Cat Burglar in Training

by Shelley Munro

  “I don’t have time for this.” Biting back the rant trembling at the tip of my tongue, I picked up the car keys. “I’m not working for Ruth tonight, so I want to do the Patterson job in Chelsea, and there are a couple of other possibilities to check out in Knightsbridge. If you and Ben would like to help, I’d welcome your input. I need to pick up the last bit of money from Alistair so we can make the payment to Beauchamp tomorrow.” I turned to leave, then snapped my fingers. “I almost forgot. The garden thefts. Seth purchased a plant at a pub in central London. Maybe you can check out some of the pubs tonight to learn if someone’s flogging stolen goods. Ask a few questions.”

  I left the kitchen and hurried out to my Mini. Amber was waiting at the front door.

  “Sorry, sweetie. Grandpa wanted to tell me something. What are you doing at school today?”

  “Painting.” Amber climbed into her car seat, and I fastened her in. The scent of baby powder and little girl filled my senses. Not so little any more, I reminded myself.

  One thing I was sure of—the photographer’s studio was on my hit list tonight.

  I had the devil’s own job getting rid of Father and Ben when we arrived in London. Frustrated, I wondered if they could read my mind or if they expected me to meet with the enemy.

  Inspector Kahu Williams.

  They lingered like flies in a stable dung heap until I lost my patience. “If you don’t hurry, the pubs will close before you get to the West End. I thought the pair of you wanted to be big-time detectives.”

  Father glared, not appreciating the dig. “It’s not our fault Alistair hasn’t sold the merchandise yet. These things can’t be hurried.”

  I wasn’t a happy camper, and I had no intention of pretending otherwise. The debt belonged to Father. “We have to pay Beauchamp tomorrow, and we’re four thousand pounds short. It might as well be a million.”

  “We haven’t arranged a meeting place for later,” Ben said.

  We were standing on Kensington High Street, not far from the Goat Tavern.

  “Meet me back here at midnight,” I said. “I’ll do the Chelsea look-see, then we can do the others together. Hopefully an opportunity will present itself, and we’ll manage to get something we can liquidate immediately.”

  Father and Ben nodded, and the breath I’d been holding eased out in silent relief.

  “There’s the bus now,” I said, giving them a verbal hurry along. Under normal circumstances they would have hailed a cab, but with money tight, tonight they were slumming it on the bus.

  My shoulders slumped when the bus pulled away from the stop. One less problem to deal with tonight. I slid behind the wheel of my Mini and headed for Chelsea.

  The Pattersons’ flat was situated in Cheyne Gardens. It was still light so I drove down the street, taking note of the pedestrians out walking dogs and general comings and goings. At the end of Cheyne Gardens, I turned into St. Loo Avenue and drove for five minutes before I parked. No sense raising the suspicions of nosy neighbors by driving up and down.

  The Pattersons lived in an old Victorian mansion that a developer had converted into expensive flats. Security consisted of a locked door. When a visitor arrived, he or she buzzed the floor they wanted to visit. Not exactly top-of-the-line security.

  I strolled down the street trying to look as if I belonged. I’d even dressed the part in a demure black skirt and beige top. Flat shoes, a handbag and a string of faux pearls completed the outfit. I blended like cream and strawberries, especially with my mousy brown wig and brown contact lenses. Careful makeup changed the shape of my face, and I dared anyone to pick me from an identity parade and state categorically that I was Lady Eve Fawkner.

  At the entrance to the mansion, I walked up the short path and pressed the intercom for the flat on the top floor. When nothing happened, I let out a put-upon sigh and leaned on the doorbell. Miraculously, it buzzed open seconds later. Piece of cake. Now the hard part. I needed to enter the flat.

  Instead of taking the lift, I headed for the stairs. The old Victorian mansion was four stories, and each flat took up one floor. The light between the second and third floors had burned out. Or been taken out? The thought slid into my mind like a stealthy fox. My internal warning signals clanged. Instinctively I slowed my ascent of the stairs and listened for the slightest sound. Nothing, but I smelled a hint of citrus. Aftershave perhaps?

  At the doorway to the third floor, I listened for a final time before easing the door open and pulling a pair of gloves from my bag. The soft slide of shoes on a tiled floor made me hesitate. According to my info, the Pattersons were taking a long weekend in Paris. Had they arranged for servicemen to call while they were away? Pest control?

  The warning chime of the lift sounded. I heard footsteps again then the doors closed with a smooth clunk. I exited the stairwell to see the lift descending.

  No need for stealth now.

  My gut told me I was late to the party. Too late. Somehow, my competitor was one step in front of me again.

  Still, I needed to check. After drawing a set of lock picks from my black leather handbag, I entered the Pattersons’ flat. At the doorway, I pulled on the gloves.

  “Shit.” I glared at the floor, taking no pleasure in learning I was right. The shiny black business card bearing a silver cat proved it. The opposition had been and gone. Muttering under my breath, I stomped inside, unconcerned about cameras or security. No doubt my opposition had dealt with them as well.

  Quashing admiration, I sped straight to a window overlooking the street below. A BMW drove down Cheyne Gardens and disappeared from sight. A young mother pushing a pram ambled down the footpath, pausing to chat with another mother and toddler. I couldn’t see a single person who fitted the role of thief.

  Maybe roaming the luxurious rooms was a timewaster, but in a fit of pique, I stripped off my right glove to collect my competitor’s business cards. A grin grew at the thought of my competitor’s puzzlement. Why hadn’t the reporters pried details of the calling card from the police? I imagined the prick to his ego, and grinned evilly as I stepped into the Pattersons’ designer kitchen.

  My, my. Another business card.

  I pocketed it and searched for more during my quick walkthrough. As I’d suspected, anything of value had disappeared along with my competitor. But being an ambitious trainee cat burglar, I noted security details—bolted windows, a safe behind a painting of a dog in the small office. The alarm box in the passage leading to the bedrooms.

  “The alarm.” My gaze shot to the silent red light on the front of the box. A blinking red light. I’d triggered an alarm! And if I didn’t move it, I’d meet the law face-to-face. Apart from a mess, I’d never live down the shame. A Fawkner in prison. The probable reactions of the terrible trio, not to mention my daughter spurred me to speed.

  I sprinted for the door, only pausing to snatch up another of the taunting calling cards left by my competitor. I jammed it deep in my pocket and charged for the stairs at a full-out run. “Damn and double damn,” I cursed in a fierce whisper. This wasn’t meant to happen. Father would have a cow when he heard. As I hurried down the stairs, I flirted with the idea of not coming clean. Temptation blazed to life before it died a rapid death. I’d confess all.

  By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, my breath hissed from my mouth. Life would change if the police captured me. I couldn’t let that happen.

  Pain seared my lungs, clogged my throat. No time to get my breath. I had to move. The door cracked open, my sweaty right palm leaving a smeared, wet print on the wood. Cursing my stupidity, I scrubbed at the print with a wet wipe from the packet I carried for child cleanup. Hopefully, the police would think the scent lingered in the wake of an overzealous cleaner. I yanked my left glove off and stuffed it in my bag.

  I peered outside. No activity. Yet. Taking a deep breath, I eased through the door and shut it quietly behind me. Since the alarm was silent, none of the neighbors were perturbed.

  I walked thro
ugh the marbled foyer and let myself out the heavy glass-paneled front door. A woman pushed a carriage up the path just before I let go the door. Smiling, I held the door open for her.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Nice night,” I said, counting on the typical English attitude when chitchatting with strangers. The woman’s cautious smile wavered.

  “I’ll hold the door until you maneuver the carriage through,” I said. The woman nodded, but didn’t hold my gaze for longer than polite. Not that it would have done her much good. I smoothed my right hand over my mousy brown hair. Any description she gave the cops would describe a woman bearing little resemblance to Eve Fawkner.

  A car pulled up near the mansion. I glanced casually toward the road. My gaze swept the road before darting back to the vehicle and freezing in shock. Police. And not just any cop. Kahu. My stomach turned in a slow somersault, fear freezing me to the spot. Would he recognize me? He strode up the footpath toward me, and a lump the size of a walnut formed in my throat.

  Kahu pulled ID from his pocket, as did the man with him. “Police. Inspector Williams. The Patterson flat—which floor?”

  “The third floor,” I said, purposely lowering my voice in an attempt to sound unlike myself. Please don’t recognize me. I maintained the small interested smile, but didn’t meet his gaze, glancing at the watch I’d borrowed from Hannah instead, as if I were in a hurry. I caught a whiff of Kahu’s familiar spicy scent when he brushed past me. The other copper entered the building, and I released the door. They disappeared into the waiting lift before I allowed a breath to ease the tight band around my chest.

  Phew, that had been close. If I hadn’t walked out into the passage and seen the warning light…

  A marked police car pulled up with a shriek of brakes, reminding me I’d better move before Kahu returned and started adding facts together. The man was no slouch in the brain department, and I couldn’t risk him seeing me again.

  I tottered down the short driveway to the road. The greater the distance I put between the Pattersons’ flat and Kahu, the stronger my legs became. By the time I’d made it halfway down Cheyne Gardens, my gait was a smooth hip-rolling amble.

  The Shadow lived to see another day free of bars.

  I breathed even easier when I arrived at my Mini. I collapsed onto the driver’s seat, my legs doing a weird jelly thing. I’d made it to the car without a hand grabbing me by the shoulder and a cop arresting me.

  I tugged another wet wipe from the packet in my handbag to dab the nervous perspiration from my face.

  “Let’s hope the visit to the photographer isn’t as hard on the nerves,” I muttered, as I finally pulled out into the stream of traffic. It was much darker now, and the streetlights had popped on. The photographer’s studio was located on Kings Road, not far from Brompton Cemetery. As was my normal custom, I drove past Jasper’s studio for general scouting purposes, parked several streets away and walked back.

  The studio was part of a block of businesses. And it seemed the owners lived in flats above. Either that or they were let out to tenants. Irritated at my run of bad luck, I stomped past Jasper’s studio to the business at the far end of the block. I counted the shops as I passed, assessing the degree of difficulty for this self-imposed mission. At least I wouldn’t have competition. That was about the only bright spot on the horizon.

  I peered into the window of a chemist. The lights burned brightly inside the closed shop for security purposes. All the premises had security lights of varying brightness making entering the shops by the front impossible. I sauntered past again but kept walking this time. Loath to attract attention, I decided to walk around the block and check out the rear entrances. That was when inspiration hit. Damn! I’d been acting the blonde bimbo too long. There was no need to break into the studio. If Jasper lived above, logic said he’d have an office in his living space. He’d need the downstairs area for studio space to snap his photos.

  “Bingo,” I whispered. “It might work in my favor.”

  A muffled snigger jerked up my head. Two teenagers, one of each sex, were laughing at my frenzied muttering.

  Right. I’d give them something to laugh about. “Men,” I muttered, thinking specifically of Kahu blinkin’ Williams and the way he’d scared several years off my life. “You give them an inch and they take a bloody mile. I’ll kill him, I will.” I paused to glare at the wide-eyed teenagers. “Or snip his doodle off for straying. Mark my words, missy. Men are trouble! If you’re not careful,” I snarled, adding some spittle for good measure, “you’ll end up like me with more kids than a body can feed. Lowdown lazy git.” I shuffled close, pushing my face up to theirs. “Lowdown lazy gits, the lot of ’em.”

  As I’d intended, they backed away. Seconds later I heard running, and my laughter burst free like a lanced boil. Good analogy.

  About two minutes later, feeling much calmer, I pushed away from the brick wall I’d crumpled against during the weakness of hysterical laughter. I strode down the small lane running behind the block of shops, keeping to the shadows cast by a large oak tree.

  I wasn’t doing a stellar job in the investigation department. Still rattled by Kahu’s presence, I hadn’t checked to see which of the upstairs occupants were at home. Not that a lack of lights meant they weren’t home, but it narrowed the field.

  Four of the six flats had lights burning from upper-floor windows. The flats above the chemist and Jasper’s studio were dark. My smile was wry, as were my thoughts. With the way my luck was going tonight, Jasper would be tucked up in his bed and that bed would be in the same room as his computer. I checked my watch. I had an hour before I was due to meet Father and Ben back in Kensington High Street. If I arrived there late, I’d face questions.

  Better get on with it.

  A fire escape ladder clung to the outer wall of the building. I shucked my beige shirt and black skirt, deciding the singlet and dark leggings I wore underneath would be better for climbing and avoiding detection. Keeping my bag in case I needed the lock picks, I adjusted the strap and slung it over my shoulder. I tucked the discarded clothes under a hedge that ran parallel with the flats and marked off the parking area behind. I’d collect them on the way down if time allowed.

  After checking my surroundings, I ran for the fire escape above the chemist’s shop and shimmied up. At the top, I paused again to survey the vicinity. Apart from the blare of the TV in the end flat, nothing raised my suspicions. I scampered along the narrow ledge, thankful that fear of heights was one flaw I lacked. Father and Ben insisted on a daily workout in the gym they’d set up in the basement. Although I protested each session, the practice was paying off. I’d hardly raised a sweat with my exertions.

  The first window was firmly locked. I chewed my lip, debating whether to break in here or to try the window in the flat above the photographer’s. Heads for the chemist, tails for the photographer’s studio. I mentally tossed a coin. Heads it was.

  I tugged the lock pick from the handbag slung over my shoulder. Ten seconds later, the latch moved, propelled upward by the thin metal hook I’d inserted between the window frame and the window. I flinched at the scraping sound the catch made as it dropped against the inner frame, but when no one screeched, I opened the window and sprang inside, light on my feet like the cat I was.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light inside the flat. A small studio. A couch that converted to a bed sat against the wall while I made out the fat boxy shapes of two chairs against the other wall. No one was home.

  I sliced through the dark and struck my shin on a low metal coffee table. My hands grappled with empty air, and seconds later I hit the ground. Agonizing pain galloped up my leg as I picked myself up off the floor. I wrinkled my nose and scrubbed my hands down my leggings. Eew! The tenant wasn’t big on cleaning. The rug honked like a rubbish bag overdue for collection. But more important—had someone heard?

  I waited, tension gripping me, but nothing stirred. I inched through the roo
m on the lookout for furniture traps. I didn’t fancy kissing the smelly floor again. Definitely no one home.

  Step one complete. Now for step two.

  I let myself out the chemist’s door. The lock was a deadbolt so I grabbed a thin pillow from a cupboard and stuffed it in the doorway to prop it open. With the way my luck was going, a means of escape was sensible. With the pillow in place, I unscrewed the bulb in the landing light. Hopefully, anyone arriving home would assume it’d blown.

  Right. I sucked in a breath to battle an influx of nerves. Next stop, the flat above Jasper’s studio.

  The wooden door was shut. I tried the obvious—turning the handle and pushing, but it remained firmly closed. I nibbled on my lip and examined the lock. Father and Ben were the best in the business, and they’d trained me. I should ace this exam.

  I hadn’t counted on nerves. My palms sweated and a fine tremor shook my hands. I persisted, barely breathing so I could hear the tumblers slot into line. The last tumbler lined up with a soft click. Success! I was so shocked I nearly dropped my lock picks.

  Holding my breath, I slid inside the flat.

  Another studio. It was easy enough to establish that this one was empty too. Much the same in layout as the other, but cleaner. I hovered by the light switch in indecision. There were no curtains at the window. Was it worth the risk? My search would take half the time, and if I found a computer, I’d need to see what I was doing. I had a small torch in my handbag but needed both hands to operate the computer. Decision made, I pulled on a pair of gloves and switched on the light. No computer.

  Bloody hell, could this night get any worse? The refrain was becoming my theme song.

  The flat consisted of a small kitchenette. The counter area was spotless with not a piece of dirty crockery in sight. A double bed filled most of the space, and over against the far wall, by a window, was a small wooden desk. Eager to begin my search, I hurried over. The desk, like the rest of the flat, was tidy and well organized. I checked the contents of the desk drawers, mindful of the need to hurry. Business cards. Letterheads. A pile of envelopes. At least they proved this flat belonged to Jasper. But where were his records? His database? Did he cart it around with him on a laptop or something?