by Robert White
Dave strode up the driveway holding the briefcase, looking like a salesman about to visit a customer. He scanned the frontage as he walked. His mind whirred, taking in every detail. No alarm boxes. Plastic frames, double-glazed and beaded externally. A clean way in if needed.
He stepped into the arched, open porch. The floor was a black and white tiled mosaic of the Lancashire crest. He had to hand it to the Detective he was patriotic to the last.
Checking out the front door, it looked brand new. Both Yale and mortise type locks adorned it.
Not impossible to defeat, but it would be time consuming and time was of the essence.
Before ringing the bell he did what all good burglars do. He listened. Was the television or hi-fi on? Was there a dog in the house? Could you hear a washing machine?
There was silence.
Dave pressed the doorbell. To him, it had a chime like Big Ben. He stood perfectly still, trying to look as casual as possible and waited for the worst. If McCauley himself answered the door, he was in deep shit.
Nothing.
After a full minute of listening to his heartbeat thunder in his ears, it was time to move to the back of the house. People are notorious for fixing up their front doors and leaving the back until last just because the neighbours don’t see it.
This was no exception. The back door was probably as old as the property. It was in need of paint and was secured only by a single Yale lock.
Dave opened his briefcase and selected a bunch of skeleton keys. The idea was to cause as little damage as possible. Fewer traumas, less clues were the order of the day. Dave pushed the delicate instruments into the lock and he could feel the notches of the tumbler moving under his touch.
His heart raced, but his hands were steady. Twenty more seconds of patience and the lock turned. He pushed the door slowly with a gloved hand and it creaked open like a bad horror movie.
Dave waited until his breathing returned to normal and he was sure he hadn’t caught any unwelcome attention from neighbours. It was a case of, so far so good. He stepped cautiously inside.
He found himself in the humid warmth of a laundry room. A stone floor, with a single square of frayed carpet in the centre, greeted him.
The first internal door was closed. Dave tried the handle. McCauley was not the type to lock his rooms separately and the handle turned. Dave was now in the kitchen. It was a newly modernised room with pine cabinets. A large well-stocked wine rack had pride of place. The smell of disinfectant overpowered any residual cooking smells.
Dave now clicked on his torch and started his search.
People do hide things in the same places. Always look under beds, in the fridge, under carpets and under stairs.
Dave was convinced that what he was looking for would not be easy to get at. If the content of these files was able to hurt people, important people, maybe even jail them and, after all, that’s what it meant to Dave, then they would be safely stowed.
Once in the hallway he switched off the torch and immediately looked under the stairwell.
There it was. This guy was careful, but not careful enough. Sitting there was a safe that was probably made around the 1930’s. This had to be what Dave was looking for.
In the movies, thieves blow up safes or use stethoscopes to pick the combination. In reality most thieves just steal the safe, take it somewhere quiet and open it in any way they can. It’s normally a case of brute force and ignorance.
This baby was too big to move by four men, let alone one. It sported a large keyhole and a handle to turn the mechanism. Dave knew exactly what to do.
Searching his briefcase again, he selected a metal bar, similar in looks to a very long toothbrush.
At the business end, a slot had been cut into the metal and in the slot had been welded a section of wires from a wire brush. At the other end was a ‘T’ bar.
First Dave had to trim the wires to the length of the key slot. He did this using cutting pliers.
He then pushed the implement into the keyhole, removed a large pair of mole-grips from the case and clamped them onto the ‘T’.
A standard mortise key works because the slots cut into the end of the key move the mobile splines in the lock. The gaps in the key simply sweep past the immobile parts allowing the key to turn.
David’s tool worked on the principal that the strong wires of the tool would move the mobile part of the lock whilst the immobile part would simply bend the rest of the wires out of the way. The process required some strength, as once the wire starts to bend the tool becomes very difficult to turn.
Dave checked his watch. He had been in the house for only five minutes or so. He was back on schedule.
He put his shoulder into turning the implement in the lock and as it tightened, the sound of metal on metal jangled Dave’s teeth and his nerves. With a supreme effort, sweat pouring from him, Dave felt a telltale click. The heat in the confined space of the under-stairs cupboard was increasing by the minute. He held a small Maglight in his mouth. He turned the handle on the safe.
Bingo! It opened.
Inside, he found a neat stack of brown folders each containing differing amounts of documents on a shelf. Each of the folders bore a name. All were in alphabetical order. He flicked through the files until he came to ‘Stewart D.’
“The sly bastard,” he mumbled.
He lifted a few more files and came upon ‘Wallace A’.
Dave was tempted to read there and then but time was pressing now. He collected all the files and placed them in his case. He had no choice but to leave the tool in the keyhole as it was now well and truly stuck.
No matter, how could McCauley report the theft of files that he himself should not be in possession of?
Dave eased himself out of the cupboard and into the hallway. He felt suddenly vulnerable with the light still on, but it was better than switching it off.
Some people are so nosy.
Within thirty seconds, Dave was back on the pavement outside the house. The back door was secured again. Only when the cupboard under the stairs was opened would the theft be discovered. Dave calmed himself and actually managed a smile as he walked back towards the pub.
What Dave failed to notice was the large saloon car, with its single male occupant, draw up at McCauley’s house just seconds later.
Several miles away, Anne was beside herself.
The initial shock of her date walking out, and the embarrassment she felt under the gaze of the pub regulars, had now worn off. She needed a taxi, and quick.
She rummaged through her purse for change, found she had none and was forced back to the bar for assistance. After an even more embarrassing conversation with the landlord, who felt the need to advise her on her love life, she finally made it to the payphone with a handful of ten pence pieces. Anne quickly discovered that she was indeed out in the sticks. The taxi would be thirty minutes. Too late, McCauley would beat her to it.
The tall man watched the Chief Detective’s house. McCauley was an unpredictable bastard so he wanted to make sure he would be out of the way. His evening had been a busy one so far. Sitting in the pub, watching that sorry little shit Bailey. His task was a simple one, wait for Bailey to steal the files, and then kill him. He’d been easy to follow.
Easy to kill.
The kid had bottled it and run home without the goods, so he had killed him anyway. He’d enjoyed it.
Why would anyone trust some toe-rag from Callon with an important job like that? You needed a professional and he was just that.
The trouble was, the tall man’s mind had wandered from the task in hand and as a result, he’d failed to notice Dave slip into the night wearing his smile.
He left his car and walked up the driveway to the house. He made his way calmly to the back door, adorned in a clean set of coveralls, raised one powerful leg, and kicked it open. There was no need for finesse in his line of work.
He stepped inside and began his search. He started upstairs. I
t was purposely, neither tidy, nor professional. The man functioned on pure arrogant violence. He had never been caught. He never would. He pulled out drawers, emptied cupboards and left the contents strewn about the place. He knew what he was looking for, but where to look? Finally, sweating and breathing heavily, he found the under stair cupboard. He opened the cupboard door and saw the safe, rifled.
The man let out an involuntary cry of anguish, which he then muffled with his own rubber gloved hand.
This was not part of the plan.
His mind raced. He couldn’t think straight. The vision of the jerking body of William Henry Bailey flashed before his eyes. Had the kid somehow beat him to the punch? No, impossible. He’d tailed him constantly.
He took in large gulps of air in an attempt to calm himself and clear his head. He had no doubt that many people would love to get their hands on the contents of the safe, but how many knew of the papers anyway?
Slowly but surely, his mind started to function. He viewed the tool that had been used to open the safe.
He nodded. This was a pro job all right and there was no sign of a forced entry. So, who would have a key?
McCauley’s bit of stuff would have a one, he’d bet his life, and she would know a face that could pull a job like this. She could be reading the stuff right this minute. Shit, with the cash that little lot was worth, she could be planning her early retirement.
The man sat in his car, his breathing now near normal. He knew that there would be many people with a lot to lose if the files were made public. Some were powerful people. Maybe his boss was not the only one to get wind of McCauley’s recent use of the files. Maybe they’d got wind too. Maybe McCauley had stood on other well-shod toes. He had to sort this and it had to be now. He’d start with the girlfriend though. He had a feeling about her...
Less the half a mile away, Dave opened the door of his Mini car. He threw his briefcase onto the back seat and re-locked the vehicle.
A quick scan of the car park revealed nothing. There was no one around. It was time to make his entrance back into the bar. The customers would never even suspect he’d left.
This time the toilet window opened with ease. Dave just had to take a chance on the toilets being empty. He took a deep breath and hoisted himself through the opening. Again his awkwardness did him no favours. He slithered into the men’s room and fell heavily onto the offensively wet floor. As he picked himself up, inspecting his damp hands, the entrance door opened and an elderly man entered.
“You need to watch this floor lad,” said the old-timer. “You could break yer neck when it’s wet like this.”
Dave smiled meekly. “Thanks for the advice.”
The old man walked to the urinal and began to pee. “Ahh! One of life’s great pleasures eh son?”
He didn’t get a reply, Dave was back in his seat sipping his scotch, feeling very pleased with himself. He nodded to two men at the bar. If he needed an alibi, he had one.
twelve
McCauley had driven like a madman. He was raging. What a tart. Dragging him out to that poxy little pub and trying to pull the wool over his eyes like that.
Miraculously, instead of going home, he had called into ‘The Bull’ for another drink. He sat at the bar and brooded. He was going to make the bitch pay.
Did she really think she could get one over on the Chief? These women in the job were becoming too big for their boots. She was his, to do with what he liked and he would prove it.
He guzzled another scotch. He was calming down and started to rationalise what he ‘knew.’ Of course, she was playing a game with him. After all, she had contacted him to go out. She wanted it really, wanted him. He had played it all wrong. Well if it was a game she desired, he would oblige.
He knocked back the remainder of his drink and waved his empty glass in the direction of Lucy. She took it disdainfully and filled it with a large Grouse. She had no liking for John McCauley.
He leered drunkenly in her direction and considered the prospect of asking her back to his place. She had big tits.
No, he had some unfinished business with Anne Wallace.
She may have a crush on this boy Stewart at the moment, but he could take care of him. What she needed was a real man.
He smiled to himself. He was just the man for the job.
Anne directed the taxi driver toward her house. Typical, she got the slowest driver in the world. She had shouted at him to hurry, even produced her warrant card, a thing she hated to do. It had merely resulted in the awkward bastard moaning about how the Police were out to get all taxi drivers. “It’s a different story when they want something, etc. etc.”
Anne was in a mess. Tears pricked her eyes. This was all a massive mistake. How had she let herself get talked into such a hair-brained scheme? She ignored the driver’s gripes. Her nerves were shot. Every possible scenario was flying through her mind. David could already be in jail.
David should meet her at her house after she had got rid of McCauley. Anne could only hope that David had got the job done prior to the Chief’s early exit from the bar.
What if he had been caught? She could only wait and see. The waiting was the hard part. What on earth would McCauley do if he found out? Anne was nauseous at the prospect.
The taxi finally pulled up outside her home. She paid the still lecturing driver and opened her front door. The place was in darkness and there was no sign of David. At least the local nick weren’t standing there with the handcuffs.
Anne reached for the light switch in the lounge. Once inside the plush room, Anne dropped her coat and bag onto the couch and walked to the kitchen. The strip light was bright and hurt her eyes. All the pristine work surfaces were white and reflected the light. She marveled briefly at her kitchen’s cleanliness and then realised that she hadn’t cooked in her own kitchen for weeks. That’s being a copper for you. She felt like a lodger in her own home.
Anne took a colourful mug from the kitchen cupboard. It had an amusing cartoon on it and a risqué joke about men and coffee. It made her smile momentarily as she remembered the day she bought it. Happier, simpler, times.
She switched on the kettle and prepared the drink. As she dropped the spoon in the mug, Anne felt a cool draught. The sort that makes you shiver as if you’ve left a window ajar.
The kitchen light went out.
A hand grabbed her hair, tearing some out at the roots. She was falling, off balance and shocked. The mug in her hand fell to the floor and smashed on the tiles. She let out a scream of pain and fear. She attempted to break her fall but was too disorientated.
The assailant did not speak. She was unable to see his face as she was physically dragged along the kitchen floor by the hair. She smelled him. Sweat and cigarette smoke.
As she was pulled into the lounge, she automatically held onto her attacker’s hand to relieve the pressure on her hair. She felt the hand and realised it was encased in rubber. Anne’s adrenaline had stopped the thought process but now her common sense took over. It was as if her brain had suddenly started into gear. She began to struggle and cry out. The man ignored her.
There was a sound of breaking glass as her attacker kicked out at the lone lamp in the lounge, plunging the remainder of the house into darkness. Anne could hear the man breathing hard over her own screams as he dragged her through the house. Was he going to rape her? It had always been Anne’s greatest fear. She bucked her body in an attempt to get a look at the man.
Her attacker realised her ploy, grew tired of the constant cries and slammed a punch into her face with his free hand. The impact was so severe it pushed Anne’s bottom teeth straight through her lip. Anne felt the sharp pain and her head swam on the verge on consciousness. She ran her tongue along the damaged area and, to her horror, found a second unnatural opening.
Her mouth filled with hot coppery tasting liquid, which she spat, out onto her sweater and immediately resumed her screams. She would be no pushover. She twisted her body using all her s
trength now, determined to be free from his grip. She ignored the tremendous pain of her scalp and mouth. She tried to grab at the man. It was a vain attempt. He had no conscience. He simply struck her twice more in the face, the first punch breaking her nose and the second, knocking her cold.
The man turned over the limp body of Anne Wallace. He ripped the telephone cord from the wall and tied her wrists behind her back. He then picked up her dead weight with ease and threw her onto the couch.
The only light in the room came from the open curtains. The man took a cursory look outside. No dramas.
He viewed the woman on the couch. Her face no longer the picture of beauty it had been seconds earlier. Her body though was a different matter. He stared, transfixed for a full minute. It seemed forever. He licked his dry lips. His eyes darted over the shapely figure, bound beneath his gaze.
The man lifted Anne’s sweater over her breasts, pushed his index and forefinger between her cleavage and lifted her bra. Her breasts released, he pulled off a marigold glove and cupped her nakedness in his hand.
His breathing grew faster and he could feel his penis swelling in his trousers. He squeezed the breast harder and pulled on the nipple. Oh yes, he would love to fuck this one. He ran his hand down Anne’s belly stopping briefly at her navel. He pushed his hand beneath the waistband of her jeans and groped inside her panties beneath.
The man suddenly drew away, unzipped his fly and pulled out his erection. His penis immediately pulsed and a jet of semen splashed onto the naked torso of the unconscious woman.
He let out an ecstatic moan and he sank to his knees as he pumped the remains of his ejaculation onto Anne’s body. The man slowly zipped himself. The instance of gratification was over. The woman was no longer of interest. He replaced the rubber glove. He hadn’t had the time to finish searching the house yet. There was a good chance she had the files.