‘Nothing saucy,’ she said.
‘You ruin everything,’ he scowled, then laughed and held her as close as the baby allowed. ‘Will you be OK?’ he said into her hair.
‘Of course,’ she said, because what was the point of saying anything else? He would only worry about her, and still have to go to work.
‘Take good care of our baby.’
Guilt pricked Catherine. It was as if he knew! She could almost hear the end of his sentence: Because you didn’t last time.
You’re being paranoid, she told herself. He doesn’t know because you didn’t tell him.
‘I will,’ she said seriously. ‘Nothing’s more important to me, Adam.’
‘I know that,’ he said. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
She made herself smile. ‘I’ll miss you, that’s all. With the baby coming so soon, I’m just, you know …’
‘Hysterical?’ he suggested.
‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘I am a woman.’
‘True,’ he nodded wisely, and they both laughed.
‘Seriously though, Cath,’ he said, ‘I hate leaving you right now. You know you can call me any time, about anything, and I’ll just get in the van and drive straight home to you. Be here in a jiffy. From anywhere!’
‘I know,’ she said, and felt her face grow warm with shame.
Adam kissed her one last time, got in the van with RED RIBBON EQUINE on the side, and drove slowly away. Catherine stood and waved until he turned the corner and disappeared – then instantly felt lonely. And colder, as if the bright morning sun had drifted behind a cloud.
She hugged her arms and looked around the cul-de-sac.
Nothing moved. Nobody was putting out the recycling or chivvying the kids along for school.
She hurried inside, but inside didn’t feel as safe as it used to and, when she closed the front door, Catherine didn’t know whether she was shutting danger out, or in.
With her …
She stood for a moment at the front door, listening to the silence of the house growing louder and louder.
She thought she’d bake a cake!
She hadn’t baked for ages, but the warm smell of banana loaf was just what she needed to feel cosy and safe.
She talked the baby through every step, feeling more normal with every passing minute, and half an hour later she and the kitchen were covered in flour but there was a cake in the oven, and the sense of having achieved something.
Then she saw the bananas she hadn’t put in the loaf.
‘Oh shit!’
Baby brain.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘I blame you!’ she scolded her tummy – then looked up sharply.
Something had caught her eye in the garden. Something on the fence? Their garden wasn’t big, but had a tall fence around it – six-foot wooden planks – and beyond that was a handkerchief of common ground with trees that crowded their boundary.
What had she seen? She wasn’t sure. A big bird, maybe?
No. Bigger than that—
Catherine opened the back door and walked slowly across a lawn still jewelled with dew. The sky was clear and cloudless and the day was already lovely. Even the sound of a lawnmower only served to enrich the experience of summer, rather than sully its peace.
She reached the fence. It was too tall for her to look over. The neighbours’ conifers pressed against it in places, pushing the overlapping slats apart a little.
She walked beside the fence, stepping between the shrubs and trailing her fingers lightly along the unfinished pine. Then she bent awkwardly and put her eye to a knothole.
All she could see were branches.
She moved three or four feet to a gap in the planking.
Through it she could see the neighbouring street, across a patch of well-mown grass. In the middle of the patch was a lawnmower – stationary but still running. The council worker who should have been pushing it was nowhere to be seen.
Catherine frowned. Then wondered if he was relieving himself somewhere close by.
That was what she’d seen! The top of a man’s head moving towards the neighbours’ conifers for a bit of privacy.
And here she was, spying on him.
She straightened up and stifled a giggle.
She was being silly. If someone really planned to kill you, she was pretty sure they didn’t call you up first to tip you off. Or leave a note to that effect, for that matter! She assumed they just … well … killed you.
She wasn’t going to do this to herself. She’d made her choice and her choice was that the burglar was bluffing. He’d been trying to scare her, but Catherine refused to be scared because that would mean he’d won.
She walked quickly back up the garden to the house – deliberately not looking behind her.
It was probably a cat on the fence. Chips was a lacklustre defender of the realm, and tougher cats often stopped by to taunt him.
She shut the back door firmly behind her and stared out at the garden. There was nobody there.
There never had been.
Catherine leaned her forehead on the glass and stroked her tummy reassuringly. ‘We chased him out, didn’t we, Crimpelene? We chased him out and won a prize.’
She smiled at her own silliness.
Now. What was she doing?
Oh yes – mucking up the baking. Maybe there was still time to put the bananas in the cake …
Catherine turned towards the oven and gasped.
The oven was open, and the cake tin lay upside down on the tiled floor.
Oozing batter.
DS Reynolds was quite looking forward to seeing Marvel.
He’d done a hell of a job on the capture house, and expected a gruff Good job, Reynolds at the very least.
Elizabeth Rice had gone to the police warehouse with him but had turned out to have appalling taste in stolen goods, so her only contributions were a bottle opener for the kitchen, some family photographs, and a PlayStation she’d brought from home.
He, on the other hand, had gone through the Aladdin’s cave of stolen goods with his usual flair. There wasn’t a great selection of furniture, so apart from the beds, he’d chosen an eclectic mix of mid-century teak, and ironic armchairs in velvet and wool. There were dozens of prints and paintings and lamps to be had, and ornaments of varying quality, so he’d been sparing with those. But when it came to gadgetry, he’d gone for all the high-end burglar-bait he could find – Apple laptops and digital cameras, a Sony TV, and a classic Bang & Olufsen stereo. All the stuff in the police warehouse was eventually auctioned if it was not claimed, and Reynolds made a note to bid for the B&O himself.
He’d got curtains there too. Green velvet and fully lined, although that did make them heavy, and the stool he was standing on to hang them was wobbly at the best of times.
There was a mountain bike and a skateboard for the garden that supposedly belonged to Mattie, the spotty son they were ‘borrowing’ from Rice’s sister. There were a couple of photos of Mattie on the bookshelf, along with a photo of Rice at a beach bar in a coral-coloured bikini.
Her stomach was very flat.
Reynolds had been hard-pressed to find anything as carefree. The most informal picture he had showed him wearing baggy grey shorts during a hiking trip he’d taken to the Lake District a few years back. A watery sun bounced off the puddles.
‘Nice legs, Glen!’ Rice had laughed, and Reynolds had blanched.
He was Glen and she was Michelle. Rice had chosen their undercover names and, in order to maintain cover, they were also under orders from Marvel to dispense with any acknowledgement of rank for the duration of the assignment.
Reynolds thought that was a big mistake.
Still, he had the master bedroom and Rice had a single bed in the room that Mattie wouldn’t be sleeping in, so he hoped the ‘sir’ was implied.
They had to share the bathroom, however, and Rice had already joked about what she’d called his ‘vast array�
� of toiletries.
She had brought a toothbrush.
Just a toothbrush.
‘Did you bring toothpaste?’ she asked, and when he confirmed that he had, she said, ‘Oh good. I thought you would.’
He had a good mind to hide it.
Rice had wheedled £200 out of Marvel for extras and they’d made an ascent on HomeFayre, where Reynolds had spent the lot on those little personal touches that made a house a home – candles, vases, picture frames and other assorted knick-knacks. He had brought one of his old watches from home – a defunct Bulova – and even a couple of dozen books; not as bait, but simply as a cultural counter to the bottle opener and PlayStation. He’d made a careful selection to impress Rice, but it was wasted. She had recognized Pushkin, but only because ‘he makes vodka too!’
Reynolds had sighed like an island.
Despite Rice’s ignorance, he was pleased with the results.
Phones, pictures, cameras, games console, food in the fridge, comfortable beds … Goldilocks would love it.
If he found it.
And if he found it, they’d certainly find him …
Before he and Rice had even pulled up in their Tivi Rentals truck, the police technician had installed cameras and silent alarms – over doors, in corners and on sills.
‘Don’t fuck with the cameras,’ the tech had told them. ‘Not a fucking inch.’
Reynolds pursed his lips at the language. There was no need for it.
He almost thought he would fuck with one of the cameras, just a little bit. But he wouldn’t. He was a rule-maker, not a rule-breaker.
The stool tipped, and he clutched at the wall for support and felt his heart bound into his mouth.
‘All right?’ said Rice with a brief glance. Then looked back at the TV, where she was playing Grand Theft Auto. Apart from flirting with the postman, it was all she’d done since they’d got back from Exeter.
‘I don’t even know why you got curtains,’ she said. ‘We’re only going to leave them open.’
‘What’s for supper?’ he said.
‘Supper?’ Rice frowned at the TV screen, as if she’d never heard the word before.
‘Yes. I thought you could make something to eat while I’m doing all the work,’ he said pointedly.
‘Oh, you mean tea,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d get a McDonald’s.’
‘I don’t eat McDonald’s,’ he said.
‘What!’ she said incredulously. ‘Everybody eats McDonald’s!’
He corrected her. ‘I think you’ll find that everybody doesn’t.’
It was like talking to a child. And, like a child, Rice wasn’t pulling her weight. He had a good mind to tell her so, but he found it difficult without the evident buffer of rank.
He’d be sure to let Marvel know, though. Reynolds wasn’t a brown-nose, but there was nothing wrong with letting your senior officer know who was a valuable member of the team and who was coasting.
‘There’s Frosties,’ said Rice, leaning this way and that on the stolen sofa as she mowed down pedestrians. ‘I only bought breakfast. I thought we’d be eating out a lot, as we’re trying to get burgled and – ah shit!’
There was a screech and a crash and a flying mailbox and Rice threw down the controller. Then she got up and walked over to Reynolds to watch him hooking up the curtains.
When she picked up the folds of thick green material, he thought she was finally helping, but instead she wrapped the curtain tightly around his legs and her shoulders.
Reynolds froze. They were bound together by velvet, and her arm was warm against his hip.
‘What are you—’
Rice giggled and held her camera at arm’s length and took a photo of them both.
Reynolds flinched in the flash.
‘We need a picture together,’ she said. ‘To make it look real.’
‘Yes,’ said Reynolds. ‘Good idea.’
Rice unwound herself from the curtain just as the door opened and Marvel walked in, holding up a six-pack of Guinness.
‘House-warming gift,’ he said. ‘Hope you’ve got a bottle opener.’
Rice disappeared into the kitchen and Marvel sat down and patted the Guinness on his lap like a Pekinese.
‘Guinness, Reynolds?’
‘No thank you, sir. I’m not a stout man.’
‘Didn’t think so,’ said Marvel.
Reynolds watched from the corner of his eye while Marvel looked around the room critically – taking note of every little thing.
‘I don’t know why you got curtains,’ he said. ‘We’ll only be leaving them open.’
Reynolds was stung. But before he could respond, Rice came back into the room. She put two mismatched pint glasses on the table and handed Marvel the bottle opener.
‘Just got it today,’ she said.
‘Good work, Rice,’ he said gruffly.
There were new people at Number 23. Glen and Michelle and their son Mattie.
Shawn hadn’t seen the son yet, but he’d seen his mountain bike lying in the front garden. It was a nice bike. Specialized. Expensive. Just thrown down in the grass.
The kid deserved to have it nicked.
Michelle was cute. Cute and chatty. Dark hair, pale skin, with nice freckles on her nose. Shawn didn’t have time for a girlfriend, but if he did, she’d be his type.
She’d been grateful when he’d told her about signing for her parcels.
He hadn’t seen Glen yet.
They didn’t have a dog.
Shawn kept a pocket full of treats for dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, angry dogs, friendly dogs, scary mastiffs and yappy terriers and soppy Labradoodles … they were all putty in Shawn’s hands once he’d reached into his pocket. Even the cagey-looking German Shepherd with the I BITE sign on his owners’ gate would slink out of his kennel looking justifiably embarrassed to be betraying his master’s security for a handful of kibble.
Not having a dog wasn’t a deal-breaker – it was just they were a convenient way in. People loved talking about their dogs. Their name, their funny little ways.
Whether they might bite the postman …
They loved talking about their cats, too. Indoor, outdoor, cat-flap, window …
It was another hot day and Shawn was in shorts but long sleeves.
The shorts revealed strong, brown, hairy legs. The sleeves hid the needle tracks.
Shawn had started on heroin when he was just sixteen, and in fifteen years had been in rehab fourteen times. Each time he’d relapsed within days of his release, and his family had finally understood what Shawn had known from the very first time a needle had delivered paradise to his veins:
He was never going to give it up.
How could he? How could anyone?
So Shawn had become a functioning addict. He had a good job with the Royal Mail, and supplemented his salary with side jobs. A bit of decorating here, a bit of computer wizardry there.
A bit of theft.
In his youth he’d been something of a legend in Tiverton for the offbeat nature of what he called ‘pranks’.
Once he’d stolen a carnival float with a mechanical pig on it.
Another time he’d led the police on a tranquil chase down the towpath, directing operations and shouting encouragement to his pursuers from the deck of a stolen barge.
It wasn’t all harmless high jinks. He’d nicked a stack of state-of-the-art hospital beds. As they were unloaded from one lorry, Shawn and his team had loaded them on to a second lorry outside another exit. All it had taken was three easily stolen sets of porters’ uniforms and good timing, so that as the real porters wheeled one bed into the hospital, Shawn’s men were ready and waiting to take possession of the next one – and make a sharp left down a different corridor. They’d stolen every other bed. Nine, in all. Shawn had had a customer waiting in Poland, and had cleared nearly eight thousand pounds on the heist.
But it had been a hassle. Right from the tip-off, through the planning and execut
ion, it had been a big effort. Far too big for someone whose greatest ambition was to sleep it off, and now Shawn preferred jobs that required as little effort as possible.
And a job that required no effort at all was simply being friendly. Shawn had an open, honest face and a cheerful smile. Being friendly came naturally to him and he was as friendly to the customers on his daily rounds as he was to their dogs and cats.
He collected letters from the elderly to save them the walk to the post box, and when he left a customer a note saying there was a parcel in the wheelie bin, then that was where they always found it. So Shawn was a popular man – and a trusted one, and in brief doorstep instalments the people of Tiverton told him all manner of secret things …
Mrs Cobden at Lowman Road revealed that her husband had left her for another man.
Mr Singh up near the cemetery confessed that he’d unintentionally poisoned his neighbour’s cat while trying to rid his shed of rats.
And Lisa Trevithick down Cowley Moor told him she’d always found him ‘interesting’. It was seven thirty in the morning but she was already tipsy, and fully made up, so he’d accepted her invitation to come in for a quick cuppa, and they’d enjoyed many a quick cuppa over the next six months until her husband came out of prison.
And Shawn kept those secrets. He never gossiped about gay Mr Cobden, never told Mrs Angel next door that Tigger had died from eating rat poison, and he still bought Ricky Trevithick a pint whenever he saw him in the Soldier’s Rest. They’d gone to school together, after all, and Shawn saw no reason to fall out with a mate just because he’d shagged his wife.
The truth was, he found it easy to keep secrets – because he didn’t care about them. About any of them. The only thing he cared about was heroin and how to get it.
So he made his rounds and nobody ever complained about – or even noticed – a bit of junk mail missing here or there.
But if ever a customer asked him to pop any parcels in the tool shed because they were off to Thailand for a week, or to Sidmouth for their anniversary, or just to have a minor procedure at BUPA overnight …
Well, then Shawn Bridge passed that information on to his little brother Louis, who paid him thirty quid a pop.
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