it.'
III
Graham Sharp knocked softly at the door of number six Gallows View, and a few seconds later, Wooller peered around the chain, squinting through his thick glasses.
'Mr. Sharp!' he exclaimed. 'What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in!' The messy room smelled of old socks and boiled cabbage. Wooller, obviously thinking that Sharp had come to make some arrangement about Andrea Rigby, scooped some newspapers from a straight-backed chair and bade him sit down.
'Tea? Or perhaps something a little stronger?'
'No, thanks,' Graham said stiffly. 'And I won't sit down either. I'll not be stopping long.'
'Oh,' said Wooller, standing in the kitchen doorway. 'Sure I can't persuade you?'
'No,' Sharp said, walking toward him. 'You can't bloody persuade me. But I think I can persuade you.'
Wooller looked puzzled until Graham grabbed him by the front of his pullover, bunching the wool in his fist and half-lifting the frail librarian from the floor. Sharp was much taller and in far better physical shape. He began to shake Wooller, gently at first, then more violently, against the kitchen doorjamb. Each time Wooller's back hit the wood, Graham spat out a word. 'Don't… you… ever… threaten… Andrea… Rigby… again… you… smelly… little… prick… Do… you… under… stand?' It was hard to tell if Wooller was nodding or not, but he looked scared enough.
'Stop it,' Wooller whined, putting his hand to the back of his head. 'You've split my skull. Look, blood!'
He thrust his open palm under Graham's eyes, and there was clearly blood on it. Sharp felt a sudden lurch of fear in his stomach. He let go of Wooller and leaned against the doorway, pale and trembling. Wooller stared at him with his mouth open.
Quickly, Graham made the effort to pull himself together. He grabbed a glass from the draining-board and, without even bothering to see if it was clean or not, filled it with cold water from the tap and gulped it down.
Feeling a little better, he ran his hand through his hair and faced a confused Woolier, grasping the front of his pullover again. 'I'm not going to tell you again,' he said, injecting as much quiet menace into his tone as he could manage. 'Do you understand me?'
Wooiler swallowed and nodded. 'Let me go! Let me go!'
'If you say one more word to Mrs. Rigby,' Graham went on, 'even if you so much as look at her in a way she doesn't like, I'll be back to finish what I started. And don't think of talking to her husband, either. True, you might cause a bit of trouble if you do, but not half as much trouble as you'll be causing for yourself. Get it?'
Again Wooller's Adam's apple bobbed as he nodded. 'Let me go! Please!' Graham relaxed his grip a bit more, but didn't quite let go of Wooller's bunched-up pullover. 'I want to hear you say you understand me, first,' he said. 'I want you to tell me you won't talk to anyone about this-not her husband, not the police, not anyone. Because if you do, Woolier, I swear it, I'll break every fucking bone in your stinking little body.'
Woolier was shaking. 'All right,' he whimpered, trying to wriggle free. 'All right, I'll say nothing, I'll leave her alone. I only wanted to be her friend, that's all I wanted.'
Graham raised his fist, angered again by Wooller's pathetic lie, but he made the effort and restrained himself. He had almost gone too far, and he was certain now that Andrea and he would have no more trouble from Wooller.
IV
As soon as the back door cracked open, Trevor felt the thrill; it set his blood dancing and made the sweat prickle on his forehead and cheeks. The rough wool of the balaclava scratched at his face and made it itch like mad. The two of them entered the house cautiously, but all was as they had expected-dark and quiet. The narrow beams of their flashlights picked out dishes piled up for washing, a table littered with shadowy objects, a newspaper open at a half-finished crossword puzzle. Again, they were in a kitchen, but it seemed much less clean and tidy than the one they'd been in a few days ago.
The living room, too, turned out to be in a bit of a mess: Sunday's paper lay scattered on the carpet, and Trevor's beam picked out a half-full coffee mug on the mantelpiece.
They'd been tipped by Lenny that the woman who lived there kept a lot of expensive jewelry, which he could easily fence in London, so they ignored the living room and, keeping their flashlight beams pointed toward the floor, headed up the stairs. The first room they entered was empty except for a single bed-a guestroom, most likely-and two others were similarly ascetic. It felt eerie, as if the woman had once had family and now they were gone and the house was empty and bare. You could tell from the downstairs that she couldn't be bothered much anymore; yet she was supposed to be well off.
Finally, after more false starts in the bathroom and airing-cupboard, they found what seemed to be her bedroom. At first they couldn't make it out, but by running the flashlights over a wider area they discovered that a large, four-poster bed stood at the center of the room. Mick sat on the edge of the mattress and bounced up and down for a while before pronouncing it too lumpy. Then they began their search.
Again, there was an assortment of clothes, this time all female, and Trevor noticed that this woman's underwear was far more exotic than the other's. There were brassieres cut so low that they were practically nonexistent; skimpy, see-through panties; a garter belt with roses embroidered on it; stockings with dark borders around the tops; and short, lacy nightdresses. The lingerie was all clean and it smelled of something faintly exotic: jasmine, Trevor thought it was. His mother had bought some jasmine tea once, many years ago, and the smell took him back and made him think of her. He remembered that none of them had liked the tea and his mother had laughed at their lack of adventurous spirit.
They found the jewelry in a lacquered box with a Chinese landscape painted on it. The box was locked but it broke open easily and they pocketed its contents. They poked around the room a bit longer, looking for cash, but found none. That made Trevor angry, because with cash he didn't have to rely on Lenny's spurious deals.
They set off back downstairs, and just as they were about to turn the final bend into the front hallway, the door opened and closed, the hall light came on and a woman began to take off her sleek fur coat.
Cautiously, Mick led the way down. The last stair creaked and the woman turned, but Mick got his hand over her mouth before she could scream. They dragged her into the living room and switched on the standard-lamp. The curtains were already closed. Mick took the woman's head-scarf and fastened it tight, like a bit between her teeth; then he took the belt from her raincoat and tied her hands crudely behind her back.
'We need time to get away,' he said to Trevor. 'We've got to make sure she keeps quiet for long enough. Bring me that candlestick over there.'
Trevor looked and saw an old brass candlestick with a heavy base. The woman whimpered behind her gag and struggled to free herself.
'No,' he said.
'Come on,' Mick urged him. 'We've got to. We can't risk getting caught now.'
Slowly, Trevor walked over to the mantelpiece, picked up the candlestick, felt its weight, then dropped it on the floor. 'No,' he said again. 'You'd probably kill her. You don't know how little strength it takes.'
'So what,' Mick argued, stretching out his hand scornfully. 'Give it here.'
'I've got a better idea,' Trevor said.
'What?'
Trevor looked at the woman sprawled awkwardly on the sofa. She was about thirty-eight, forty maybe, but very well preserved. Her hair was blond, but the dark roots showed, and perhaps she was wearing just a little too much mascara. But apart from that, she looked very tasty indeed to Trevor. Her breasts jutted behind the polo- necked sweater and her skirt had already slipped up high enough to show a spread of thigh. He got an eerie feeling that his moment had come at last.
'You must be mad,' Mick gasped, realizing what Trevor meant. 'We can't hang around here.'
