Anything that could be broken, had been.
The three-piece suite had been overturned, ornaments had been knocked from their places, some shattered
against walls. Pictures had been ripped from the walls and destroyed.
Her desk had also been overturned, the PC with it. Paper was scattered over the carpet. A vase of flowers which had stood on the coffee table lay in a dozen pieces close by, the flowers strewn over the floor.
Bookcases had been knocked over, their contents spilled wantonly.
Her mind reeling, she walked through into the kitchen.
Drawers had been pulled out, cutlery and broken crockery lay everywhere. Even the clock which hung on the wall had been pulled down and hurled across the room: it was lying in the sink.
Cupboards had been pulled open, the door of one ripped from its hinges by the ferocity of the intrusion.
She took a step backward, back into the living room, then beyond to her bedroom.
More damage.
The bedclothes had been pulled off, bedside cabinets overturned. The wardrobes stood open, and her clothes had been scattered over the bed and floor.
Coat-hangers had been pulled from the wardrobe and hurled across the room. One had struck the radio alarm clock, cracking the plastic window that covered the flashing red digits.
Cath could feel her head spinning, and for a second she thought she would faint, but the feeling passed and she sucked in several deep breaths, trying to regain her composure, moving back into the living room to find the phone.
She glanced around the room again, stepping over the printer of the PC which had been tossed to one side.
The printer.
Why hadn’t they taken the printer?
Cath reached for the phone, and looked around her as she pressed three nines.
Why hadn’t they taken the computer itself?
She frowned.
The stereo was still in position in one corner of the room.
Untouched.
Why hadn’t they taken it?
The video was still there.
Untouched.
So was the television.
Cath swallowed hard.
By the time the voice on the other end of the phone asked her which service she required, her heart had slowed its mad thumping.
She announced that she needed the police, gave her name and address, then put down the phone.
Video untouched. TV untouched. Stack system untouched.
She went back into the kitchen.
The ghetto blaster was still there.
Untouched.
What kind of burglars were these?
The flat had been ransacked but, as far as she could tell, little, if
anything, had been taken.
Cath returned to the sitting room and it was then, as she glanced around, she noticed that there was something missing.
Seventy-four
When she heard the knock on the door, Cath had looked anxiously at Phillip Cross.
The photographer had remained by her side for a moment, slowly getting up to answer it.
Cath glanced at her watch.
11.23 p.m.
Despite Cross’s presence she felt suddenly afraid.
Burglars aren’t going to knock, are they?
She ran a hand through her hair and sucked in a breath.
The last policeman had left the flat more than four hours ago. She’d called Cross and he’d come to the flat immediately. Together they’d cleared up the mess left by the intruders although there were still traces of the aluminium and carbon powders on various surfaces dusted by the police fingerprint man.
She shivered involuntarily as she saw the profusion of prints, but even as a layman she knew that most of the smudges were smooth.
Now she pulled her legs more tightly beneath her, listening to voices in the hallway.
A moment later Cross walked back in.
‘Someone to see you’ he said.
DI James Talbot followed him in, looking briefly at Cath, then glancing around the room.
‘Doesn’t look like they did that much damage’ said the DI.
Cath regarded him silently for a moment. ‘What do you want?’ she said, finally.
‘I heard about what happened here, I thought I’d come and have a look for myself.’
‘If you’ve come to gloat you’re a bit late’ she said, acidly. ‘We’ve cleaned up the mess.’
‘Who do you think it was?’ the DI asked, sitting down uninvited.
Cath shrugged. ‘Burglars.’
‘And yet nothing valuable was stolen?’
‘You’re supposed to be the detective, Talbot. You tell me who did it.’
‘Someone with a grudge. Someone who doesn’t like you. Mind you, that narrows down the suspects to about half a million, doesn’t it?’
‘If that was all you came here to say, you can go now’ she told him, getting to her feet.
Talbot didn’t move.
‘What the hell did you come here for, anyway?’ she persisted.
‘The case interests me.’
Cath sat down again.
Cross looked at both of them, feeling somewhat helpless.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked the policeman.
Cath shot him a withering glance.
‘Whiskey, please,’ Talbot said, smiling. ‘As it comes.’
‘So, what’s so interesting about my case, then, Talbot? What’s fascinating enough to bring you here at this time of the night?’
The DI accepted the drink from Cross and took a swig.
‘I’m interested in why they broke in here and then took nothing’ he said.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Intrigued.’
‘Only they did take something, didn’t they?’
Cath nodded.
‘A photograph of you and your brother’ the DI said. ‘That’s all that was stolen.’
Cath watched as he took another sip of the whiskey.
‘You remember that day at Euston, not so long ago’ the policeman asked, ‘Some
geezer had thrown himself under a train?’
She nodded.
‘And you heard about the bloke at that gun club in Druid Street who blew off his own head? And the one who took a dive through the top of The Greenhouse restaurant?’
Cath sat forward.
