Monday 21st August 2017
He walked into the bank like he owned the place, past the queuing mums, pushchairs weighted down with shopping bags, the suits checking their watches, counting down lunch-hours. Over to the personal banking desk, matching the man behind it smile for smile. Fresh out of college by the looks of it. Early-twenties at a push. Hair scraped back from a shiny forehead, and last traces of acne like a faded join-the-dots. Daniel, according to his name badge.
He slid a passport and bank card across the desk, batted back small talk where he could. He could actually pinpoint the moment that Daniel clocked the balance in his account, eyes popping with a mix of surprise and envy. Fended off the valiant attempt to book him an appointment with one of their investment bankers.
He could practically smell the sweaty palms that pushed the signature slip his way. He scrawled his name across the dotted line, slid it back to Daniel, and leaned back in his chair.
‘Anything else you need from me?’
‘No Mr Jackson, that should do it’ said Daniel.
Gordon Jackson scraped back his chair, retreated before Daniel could offer a clammy handshake, exited through the main door and out onto George Lane. The glare of the sun hit him like a paparazzo’s flash, and he winced as he crossed the road, popping his top button, and wiggling the knot of his tie down an inch. Summer had been late coming to London this year, but now it was here, it meant business.
Quick push of the key fob in his pocket, and the lights winked on a Volvo parked opposite the branch. He slipped a laptop case out from under the passenger seat, fingers dancing over the keys, connecting to the weak Wi-Fi from a next-door Costa Coffee. One user name and password later, he allowed himself a brief smile as he saw the balance in the account. A dozen keystrokes later, and it was off through the ether to a new home.
He powered down the laptop, stashed it back under the seat. Took out his wallet, removing the cards one by one. Drivers licence, MasterCard, Visa. Dropped them into a plastic sandwich bag, to be burned when he got back to the house. And just like that, Gordon Jackson ceased to exist. The man left in his place checked his mirrors, signalled to pull out, and disappeared into the midday traffic.
Careful. Always careful.