The air was damp from the earlier downpour, but there was a crispness to the wind, suggesting that the bad weather would pass. The gap between the bin and the flagpole protruding from the wall looked far greater now than when she’d planned how she would enter the property from the safety of her car.
Her next move was simple: vault from the bin to the flagpole, using her momentum to swing her legs up until they reached the veranda above the bay window, and then she would scramble up to the balcony and be at the window he’d left open despite the uncertain weather. Well, the theory was simple. What it didn’t allow for was the prospect that the flagpole wouldn’t support her weight, that the pole itself would be slippery from the rain, and that the veranda was only made of thin slate tiles.
She didn’t have time to debate the move any longer. Get in and out was what she’d promised herself when she’d finally found his home. Almost twenty years since he’d sold her overseas and left her alone to face hell on earth. It wasn’t about revenge, rather… redemption. She would tear down their organisation brick by brick if necessary, and that meant starting at the top.
She slowly shuffled her feet to the edge of the bin. From here she could almost reach out and touch the flagpole, but it would take a leap of faith to make it. If she failed and missed, she would have to delay for another day, but she didn’t want to run the risk that he would disappear again. She’d been so close to catching up with him in Girona, only for him to slip through her fingers. She couldn’t afford such a slip-up again. Back then she’d phoned the local federales to hit the commune, but he must have been tipped off. That was why she hadn’t dialled 999 this time. She wouldn’t repeat her mistake; she would go it alone.
With a deep breath, she threw herself forwards, arms flailing in the air as her hands wrestled for the white pole. But she needn’t have worried, as she felt the cool, wet metal beneath her palms, and swiftly coiled her fingers into a grip while her legs flew beneath her and cracked tiles as her soles dug into the uncertain surface. Tentatively poised between pole and veranda, she took a second breath, pushing against the pole and into a standing position, able to grip the metal frame of the balcony for support. A second tile cracked beneath her feet and it was all the motivation she needed to pull herself up the metal frame and over the top, crashing to the wooden floor with a thump and a huge sigh of relief. She remained still for a couple of seconds, composing herself, before looking back over the balcony, searching for curtain-twitchers. She was relieved when nobody in the private cul-de-sac appeared to have noticed her vault. Fate, it would seem, was on her side.
Pressing herself against the rain-covered window frame, she reached her arm through the small window, crooking her elbow and twisting until her fingers made contact with the tiny key in the handle of the main pane. Twisting, she gently eased the handle up, and prised the window open. There was no sound of movement inside, nor any alarm ringing either; it almost felt too easy, but she was in no position to question it.
Poking a foot through the window, she hopped over the frame and crouched down in the large office. A wide oak desk to the right of the window held a monitor, desktop computer, keyboard, mouse, and printer. Beside the desk stood three tall grey metal filing cabinets, and beside them a bookcase containing a variety of literary fiction, autobiographies of sportsmen, and an alphabetised encyclopaedia collection. Across the room there were framed pictures of him and presumably his wife – memories from holidays abroad and pictures of him hobnobbing with a cast of once-famous celebrities. To an untrained eye, Mr Brown’s office was the picture of respectability. Of course, look a little closer at some of those framed pictures and it was easy to identify several Operation Yewtree suspects.
Bypassing the computer, she pulled on the handle of the first filing cabinet, unsurprised to find it locked. Same result with the remaining drawers on the other two cabinets. This might have fazed her once upon a time, but the internet truly was a wonderful thing. Reaching into the pocket of her jet-black jeans, she withdrew the small nail clipper, and pulled out the metal emery board. Pushing this into the lock of the first cabinet, she gently wiggled it as she’d seen in the online video, before turning and springing the lock.
Pocketing the device, she pulled open the top drawer and scanned through the dividers, reading name after name. Reaching the end of the dividers, she closed the drawer, and moved on to the next one, paying closer attention to C, until she found what she was looking for. Extracting the divider, she moved onto the next drawer, until again she found what she was looking for. Tucking the dividers under her arm, she studied the remaining drawers, uncertain what she would find, until she reached the final drawer of the third cabinet. This one was different to the rest, but it soon became clear as she withdrew a divider with a name she didn’t recognise.
‘Don’t move,’ a gravelly voice sounded over her shoulder.
She froze, sliding the third folder under her arm with the others.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing in my house,’ the voice spoke again, ‘but you’ve made a huge mistake in coming here. On your feet now.’
She
