hedge.
Alison was quite outraged by this, and would have been out of the car remonstrating with them about their lack of public responsibility if we hadn’t been about to commit burglary on a slaughterhouse.
There was no ‘right’ time for doing it, or right method. We would try and gain access from the rear. Three things were in our favour. It wasn’t the sort of area where any houses had burglar alarms, the lack of functioning street lights and the fact that locals were quite used to the sound of breaking glass.
‘A snob and patronising,’ said Alison.
There was no crime-scene tape. The experts had done their work and left. The house was in complete darkness as we approached. We moved along the gable wall and into an alley. A brittle-looking wooden fence hid the back yard from prying eyes, but the door in it wasn’t locked. We slipped inside and closed it behind us. We crossed damp and cracked concrete flags. I pulled the sleeve of my jumper down over my hand, and tried the back door.
‘Optimist,’ said Alison.
It was locked. She opened her bag and took out a hammer.
‘Christ,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what’s called going equipped for theft. They could arrest us now . Without the hammer we can just say we’re lost or curious.’
‘Uhuh,’ she said.
She lined the flat end of the hammer up against a small square of glass parallel to the door handle and gave it the gentlest tap. I could tell by the slight cracking sound that she’d broken the pane, but it did not shatter or fall. She was able to gently prise the glass on two sides of an invisible crack apart, and then remove both from their frame.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I observed.
Alison shook her head. ‘I am practised,’ she said, ‘at peeling eggs. It’s the same principle. The less violence the better.’
I put my covered hand through the gap and felt for the lock; a moment later we slipped into the kitchen.
We were a good team, I had always thought that.
Alison switched on the kitchen light.
‘Shouldn’t we just use a torch or . . .’
‘Nope.’
She opened the kitchen door and entered the living room. Seeing that the curtains were already drawn, she switched on the main light.
‘Isn’t . . .’
‘If it looks like we’re sneaking around, we’ll be rumbled; this way it looks like we’re supposed to be here. People will think we’re police.’
‘But the police won’t think we’re police.’
‘Pessimist.’
There was a very strong smell of disinfectant. It reminded me of a hospital. I am allergic to hospitals. I began to gag. Alison gave me a disdainful look and started hoking round. From what we knew of the murders, I had expected there to be bloodstains everywhere, perhaps chalk outlines and dusting powder for fingerprints, but the room appeared much as it had in Alison’s photograph – cluttered, a little untidy, but pretty much as if someone had gone to bed without tidying up, rather than the scene of a savage double murder. It was a relief. Blood makes me faint, as do severely cold temperatures, rotting fruit, tulips and injustice.
Alison tutted as she moved to the corner of the room. There was a desk with a leather swivel chair and beside it a small filing cabinet. The top of the desk was notable for being clear but for a dust-free rectangle in its centre.
‘Is your master plan in tatters because they’ve taken the computer?’ I asked.
‘Shut up.’ She reached for the top drawer of the filing cabinet. She pulled it open. It was empty.
‘Is there a plan B?’ I asked.
‘You’re the big private detective, what’s your frickin’ plan?’
‘Well,’ I said.
‘Thought not,’ said Alison.
‘Well, actually. I’m comparing what I already knew from your photo with what I find here. Apart obviously from the absence of Jimmy and Ronny and the computer.’
As she joined me, I moved off to the kitchen.
‘So?’ she called after me. ‘I don’t see any difference. And
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