Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 8

Helen yawned. She had to be back at the station shortly but there was still time for a few hours’ sleep if she packed it in now. With practised ease, she ran her computer’s encryption programs, locked down her files, then changed the master password. She changed it every time she used her computer now. She knew it was over the top, that she was being paranoid, but she refused to leave anything to chance. Robert was hers and hers alone. And that was the way she wanted it to stay.

Dawn was breaking, so he had to move fast. In an hour or two, the sun would have burned off the thick fog, exposing those who hid within it. His hands were shaking, his joints ached, but he willed himself forward.

He’d stolen the crowbar from a hardware store on Elm Street. The Indian guy who ran it was too busy watching cricket on his tablet to notice him slipping it into his long coat. The rigid, cold metal felt good in his hands and he worked it hard now, back and forth, attacking the rusty bars that protected the windows. The first bar fell away easily, the second required more work, but soon there was enough room for a body to fit through. It would have been easier to go around the front and force his way in there, but he daren’t be seen on the streets round here. He owed money to too many people – people who’d gladly take him apart for the hell of it. So he moved in the shadows, like all creatures of the night.

He checked again that the coast was clear, then swung the crowbar at the window. It splintered with a satisfying crash. Wrapping his hand in an old towel, he quickly punched out the rest of the glass, before levering himself up onto the sill and inside.

Landing softly, he hesitated. You could never be sure what you might find in these places. There were no signs of life, but it pays to be careful and he held his crowbar tightly as he ventured forward. There was nothing of use in the kitchen so he quickly scurried into the front room.

This was more promising. Abandoned mattresses, discarded condoms and near them their natural bedfellows, used syringes. He felt his hope and anxiety rising in equal measure. Please God, let there be enough residue inside to harvest a proper fix. Suddenly he was on his hands and knees, pulling out the plungers, thrusting his little finger inside, desperately grubbing around for a little bit of brown to ease his suffering. Nothing in the first, nothing in the second – goddammit – and a fingerful in the third. All this bloody effort for a fingerful. He greedily rubbed it round his gums – it would have to do for now.