It struck Kale as odd that a man like Gryffe should have chosen to buy a house in an area such as this. He shrugged and took out a cigarette, cupping his hands around the end to light it. He dropped the spent match in the gutter and turned right under a covered stone arch that ran under the end terrace. The cobbles here were dry, and his footsteps echoed back at him off the wall, the light of the street receding behind him. Then he came to the end and back out into the rain, and he turned right again into a long narrow lane that ran along the back of the terraces, bounded by high brick walls on either side, tall wooden gates opening off into the back courts. There were feeble street lamps raised above the wall about every hundred metres along one side. Kale counted off the gates on his right, walking quickly over the asphalt, and stopped at the twelfth. He glanced either way and then opened it and moved into the back court behind Gryffe’s house.
The yard was sunk deep in shadow, a short sodden lawn, a brick shelter for the bins, and an uneven path of cracked slabs leading to the back door. Kale eased the gate shut and then froze as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching in the lane. He pressed himself hard in against the wall of the bin shelter and waited, tensed, as the steps came nearer. They passed the gate without stopping and faded down the lane. A thin jet of air escaped through Kale’s clenched teeth and he moved back out on to the path. Silently he crossed the yard to the French windows that opened into the back room. They were locked. A lever mechanism worked from a handle on the inside. He crouched down and drew a long thin steel rod from an inside pocket of his raincoat and worked it carefully in between the two doors and slid it up to where the centre bolt ran through the gap, and he checked the length of the rod with the position of the handle inside. It would be possible, he decided, and he withdrew the rod again.
He worked quickly, shaping the end of the rod round his wrist, bending it back on itself so that it formed a hook about the size of a cupped hand. Then he gently curved the rod inwards towards the open end of the hook until it was almost a semi-circle. He slipped it back again between the doors, but it stuck halfway where it had kinked slightly in the shaping. He cursed and pulled it out again and worked the rod minutely backwards and forwards where it had kinked until he was satisfied that it was as straight as he could make it. This time it slipped easily between the doors and he slid it up until the hook was above the handle inside and then he pulled it gently downwards. The hook slid neatly over the handle and there he stopped and let it hang. He stood up and took a pencil torch from his pocket and shone it quickly along the top of the door, standing on tiptoe. Two terminals in the cross-jamb gleamed in the light on either side of the centre gap where they made contact with metal strips at the top corners of each half of the door. Kale smiled to himself and checked with his watch again. Already it was after eight thirty. It had taken longer than he thought, and he did not know how much time he had. But it was still important to do it right. There must be no trace, no false moves. If he had opened the door first, without checking, the contact would have been broken and an alarm would have sounded.
He drew out a rolled black plastic bag from the inside pocket from which he had taken the rod. He unrolled it and searched quickly inside, taking out a small roll of metal tape, sticky on one side, a length of wire rolled tightly and tied round the middle, and a short pair of pincers. For this he slipped off his tight black gloves and worked with nimble, steady fingers, unravelling about a yard of wire, baring it at each end and attaching it to strips of tape about three inches in length. Using a nail-file he attached one of the strips to the right-hand terminal on the cross-jamb and the other to the metal strip running along the top of the right-hand door. There was just enough space between the two to work the nail-file in and stick down the tape. The yard of wire hung in a loop down the door. This next would be the telling move. He pulled his gloves back on and leaned his shoulder gently against the right-hand door, grasping the curve of rod that was still on the outside. It would have to be sharp and sudden to bring the handle down, but he could not afford to let the door swing in too sharply and pull the wire too far or it would break the bridging contact. He felt warm and sticky and was not certain if the wetness on his face was rain or sweat. He braced himself and jerked the rod downwards. The handle on the inside came down with it and the pressure of his shoulder pushed the door in. He let the rod fall and grabbed quickly at the edge of the opening door. He caught it before the wire became taut, and he took several seconds to regain his balance and be sure of it. Then he let go the door and retrieved the bent rod and bent it some more until it slipped into his pocket. He re-rolled the plastic bag and put it away also, and brought out two plastic shoe covers. Quickly he pulled the first one over his right shoe and stepped his right leg just inside the door. He did the same with the left foot so that now he was inside the house and there would be no telltale footsteps on the carpet, nothing that even the forensic people could find.
He ducked under the wire and moved quickly across the room and into the hall. It was a narrow, high-ceilinged hall with a small cloakroom set off just inside the door. He checked by the door first and then in the cloakroom before he found what he was looking for. The electric meter was mounted in a wooden casing on the wall. Kale opened it and shone his pencil torch inside and spotted the alarm switch. He turned it off and hurried through again to the back room, disconnecting the wire on the door and the cross-jamb. Then he locked the French windows as they had been, stuffed the wire back in his pocket and went to re-set the alarm. He stood then for several seconds on the parquet flooring in the hall and listened to the silence in the house.
Outside a car swept past in the direction of the Square Ambiorix. The sound of it broke into Kale’s thoughts, stirring him to action, and he climbed the stairs two at a time. Two thirds of the way up a door led off to the bathroom from a small landing. Up another half dozen steps and there was a small, square landing with two doors leading off. The first one opened into Gryffe’s bedroom. A large, rectangular room, basic and tidy. A double bed, a tall oak wardrobe and a matching dressing table and circular mirror against the window. On a single bedside table there was a brown-shaded lamp and a book by Ernest Hemingway with a marker about half-way through. The thin beam of Kale’s pencil torch picked them all out and then snapped off. Kale moved through to the second, smaller room. It was empty except for a single, unmade bed pushed against one wall. The wallpaper was faded and old-fashioned, brittle at the seams where it was beginning to lift away from the wall. The room smelled fusty and unused. The whole house had an unlived-in feel and smell.
Downstairs, at the end of the hall, there was a small, stone-floored kitchen down two steps. There was a faint odour of stale cooking and damp. The gas stove was black and caked with grease, and a porcelain sink and washtub with a wooden draining board was cracked. In an old dark-wood cupboard there was a half-empty bottle of milk, a packet of cereal, tea, coffee, sugar, cups, saucers and three plates. A wooden door leading to the back yard was bolted shut. Kale guessed that Gryffe would eat out a lot. He moved through into the back room and then through the interior set of French windows into Gryffe’s study. Everything in the house seemed functional, designed for convenience rather than comfort. Again Kale checked his watch. It was nine now. He opened the drawer that Gryffe had opened an hour earlier and found a heavy black handgun. A Colt .32 automatic, eight shot. An old-fashioned gun. He lifted it out and felt its weight in his hand. He sniffed the barrel. It had not been fired recently. Gently, with a dexterous familiarity, he sprang the magazine out and counted the bullets through the small holes in the side. It was fully loaded. He snapped the magazine back in place and slipped the gun carefully into his right-hand coat pocket, and allowed himself a tight, bitter smile. Good fortune smiled on evil. He had a plan.