Just the cylinder lock now. He’d already decided to ‘bump’ it. He replaced the pick in the wallet and took out an evenly serrated key. His earlier inspection had been fruitful: he’d correctly matched the profile and it slid into the lock. Things were going well. Gripping the key between finger and thumb, he eased it a little way out of the lock, applied a gentle turning force, then began to tap it rapidly with a hard rubber block, vibrating it in and out of the cylinder, bouncing the pins up to the shear-line. The key suddenly turned. When he reached down and pressed the handle, the door opened.
He snatched up the tool wallet and shopping bag, stepped inside, then closed the door and leaned against it. His legs were shaking. This was illegal entry. If he’d been discovered, he’d have lost everything. He’d never have got a decent job again. But he hadn’t been seen, he hadn’t been challenged. Getting inside had taken little more than thirty seconds. No one had passed along the street. The tall hedge had hidden him from watchers in the adjoining houses. He could relax now; enjoy the experience, explore the rooms, look through Rebecca’s things and, in a secret and mysterious way, become one with her again. He breathed in the lingering aromas of cooked food, fresh paint, the mustiness of the old house.
The narrow hallway extended down the side of the stairs and ended in a door, half glazed with rippled glass that was sparkling with sunlight flooding the room beyond. The stairs ascended to the shadowy darkness of an upper landing. He left his trainers on the door mat, gathered up his shopping bag and went through the half-glazed door. The sunlit kitchen was small but tastefully fitted out: gleaming black floor, white cupboards, grey granite work tops. He crossed over to a window above the sink and looked down a back garden enclosed by high brick walls. The grass was long, flower beds were overgrown with weeds, ivy climbing over the end wall needed trimming. He could have helped her so much; just a few evenings and weekends and he’d have put things in order.
Leaving his bag on the drainer, he wandered out of the kitchen and into a small sitting room at the rear of the house. He recognized the cream and gold striped sofa and chairs that crowded the tiny room. Swatches of curtain fabric, wallpaper samples, paint colour cards, were scattered over a coffee table; decorating magazines were piled up beside the sofa. The television set was on the window side of the fireplace and books were stacked on sagging shelves that crossed a recess on the other side. There were so many things that needed fixing here. If only she’d . . .
Lionel swallowed hard, wandered back down the passageway and peered into the room at the front. A dining table and chairs had been pushed against the far wall. Rolled-up rugs, packing cases, boxes, suitcases, covered what was left of the floor. He ascended the stairs, ignored the half-open bathroom door at the end of the landing and entered a small rear bedroom. Curtains, blankets and winter coats were piled on an unmade single bed. Cardboard boxes were stacked on and beside a chest of drawers.
Heart pounding, legs trembling, he pushed open the door to the larger bedroom at the front. White curtains, drawn across the windows, gave the light a misty, spectral quality. He stepped inside, closed the door, then stood there, wriggling his toes in the deep pile of an ivory-coloured carpet while he glanced around the room. Rebecca seemed very near to him now. This was her private place: the room where she dressed and undressed, the room where she slept.
She was still using the big double bed with the white satin headboard, still using the big pillows with the frilly edges, the white Laura Ashley duvet that matched the curtains. The counterpane was neatly folded back, the sheet and duvet tossed aside, the pillows on her side of the bed rumpled. Moving closer, he gazed for a while at the faint depression in the mattress that had been made by her body. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He could smell her perfume, her cosmetics, her warm silky skin; her fragrance permeated everything.
On a sudden impulse, he lay down on the bed in the very place where she had laid, settled his head on the pillow where her head had rested, and was reminded of the aroma of her shampoo, clean and faintly astringent. Presently, the feeling of unutterable loss that had dogged him for weeks began to fade, erased by the overpowering sense of her nearness. Intensely aroused now, his body seemed to burn and his breathing became rapid and shallow. He closed his eyes and kept perfectly still until the intensity of feeling passed. He was sad, he was lonely but he had to get over her. He wanted to so desperately, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. She was the first thing he thought of when he woke; the memory of her was the last thing on his mind when he drifted off to sleep.
She was living here alone. The thought comforted him. She hadn’t left him for someone else; she’d spared him the unbearable agony of sexual jealousy. Feeling a sudden unease, he rose from the bed and crossed over to the wardrobe. It was crammed with her clothes, most of which he recognized. He stared down at the shoes beneath the rack of garments, searched the floor beneath the bed. There were no men’s things. He sighed out his relief.
The dressing table was crowded with creams and cosmetics, tiny ornaments, a leather jewellery case. He pulled open the shallow central drawer and gazed down at her collection of knickers; silk of many hues, lace-trimmed, embroidered, beribboned, all neatly folded. A white pair, satin, unadorned by lace, larger than the rest, caught his eye. He gently eased them from beneath the others and unfolded them on top of the dressing table. He remembered her wearing them. The others hardly covered her pubic hair, but these rose up to her waist, clinging to her buttocks and the gentle swell of her stomach in a most provocative way. His fingers stroked the silk, then trailed down and lingered on the gusset.
A feeling of revulsion swept over him. He snatched his hand away. He was sick, he was pervy. Endless nights of loneliness and longing had reduced him to this. He folded the knickers, attempted to replace them between the smaller, frillier items. Then, surrendering to impulse, snatched them back, stuffed them in his pocket and closed the drawer. She wouldn’t miss one pair amongst so many.
Consumed by shame at what he’d done, he left the bedroom and went into the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Pink tiles covered the walls; a pink bath, basin and WC took up most of the pink-carpeted floor. There was no shower. Rebecca wouldn’t like this. It wouldn’t be long before she had it all replaced. The intense gaze of a face staring at him out of the mirrored doors of a wall cabinet startled him: the brow was damp with perspiration, the stubble-darkened cheeks flushed, the fleshy lips parted and glistening. Not liking what he saw, overwhelmed by self-loathing, he turned and thudded down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.
He leaned against the drainer and looked out over the garden while he ate corned beef sandwiches and drank coffee, all the time trying to compose himself, trying to rationalize why he was here. After the meal he felt calmer, less tense and nervy. He checked his watch: it was a little after twelve. He’d been in the house for almost two hours. Time to leave before his luck ran out. He put his lunch box and flask in the bag, swept crumbs from the drainer with the palm of his hand, and left the kitchen. When he reached the front door he remembered there was a grate over a light well in the paved area: the house had cellars. After going to all the risk and trouble of getting in, he may as well take a look. He turned and retraced his steps down the hall.
A door had been formed in the panelling beneath the rake of the stairs. Lionel pushed it open, felt for a switch and clicked it on. An unshaded bulb illuminated whitewashed walls and stone steps that descended to a brick-paved floor. He trotted down, hunching his shoulders beneath low ceilings, breathing in cool musty air. A grimy window let some light into the cellar at the front, where dusty Kilner jars, an old mincing machine and discarded crockery filled shelves that crossed the far wall; probably things abandoned by previous owners. Gas and electricity meters and some ancient fuse boxes were mounted beside the window that looked into the light well. The house needed rewiring. If they’d still been together he could have done it for her and saved her a packet.
H
e turned down the side of the cellar steps and peered into a small chamber at the back. Bridged by a heavy stone slab, it had once been used for keeping perishable food cool. As he turned to leave, a glint of red and gold caught his eye. He crouched down and peered beneath the slab. A biscuit tin had been placed on an upturned bucket. He lifted it out, removed the lid, folded back some white linen and exposed a number of mobile phones. Like the tin, they were clean and new-looking. Everything else was covered in a fine grey dust, so they hadn’t been down here long. Rebecca must have put them here. What on earth was she doing with a collection of mobile phones? Intrigued now, he rose to his feet and carried them into the light at the foot of the steps.
He picked out a phone, keyed it on, and was surprised when icons appeared on the screen. Even more curious now, he touched the ‘photo’ icon then scrolled through images too tiny to yield any detail. He saw one that carried a video symbol, touched it, and was rewarded by a picture of two girls sitting in a pool of light, one with blue hair, the other a blonde wearing black satin underwear. He touched the start symbol. The women began to kiss and caress one another, their movements slow and languid, their fingers gliding down cheeks to linger on breasts before descending to thighs. They turned to face the camera; they must have realized they were being watched. Amused rather than annoyed, they laughed, made vulgar gestures, and refined female voices mouthing expletives whispered out of the phone.
There was a blur of movement and the scene shifted to a sofa in a dimly lit room. Despite the poor light, the moving image of the embracing couple was startlingly clear. Both were naked and both were young. The girl was laughing helplessly; the boy’s face was brick-red and beaded with perspiration. Either they didn’t know, or didn’t care, that they were being watched.
Lucky beggar, Lionel thought: the girl was blonde, small breasted, slender and pretty. He’d encountered this sort of thing whilst he’d been at university – parties where there was plenty to drink and a few of the girls, a world away from home and family, felt free to cast aside their inhibitions. But unspoken rules had always been observed; anyone caught taking photos or making videos would have been given short shrift.
Another blur of movement, then the camera steadied on a door. It opened slowly to reveal a couple on a mattress covered by a sheet. The observer crept closer. A dark-haired, pale-skinned girl was lying beneath a tall muscular youth. Oblivious to everything except themselves, his big hands were busy, his buttocks were heaving.
The girl raised her knees, began to caress the youth’s back and run her fingers into his hair. His efforts became more vigorous, the girl more responsive. She turned her head and her face came into view. Eyes half closed, lips curved in an abandoned grimace, it was Rebecca!
Lionel stared down at the screen. The image was vividly clear. There could be no doubt about it. Her face, what he could see of her body – her plump thighs, her shapely legs – were things he remembered all too well. The girl on the mattress really was Rebecca. Sickened, he switched off the phone. The shock was making him dizzy. A maelstrom of emotions – dismay, disenchantment, a jealous rage – was seething up inside him. He’d adored her, he’d been deeply in love with her, and now the feeling of betrayal was utterly overwhelming. Tears stung behind his eyes, then, in a sudden moment of lucidity, he reminded himself that she’d dumped him. She’d told him to go. As far as she was concerned, it was all over. He had no claim on her. She was free to do as she pleased.
He dropped the mobile back in the tin, folded the cloth over it and replaced the lid. He ought never to have entered her home: it was a bad thing to have done. Intending to put the tin back in its hiding place, he made for the tiny chamber, then paused. He’d take the phones, all of them, search them, discover what she’d been up to. There had to be some reason why she’d collected them and hidden them down here. They weren’t likely to be something she’d look for every day, and if she did discover they’d been taken, so what?
Scales were falling from his eyes. He realized now that the expensive clothes, the posh voice, the perfect manners, had hidden a wantonness. Hadn’t she always been the one to take the initiative in their lovemaking; who’d been so uninhibited in the bedroom? A smarter, a more experienced man, would have read the signs and not been taken in. She’d probably been deceiving him whilst they were together: all that talk about nights out with the girls and her colleagues from the office. He recalled how pleasant and accommodating she’d been when he began to help her, how she’d cooled when the jobs had been done, how arrogant and nasty she’d been when she’d finally told him to go. He’d been in relationships before. The initial ardour always faded, but he and Rebecca had remained friendly and companionable. When she’d finally spelled it out to him, when she’d demanded that he clear out of the flat, he’d been stunned; almost as stunned as he was now.
The chilly cellar had made his bladder ache. He climbed back to the hallway, put the box in his shopping bag, then dashed up the stairs and stepped into the bathroom. Desperate, he lifted the toilet seat, relieved himself, then pressed the flush. While he was checking the rim of the pan for splashes he remembered he had her knickers in his pocket. What on earth had possessed him? He felt only revulsion now, at himself for having taken them and for the things themselves. After he’d lowered the toilet seat, he dropped them in a wicker linen basket behind the door and descended to the hall.
Seconds later he was standing in the fresh air, using the two-piece pick to secure the lock. That done, he passed through the groaning iron gate and strode off down Orchard Street. The sky had clouded over and rain was beginning to fall. He quickened his pace, heading for the car he’d parked some distance away.
Sir Nigel settled his apron over his lap, placed his huge white-gloved hands on his knees and allowed his gaze to wander around the room. Softly lit by wall lights, furnished with leather chairs arranged around low tables on a russet-brown carpet, it was a comfortable place where the brothers could assemble before, and relax convivially after, their meetings in the lodge on the floor above. In an alcove, glasses sparkled and the brass and mahogany of a well-stocked bar gleamed. Its shutters were down. When the meeting was over, stewards would raise them and do their best to cope with the crush.
The dark-suited members were gathering. Most were attired in the garb of the Master Mason: aprons edged with a band of blue silk and decorated with rosettes and tassels. A few, holders of the Royal Arch degree, wore aprons embroidered with the Triple Tau – three linked Ts within a triangle – on the lowered bib.
He felt secure and relaxed here, amongst brothers who would never speak ill of him; at least, not to the profane, to cowans, to uninitiated men ignorant of the mysteries of the craft. And they would do him no harm; indeed, they would most generously assist him should he be in any kind of need.
The Queen’s Lord Lieutenant was late. Sir Nigel wanted to have a quick word with him before the meeting began so he could leave immediately it was over. Evelyn was becoming very edgy about his never being at home. His police work she accepted; the lodge meetings she was less inclined to tolerate. Indeed, she viewed his Freemasonry with a contempt that sometimes spilled over into anger. He caught sight of Sir Kelvin, waved to catch his attention, then watched him make his way between the groups of chattering men towards him.
Sir Kelvin Makewood lowered his stocky frame into the adjoining chair and leaned towards him. ‘You wanted a word?’
‘Just to bring you up to date. The girl’s been taken by force from the secure unit. Happened last night. A woman tricked the warden to gain entry, then pulled a gun and handcuffed him. When she had the girl, she locked him in the girl’s room.’
‘This woman, is she known to you?’
Sir Nigel shook his head. ‘Warden gave the investigating officer a description: blonde, about five-five, husky voice, wore tinted glasses with tiny round lenses. He said the glasses were like the things John Lennon used to wear in the sixties.’
‘John Lennon?’
&
nbsp; ‘Musician, the Beatles, the famous pop group.’
Sir Kelvin sniffed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Handcuffs she used to secure his wrists were Polish, and she conversed with the girl in Russian, so the warden had no idea what they were saying to one another. You know the girl’s father’s been killed?’
‘Read about it in The Times this morning.’
‘He owned the factory that makes the cuffs, a place in eastern Poland: exports body restraints and riot control gear, mostly to former Soviet Bloc countries.’
A frown shadowed Sir Kelvin’s florid features. ‘Could the father have arranged it?’
‘It’s possible. Warden at the secure unit said the girl went willingly with the woman; there was no coercion. There’s usually a female officer on duty as well as the man, but she’d had to dash home because her child was ill. He wasn’t found until seven the next morning, so the blonde woman and the girl had plenty of time to get away. They could be anywhere now.’
‘It’s all rather worrying,’ Sir Kelvin muttered. ‘Things seem to be sliding out of our control.’
‘It’s a mixed blessing.’
‘Don’t follow you, old man.’
‘If the girl’s disappeared, the situation could be easier to deal with.’
‘You mean . . .’
Sir Nigel gave the Lord Lieutenant a grim smile. ‘We’ll just have to make sure she’s not found.’
Dark Powers Page 8