For the hundredth time, Heck wondered about this. The problem was that he had nothing concrete or conclusive. Even though it was only a hunch that Shane Klim was the scar-faced man who’d stalked some of the women who were later abducted, it was hard fact that beforehand he’d been banged up for two years with Ron O’Hoorigan – ample time for him to discuss any future plans he might have. In fact, it would have been unusual if he hadn’t. But taken as a whole, it still looked a little weak. The fact that O’Hoorigan had since been murdered did not prove anything either – it could be completely unrelated to Heck’s investigation. And Commander Laycock would not be understanding about that; quite the opposite.
‘Perhaps too wide open,’ Heck said. ‘Let’s see what we can find first.’
At the rear of the cottage, a long narrow alley meandered away between hedged gardens. Night had now fallen properly, and a single lamppost was visible at the far end.
‘I’m just bothered that this business might be distracting us from finding Genene,’ Lauren said.
‘Has it occurred to you that Ezekial might be the guy who abducted her?’
She looked startled. ‘But you said Shane Klim …?’
‘Maybe they’re in it together. It would certainly explain why Ezekial did what he did to O’Hoorigan – to shut him up perhaps? Klim may be inside this building right now.’
She glanced over the hedge at the cottage’s darkened rear. ‘That’s a lot of maybes.’
‘For the time being, maybes are all we’ve got.’
They overcame the hedge easily enough. Heck gave Lauren a leg up and she was nimble enough to do the rest herself, jumping down the other side and opening the gate quietly. He slipped in and they closed it again. As their eyes attuned, they found themselves at the bottom end of a long lawn with immaculate flower beds down either side. They stole forward, passing en route a sun lounger next to a low, wrought-iron table on which there was a pile of newspapers and an empty cocktail beaker with a paper umbrella hanging out of it.
‘He’s been enjoying the summer,’ Lauren murmured.
‘Good. He’ll have a long, cold winter in Parkhurst to look forward to soon.’
The cottage was about twenty yards in front, and still there were no lights inside. They halted. ‘I’d be expecting motion-sensitive bulbs to come on any time now,’ Lauren said.
Heck glanced up at the cottage eaves, and at the eaves of the cottage next door. The diminutive shapes of pipistrelles flitted back and forth.
‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘There’s a bat colony there, look. The lights would be coming on and off all night.’
Reassured, they moved forward onto a crazy-paved patio. A French window stood directly in front of them, with the curtain behind it drawn. Alongside there was a recess, and inside that a rural-style door: oak planks painted white with bands of black ironwork.
‘I can’t see any alarm?’ Lauren said.
‘There may not be one.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘Just think about it. If this place gets broken into while he’s away, does he really want police activity here? There could be all sorts of incriminating stuff.’
‘You’re telling me a property like this isn’t alarmed?’
‘Not in the conventional sense, as in an alarm that makes a loud noise. More likely, it’ll have one of those high-tech systems that sends him a text, so that he’s alerted but no one else is.’
‘That still isn’t good news for us.’
‘Not if he’s nearby and can get back quick. But if he isn’t, we’ve nothing to worry about.’
Lauren shook her head; she still wasn’t convinced. ‘Suppose there’s someone living here? A girlfriend?’
Heck glanced at his watch. ‘It isn’t nine o’clock yet and all the lights are off. It’s a fair guess there’s no one at home.’
‘It’s risky.’
‘Risks are sometimes necessary.’
They crept past the door recess to a small wash-house window. It was double-glazed, its frame made of PVC.
‘Breaking one of these will disturb the entire neighbourhood,’ Lauren said.
‘Yeah, but that won’t.’ Heck pointed to the floor above, where there was a smaller window with a panel of frosted glass. ‘That’s a bathroom or toilet. It’s our best bet.’
It was far out of reach, though a horizontal stretch of iron guttering was located about three feet underneath it. They might conceivably be able to reach that. ‘Okay.’ She still sounded unhappy. ‘How do we do it?’
He produced the duct-tape. ‘Plaster the glass with this, then punch it.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘It works for hundreds of shithead house-breakers every day. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work for us. No one’ll hear a thing.’
‘Who’s going to do it?’
‘Can you stand on that gutter without ripping it out of the wall? I don’t think I can.’
‘Christ,’ she said, resigning herself to the inevitable.
‘Here.’ He gave her the roll of tape, then took his sweatshirt off and handed it to her. ‘When you get up there, wrap this round your fist.’
They glanced around once more just to make sure they weren’t being observed from the premises opposite. But it was still pitch-black in the narrow canyon between the two rows of cottages. Nothing stirred apart from the bats darting about overhead.
Using Heck’s foot as a stirrup, she clambered up his body until she was able to stand erect on top of his shoulders. She wasn’t heavy, but after the battering he’d recently taken, he had to lean against the wall for support.
‘Can you reach?’ he asked in a strained voice.
‘Just about.’ She yanked down on the gutter with both hands to ensure it was solid, and then used it to lever herself upwards. It was just wide enough for her to gain a purchase with her knees and then reach up and find the window sill. Once standing, she carefully layered the duct-tape on the glass. ‘Here goes nothing.’
There was a dull whump as she struck it. Another followed, slightly louder, but not loud enough to alert the neighbours. Piece by piece, she handed the sticky tape-coated shards down to him. ‘You know we’re leaving prints all over this stuff?’
‘He’s not going to call the police. Don’t worry.’
A short while later, she was able to climb in through the empty frame. Heck moved back to the rear door. She opened it from the inside. He stepped through and closed it behind him. Again they had to wait as their eyes attuned, but street lighting filtered in through the front windows, so it wasn’t long. The interior was split level in the 1960s beatnik style, the upper floor open aspect with only a carved wooden balustrade to separate the sleeping area from an eight-foot drop. Aside from smaller rooms like the wash room and kitchen, the ground floor was an all in one lounge-diner, modern in look yet with old-fashioned fixtures: a flagged floor, oil paintings on the white plaster walls.
They advanced warily.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Lauren asked.
‘We’ll know when we find it. There must be something here we can use – I was right about the personalised alarm.’ Heck pointed to a corner of the ceiling, where a tiny red light was flashing on and off, and a video camera turning to