Free Dark Eyes of London by Philip Cox Page A

which Sully used when he was working from home.
    Jane slowly slid open one of the white cupboard doors and knelt down.  She moved three pairs of shoes off a pile of magazines. Lifted the magazines to reveal a small black box, A4 size, three or four inches deep. She paused, looked around and listened: she could just about hear Sully snoring.  She pulled the cord which switched on the cupboard light. Sat down on the floor and lifted the box onto her lap. She nibbled a thumbnail and opened the box.
    She quietly and slowly flicked through the documents in the box. She paused as she came across an old photograph. A photograph of her and Lisa, with their parents. It was taken some ten or fifteen years ago somewhere in France; she couldn’t remember where. A family holiday. Family holiday: how ironic.
    She looked closer at the photograph: she and Lisa, arms around each other, laughing hysterically at something.
    Jane heard a murmur and some movement from the bedroom. She looked up, and listened out again. Slowly put the photographs back in the box. Closed the box, replaced it, replaced the magazines and shoes, switched off the light, and slowly slid the wardrobe closed.
    She walked over the window and stared out. As she looked out over the darkened rooftops, her eyes began to fill.
     

 
    Chapter Fourteen
    Some miles away, the night was anything but still and peaceful. Not in this particular building anyway. Outside the single storey storage building, two white transit vans were backed up to the open doorway, their own rear doors open. Inside, three men were packing goods into cardboard storage boxes, and then sealing the boxes.
    A fourth man was standing in the doorway.  He was tall, dark haired, with heavy shadow on his face. He wore a dark suit and white shirt, top two buttons undone.  No tie. He was smoking a cigarette. His attention was divided between what was going on in the building, and the fifty yard roadway to the main street, which was quiet, except for the occasional car passing by.
    ‘Are we all clear still, John?’ asked one of the men packing, looking up from the boxes.
    John puffed on the cigarette and nodded.  ‘So far, so good.  Hey, you just worry about the damn boxes.’
    ‘Nearly done,’ the packer replied. ‘The first van’s almost full; this lot can go in the second. Then we’re through.’
    John stood aside while the man loaded boxes into the van. Then he heard something.
    ‘Wait,’ he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. The roadway was lit up by the headlamps as a car turned into the street.
    ‘It’s not the police, is it?’ the packer whispered nervously.
    John peered into the night mist. ‘Don’t think so,’ he whispered back, ‘Oh shit; what does she want?’
    The Honda CR-Z pulled up alongside the transit van.  Ashley Merchant killed the engine and stepped out.
    ‘Christ,’ John muttered. ‘Three in the morning and she’s still wearing tweeds.’
    The packer sniggered.
    ‘Carry on,’ John said. ‘I’ll deal with her.’
    Still wearing her normal office dress, Merchant marched up to John. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
    John looked around: at the interior of the vans; at the almost empty storage area. ‘Seems to be going fine, thanks. Have you come to help?’
    Merchant ignored the question. She leaned into one of the vans and ran a hand over some of the boxes. Then walked into the building and looked around.
    ‘Everything all packed up, then?’ she said to John.
    John did not reply. Just stared at her.
    She waited a moment, then asked, ‘And they all know the route, and what to do at the other end?’
    John took another drag. Slowly. ‘Everybody knows what to do,’ he answered firmly, still staring at her.
    She looked around again, and brushed some imaginary dust off her jacket. ‘Well, there’s nothing else I can do here,’ she said, and walked back to the Honda. She stopped as she passed John. ‘Call me when it’s all finished,’ she