“Aye,” replied Eric, standing up, still staring at the
TV. “And happen not.”
The news report finished.
“Anyway,” she said, rising from her seat. “I’ve no wish to talk about it.” She headed for the kitchen with her cup. “I’m ready for my bed. Are you coming?”
“No. Seeing as it’s Friday and I’ve no work tomorrow I thought I’d pull a late one. Think I’ll watch that film Alan Hardacre lent me.”
Chapter One
Present day
Desk Sergeant Maurice Cragg heard the steaming kettle coming to the boil in the other room. Peering at the clock above his head he reckoned he had around ten minutes to make his drink before settling down to watch a repeat of Armchair Theatre.
Maurice smiled to himself as he stood up. He remembered ITV’s flagship drama the first-time round – in the seventies. He and his late wife, Veronica, passed many an hour watching them if he wasn’t working the late shift: him with a beer – her with a sherry.
The kettle switched off, breaking Maurice’s thoughts. He was in the back room of the police station in Bramfield, which resembled a sitting room, with a table and chairs, a three-piece suite, an open fireplace, a wooden floor covered by an assortment of rugs, and ancient, yellowed wallpaper.
It was all he had, but he liked it.
Carrying his empty mug into the kitchen he rinsed it in the sink, threw in a teabag and poured the boiling water in. Delving into a tin in the cupboard above his head he grabbed a handful of biscuits.
Munching away, his thoughts returned to his late wife again. She’d been gone eight years. Her life had been taken in the middle of Lidgett Hill in Pudsey by a hit and run – a drunk driver. Ran a red light. She’d had no chance – killed instantly. The driver was still in prison. But then, so was Maurice, after a fashion.
He added milk and sugar to the cup before strolling through into the sitting room area, keeping a watchful eye on the front desk. Not that much ever happened in Bramfield during normal hours, never mind after the witching hour.
Following Veronica’s death, endless bills from credit card companies, department store cards and catalogues soon mounted. If there was money to be spent, she had no equal. He’d had to sell everything to keep his head above water.
His home, his life and his job were all now based around the small country station in Bramfield. He had friends, although he hadn’t seen any of them for a while. That was the late shift for you.
He leaned forward, switching on the TV – the only thing left from the marriage.
Out in the lobby the station door burst open, crashed against the wall, and slammed shut again.
“Christ!” Cragg jumped, knocking into the table. “Where’s the fire?” He turned and rushed through, unsure of what to expect. What he saw confused him.
The room was empty.
Chapter Two
The existence of the everyday hard-working burglar had been a whole lot tougher more recently: first a recession, then Brexit. Fucking pandemic wasn’t help either: people at home more, keeping a closer eye on their possessions.
The police were tightening up – more sophisticated procedures. But he kept himself in the know. He knew all about DNA 17 technology, the biggest change to DNA profiling in fifteen years.
According to what he’d heard – because he wasn’t that hot on reading – DNA 17 was so good that if you farted you left a trace a mile wide.
Manny laughed at that. Sources had informed him that the new DNA 17 profiling had CSIs swabbing glove marks for a full profile. They reckoned that when you put gloves on, you usually touch the outside with your hands, leaving a trace of sweat. The swabs pick it up. There was no way they’d find a trace of him, not with three pairs of underpants and three pairs of gloves, not to mention a hairnet and mask: couldn’t take any chances.
Bastards. Why couldn’t they leave Manny and his kind alone? Give them a break now and again?
Situated in a part of the town considered well out of the way, Swansea Court had four detached houses. He was pretty sure number two was empty. He’d studied the front of the house for the last half hour, watching the bedroom with the light on, but there had been absolutely no movement: no one coming or going.
Around the back he’d kept watch for a further fifteen minutes. Nothing. Now he’d finally summoned the nerve to stroll down the path it was time to steal and shoot, before someone did come home. Who lived here and where the hell they were was a complete mystery to Manny but he could live with that.
Manny confidently held the window frame, peering around the edge. His eyes opened wide and he whistled through his teeth. The place was a mess. Maybe the gaff had already been turned over. The kitchen was upside down. Drawers had been pulled out of units, cupboard doors left open. The table was piled high with everything: papers, bills, cups, saucers, plates – and the silverware. Stuff was all over the floor.
Manny rubbed his gloves together. The Lord really had given him the green light. If someone else had burgled the place they may have been stupid enough to leave their prints all over the scene, which meant he could go in and take what was left and perhaps be lucky enough to escape hassle free.