‘What’s this?’
‘Oh, just one of those beetles,’ his daughter replied impatiently, her hand poised over the joystick. ‘There was a poster came to the school and we were told to copy it.’
‘If we see one we’re supposed to tell a grown-up,’ Susi added, overcoming her shyness.
‘A poster?’ Mary Armstrong’s doing, Guy thought, it’s been stuck up on the wall. Daddy, are those the beetles that bit you?’
‘With their claws,’ he admitted. ‘These big claws out at the front, like horns on a reindeer.’
‘Antlers,’ said Susi, nodding wisely. ‘My sister’s class have got two beetles in a jar, but not like these. I mean, they don’t have antlers or anything, but they’ve got spots an’ so on. Green spots, anyway. Leastways they’re green if you look close up. I thought they were black at first. Her teacher says they’re like big ladybirds. I don’t think so.’
‘Who is her teacher?’ Guy looked at the two girls’ bright eager faces and felt apprehensive. ‘D’you know her name?’
it’s Mrs Burrows, only she’s having a baby so there’s another person there now called Lise.’
‘Lise what?’
‘Dunno. I think they just call her Lise, don’t they? D’you know her name, Kath?’
‘Everybody calls her Lise.’ Kath gazed at her father pointedly. ‘Daddy, your meat pie’s getting terribly stale. Aren’t you going to eat it?’
Guy laughed. ‘OK, young missie!’ It was a joke they shared since hearing the phrase used in a TV play one Sunday tea-time. ‘But when I’ve had my supper I’ll be back up to drive Susi home. Right?’
Perhaps he should call at the school to inspect the beetles for himself, Guy considered uneasily as he went down to the kitchen. But then he dismissed the idea. Susi had insisted they were devoid of antler- claws, hadn’t she? There must be thousands of different types of beetle in
Britain alone, never mind the rest of the world. They couldn’t all be dangerous.
He’d mention it to Mary Armstrong though, he decided, if she wasn’t too busy when he met her next morning. Perhaps she could find a moment to check it out.
6
It was three o’clock in the night when Bob Fraser turned into Miller Road in his little Ford van. The three street-lamps evenly spaced along the full length of the road produced only isolated pools of light to break up the darkness. No moon that night, and enough cloud to obscure all but the brightest stars: perfect conditions for a break-in, he thought, driving slowly to check on the few vehicles parked at the roadside.
Outside the old furniture workshop he pulled in and stopped, switching off the engine.
‘OK, Grimsby, calm down now,’ he reassured the Alsatian in the back of the van. ‘No need to get excited.’ He reached forward for the microphone.
‘Bob here. D’you read me?’
‘Go ahead, Bob,’ the speaker crackled.
‘Routine check. I’m in Miller Road, just about to inspect the furniture workshop. Over.’
‘Roger. Time now three-oh-five. Over.’
‘Three-oh-five — check. Everything looks very quiet. I’ll switch over to personal radio. What channel? Over.’ ‘Channel five. Over.’
‘Channel five. Over and out.’
Putting the microphone down, Bob unclipped his personal radio from his jacket and made sure it was set to channel five. Then he stepped out on to the road, locked the door and opened the back of the van, slipping the lead on to the Alsatian’s collar before letting him out.
The dog was restless tonight, which was unusual. Normally he was so quiet in that van, you wouldn’t know he was there, and that made him ideal for this sort of security work. Bob had acquired him as a pup from Grimsby Jake, a tough giant of a man, all muscle, who had picked up the nickname because that was his home port.
For five years he and Jake had gone to sea together on the same trawler, weathering the roughest storms, dodging the Icelanders’ gunboats in the cod war, getting pissed in the same bars ashore, in one mad month even laying the same bird turn and turn about till they signed on again to get away from her. Only that time — ay, he remembered, that was the time they were rammed by the Icelanders and had to be fished out of the sea by a Royal Navy' corvette. It was soon afterwards the cod fishing stopped altogether. Jake took over a pub — he’d been putting money aside for years, the bastard, and telling nobody — married a widow-woman, and that’s when he came by the Alsatians. He gave one to Bob as a free gift, his way of saying push off, those days are over. Finite.
Bob had understood all right; no hard feelings. For old times’ sake he’d called the pup Grimsby.
So he’d come south to the Smoke — no jobs in the north anyroad — and settled down. Married. Couple o’ kids. He could’ve joined the boys in blue, the ‘Met’ they called it down here — they were always looking for dog handlers — but he couldn’t see himself snapping handcuffs on some poor drunken sod who’d only gone out for a good time, then dragging him off to court. Come to that, he earned more with this private security firm, and it was varied work. This week’s was a cushy number, driving around doing spot checks on business property, and he didn’t mind nights.
‘Come on, boy!’ he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. Any villains must have heard the van drive up anyway. ‘Let’s go an’ do the rounds.’
The furniture workshop, as he called it, was an unoccupied rectangular building in pale brick. It was set a little way back from the road and on its concrete forecourt stood a pile of breeze-blocks and a couple of builder’s skips. No lights were on inside. Bob flashed his powerful torch over the front, lingering on the wire-meshed windows; then he went up to the large double doors to test whether they were still firmly locked. Everything seemed much the same as on his previous visit earlier that night.
‘Have a look down the side, shall we?’ he suggested to Grimsby. ‘Let’s go.’
He liked to do a thorough inspection each time. His usual method was to work out for himself how many different ways he could break into the building if he wanted to, and he’d double-check all of them.
Suddenly Grimsby growled, and he felt the lead in his hand become taut. He stopped absolutely still.
‘Quiet, boy,’ he said softly.
From inside he heard a creaking sound, as though someone had trodden on a loose floorboard. Again a low rumble came from the Alsatian’s throat, and he bent down, putting a hand on the dog’s neck to reassure him.
More creaking, followed by a strange tearing and cracking which he couldn’t quite identify.
Right, this was it, he decided. He slipped the personal radio out of his pocket and pressed the control button, holding it very close to his mouth.
‘Bob here, Jimmy. D’you read?’
‘Go ahead, Bob.’
‘Suspect intruders in furniture workshop. Quite a racket going on in there. Over.’
‘OK, Bob. Message understood. Smokey bear on his way. Stick around till he shows, but for God’s sake keep out o’ trouble, will you? Over and out.’
‘Smokey bear’ was their code for the police. Bob knew too well what would happen when they arrived. There’d be sirens wailing and lights flashing, waking up the entire neighbourhood; by the time they reached the workshop any intruders would be well away — and his chance of earning a bonus gone with them. Well, he’d have to see about that, he and Grimsby. A good team they were, when they put their minds to it. The best.
Still keeping Grimsby on a short lead, using his torch only sparingly, he made his way along the dark path to the rear of the building. The small door next to the lean-to shed was the obvious weak point, and he expected to find that was how the intruders had broken in, but he was wrong. It was undamaged, solid to the touch. The windows then, he thought, stepping back to take a look at them, but then he heard the same noise again. Only longer this time, like a crackling roll of thunder.