Chapter 6
721 Words
A scampering cat and a man in his late-forties were the only visible creatures on Aswell Street at four in the morning. Nearby, the soaring steeple of the parish church seemed to seek the stars in vain. The moon, a smudge of white behind a mantle of clouds, leaving the spire unlit, provided the man with the advantage of moving unseen. He was wearing a checked sports jacket that looked as if it came from a charity shop, and crepe-soled shoes, which helped him climb the dark steps to the flat unheard.
It had been child’s play tracing the owner of the Land Rover. There were only seven, of that model, registered in the Louth area. It belonged to a London barrister with property in Tealby. He could only conclude that the woman driver was a relative. He had watched her drive away with a youngish-looking man and that they had stowed hand luggage encouraged him to think they were away for the night. He looked around in all directions before sliding a piece of plastic into the mortise lock. He leant against the door that swung open with no trouble. Then he closed it behind him and took a pencil torch from his pocket. The man sat down behind the desk and studied his surroundings. The room was small and tidy and he was happy this wouldn’t take long. He began by removing the screwed-up sheets of paper in the waste bin and smoothing them out to read them one by one. Nothing of interest. He emptied the desk drawers on the floor and poked around the contents with the toe of a shoe: another blank. At the bookshelf, he checked each music book in turn, noting that the pages didn’t conceal any sheets of paper, before tossing each of them on the floor. He concluded that what he was looking for was sure to be in the computer. A sudden noise made him start. Heart racing, he held his breath. There was someone outside the door. An almighty crash and the yowl of a cat followed frantic barking that receded rapidly. Then silence. He waited.
“I hope it mauls the mangy cur.” he grunted. The private detective’s heartbeat slowed and he turned his attention to the computer.
The intruder booted up the device and switched on the router. His job, he reflected, was easier twenty years ago, when everything was in documents, diaries or sheets of paper. At worst, it might have been in code, but then you could always go to an expert capable of deciphering. Now, you had to be a qualified hacker to get past passwords. You could struggle for hours and still not get anywhere. He thought for a minute and entered one, with no luck. He failed again a couple of times, but when he typed ALICE85, and he was in. He’d discovered the woman’s name and age from her driving license when he’d searched her vehicle and found it in the glove compartment. Some people were very incautious, he sniffed. The man sneered at the ingenuousness of the password; it was as easy as shelling nuts, just her name and year of birth. She’d never had anything to hide and had no idea that her situation had changed, he guessed.
He checked the Internet history and wasn’t surprised to see that it hadn’t been deleted. In a notebook he jotted down all the links and, when he’d finished, he went into the woman’s email. This was ridiculous. The email opened with the same password. The detective snorted at such carelessness. He copied her contacts onto a stick, but it all looked unpromising to him. He would have to follow up each and every one of the names. Disappointed, the private detective stepped around the strewn papers, he didn’t want to leave any prints, and picked up a visiting card. He read the name, Jake Conley, and left the premises. Something about the card rang a bell but he couldn’t remember, even so, instinct told him that he had found what he was looking for—Stage One completed. The detective had a crooked smile. He used it now even though there was nobody around to impress. Tomorrow morning…no…this morning, he would make his first call to his client in London.
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