drop in resistance from the locking cylinder lets you know you’re on the right track. Unfortunately for me, the arthritis in my fingers had deadened my sensitivity to a small degree. The change was only fractional—perhaps not something a doctor could quantify—but I’d become increasingly frustrated by it during the past few months.
As a result, I’d started to rely a little more on my hearing. I’d taught myself to listen intently for the tiny, giveaway click of a lock pin shuffling into position. I was listening harder than ever tonight. I was hearing click after click after click, and for once, I didn’t welcome the sound. Maybe it was my nerves. Maybe it was the silence in the corridor. But I could swear that every time a tiny brass pin jinked up and hunkered down exactly where I wanted it to, it sounded about as loud as a man clapping his hands right next to my ear.
I told myself to calm down. Inside the apartment there’d be all kinds of ambient noise. The hum of electrical appliances. The settling of water in pipes. The percussion of the rain against the windows. And, perhaps, the soft, even breathing of the killer I was hoping to avoid.
At last, the final pin fell into position. I wedged the dead bolt lock open, turning my attention to the snap lock. It was cheap and highly susceptible to being shimmed.
In the movies, actors often use a credit card for this trick. It’s not something I recommend. For one thing, it never works—the type of plastic used to make credit cards isn’t flexible enough to do the job—and for another, it risks destroying your credit card. The better option is to invest in a proper shimming device from a decent locksmith supply company. I’d done exactly that, which explains why I had a set of five sheets made from a particular type of plastic known as Super Mica. The sheets are approximately the size of a playing card and are graded according to varying degrees of strength and pliability, but there was no need for me to experiment on this occasion. The first sheet eased the latch back readily enough, and as soon as it retracted, I prodded the door open with my foot.
There was no response from inside. No shouts of protest. No slamming of doors or sudden attacks. No light, even. The interior was in darkness. I planned to keep it that way.
Very carefully, I swung the door open just wide enough to be able to slip through, then I retrieved my burglary tools and moved inside.
I stayed very still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I didn’t want to bump into anything—least of all a corpse. So I kept waiting. I stayed patient. And before very long I could see pretty clearly.
And what I saw rocked me to my very core.
FOURTEEN
I found myself in a large, open space. I guessed it was what would pass for the living room. But there was no living going on. No furniture. No belongings. Nothing at all.
The air was chill and tasted stale. I got the impression the apartment hadn’t been lived in for a long time. But of course, it was only an impression, and I wasn’t about to risk my neck on it. True, the room was completely bare, but maybe whoever lived here was a fan of extreme minimalism. I was going to have to check the rest of the apartment to be sure. I was going to have to wade into the darkness, my hands in front of my face, my body braced to react in case somebody jumped out at me. I couldn’t use my torch. Shining my penlight would be like painting a target on myself. And I already felt very exposed. I had nothing to hide behind. Nowhere to shelter.
And no time to lose.
I left the front door ajar. It wasn’t what I’d normally do, but this whole situation was a long way from normal, and if I needed to flee in a hurry, I didn’t want anything to get in my way.
I sneaked across the timber flooring to an open doorway in the facing wall. I poked my head inside. This room was even darker. But it was still and silent. And when I squinted and peered very
As a result, I’d started to rely a little more on my hearing. I’d taught myself to listen intently for the tiny, giveaway click of a lock pin shuffling into position. I was listening harder than ever tonight. I was hearing click after click after click, and for once, I didn’t welcome the sound. Maybe it was my nerves. Maybe it was the silence in the corridor. But I could swear that every time a tiny brass pin jinked up and hunkered down exactly where I wanted it to, it sounded about as loud as a man clapping his hands right next to my ear.
I told myself to calm down. Inside the apartment there’d be all kinds of ambient noise. The hum of electrical appliances. The settling of water in pipes. The percussion of the rain against the windows. And, perhaps, the soft, even breathing of the killer I was hoping to avoid.
At last, the final pin fell into position. I wedged the dead bolt lock open, turning my attention to the snap lock. It was cheap and highly susceptible to being shimmed.
In the movies, actors often use a credit card for this trick. It’s not something I recommend. For one thing, it never works—the type of plastic used to make credit cards isn’t flexible enough to do the job—and for another, it risks destroying your credit card. The better option is to invest in a proper shimming device from a decent locksmith supply company. I’d done exactly that, which explains why I had a set of five sheets made from a particular type of plastic known as Super Mica. The sheets are approximately the size of a playing card and are graded according to varying degrees of strength and pliability, but there was no need for me to experiment on this occasion. The first sheet eased the latch back readily enough, and as soon as it retracted, I prodded the door open with my foot.
There was no response from inside. No shouts of protest. No slamming of doors or sudden attacks. No light, even. The interior was in darkness. I planned to keep it that way.
Very carefully, I swung the door open just wide enough to be able to slip through, then I retrieved my burglary tools and moved inside.
I stayed very still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I didn’t want to bump into anything—least of all a corpse. So I kept waiting. I stayed patient. And before very long I could see pretty clearly.
And what I saw rocked me to my very core.
FOURTEEN
I found myself in a large, open space. I guessed it was what would pass for the living room. But there was no living going on. No furniture. No belongings. Nothing at all.
The air was chill and tasted stale. I got the impression the apartment hadn’t been lived in for a long time. But of course, it was only an impression, and I wasn’t about to risk my neck on it. True, the room was completely bare, but maybe whoever lived here was a fan of extreme minimalism. I was going to have to check the rest of the apartment to be sure. I was going to have to wade into the darkness, my hands in front of my face, my body braced to react in case somebody jumped out at me. I couldn’t use my torch. Shining my penlight would be like painting a target on myself. And I already felt very exposed. I had nothing to hide behind. Nowhere to shelter.
And no time to lose.
I left the front door ajar. It wasn’t what I’d normally do, but this whole situation was a long way from normal, and if I needed to flee in a hurry, I didn’t want anything to get in my way.
I sneaked across the timber flooring to an open doorway in the facing wall. I poked my head inside. This room was even darker. But it was still and silent. And when I squinted and peered very
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