‘Oh.’
She grins at me. ‘Jonny does a lot of work in crypto.’
‘Really? Trading it?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Jonny. ‘Mug’s game. I teach other people how to trade it. To be fair, I do warn them they probably won’t make any money out of it, but that doesn’t seem to stop them paying a hundred and fifty quid a pop for an online course led by a silhouette in a hoodie.’ He looks faintly troubled at how gullible people are, then shrugs.
I nod, then look back to Elle. ‘What about you two?’
‘Oh, we got an inheritance a couple of years ago, but it’s a bit vulgar to talk about all that, isn’t it?’
Before I can ask further, a voice in my ear says, ‘Boo.’ I jump, but it’s only Em, wearing a ridiculously fluffy dressing gown. A patch on the breast reads:CRIMINAL MEOWSTERMIND, with a picture of a kitten sitting at a nineties computer beneath a rainbow.
‘Good morning.’
‘Sleep well? No witch doctors visiting you in the night?’
‘Ha ha, yeah. No, no voodoo, thanks.’ I’ve resolved to be as personable as possible with these people. It’s only going to be a day or so out of my normal run, so I may as well be nice. ‘So … are you guys going to tell me where we’re off to?’
Em sits on one of the stools under the island and grabs a muffin from the central display. ‘Jonny, can you show him?’
Jonny swivels the screen as I approach. ‘Heard of Bridling?’
‘Cotswolds?’
Em nods. ‘Little hamlet in Oxfordshire. Always being listed as one of the most beautiful villages in the most stunning part of the loveliest county, blah blah blah. Worth killingto get a place there, all the agents say. About one house in four is a second home. And on the outskirts of Bridling …’ She leans over and tries to tap at the screen. Jonny, subtly, pulls the laptop away so her finger doesn’t grease it up. ‘The perfect place.’
Jonny takes over. ‘Eight bedrooms. Properly old. Former vicarage. Must have been some vicar, though, because it’snice. Fully furnished and maintained, as far as I can tell from satellite photos. And, crucially, owned by someone who we know is going to be out of the country for the next two months.’
‘How do you know?’
He toggles a tab. ‘Flight data. The owner listed his address as this home on his BA flight. He’ll be in Dubai for ten weeks as of yesterday.’
‘How’d you access the flight data?’
Jonny wiggles his fingers.
Satellite photos! Flight data! I’m trying to act nonchalant, as though these are all well-worn tools on my own Bat Belt. ‘What’s the owner called?’ I always like to know an owner’s name. That way, when someone mistakes you for them and calls you by their name, you can respond appropriately.
‘D.H.’
‘D.H.?’
Jonny shrugs. ‘My database just has initials. I could get the full name, but it would take me a little while. Anyway, we have the flight dates there and back, so we’re good.’
‘How did you find the place?’
‘I’ve set up little snares for the top twenty postcodes we’re especially interested in. Whenever someone books a long trip from one of them, we look at the dates and fit them into the itinerary.’
‘I do the diary,’ says Elle.
I try to keep looking unimpressed. ‘Have you checked the security? Done a ground recce?’
‘We do all that later.’ Thank God. Something I’m more careful about than they are.
‘Have you checked the Land Registry to see who owns the house?’
This, incidentally, is one of my favourite things to do. Did you know about it? You can search for literally any property in the country, and it tells you who last bought it, how much for, what year, and a few other fascinating little details. All that for three quid, and then you can research the owner at your leisure. It’s glorious. It’s clearly not one of Jonny’s favourite pastimes, though.
