It was a simple and effective way of neutralizing guard dogs, and he’d done it plenty of times before in his younger days. Just as he’d broken into numerous buildings in the past, and almost always at night, in the dark.
He removed his clothes, completely, until he stood naked. Then he put on a one-piece body-stocking, leaving only his head exposed, which would reduce the chances of him dropping any skin cells or body hairs for DNA. Over that he pulled on a thin black polo neck, black tracksuit bottoms and a black hooded top. Then he stretched a black Lycra swimming cap over his scalp, pulling it down over his ears and the back of his head, trapping all his hairs, and then pulled black neoprene windsurfer boots onto his feet.
Next he clipped on a webbing belt, threaded through the hoops of a zipped nylon pouch which contained his tools: a glass cutter and suction cup; lock-picks; screwdriver; chisel; small hammer and some small but extremely strong levers; a small roll of masking tape; bottle of chloroform and a small cotton wool pad. His intended route into the Grace house was through the house’s roof hatch, but as yet he had no idea how it was secured. If the fixings were the same as his own, it would be a doddle, but he thought it very likely that Grace, with his policeman’s mind, might have fitted something more robust. If that proved the case, at least with his kit he had plenty of options.
One final item lay on the floor: a barber’s razor he had recently bought for this purpose. No better tool had ever been invented. He put that in the pouch, carefully checked the rest of the tools, then zipped it shut and went into the bathroom to check his appearance.
He could barely recognize himself in the mirror. A black face with panda eyes stared back at him. He grinned. Oh yes, very good, very good indeed.
He returned to his post, poured himself a whisky for some Dutch courage and lit a final cigarette. He looked at his watch again: 11.50 p.m. He picked up the headset and listened. It sounded as if the feeding was coming to an end.
He smoked the cigarette right down to the filter. It was now five minutes to midnight. He crushed it out in the ashtray, drained the last drop of the whisky, stood up and said to himself, ‘Rock’n’roll!’
As he began climbing up the loft ladder he thought, for an instant, that he heard a sound downstairs, and felt a flash of panic.
The wind, just the wind, that’s all, he reassured himself, then reaching out and gripping a wooden support, he hauled himself off the top of the ladder and into the loft.
Downstairs, the front door closed silently.
96
It felt strange that Roy was not here, Cleo thought, as she lay in bed looking at the pictures and details of the cottage in the estate agent’s brochure. She loved it; despite its dilapidated state it had such a warm, friendly feeling.
She hoped so much that Roy would feel the same way, and she could not wait to take him to see it. It needed everything doing, but that was why it was almost in their price bracket. It was set a safe distance away from the main road, and backed onto farmland, with glorious views across the valley to the hills of the South Downs. It was the perfect place to raise Noah, and it would be paradise for Humphrey.
She put the brochure down on the bedside table, worrying about that couple who were going back for a second viewing. She wished Roy could hurry home. And not just so he could see the house. This was the first time since they had brought Noah home that they had been apart, and she missed him badly.
Feeling totally exhausted, she closed her eyes, but she was unable to sleep. The television was on, the sound turned low, just for company. An old episode of Frasier, which always made her smile, was playing. She picked up the third volume of the Fifty Shades trilogy and turned to her bookmarked place, but after only a few lines, she realized she was too tired to read and put it down, then drank some water.
Then she looked at the baby monitor to make sure it was on. She turned the volume up high for some moments so she could hear Noah’s breathing. Reassured, she turned it down a little.
She ought to be studying for her Open University degree. Several philosophy textbooks lay piled up on her bedside table, but she had no appetite for any of them at the moment.
The wind was still howling outside and she could feel a draught on her face, through the window pane. Out in the distance she heard a siren wailing mournfully. She didn’t really know why, but she felt on edge tonight. Nervous of the sounds of the wind. Nervous for her child. Nervous for their future. Something she had read a few days ago, that Sophocles wrote, suddenly rang true. To the man who is afraid, everything rustles.
And yes, tonight, everything was rustling.
She shivered. Cold enough to swap over to the winter duvet. But it was still only early September. Humphrey, who normally slept in his basket down in the kitchen, was asleep on the floor at the end of the bed, and she hadn’t the heart to push him out of the room. He suddenly began snoring, loud, deep snores, and for a moment she smiled. He sounded like Roy when he’d had too much to drink.
She closed her eyes. God, she had such huge responsibilities. They told you that your life would change when you had a baby, but they didn’t tell you that it was quite such damned hard work, nor that you would be permanently scared of something happening to your child. Her health visitor had reassured her, on her six-week check, that this was quite normal, and so had all her friends who’d had babies whom she had spoken to. But equally, no one had ever been able to tell her the depth of love she would feel every time she looked at Noah, and every time she held him in her arms.
But was he ever making her nipples sore!
Something scudded in the wind across the courtyard below. It sounded like a plastic bag blown loose. She thought about the case Roy was working on. The poor old woman who had been tortured in her home by burglars. What kind of world had Noah been born into? The world was a violent place; it always had been and it seemed it always would be. At least, she thought, both she and Noah were lucky in one respect. Roy always made her feel safe, and he’d always make sure Noah was safe, too.
She turned up the volume on the television slightly. Frasier was trying to get rid of his brother for the night because he had a hot date with his old school prom queen, who was now a middle-aged vamp.
She smiled, feeling a little better.
97
Roy Grace ate the Maraschino cherry, drained the last of his second Manhattan, then stubbed out his second cigarette. The men at the bar, smoking their cigars, continued to be absorbed in the ball game on the large television screen. Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander were having an animated conversation about Brighton and Hove Albion’s prospects for the new football season, while Grace sat, silently immersed in his thoughts, trying to study the estate agent’s particulars on their website on his iPhone.
He was missing Cleo and Noah, but it was now half past midnight in England – much too late to call again. And he was concerned about tomorrow. ACC Rigg had made a big leap of faith sanctioning this trip, and they had to deliver. But the fact that Eamonn Pollock had put a false address on his immigration forms was a clear indicator that he was in this city for an illicit purpose. Maybe he should go to the hotel where they knew he was staying, and join the guard. But he had to get some sleep, otherwise he would be useless tomorrow. The best thing he could do, he thought, was get a bite to eat, have an early night and head over there first thing in the morning.