The Thief Read Online Free PDF Page A

bit under ten thousand euros. Yet he had flown economy class. Because he got the money in New York and he already had his return ticket? Perhaps. What did it matter? The big thing, the awful thing, was that she had stolen it.
    She couldn’t leave it there on the bed. Time was passing and it was nearly four. At this time of year the sun had set, the light was going. She couldn’t leave Lant’s dirty clothes there either. Those she stuffed into one of the plastic bags, took it downstairs and put it outside into the wastebin. The afternoon felt cold now it was getting dark. A sharp wind was blowing.
    Back in the bedroom, she counted the money again. Five thousand pounds doesn’t take up much room. She went to the desk she called hers, though everything in this house was really Alex’s, found a large brown envelope and put the money inside. The envelope could have held twice the amount. It wasn’t so bad when she couldn’t see the money. When it was hidden. She took her own clothes out of the case, set some aside for washing, some for dry-cleaning.
    The phone rang. She jumped and caught her breath. It would be him. It would be Trevor Lant. What could she say? Very afraid, she picked up the phone, her hand shaking.
    Her voice came, breathy and shrill. ‘Hello?’
    It was her mother. ‘I said I’d phone. Give you a chance to get home and unpack. How did the wedding go?’
    ‘It was fine.’
    ‘You don’t sound fine. Have you got a cold?’
    Polly longed to tell her. She couldn’t. She knew what her mother would say: tell Alex, tell the police, say what you’ve done and make it all right. But first she would say, Polly, how could you? What’s wrong with you? ‘I’m just tired,’ she said, and making an effort, ‘How’s Dad?’
    ‘Better, I’m glad to say. He thought you might both come over for a meal tonight. Save you cooking.’
    Her mother thought she lived like they used to thirty years ago, cooking meat and two veg, making desserts. She would know how to make a fire, burn things . . . ‘Can we make it some other night? Tomorrow?’
    ‘Of course, darling.’
    ‘I’ll phone.’
    When she had put the phone down, the house seemed very quiet. There was no noise from the street, no wind blowing, no footsteps, no traffic sounds. It was as if she had gone deaf. The silence made her long for sound. She put out one finger and tapped the bedhead. The tiny tap made her jump again. Then she said aloud, ‘What shall I do?’
    Not what her mother would have told her to do. Not what Alex would have told her. Still, it was plain she couldn’t keep the money. Every moment it was in this house she was stealing it. If she took it to a police station and said what she had done, they would think she was mad. They would arrest her. She imagined their faces, staring at her as they asked her to say again what she had said. You took a man’s case? But why? What were you thinking of? That was stealing – did you know that? She knew she couldn’t go to the police. But she must do something. Find out where Trevor Lant lived? Yes, that was it. Find out where he lived and get his money back to him.
    The phone book first. If he wasn’t there she would try the Internet. He might not live in London. Still, she would try her own phone book first, the one for West London. Her hand shook as she turned the pages. Lanson, Lanssens, Lant . . . There were four Lants listed, one in Notting Hill, one in Maida Vale, one in Bayswater and a T.H. Lant nearer to her own house than any of them. Only half a mile or so away, in Willesden. But could she be sure it was him? She could phone and when he answered, say, ‘Trevor Lant?’
    He would know her voice. She knew she would be much too afraid to phone him. Could she get someone else to do it? Not Alex, not her mother or her father. A friend? Roz? Louise? They would want to know why. The address in the phone book looked like a house, not a flat. Number 34 Bristol Road, NW2. Why had she