The Magpie Trap: A Novel Read Free

rubber-necking, open-mouthed look over the
shoulder which it so deserves. For all the world, he is just getting on with
his job; he shows admirable self-restraint. If this man really is a security
engineer, he has a seen-it-all quality to him which comes from extreme
competence in one’s profession, be it as engineer or thief.
    He has, perhaps, a long
history of averting his eyes from military tattoos of gold bullion which parade
their regimented arrogance in the safety of bank vaults. Maybe he’s adept at
adopting the tunnel-vision approach to blocking out the view of the voluptuous
painted goddesses in the priceless artworks they contain, whilst he gets on
with the real job. Here, he is treating the money as a part of the furniture;
standing on it as though that is its primary function. But then, perhaps that is
what money is? A way of lifting a person higher, allowing them to attain their
goals? This man’s goal is to access the cameras, and the money has facilitated
that action.
    But he is not alone in
the inner sanctum. For the first time, a second man steps into the picture; a
big bear of a man. He is wearing a black hat with a shiny peak and extravagant
epaulettes adorn his shoulders. A military man? His protruding paunch, which
asks pertinent questions of the strength of his shirt’s material, suggests
otherwise. His booming, belly-enhanced, bellicose voice shatters the silence.
      ‘How’s it coming along?’
    Our man’s head flicks
round in shock, as though he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone, or maybe as if he’d
been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
    Peak-cap continues,
tucking his thumbs into the loops of his belt as though he is trying to support
their weight somehow: ‘It’s those particular cameras we’ve been having problems
with. Got a new boss starting soon; everything’s got to be perfect for his
arrival.’
    ‘I’m just performing
some routine tests at the moment; cleaning, re-focusing and adjusting the lens,
checking the contrast, the brightness,’ says our man.
    ‘The amount you guys
charge, and all you’re doing is fiddling with the lens? I could do that
myself!’ And then Peak-cap roars with laughter. His belly shakes with mirth,
exerting almost unbearable pressure on the buttons on his shirt.
    A flash of anger on the
part of our stocky man: ‘There’s a bit more to it than that…’
    ‘Calm down son. I’m
only playing with you. You could be fiddling the system for all I know about
those things.’
    Stocky shoots Peak-cap
a look which says - guilty?
    ‘You’re not still
worried about standing on that pile of money are you? I told you, don’t worry about it; we’re always doing it here. Main
Monitoring Centre won’t bat an eyelid when they see you on camera. Anyway, it’s
only Mauritian rupees the Precisioner’s making - they’re not going to mind the
odd muddy footprint on a note are they?’
    Stocky moves one of his
steel toe-capped size tens across the crisp new notes, still clearly unsure of
his footing.
    ‘Look, I think the
problem here is fairly obvious. Somebody has physically altered the angle of
the camera.’
    Almost too quickly,
Peak-cap shoots back: ‘Must have been knocked by one of the fork-lifts. Still,
good job we called you in…’
    The walkie-talkie
handset strapped to peak-cap’s belt suddenly fizzes into action. He taps it a
couple of times, shakes it…walks out of the picture once more in order to
speak; moving to higher ground to get a better reception.
    Stocky plays with the
cross around his neck once more, but as soon as Peak-cap moves out of shot, he
leaps into action; no trace of the concrete he wallowed through earlier now. He
attaches his laptop to the camera once more, and again the picture turns into a
snow-storm. After justa moment though, theimages return.
    Except the images look
familiar, like déjà vu; these are not new, or ‘live’ images. Instead, they
describe action which has already taken place; a recording. A loop.
    A