Eye for an Eye

back door?’ she asked.
    Kev scratched his head with his little finger.
    ‘I take it that’s a yes.’
    Kev shuffled his feet.
    ‘Where can I get hold of this Robbie McRoberts?’
    Kev shrugged.
    Nance stepped closer. ‘We can do this the easy way,’ she said, ‘or we can take you down to the Station and do it my way.’
    ‘Got his mobile number. That do?’
    ‘Only if we get through.’ Nance placed the sledgehammer on the floor then picked up the kitchen phone. The receiver had not been cleaned for years, she guessed, but she had seen worse.
    ‘That costs money that does.’
    ‘Keep the comedy routine for the stage,’ she said, ‘and give me the number.’
    After ten rings, she hung up.
    ‘Mr McRoberts wasn’t available,’ she said to Kev.
    ‘He’s a busy man is our Robbie.’
    ‘Owns a lot of property, does he?’
    ‘He’s got a few bob.’
    ‘Enough to get you bail?’
    Kev’s gaze darted to Stan, then back to Nance.
    ‘You’re booked,’ said Nance.
    ‘You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing—’
    ‘Breaking and entering,’ she snapped. ‘Loitering with intent. Vandalism.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘Loot anything, did you?’
    ‘Now wait a fucking—’
    ‘Public nuisance, too, Stan. Got that?’
    ‘Nuisance? I’m not annoying anyone.’
    ‘You’re annoying me,’ she said. ‘Oh, and violation of the Landlords Act.’ She was making it up, but she couldn’t care less. ‘Like me to think of anything else while we’re at it?’
    ‘I’m not the landlord,’ cried Kev. ‘Robbie is.’
    ‘Well, you’d better get Robbie’s arse over here pronto,’ she said, handing Kev the phone. ‘Right now.’
     
    Garvie’s kitchen window lay straight ahead, the lounge window to the side, its polished glass reflecting the crescent of a cold moon. Garvie had not drawn the curtains and from the glow of a night light by the television, he could see through into the dining room and beyond to the heavy velvet curtains that offered privacy from the lane.
    He slipped his hand inside his leather jacket and removed his pencil-torch. Its thin beam danced by his feet where the grass lay flattened. He moved toward the kitchen door, his steps long and light in an effort to minimize his trail.
    The window by the door had no strips of metal tape or electric wire stapled to it, making him conclude that Garvie had no alarm system installed on her property. A glance at the catch confirmed the window was locked. He shone the beam at the coal bunker then pointed behind it, into a six-inch gap wide enough for a cat to hide, illuminating yellowed pages of a sodden newspaper, a blue bottle cap, a plastic yogurt carton.
    On the off-chance Garvie had forgotten to lock her door, Gilchrist gripped the weather-worn metal handle and gave a firm twist.
    The mechanism squeaked until metal bit metal.
    Locked.
    He faced the garden area, his sixth sense telling him he was not alone. He scanned the open space, let the torch beam settle on a narrow strip of flattened grass, Pitter’s feline pathway to the rest of the world. In the corner, two beads of light stared back at him, steady as twin moons. He could just make out Pitter, hunched on top of the wall.
    Gilchrist swept his beam around and found another trail that led to the far edge of the lounge window. Someone had walked to the window within the last day or so. Garvie had said,
Gardening’s not my forte
, but the fresh trail confirmed that she, or someone else, had at least been outside.
    Doing what? Cleaning windows?
    A quick glance confirmed the windows could be cleaned from indoors by flipping the frame up and over a central swivel pin. So, why come out to her garden?
    Then he saw it. At first, he thought it was a shadow on the building’s stonework. From another angle, he realized it was a ventilation grille, close to the ground, with one of the stone blocks that formed the opening not flush with the others.
    He crept along the side of the house until he reached the grille and kneeled on the grass. Damp soaked through his jeans. The grille was constructed of precast concrete, no more than two bricks in size, with square holes for ventilation. Chicken-mesh was fixed over the face to keep out small rodents. But the mesh was loose, and bent up at one corner. Pencil-torch gripped between his teeth, he squeezed a hand under the mesh, gripped the grille, and pulled.
    It slid from its slot.
    He placed it on the ground and shone the beam into the hole.