He walked round to the rear of the house, noting the bin store, a side door, then the back garden where there was a patio door opening on to a terrace, with a hot tub beyond that. As he approached the porch at the front he was relieved that no lights came on. He pushed o pen the letter box in the oak door and peered into the hall, its lights left on. It had a modern, clinical feel, somewhat lifeless. He pressed his nose into the aperture. No scent of a dog, but there was a strong smell of perfume — presumably from the lady who had just gone off in the taxi. Dressed smart and all heavily perfumed; indicated she’d be gone for a while
‘Woof!’ he shouted, then ‘Grrrrrr!’ He had a piece of doped shin of beef in a plastic bag in his pocket. But there was no reaction. He waited some moments, glanced over his shoulder, then repeated the sounds, more loudly.
Silence.
You could gain extra time by choosing your entry point carefully. Usually not every room would be alarmed. Pick a small upstairs spare bedroom, and get access through that. Immediately plan the exit route. Then find the master bedroom where the jewellery and expensive watches were likely to be kept and you would have a good five minutes at least — more than enough time for a thorough search — then you’d be out and away long before anyone arrived on the scene.
Shelby had always been good at climbing. But tonight he was really lucky. There was now a builder’s sign outside this lady’s house and scaffolding had been erected on the right-hand side. Two of the windows on the upper floor had lights on. But the third was in darkness.
Keeping his head down in case there was a hidden camera, he began to climb the metal structure. The first window he could see in through looked like a spare room, but he noticed the telltale red light of an alarm monitor on the ceiling — though that was no proof the alarm had been set. He moved along and looked in the next window, which was lined with bookshelves and had a computer on a desk. Another red light glowing just above the door. He sidled further along and peered through the window into the room that was almost in darkness, with a faint green glow behind the blind. He stared hard but could see no red light.
Perfect!
He pulled a glass cutter from his pocket and made a small, square incision in one of the bottom panes of the leaded-light window. Then he pressed a suction cup against it, and pulled. But instead of coming neatly away, the glass splintered and he felt a stab in his right arm as it pierced his anorak sleeve.
‘Shit!’ he cried out in pain, then pressed his lips against his arm and tasted the metallic tang of blood. He stood still, holding the scaffold pole with his left arm, and sucked again, scared of leaving any drops, knowing the police had his DNA on record. He looked all around and behind him. But the street was silent, empty.
He remained still for a few minutes, waiting for the cut to clot. When he was satisfied his arm had stopped bleeding he reached inside through the slats of the blind, found the window latch, which had no lock on it, freed it and pulled the whole window open.
Immediately he smelled something rank and sour. He lifted up the blind, switched on his phone torch and shone the beam around the room. There was a glass door on the far side, with, rather strangely, a solid wall right behind it. The walls were lined with glass containers, illuminated with very weak green light, and there were two free-standing racks, tiered with rectangular glass showcases, each about three feet long by about two feet high. All of them contained creatures; snakes, spiders, frogs, and what looked like a scorpion in one.
He stared at them for some moments in revulsion. Then, as he jumped down into the room, his right foot caught the edge of the sill and he sprawled forward with a yelp of pain, straight into a rack of containers which tumbled over, taking the second tier over with them. One shattered, shards of glass glinting across the floor, and the lid came off. His mobile phone skittered across the floor.
‘Shit, fuck,’ he cursed, lunging for the phone and grabbing it. As he did so, the flash went off. Eyes all around seemed to be staring at him. He heard scuttling. Squeaking. A tiny pair of eyes gleamed at him in the torch beam. It was a small, strange-looking frog, gold with black eyes. It hopped straight towards him, jumping up onto his face.
‘Yrrrrgrrroffff!’ he yelled, grabbing it with his gloved hand. It slipped free and hopped onto his arm. As he shook it away, hurling it across the room, he heard a sound like rustling paper. Then he saw a coiled snake, beige with brown and black markings, slithering across the floor towards him, propelling itself by coiling and uncoiling, its tongue forking out.
‘No, shit, getttawwwaayyyy.’ He pushed himself back with one hand, brandishing the phone in the other like a weapon, until he was right up against the wall beneath the window. The snake was still spinning across the floor towards him.
‘Nooooooo!’ he screamed, scrambling to his feet. He kicked out at it, saw its tongue leap out between its fangs and felt a sharp prick on his right ankle, like a nettle sting.
His heart pounding with terror, he propelled himself backwards through the window, ducked under the blind, hauled himself out and back on to the scaffolding, slamming the window shut to stop the creatures pursuing him, then clambered back down to the ground and ran, without looking behind him, to his car.
Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit.
He started the car and drove off, fast, his brain too jumbled to think clearly. He needed to stop somewhere and check the bite, which was tingling. He headed up Wilson Avenue, turned into the deserted Brighton Racecourse car park and pulled up as far from the road as he could get.
He reached down, rolled up his trouser leg, pushed down his sock, then rolled up the bodysuit legging and shone his beam on the front of his ankle. Just two tiny red dots, no bigger than pinpricks.
Shelby didn’t know anything about snakes. But his trouser leg and thick woollen sock and bodysuit must have protected him from a worse bite, he figured. There were three more houses on his list to target tonight, but he was too shaken up to think about another job. What if the thing that had bitten him was poisonous? He wondered if he ought to go to A&E and get the bite checked out. But what could he say? That he was bitten by something in a warehouse? Or while walking his dog across a park? There would be questions he couldn’t answer.
He removed his glove and rubbed his finger over the bite marks. No blood smear. That was good, Angi would never notice them. He could tell her he’d gashed his arm on a strip of loose metal on a crate. That would work. He looked at the car clock. He couldn’t go home now, because he’d told her he was working a late shift. And besides, he badly needed a drink to calm his nerves. He’d drive to the Royal Albion pub and maybe Dean would be there. Have a couple of pints with him, then, to explain the booze on his breath, tell Angi it was one of the lads’ birthdays and he’d brought in a crate of beers to celebrate at the end of the shift.
Yeah. That was a plan.
He’d check the bite again in an hour or so and see if there was any swelling.
But, Jesus, who the hell kept all those horrible creatures in their home?
He started the car and headed over to Hove, and the enticing prospect of a couple of pints of Harveys, followed by the even more enticing prospect of a night in bed with Angi.
26
Wednesday 25 February
It was a bright, sunny but chilly London morning, the kind when the city looked at its most beautiful. Forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly had only recently arrived back from a long stint in humid Asia, and it looked even more beautiful than ever to him. He had always enjoyed the long walk along Harley Street with its sternly handsome red-brick Georgian properties, something he had done for many years before he went international; he was pleased to see Old Blighty again.