II
The area around the lock splintered easily when Mick pushed on the crowbar, and the two of them broke into the dark, silent house in no time. The light from their small flashlights crisscrossed the kitchen, picking out the gleaming appliances: fridge, washing machine, microwave, dishwasher, oven. Quickly, they moved on; only the poor kept their money in jamjars in the kitchen.
Down a short hallway was the split-level living room, and Mick cursed as he tripped over the divide. It was a big room, sparsely furnished as far as they could make out. Their flashlights picked out a three-piece suite, TV and video on a stand, and a music center. By the door stood a tall cabinet full of china and crystal glasses. Mick opened the lower doors and found it full of booze- scotch, gin, vodka, brandy, rum, everything under the sun-and he grabbed a bottle of Remy Martin by the neck. He slugged it back greedily and began to cough and splutter. Trevor told him to keep quiet.
Trevor was awed just to be in the place. Already he'd forgotten what they came for and was trembling with the excitement of violation. This was someone's home, someone's 'castle,' and he wasn't supposed to be in it. It felt like a vast cave full of possibilities, one of those boat rides through dark tunnels he used to take as a child at Blackpool Pleasure Beach-a ghost train, even, because he did feel fear, and each tiny detail his light picked out was a surprise: a wall-lamp curving upwards like a bent arm holding a torch; an ornate standard lamp with carved snakes winding around its column; an antique pipe on the mantelpiece. And his light caught occasional images from the big framed paintings on the walls: a giant bird terrorizing a man; some naked tart standing on a seashell. He could hear his heartbeat, his breathing, and every movement he made was a further violation of somebody else's silence.
Mick finished with the cognac and dropped the bottle on the floor. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he tapped Trevor on the shoulder and suggested that they look around upstairs. In the master bedroom, their eyes, now accustomed to the dark, picked out the outlines of bed, wardrobe and dresser. The gleam of a streetlamp through the net curtains helped visibility, too, and they turned off their pen-lights.
Trevor began searching through the drawers, using his light again to illuminate the contents. He found dark, silky underwear: bras, panties, tights, slips, camisoles. They were soft and slippery in his hands, charging him with static, and he rubbed them against his face, smelling the fresh, lemony scent of the woman. He also found an old cigar box in a drawer full of the man's socks, string vests and underpants; inside it were a set of keys and about a hundred and fifty pounds in cash.
Mick found what looked like a jewelry box on the dresser. When he opened it up, a ballet dancer began spinning to tinkling music. He dropped the box and spilled the jewels on the floor; then, cursing, he bent and scooped them up.
Trevor looked around for any locked cabinets that the keys might fit, but he found nothing. The two of them went back downstairs, feet sinking luxuriously into the deep pile carpeting, and, shining their flashlights again, had another look around the living room. There, in a corner, set into the wall, was what looked like a safe. Trevor tried his keys but none fit. Mick tried the crowbar but it bent. Eventually, they gave up.
'Let's take the VCR,' Mick whispered.
'No. It's too heavy, too easy to trace.'
'Lenny'll get rid of it in London.'
'No, Mick. We're not taking big stuff like that. It'll slow us down. You've got the jewels and I've got a hundred quid. It's enough.'
'Enough!' Mick snorted. 'These people are fucking rolling in it. We've not got much more than we get from the old bags.'
'Yes, we have. And people are more careful these days-we're bloody lucky to have got so much.'
Reluctantly Mick gave up the idea and agreed to leave. Trevor was still enjoying just being there, though, still tingling, and he wanted to do something. Finally, he unzipped his fly and started to urinate over the TV, VCR and music center, spraying lavishly on the carpet, paintings and mantelpiece, too. It seemed to go on forever, a powerful, translucent stream glittering in the pen-light's beam, and with it, he felt himself relax, felt a delicious warmth infuse his bones.
Not to be outdone, Mick lowered his pants and dropped a steaming pile on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, giggling softly to himself as he did it.
When they'd both finished, they left the way they came, pausing only briefly to check the kitchen drawers and cupboards, just in case.
III
'There's no evidence that we've got a Byrne or a Floyd on our hands,' Jenny said, sipping her half of bitter. 'I think that if we had, something would have happened before now. The trouble with psychology is that it works best when you know all the facts. It's hard to make guesses in the dark. It's also unscientific.'
'Police work's the same,' Banks added. 'There's nothing like facts, but I've always found that occasional guesses, or some kind of hunch based on limited knowledge, can often work well. It gives you a bit of room for the intuition, imagination.'
'That's surprising, coming from you,' Jenny said, looking at him as if all her earlier theories had been wrong.
'Why?'
'It just is. I suppose I've been used to you asking for facts, looking for evidence.'
'It's important, I'm not denying it. But more often than not forensic evidence is only useful in getting a conviction. First you have to catch the criminal, and he's as cunning and imaginative as can be. Some aren't, of course, some are plain stupid. But they're the easy ones.'
'I should think your peeper is probably quite intelligent. Again, this is mostly guesswork, but he has avoided capture so far, and he's got his system worked out quite well. It remains to be seen how adaptable he is. He's certainly not a fool.'
'Back to my original question,' Banks said. 'You don't think he'll escalate?'
'I said I didn't think we had a serious sex criminal on our hands. I don't think he's likely to move on to necrophilia or eating breasts, with or without sugar, but I wouldn't be too sure that merely peeping will keep him happy for much longer. It might be getting too easy for him, especially if he's intelligent. If he stops getting his thrills that way… then…' She shrugged. 'At best he might turn to exhibitionism, at worst some kind of attack, molestation.'
'Rape?'
'Ultimately. Although it might not be rape in the legal sense. There may be no penetration; he might simply force women to strip. I don't know, I'm just trying to project the pattern. He might feel the need for greater danger, more risk; he might need to see and absorb the fear of his victims. Yes, it could happen. Especially the closer he gets to his original impulse.'
'What do you mean?'
'If he finds someone who reminds him of his mother, or whoever he was first struck by, then the stimulus might be too much; it might cause him to push through to another level.'
'What can we do with what we've got so far, then?' Banks asked.
'You want me to tell you your job?'
'Why not? You've not done so badly at it so far.'
'All right. What I'd do is this: find out how many men between the ages of about twenty and thirty-five are either living alone or with a single parent, most likely a mother.'
'Why?'
'It's just what the statistics show. Not completely reliable of course, but better than a slap in the face with a wet fish, wouldn't you say?'
