Run: 2026-07-09-01KX414KJXPCN4408QWHSE5F6P

“Children’s party,” Bill whispered, peering through the hedge. “I still say it’s beneath us.” “Nothing is beneath us,” Molly said. “We once stole a mayor’s ceremonial spade.” “It was gold-plated.” “It was spray-painted.” “It had emotional value.” “So do these presents.” Bill adjusted his black knit cap. “You’re certain they’re presents?” “Wrapped boxes, bows, tiny bicycles, one suspiciously expensive-looking telescope. Unless children have begun giving one another home appliances, yes.” “Children are unpredictable. I had a nephew who asked for a vacuum cleaner.” “That explains why you don’t visit him.” “He was seven. He knew too much.” Molly unfolded a crayon-covered map. “The house belongs to the Pembertons. Party in the garden. Clown at two o’clock. Cake at three. Gift table under the gazebo.” “Any dogs?” “One.” “What breed?” “Labrador.” Bill relaxed. “Excellent. I can negotiate with a Labrador.” “You cannot negotiate with a Labrador.” “I once talked one into giving me half a sandwich.” “You dropped half a sandwich.” “It understood the terms.” A shriek erupted from the garden, followed by the sound of a whistle and a chorus of children chanting, “Again! Again!” Bill flinched. “What is that?” “Party games.” “Sounds like civil unrest.” “It’s musical statues.” “Ah. The cruelest game of all. Teaching children that movement is punishable.” Molly pointed to the side gate. “We go in there. You distract the clown.” “I hate clowns.” “Everyone hates clowns. That’s why it’ll work.” “What do I say?” “Ask him where he keeps the balloon pump.” “He’ll know it’s a trick.” “Then ask him something clownish.” Bill thought. “Do your shoes come in sensible?” “Perfect. He’ll be furious.” “And you?” “I slip behind the gazebo, load the presents into the laundry trolley, and wheel them out.” “What laundry trolley?” “The one I stole from the neighbour’s washing line.” Bill stared at her. “You stole a trolley from a washing line?” “It was unattended.” “It’s a basket on wheels.” “It’s transport infrastructure.” A child’s voice called, “Mum! The magician turned Dad into a rabbit!” Bill squinted through the hedge. “There’s a magician too?” “Potential complication.” “Potential professional jealousy.” “We are not discussing your failed career in stage magic.” “My career was sabotaged by a hostile dove.” “You released it indoors.” “It had stage fright.” Molly tucked the map away. “Focus. At precisely two fifteen, the children begin the treasure hunt.” “Why does that matter?” “Because every adult will be following tiny pirates around the garden while shouting, ‘Warmer! Colder!’” Bill nodded slowly. “That is diabolical.” “It’s parenting.” “What if the presents are labelled?” “They will be.” “Then everyone will know whose present is missing.” “Not if we replace them.” Bill blinked. “Replace them with what?” Molly opened her coat. Inside were several bundles wrapped in newspaper and glittery paper. “Cabbages?” Bill asked. “Decorated cabbages.” “One has a bow.” “They all have bows.” “Why cabbages?” “Children rarely inspect presents before opening them. They see wrapping paper, they scream, they tear, they discover vegetables. By then we’re gone.” Bill looked impressed despite himself. “That’s monstrous.” “Thank you.” “And the telescope?” “Sold to a collector.” “The bicycles?” “Sold individually.” “The talking dinosaur?” Molly paused. “We keep the dinosaur.” “Professional standards.” “Exactly.” The side gate creaked open. A Labrador waddled toward them, tail wagging. Bill crouched. “Hello, officer. Lovely evening for crime.” The dog licked his face. Molly sighed. “Negotiating?” “He’s agreed to look the other way for sausages.” “You brought sausages?” “I plan ahead.” From the garden, the clown shouted, “Who wants a balloon sword?” Every child screamed. Bill rose, pale. “Right. I distract the nightmare.” Molly grabbed the trolley. “And I steal Christmas, birthdays, and possibly a small blender.” “Two fifteen?” “Two fifteen.” Bill marched toward the gate, then stopped. “Molly?” “Yes?” “If there’s a cabbage with my name on it…” “There won’t be.” “Good.” “It’ll have your mother’s name.” Bill grinned. “Now that’s a gift.”