The Shoplifting Mothers' Club Read online

  Now.

  Taking off the garment, she remarked, ‘This one might be a bit small for my granddaughter – she’s quite tall, you know. You wouldn’t have a size 10 in this, would you, dear?’

  The sales assistant, eager to make a commission, raced off, and Jessica took her chance, going up to the security guard with the two jackets. A variation on the theme Frieda had taught her, but suitable under the circumstances.

  ‘Excuse me. Could I possibly check these for colour outside, dear? My grandchildren are extremely fussy and I don’t want to have to bring them back.’

  Theoretically, the colour of leather was hardly something you’d bother to ‘check’, but why else would she need to look at them under natural light? Jessica’s heart was pounding like a jack-hammer, but she forced herself to stay in character. Cool and calm, with the gravitas of the elderly.

  The security guard told her to go ahead – he still had one eye on the bum of a gorgeous young girl. Taking on a shuffle, and mumbling to herself about colours, Jessica suddenly found herself outside the shop. Alone, except for about a thousand pounds worth of leather.

  Now what?

  Run. Run you fool!

  It wasn’t too late to give up on this idea, she told herself, feet stubbornly rooted to the spot. Nothing had been stolen yet. There was still time to reject the deal with the devil and take the clothes back inside.

  But what about that Visa bill?

  Run. RUN!

  And so she ran, shoving the jackets into the pale blue designer shopping bag as she went.

  Ten seconds seemed like ten minutes, which was how long it took to get to the border of the next store. Sure that the security guard was hot on her heels, Jessica raced into the first place she came to. Not the café, as planned, but a large discount outlet place which, mercifully, had toilets to the rear. Unluckily, it also had those ubiquitous security barriers at the front door, which began sounding as soon as she walked in.

  That store’s guard – a large woman with a mean expression and impressive girth – walked slowly towards her, and Jessica was conscious she remained in full view of the street. Moving to a rail of unattractive tank tops, she began flicking through them, waiting for someone to manhandle her into a small room and beat her to a pulp. The female guard approached, and Jessica closed her eyes. She obviously knows. This was the shortest criminal career in history, she decided. Should have chosen the lorry driving – at least that was legal. But after a moment, there were still no shouted questions; no heavy hands on her shoulders. Opening one eye, Jessica saw the woman confronting a group of kids by the rail just near her, all of whom were holding bags.

  She thinks the alarm went off because of them. Thank God. Forcing herself to act normally, and not look backwards at the street, Jessica wound her way through the packed racks until she reached the toilets. They were also alarmed. Great. Now what? She couldn’t very well take the tags off in full view of the everyone in the store, could she? Watching a toweringly tall guy walk out of the men’s toilet, she considering him lucky – a bag slung over that shoulder wouldn’t set off the alarm. Hang on? Maybe if she held it over her head? Pretend she was looking under it? Pretend she’d sat it in something nasty.

  Brilliant. Putting down her other bag, she held up the blue shopper, frowning as if it had been smeared with a foul substance. Pulling a face, and rubbing her hand on the expensive stolen suit, Jessica held the bag aloft as she walked through the barriers, concentrating on the non-existent mess on the bottom of it. Once through, she put it on the floor, got out a tissue, and carefully wiped the bottom of the bag, just in case someone was watching the cameras. Finally satisfied that the pretend mess was cleared up, Jessica walked into the toilet, where she proceeded to change back into herself. Taking the posh carry bag she’d brought with her, she tipped out the removal devices also stashed in there and quickly took off the security tags. Then she got changed and threw the Lady Muck suit, the wig, the blue shopper and all the other accoutrements of the thief, into the posh carrier. Finally, she took a comb out of her wallet, released her hair from the bun and gave it a good brush.

  Transformed into a young, hip mum with flowery mini-skirt, tight white T-shirt and cute flip flops, Jessica flounced out of the toilet and made a point of heading to accessories, where she purchased an unaffordable tiny hairclip for Rachel, just to deflect attention.

  Then, she walked out of the store, past Luxury Leather, where the young sales assistant was being illogically berated by the security guard for being so stupid, and back to the station. Walking in through the entrance, she immediately exited and headed for the car park once more.

  It was done.

  Taking gulping breaths of air, Jessica wondered how she’d actually managed it – her hands were shaking so dramatically that she could hardly place the car key in the lock.

  Never mind all that. She was two hundred quid richer, wasn’t she? That was the important thing.

  Two hundred pounds less to pay off that Visa bill.

  And a quite a few steps closer to spending an eternity in hell.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHELSEA JORDAN SEEMED SURPRISED to see Jessica, despite the meeting having been pre-arranged. ‘Well, well, well. Who would have thought it?’

  How come Frieda hadn’t called with the tale of Jessica’s success? Jessica had bent her new friend’s ear – well, associate was probably a better description – for over an hour the night before, until Ronald banged on the door and asked if she was planning to hog the only working toilet all night.

  Jessica smiled sweetly at her nemesis-turned-business-partner. ‘I thought you knew I was coming.’

  Chelsea held out her hand impatiently. ‘Can I have the stock please?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ The two leather jackets, now in plastic to protect them from the muck in the back of her car, were presented. Chelsea cast an experienced glance over the goods, and finally proclaimed that ‘the new girl done good’.

  ‘That’s two hundred pounds, right?’

  Amused at Jessica’s desperation, Chelsea, blonde highlighted hair bouncing with mock enthusiasm, drew a cross over her heart. ‘Right away, I promise. Give me your account details.’

  Already prepared, Jessica passed over the Visa account details. ‘You can pay into that account, right?’

  ‘Sure, can’t see why not. What bank is it?’

  ‘Lloyds.’

  ‘Consider it done. Now, want to choose another job? We’ve had a load come in just this morning. Word of our business is spreading.’

  ‘Not surprising. Those coats are worth over five hundred pounds each. It’s a bargain for someone.’

  ‘Sure is. If I dared to tell hubby about it, he’d have to admit the whole scheme is bloody genius.’

  Or that you were bloody insane.

  Chelsea beckoned her new accomplice into a slick study with the kind of shiny, brown, modern furniture Jessica hated. There was a nasty set of steel and glass shelves too, she noticed.

  The BIB typed in a password and brought up a file in Excel. ‘Here we go, pick something else.’

  This list was more eclectic that the last, with a number of hardware items (electric saw and drill) and foodstuffs (caviar and champagne from Harrods). No way was Jessica going to run the gauntlet of security at Harrods.

  ‘I’ll try the Apple iBook.’ It was six hundred pounds worth – about half the price of a new one.

  With a raised eyebrow, Chelsea questioned the choice. ‘You sure? That’s high profile stuff. It takes a sophisticated approach.’

  Good point. My approach can hardly be described as ‘sophisticated’. ‘Can someone help me?’

  Sighing deeply, as if Jessica had just asked to borrow her only car indefinitely, Chelsea tut-tutted for a few moments, then revealed: ‘Rita is best at this sort of thing. She’ll except a cut for helping you, though.’

  Of course she would. Of all the BIBs, Rita was the biggest bitch.

  ‘How much?’

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bsp; The heavily made-up blonde shrugged. ‘Ten per cent is the going rate.’

  ‘Oh.’ That wasn’t so bad.

  Consulting the computer again, Chelsea said, ‘You should take the two iPhones and iPod too, if you’re doing the laptop. We usually take on the same brand all at once, otherwise the security during the month is stepped up and it is almost impossible to get a hold of the other goods.’

  ‘But how on earth will I manage all that?’ How on earth will I carry the stuff, for a start? Jessica imagined herself running, dropping the laptop, falling over it, and getting caught and convicted and once again, suffering at the hands of an unpleasant, hairy female inmate.

  It was not a pleasant thought.

  ‘Look, Rita is a criminal genius. There’s a thousand quid in it for you, one hundred for her. It’s worth a go.’ Chelsea had a thought. ‘Actually, I’d recommend getting extra, if you can. We always get requests for this stuff.’

  What? More? Jessica had the sneaking suspicion that Chelsea actually wanted her to be nabbed by the cops.

  Sensing the misgivings, the blonde pointed out that they were all in this together. ‘Rita won’t stitch you up, because if she does, she’ll assume you’ll tell on us.’

  ‘If she stitched me up, I would,’ Jessica replied, sounding a little too much like her eight-year-old daughter.

  Chelsea took her shoulder and led her back to the foyer. ‘So, we understand each other. Now, go home, have a rest, and phone Rita tomorrow. I’ll tell her to expect your call.’

  Rita’s round face, seemingly more inflated that usual – a product, Jessica guessed, of a recent Botox injection or ten – crumbled at the list of goods.

  ‘You’re shitting me? Chelsea wants you to do this? Apple laptop, iPods, iPhones . . . they don’t stack this stuff up in goody bags near the front door, you know.’

  ‘Is there anywhere else that does?’

  ‘Yes.’ the American glared. ‘LaLa Land.’

  Lovely. Got it.

  ‘So, whatever you do, it’s going to be risky, as all the stock is kept behind the counter until you pay for it.’

  ‘So you think I shouldn’t do it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, you just have to think around the problem.’

  Jessica had no idea what she meant.

  Rita explained ‘You’ve got a few options. Essentially, number one is a snatch and run from the sales desk as you are supposedly ‘paying’.’

  ‘And what are the downsides, apart from the obvious one of being caught?’

  ‘You’ll have to outrun the security guard,’ Rita said, with a degree of nonchalance usually displayed by Ronald in the bedroom. ‘Some are unfit, but most could do a decent sprint alongside a professional athlete, so I wouldn’t bet on winning.’

  So, the snatch and run is out then. ‘And, option number two?’

  ‘The sickie.’

  ‘Hah?’

  ‘You get them to bring out all the stuff, start paying, then feel sick. A heart attack would be appropriate, if you are wearing that Lady Muck disguise.’ Rita mimicked the probable conversation: ‘‘Are you okay, madam?’; ‘Yes, yes, keep packing’; ‘Would you like me to call a doctor or someone in your family?’; ‘No, no. I’ll be okay, I really need the things today’.’

  ‘And then I run?’ That didn’t really make sense.

  ‘No, you ask them to call an ambulance. That’s when you realise you don’t have your credit card on you. But you’re in a hurry. Someone is going overseas. And it’s a big sale, so the shop assistant doesn’t want to lose the commission. You ask them to hold the goods, and say that your friend, spouse, whoever will be back to collect the parcels.’

  ‘Right. And then what?’

  ‘They pack the stuff up, take the security tags off it, put it in a nice bag.’

  Where is this going?

  ‘Then, miraculously, you say you feel better, just need some fresh air and you’ll be back.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ This was the worst plan Jessica had heard since Paul had wanted to build an ant farm in the fish tank.

  ‘And you go outside, and call the electonics store from a payphone and say some kids have just boasted they stole from the store. Hopefully, the security guard goes after them, at which point, you do your snatch and grab.’

  What? ‘But he could catch me on the outside.

  ‘Not if you’re careful.’

  Jessica didn’t think it would work, and told Rita so.

  ‘Has worked for me. Twice. It sounds intricate but that’s the joy of it.’

  ‘What if I just pretend to work at another store and go in to get extra stock?’

  Rita, pissed at her own idea being snubbed, snorted in distain. ‘All the stock is computerised. And you’d need some sort of personnel card.’

  They both sat, glaring at each other. ‘How about this? The first plan you outlined – with sick Lady Muck. But I use that fire device and run?’

  The American cocked her head. ‘Might work. You’d still have to outrun the guard, though. He’ll be on the door for sure, hurrying people out because of the alarm.’

  ‘But the bag will be packed. Will he check?’

  ‘Maybe? Maybe not. It could work.’ Rita didn’t look hopeful.

  The two women considered alternative plans. ‘Maybe you need to try a swap-eroo?’

  ‘A what?’

  Get a bag with similar-sized products, get the real goods packed up, then realise you’ve lost your wallet and set off to get it, leaving your bag and taking theirs.’

  That didn’t sound as ridiculous as the other plans.

  ‘I’d need a store bag, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘So, that should be simple. Get one from another store a few days before.’

  ‘How?’

  Rita groaned. ‘I can’t do everything, Jessica. Think for yourself, will you? There are a million ways you could get an AD carry bag.’ She looked around Jessica’s kitchen, which still had its seventies vinyl countertops and vile lime green tiles.

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ Jessica was eager to change the subject. Being a thief was becoming remarkably like learning a new trade – boring and scary all at once.

  Rita shrugged. ‘It’s retro. If you’re lucky, you’ll be back in fashion.’

  Standing to switch on the kettle, Jessica continued to steer the conversation away from the task at hand. Always one to mull over a problem, she needed to have a think about the ‘bag’ scenario on her own – without Rita’s foul expression clouding her judgement. ‘So, how long have you lived in the UK?’

  ‘Too long,’ Rita said quickly, then obviously regretted it, because she gave a little twitch, as if to say shouldn’t have gone there.

  ‘How come you moved?’ Two mugs in hand, Jessica brought them back to the table, conscious of the fact that she didn’t have any biscuits to offer the BIB.

  Rita tipped three sugars into the tea, and stirred violently. ‘I met my husband, of course. And he was offered a job in London than remains too good to refuse. I’d go back tomorrow, if I could.’

  ‘Surely a banker could be redeployed easily?’

  ‘We’re used to the benefits now. Housing, schooling subsidies, health care – our standard of living would drop dramatically if we went back to Houston.’

  ‘Don’t you miss your family?’

  ‘I miss the weather. The family are a bunch of losers.’

  ‘Most families are,’ Jessica said. ‘But that’s why we love them. It allows us to be losers along with them.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Rita stood up and walked to the fridge. Clearly speaking of families was a little too close for comfort. ‘I need something cold. Got any wine in here?’

  It’s ten in the morning! ‘Sorry. How about some home brand squash?’

  ‘Really? You’re that hard up?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’ No sense in hiding it, was there? ‘My husband believes that charity begins at home and extends to feeling an affinity with those on the breadline.’

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nbsp; ‘Have you tried claiming benefits?’

  ‘No. I don’t think we’d qualify.’

  Rita blushed ever so slightly. ‘You’d be surprised. Jiggle the figures a little, and you never know . . .’

  Christ, she was speaking from experience! ‘Are you saying . . .’

  ‘I’m just trying to help, Jessica. That’s all, now, let me pour a glass of,’ she held up the bottle, ‘orange and lemon cordial, and we can go back to your scheme.’

  That night, her mother called, ‘just to say hi’, and Jessica knew immediately that things had deteriorated.

  ‘Do you need me to come and help?’ The question had been asked and answered before, but Jessica felt guilty that her mother was dealing with the Alzheimer’s all by herself.

  ‘It’s good just to have someone to talk to,’ her mother replied. ‘People avoid me now, because of your father.’

  ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘Well, he did urinate on the flowers in front of the church just as a midday funeral service was taking place.’

  ‘Mum, you need help looking after him.’

  ‘I can manage. He only gets out now and then.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  But her mother didn’t sound sure. And Jessica knew that the right thing to do was tell Ronald to look after the kids and go back home and help with Dad. But doing what was right wasn’t always available to us, was it?