Rough Justice Read Free

the history of Langford Manor or the man who had commissioned it. All they cared about were the works of art hanging on its walls, which were conservatively valued at close to fifteen million pounds, and the contents of a small safe in the master bedroom.
    The man driving the van was a stocky Scotsman with a greying moustache and slicked-back hair. Like his three companions, he was wearing dark clothing and black leather gloves. ‘Are we going or what?’ he growled. His name was Carrick Thompson and he tapped his fingers on the steering-wheel as he stared at the house in the distance.
    ‘We’ll go when I say we go,’ said the man in the front seat. He took the binoculars away from his face and stared at Thompson with cold blue eyes. ‘Have you got somewhere you’d rather be?’ His name was Alex Grimshaw, but everyone called him Lex.
    Thompson stared impassively back at him. ‘I’m just saying time’s a-passing, that’s all.’
    ‘Time’s a-passing because there’s still a light on in the library, which means that someone’s still up, and if there’s someone still up then they’re probably going to pick up the Batphone if we go charging in, so let’s just wait until whoever it is pops up to bed, okay?’ Grimshaw sneered at Thompson. ‘I’ve spent three months casing this place. We’re not going to blow it just because you’ve got a short attention span.’
    ‘Forget I spoke,’ mumbled Thompson.
    Grimshaw put the binoculars back to his eyes and scrutinised the house. They were parked about half a mile away, on a hill that overlooked Langford Manor. From where they were sitting they had a clear view of the front of the house and, at the main entrance, the lodge, which was occupied by an elderly gamekeeper and his wife. As usual they had gone to bed before nine o’clock. There were three cars parked in front of the manor: a Bentley, a Land Rover and a Ford Focus. Grimshaw knew that the present owner of the house owned all three. The Bentley was for show, the Land Rover for driving over the estate, and the Ford Focus was the vehicle of choice for the wife when she visited the local supermarket. Tobias Rawstorne had bought Langford Manor five years earlier and spent more than two million pounds on improvements, including a state-of-the-art security system. One of the men who had helped fit the burglar alarm and CCTV system was married to a good friend of Grimshaw’s and for ten thousand pounds in cash had been more than happy to provide the information necessary to gain trouble-free access to the premises.
    Grimshaw scanned the road leading towards the main gate. A white Transit van was parked in a lay-by about a hundred yards away from the lodge. Its lights were off. Grimshaw cursed and pulled out his mobile phone. He tapped out a number, then barked, ‘Turn your bloody lights on, Matt,’ he said. ‘Anyone who drives by is gonna wonder why three grown men are sitting by the side of the road in the dark.’ The lights of the white Transit van flicked on. Grimshaw swore and ended the call.
    ‘What’s happening?’ asked the man sitting directly behind Grimshaw. He was holding a sawn-off shotgun in his lap. They weren’t expecting any trouble but Rawstorne had half a dozen shotguns in a cabinet in his study. The man with the shotgun was Eddie Simpson: he was a newcomer to Grimshaw’s crew and was tapping his fingers nervously on the stock of the shotgun. In his mid-thirties, with brown hair that needed cutting, he was chewing gum noisily.
    ‘Nothing’s happening until whoever it is in the library heads upstairs,’ said Grimshaw.
    The man sitting next to Simpson had the build of a wrestler, a shaved head, and a tattoo on his left forearm of a British bulldog wearing a Union flag waistcoat. His name was Geoff Maloney and he was a good ten years older than Simpson, but most of those years had been spent behind bars. He patted Simpson on the knee with a shovel-sized hand and winked. ‘Relax,’ he