EQMM, May 2012 (7 page)

The headlights of the dark car were extinguished and the three shadowy figures sat there, still and threatening, two in the front and one in the back. George craved a drink from his flask but he knew that any movement might attract the men's attention. And at that moment, as his heart pounded in the silence, he wanted to be invisible. He wished they would get fed up and drive off, but they made no movement. They seemed to be watching the street . . . just as George was watching.

George went through the possibilities in his mind. Drug dealing was a good bet, in which case he'd keep his head down and pretend he'd seen nothing. But there were other possibilities: George had discovered a lot about the residents of Canley Street in the course of his enquiries, including an interesting snippet of information gleaned from the local paper.

Number five, the house that George's client was planning to buy if all went well, belonged to a research scientist called Julian Ablet. George had jotted down the fact that Ablet had received threats from animal-rights extremists neatly in his notebook, just as he'd noted all the other facts about Canley Street. After all, it was important that his client was made aware of any potential terrorist threat against the house's current owner, and George suspected that this, coupled with the business dealings of the local ladies of the night, would probably put Mr. Fields off number five for good.

Mr. Fields, an intense, balding young man with staring brown eyes, had seemed particularly keen on discovering everything there was to discover about number five . . . and its inhabitants. George had felt a little uneasy about his interest. He had even wondered fleetingly whether Fields was a member of animal-rights organisation, anxious for information about Ablet's lifestyle and habits. However, the man was paying him well for his services so he'd decided not to ask too many questions.

Slumped down in the driver's seat, George was beginning to feel a spot of cramp in his right foot. With his eyes fixed on the car parked opposite, he raised himself up a little, only to see that nothing had changed. The three figures were still sitting there, featureless shapes against the weak yellow glow of the nearby street lamp. George moved his foot to encourage his blood to circulate and glanced up at the brightly lit bedroom window of number five. The woman he presumed was Mrs. Ablet was there again. He saw her glide to the centre of the lighted window. Then she stopped and stared out into the night for a few seconds before pulling the curtains across to hide the scene forever.

The performance over, George decided to risk a drink. He was just reaching for his thermos flask, thinking of the woman in number five undressing for bed, when he saw the back door of the car opposite swing open. As one of the men emerged, George kept perfectly still, fear driving all thoughts of the woman at number five out of his mind.

The man was approaching his car now with the confident stride of one who had every right to be there. As he drew closer, George saw that he was young and well built, not the type you'd argue with if you had any sense. When the man knocked sharply on his car window George, still and small inside his metal shell, hesitated, wondering whether to start the engine and drive off. But when he saw a police warrant card pressed against the glass for his inspection, he fumbled for the handle and wound the window down. Getting on the wrong side of the law wouldn't be the wisest of moves for a private investigator.

"Can I help you, Officer?” George asked, all cooperation. He looked the young officer in the eye to convince him of his honesty and his desire to be a good and law-abiding citizen.

"Can I ask what you're doing here, sir?"

George grinned obsequiously and handed the policeman his business card. “Number five is up for sale and my client is considering buying it. I'm drawing up a report on the area for him."

The policeman looked sceptical. “And who is your client, sir? If I could have his name . . ."

"Of course. It's a Mr. Fields. I have his address here somewhere. . . .” After George had delved in his pocket for his client's business card, he handed it to the officer, who read it, made a note of the address, and gave it back.

George sensed, with some relief, that the officer had lost interest. “Is, er, anything wrong, Officer? I read in the local paper that there've been threats against a local scientist. Would you be . . . ?"

"Just routine, sir,” the policeman replied sharply. “Sorry to have troubled you."

That was it. The officer was giving nothing away. But it would still go in George's report—possible threat of terrorist action in the area. If the animalrights people didn't realise Ablet had moved out, any potential new resident might suffer noisy demonstrations outside his new home; or maybe a letter bomb would be sent to Ablet's old address; or perhaps they would even go as far as placing a car bomb under the wrong vehicle. All good reasons to avoid buying number five Canley Street, in his opinion.

George had expected the police car to continue its surveillance, so he was quite surprised when it drove off slowly, almost stealthily, and disappeared round the corner onto the main road. George raised himself in his seat and leaned across to the passenger seat to take hold of his flask. A nip of something warming would help the time pass. So would the car radio. He switched it on and it crackled into life, already tuned to the local station.

It was coming up to eleven and George planned to listen to some soothing late-night music as he watched out for drug addicts, prostitutes, terrorists, or anyone else who arrived to disturb the outward calm of the street. He glanced up at the bedroom window of number five. Light glowed out through the thin curtains: Julian Ablet's wife must still be awake.

The music oozed softly from the radio speakers; late-night music, light jazz to relax the insomniac. Then the music was interrupted by a voice, a woman with a local accent, announcing the eleven o'clock news. George reached for the volume button, suddenly alert.

"Police have confirmed that local scientist Dr. Julian Ablet has received another death threat believed to come from the Animal Liberation Alliance. Dr. Ablet has been defiant in his defence of animal experiments and he has received a number of threats over the past year."

That was it. A man's fear summed up in a couple of sentences. The police, George thought, probably made regular patrols past his house in Canley Street and he could quite understand how his own presence, sitting in a car alone in the middle of the night for no discernible reason, would have aroused their suspicions. But he was sure that he had put their minds at rest. They would never suspect a slightly shabby middle-aged man with a sagging belly and thinning hair of being mixed up with that sort of thing.

The newsreader sounded bored as she told the listening public that a thousand jobs were to be lost at a local factory. Then, without any discernible break, she went on to announce that the police were no nearer apprehending a man who had strangled a woman in her own home the previous week but they were linking it to a similar murder three miles away. George shuddered and switched the radio off.

As he looked up he saw a movement. A dark figure flitting against the laurel hedge that separated number five Canley Street's front garden from the world beyond. George held his breath and watched.

Karen Ablet froze when she heard the noise downstairs. She sat quite still on the edge of the double bed and listened. Nothing. It was most likely a cat knocking something over outside, she told herself as she slipped her feet into a pair of pink fluffy slippers. But it was as well to make sure . . . especially since the letters had started to arrive. The police had promised to keep an eye on the house, but she knew that they only sent a patrol car round every hour or so. Hardly a deterrent.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped out onto the silent landing. It was always the same when Julian was away: Every slight sound in the house or garden took on a sinister significance. And those letters—threatening, bitter, vicious letters—had only made things worse. She peeped over the banister into the hall. Moonlight was shining through the stained glass in the front door—the original old door that she and Julian had so lovingly restored when they had moved in—casting still and unthreatening shadows onto the hall floor. There was nothing there that shouldn't have been there. No noise. Nothing wrong. Nothing to worry about.

She turned and walked back towards the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to return to bed and drift into a deep, comfortable sleep. Julian was back from his conference tomorrow so she wouldn't be alone for much longer. But just as she reached the bedroom door, the explosion shattered the calm silence of the night and she threw herself onto the landing carpet, her arms instinctively raised to protect her head.

She lay there terrified, hardly daring to move. She was sure she could hear the sound of running feet outside and as they faded into the distance, she shifted a little, testing her limbs. Her body felt stiff but, as far as she could tell, she'd suffered no lasting damage. Gathering courage, she looked up. She had expected to see a blazing fire or a cloud of dust, but the house looked quite normal in the watery moonlight that seeped in through the large landing window. She struggled to her knees; then she pushed herself into a standing position. She needed to check that everything was all right. In Julian's absence, she had to be brave.

Creeping down the stairs on tiptoe like a burglar, she saw the damage. The stained glass of the front door was lying in jagged jewels on the carpet, glinting in the jaundiced light from the street lamp outside. She was about to turn on a light to assess the extent of the damage but she stopped herself. Perhaps that was what they were waiting for—a good view of the target. She realised that, as she was only wearing thin slippers, it wouldn't be wise to go down into the hallway amongst the splinters of glass so she stood halfway up the stairs and pondered her next move. From where she stood she could just make out the brick they had thrown. The letters had threatened something worse than a brick through the window but perhaps the protesters’ courage had failed them. Or perhaps this was just a warning. A brick this time—a fire bomb next.

Karen turned and started to walk back up the stairs, making for the phone in the bedroom to call the police. Then she heard the doorbell ring twice and a man's voice calling through the glassless door. “Mrs. Ablet. Are you all right?"

The voice sounded authoritative, concerned. But caution took over and she froze on the stairs, listening.

"Mrs. Ablet, it's okay. He's gone. I saw him running off. Mrs. Ablet, are you in there?"

She relaxed. It sounded like Bill, her next-door neighbour. He was a terrible busybody but on this occasion she was grateful for his interference. Then she hesitated. Hadn't Bill mentioned he'd be away for a few days? She could hardly remember their last conversation over the back garden wall because his chatter always went in one ear and out of the other and she never really took in what he was telling her. She dashed upstairs to put on some shoes before hurtling downstairs to open the front door, her feet crunching over the broken glass. Once Bill was inside she would call the police—and perhaps he'd know of a decent glazier.

George thought that Karen Ablet looked rather surprised to see him standing there on the doorstep. But that was only to be expected. He was a complete stranger, after all.

"I thought you were my neighbour,” were her first words. Then she looked him up and down and presumably concluded that he didn't fit her mental picture of an animal-rights protester. When she pulled her dressing gown protectively around her body he smiled and assumed an expression of concern to put her at her ease.

"No need to worry, Mrs. Ablet. My name's George Billings and I'm a private investigator. I'm acting for the gentleman who's hoping to buy your house: That's how I came to know your name."

The suspicion on the woman's face faded a little and George continued, “Your potential purchaser, Mr. Fields, wants to know about the area and whether there are any potential problems with noise or vandalism, that sort of thing. I happened to see a young lout chuck a brick through your front-door window and I just thought I'd check to see if you were okay.” George hesitated, looking down at the hall floor. “Do you want a hand clearing this lot up?"

"I was just going to ring the police."

"No need. I've already called them on my mobile phone."

"Thanks. That's very good of you.” She hesitated, and George knew that she was still wondering whether she could trust him. Then she gave him a weak smile. “You'd better come in."

He stepped into the darkened hall and felt glass crunching beneath his feet.

"My husband will be so upset about the door. We paid a fortune to have it restored."

"Your insurance'll cover it, won't it?"

"I suppose so."

"If you've got a piece of wood or hardboard I'll make the door secure for you. No good leaving it like that."

"Shouldn't we wait for the police?"

"I don't think there's much need. I'm an ex-copper myself. They'll just want to take a statement. It's not as if they'll find much forensic evidence if the brick was chucked from outside."

He could see her expression in the moonlight. Her wariness had vanished as soon as he'd told her that he was an ex-policeman. That was a good touch.

"Shall I put the hall light on?"

"Better not. He might still be out there. I suggest we go into the back. You look as if you could do with a cup of tea."

She led him through into the kitchen and flicked on the light switch. He could see her properly now. She was more attractive than he'd imagined; in her thirties with dark hair and a mole on her left cheek. And he could just make out the shape of her slim body beneath the thin silk dressing gown. He knew it was rude to stare so he looked around and saw that one corner of the large kitchen was filled with stacked cardboard boxes; things packed away in preparation for the house move. There was a pile of dirty dishes stacked up in the sink and, to the right of the doorway, a metal clothes rack stood festooned with women's tights and underwear.