Mrs Caston stared at the house.
“It’s of no use to me,” she said without turning away. “I have everything I need.”
I smiled as pleasantly as I could as she turned back to me.
“But your life is ahead of you and you can do it up, maybe start a family?”
“Maybe. One day.”
“Maybe with that nice solicitor lady who came around the other day?”
We knew that we would never get away with just taking the house the solicitor had
“Insisted darling, I’m so sorry but he just won’t let me give it to you,” the mad old bag had sobbed. “But I tell you what – why don’t we knock a few quid off the price. You are family after all.”
Lloyd’s face as he handed me the forms was priceless. A mixture of squinting and twitching the silent anger was dripping from his eye sockets. I smiled back. Briefly.
Of course we had to do the whole thing in cash. Can’t be too careful. Can’t ever be traceable. It’s amazing how large amounts of money fit into such small containers. When you see it all laid out. I remember our first successful sting, it was a few thousand taken from a couple of used car salesmen and when I put it in a pile it just looked like nothing. You expect it to fill the boot of a car but it really doesn’t.
“You’ll probably want to count it,” I said, handing over the cash.
“You’ll probably want a receipt,” he countered, snatching the bag and removing the contents.
So Mrs Caston cried. Lloyd looked like he might. They did the paperwork right there and handed everything over including the keys. I watched the pair of them drive off then texted Gabriella.
Our biggest haul. And you missed it.
As I reached the door the familiar ba-ba-ba baaa baaa signalled a response.
It’s not over yet.
The door swung open easily and I stepped into the hall and inhaled the dusty smell. The place was pretty empty so unfortunately no possession to sell off but nevertheless. All we had to do now was sell the house for its real value and then we could… well, retire I suppose.
I laughed out loud at the thought. It seemed quite foreign and yet suddenly perhaps a possibility.
And then the banging started.
And the moaning.
Not in a people-upstairs-shagging way but in a Gabriella tied to a chair with electrical tape over her mouth and blood running down her forehead way.
“What…”
“Happened?” she reached up and touched the bump on her head. “I was here early. Decided to look around. Got into the house through the back door.”
“It was open?”
“Mmm,” she sipped at the glass of water I’d given her.
The house was a rental. She had found the papers on the dining room table. Doug and Lloyd had sold us a rented house.
“So he caught you here then?” I asked.
Gabriella nodded.
“Sneaked up and hit me with something. When I woke up I was tied to the chair and he pacing up and down, trying to decide what to do with me.”
“Kill you?”
“No, he just kept saying that this wasn’t supposed to happen. And then he started to relax, started gloating and told me about their sting.”
“So Lloyd isn’t a solicitor?”
“Nope. And he isn’t Lloyd.”
“Doug?”
“Isn’t Doug.”
“Mrs Caston?”
“Actress.”
“Shit.”
We stared at each other as the dust settled around us but the silence was broken by a ba-ba-ba baaa baaa.
“Oh and he took my phone.”
Enjoy the house, there’s a month left on the lease. And next time don’t fuck with used car salesmen.
