Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPTBWWFKATQ8GCSDHKZF4A

Molly spread the napkin across the table and smoothed it flat with the side of her hand, the way a general might flatten a map of enemy territory. "Right," she said. "The Kirkpatrick residence. Fourteen Willow Crescent. Saturday, two o'clock." Bill sipped his tea. "And what exactly are we lifting?" "Presents." "Presents." "All of them." Bill set the mug down very carefully, as though it might go off. "Molly. Whose birthday?" "Girl called Poppy. Turning seven." "Turning seven." "Do you have to repeat everything I say? It's like working with a parrot that's had a stroke." "I'm repeating it," Bill said, "because I'm hoping that if I say it out loud, you'll hear how it sounds and reconsider." "It sounds like eleven grand." "It sounds like a seven-year-old crying into a bowl of crisps." Molly took a pen from behind her ear and drew a rectangle on the napkin. "Eleven grand, Bill. The father's Gordon Kirkpatrick. Property developer. Bought his daughter a diamond tennis bracelet last year and she used it to accessorise a hamster." "That's not the child's fault." "I'm not saying it's her fault, I'm saying the presents at that party are worth more than my car." "Your car's a Nissan with one wing mirror." "Which supports my point." She tapped the rectangle. "Marquee. Back garden. Presents go on a trestle table just inside the entrance, north end. Nobody watches them, because nobody in that postcode has ever imagined a person might steal something." Bill leaned over the napkin, frowning. "How do you know all this?" "I did last year's party." "You—" Bill stopped. "You've done this before?" "I did a wedding. Same marquee company. Same layout." She drew a wobbly circle. "Bouncy castle here. That's your cover. The blower's loud enough that nobody hears a van reversing up the side lane." "And what am I doing while you're loading a van?" "You're the entertainment." Bill sat back. "Absolutely not." "You've got the face for it." "What does that mean?" "Trustworthy. Bit sad. Children love a sad clown." "I'm not being a clown, Molly. I've got a bad hip." "Magician, then. Nobody expects a magician to move about. You stand there, you do the thing with the rope, you keep forty children looking at you and not at the door." She pointed the pen at him. "That's the whole job. You are a human curtain." Bill was quiet for a moment. "And afterwards? When she comes out to open them?" "That's not our department." "It's somebody's department." "Bill—" "I'm just saying, there's a moment, isn't there, where she walks in with her little paper hat on and the table's bare." He turned his mug in a slow circle. "I've got a granddaughter." "You've got a granddaughter who's twenty-six and hates you." "She doesn't hate me. She's busy." Molly looked at him a long while. Then she took the napkin, folded it, and slid it into her jacket. "Fine," she said. "The father's got a safe in the study." Bill brightened considerably. "Now that," he said, "is a birthday."