He hated being called Bill. There were many prefixes and suffixes that people added to his name and they all seemed to have some sort of negative connotation. The Old Bill was bad enough but imagine having Burglar Bill at the head of your CV.
William did not see himself as a burglar, more as a Fiscal Resource Redistribution Executive. He used to work in the Financial Services Industry, until that unfortunate business with Mrs Wainright, so he knew how to use words in the same way as the Queen of Hearts. He would define what he meant by them, not some modern Sam Johnson sitting in an ivory tower in a university.
The ivory trade was now banned under the CITES rules so how do you go about building an ivory tower these days, he wondered.
He was now proud to be a green burglar, his carbon footprint was low because he always walked to work, or used public transport for the more distant jobs – and sometimes ran home. All the goods that he relocated were recycled, nothing was wasted. He used local recyclers so he generated very few goods miles. He also used few office supplies, such as ink cartridges and paper, in his business as most of his communications with his customers were fence posted on Blackberry messenger or BBM as he liked to call it. These messages are automatically encrypted, he didn’t want his competition or his industry’s regulatory authority – the Old Bill in his case - to see which particular market sector he was operating in. He saw himself as ahead of the curve- in fact he had a Blackberry Curve 9300. He also prided himself on his contribution to the Bank of England’s work on controlling inflation as the goods that arrived in his possession were always sold on at less than the current market value. He was a real asset to the community, a green, carbon neutral, monetary positive, Fiscal Resource Redistribution Executive, in fact. He also had a fully interactive web site – it seemed to be almost de rigueur for a well run business these days – www.iburgle.co.uk. You may well try to access it but it is very secure and the access algorithms are only known to a select few of William’s customers so that they can choose their toys and trinkets at their leisure.
William was not really a snob, well, actually yes he was, he saw himself as operating near the top end of the redistribution market, no nicked beamers or flat screens for him. No, he only handled property that was light and had a high value/mass ratio, usually better than £1,000/Kg, which is way above the industry average. He kept a spreadsheet on his Sony Vaio – encrypted of course – to check that he met his monthly turnover and net profit targets. How could you run a decent business model without having a good set of management accounts? He knew better than most that it was lack of cash flow that kills most failing business so he always kept a big wedge handy and didn’t let it flow more than absolutely necessary. He was well respected within his chosen profession and had, in fact, recently been elected life president of his trade association – the Society of Property Recyclers and Relocaters, which he regarded as a great honour.
He belonged to and played at the local golf club, not the council one where the riff- raff working classes played of course. He could well afford the membership and green fees. He enjoyed the drinking sessions in the club house. He felt at ease and fitted in well with the members who tended to be his own types, bankers, IFAs and share traders. They all understood the need to keep cash flowing through society – preferably a society that they were a member of – so they talked a common language. They sometimes asked him what he did for a living’ He just answered with a self deprecating shrug and a wink that, ‘I buy and sell a few shares in the City’. He would never say any more than that so they all assumed he was a very rich financier or similar.
He picked up a lot of free tips from them although he would not target their homes, he would never mix business with pleasure. He often picked up some very nice jewellery from their girl friends homes though, they were always boasting how much they had spent on some ‘trinkets’ for ‘Lulu’ or ‘Nancy’ This was a profitable and safe market sector for him because his golfing buddies could never go public about the burglary so their girlfriends quietly picked up a crime reference number from the police, hiked the price of the item and then claimed it off insurance. The boy friend got the kudos from his girlfriend for buying it in the first place. The girl friend kept half the insurance money to replace the stolen necklace or whatever else it happened to be, the insurance company pushed up the premium for the following year, the boyfriend got most of his money back and William sold it off to one of his best customers at a knock down price. Win-win! No losers so no problem, everyone happy. All carried out in a civilised, low carbon fashion, with a boost to William’s secret spreadsheet.
If things were going so well, why was he, Bill the burglar, sitting in a holding cell in the local nick without a belt or shoe laces, being treated as a common crim? They even had the nerve to call him Chummy!
He had been interviewed by a DS and a rookie constable – him, William, being talked to by a lowly DS – the indignity. He had used his entitlement to a phone call to ring Henry, his brief, and demand that he come down the nick and at least get him out on bail, or preferably to get the charge dropped. Henry had got that business with Mrs Wainright sorted out for him although he could never work as an IFA again. He was a good lawyer and willing to bend the rules a little, well, a lot really. He was as bent as a grade 3 fish hook.
It was ridiculous, here he was, at the top of his profession, being charged with B & E a council flat, yes, a council flat, and stealing a portable black and white television. I t was outrageous. A slur on his professional standing.
‘So what were you doing, Billy Boy, walking around Victoria at 3 o’clock in the morning with £15,000 in your pocket.?’ Asked the rookie who looked like a school boy.
‘I struck lucky at a poker game with some friends in Mayfair,’ said William
‘I don’t think so chummy,’ said the DS. ‘We have you on a street camera coming out of one of the railway arch lock ups, what were you doing there, dumping some more stolen gear?’
‘Certainly not, I have never visited any railway arches,’ he said, hoping they didn’t have a clear enough picture of him to get a warrant to Phil the Fence’s lock up. If they searched that and Phil went down because of him, he would never be able to work in town again. He always made it a rule that he dropped off the goods, and his special tools, as soon as he could at a safe house as soon as he had done the job. In this case, Phil had agreed to look after his tools when he bought the jewellery for agreed fifteen grand.
‘So where is this friend of yours in Mayfair?’ demanded the rookie. ‘Give us the address and we will check your story. If it’s true you are out of here.’
William now had a problem, he couldn’t tell them which flat he had broken into and he couldn’t use Phil as an alibi. There was only one thing he could do.
‘OK, you’ve got me, I took that TV, if I plead guilty, will you put in word for me with the judge?’
He would never be able to live it down.
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