from the house. Carol reached into her bag and took out a rectangle of plasticized cardboard the size of a credit card. She flexed it and a narrow beam of light spread out from it. ‘Nifty,’ Sam said.
‘Christmas stocking.’
‘You’ve obviously got an in with Santa. I got socks.’
Carol moved the light around. The yard was more or less empty. An outside toilet occupied one corner, its door half-open. ‘He’s not been here long enough to accumulate much crap,’ she said. The back of the house had an L- shape, the kitchen jutting out towards them. Windows from the kitchen and the back room both looked on to the empty yard. Carol crossed to the kitchen window and angled the beam inside.
The kitchen was fitted with the dark wooden units popular in the seventies. It looked untouched since then. Carol could see an electric kettle, a toaster and a breadbin on the worktop opposite. In the sink, she could make out a bowl, a mug and a tumbler. On the draining board, a noodle bowl and a wine glass. Looking over her shoulder, Sam said, ‘Looks like he still hasn’t found Ms Right.’
‘Fuck,’ Sam said. ‘Looks like we hit the mother-lode.’
Before Carol could reply, she heard a noise behind her. The ticking of an idling bike wheel stood out against the steady thrum of traffic noise. She whirled round in time to see a man and a bike silhouetted in the doorway. ‘What the fuck?’ he shouted.
Sam charged, but he was too slow. The door slammed shut in front of him. Carol ran across to help him pull the door open but there wasn’t enough room for them both to gain purchase. ‘You’re too late,’ the voice from the other side yelled. ‘I’ve chained my bike to the door. You won’t be able to get it open. I’m calling the police, you dirty thieving bastards.’
‘We…’ Carol clamped her hand over Sam’s mouth before he could come up with the hackneyed line so beloved of comedy writers.
‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘If we tell him who we are and he’s guilty, he’ll be off into the night and we’ll have a hell of a job trying to find him. Let’s just chill until the local boys get here and sort it out then.’
‘But…’
‘No buts.’
They could hear the faint chirp of mobile phone keys being pressed. ‘Hello, police please…’ This was a nightmare, she thought.
‘You could give me a leg-up on to the toilet roof. It’s lower than the wall,’ Sam murmured. ‘At least I can keep an eye out, make sure he stays put.’
‘Bloody Keystone Cops,’ Carol muttered.
‘Yes, I’ve just caught two people trying to break into my house. I’ve got them trapped in my back yard…Butler. Rhys Butler.’ He gave them the address. ‘Like I said, they can’t get out, I’ve got them trapped…No, I won’t do anything silly, just wait till you get here.’ A pause then the voice shouted, ‘See? The police are on their way so don’t try anything stupid.’
‘We are never going to live this down,’ Carol sighed.
‘Help me to get up on the roof,’ Sam urged.
‘You just want to get a new suit on the firm,’ Carol said, following him round to the end of the toilet furthest from the gate. Nevertheless, she braced herself and made a cradle of her hands. She bent so Sam could get his foot anchored. ‘One, two, three,’ she breathed, straightening as he pushed himself off the ground.
Sam hit the roof at chest height, using the strength of his shoulders and upper arms to lever himself higher and on to the roof as Carol shouted, ‘You’re bang out of order, mate, you’re going to be so sorry,’ to cover the scrabbling of his body against the tiles.
‘You shut up,’ Butler shouted back. ‘The cops will be here soon and then you’ll be sorry you messed with me.’
It was, Carol thought, the bantam cock bravado of the small man with something to prove. Even in that short glimpse, she’d seen how slight Rhys Butler was. Taking on Robbie Bishop in a fist fight had been madness. All the more reason to take him on at arm’s length. ‘We’ll see who’s sorry,’ Carol shouted. ‘Little big man.’
She leaned against the toilet, pissed off and cold. She wasn’t given to standing on her dignity, but an episode like this would rocket round her own force and likely end up on somebody’s blog. Carol Jordan, captured by the villain she’d gone out to arrest.
It didn’t take long for the local bobbies to show up. Two of them, by the sounds of it. Butler, sounding over- excited as a birthday child, told them what he believed had happened. ‘I came home and there they were, breaking into my back room. They already broke the gate down, look, you can see where it’s all splintered, I had to chain my bike to the handle.’
Butler kept repeating himself. One of the cops evidently decided he’d had enough. ‘This is the police,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to open the door now. I advise you to remain calm and stay where you are.’
Sam stuck his head over the edge of the roof. ‘Up or down, ma’am?’
‘Stay where you are,’ she grunted. ‘This is going to be very embarrassing.’ She took out her warrant card and held it in front of her. Various metallic noises came from the other side of the wall, then the door inched open. A very large man filled most of the doorway, his torch held at shoulder height and blinding her.
‘What’s going on here, then?’ he asked.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Jordan from Bradfield Police,’ she said. ‘And that-she gestured up to the roof; the torch beam followed her arm, ’-is Detective Constable Evans. And he-’ she pointed over the PC’s shoulder to where Butler was frowning next to the other uniformed officer, ‘-is Rhys Butler, whom I am about to invite to return to Bradfield with me to answer questions relating to the murder of Robbie Bishop.’
