It was taped to the underside of one of the drawers below the cupboard. A card-backed envelope containing three computer disks. I slid them out of the envelope and into the inside pocket of Richard’s jacket. I checked my watch. I’d been inside the room getting on for twenty minutes and I didn’t think there was anything more to learn here.
Back on the landing, I locked the door behind me. No point in telegraphing my visit to the world. I started off down the stairs, but just before I reached the first-floor landing, I realized there was a glow of light from downstairs. Cautiously, I crouched down, edged forward and peered through the bannisters. Almost directly below me, sitting on the bottom stairs was the unmistakable foreshortened figure of a police officer.
Chapter 11
To be accused of one summary offence is unfortunate; to be accused of two within a twenty-four-hour period looks remarkably like carelessness. And since a reputation for carelessness doesn’t bring clients to the door, I decided this wasn’t a good time to attract the attention of the officer on the stairs. I shrank back from the bannisters and crept towards the upper flight of stairs. In the gloom, I noticed what I hadn’t before. There actually were passive infrared sensors high in the corners of the stairwell; they were the ultra-modern ones that don’t actually show a light when they’re triggered. The reason nothing had happened when I’d waved my arms around on the upper landing earlier was that the alarm hadn’t been switched on. Thank God for the need to impress clients with the luxury carpeting.
As I crouched at the foot of the second flight, I heard the crackle of the policeman’s personal radio. I sidled forward again, trying to hear what he was saying. ‘…still here in St John Street,’ I made out. ‘…burglar-alarm bloke arrives. The key holder’s worried…Yeah, drugs, expensive equipment…should be here by now…OK, Sarge.’
Now I knew what was going on. The key holder had been nervous of leaving the building with what seemed to be a faulty alarm. Presumably, they had a maintenance contract that provided for twenty-four-hour call-out, and he’d decided to take advantage of it. It probably hadn’t been difficult to pitch the Dibble into hanging around until the burglar-alarm technician arrived. It was a cold night out there, and minding a warm clinic had to be an improvement on cruising the early-morning streets with nothing more uplifting to deal with than nightclub brawls or drunken domestics.
I tiptoed back up to the top floor and considered my options. No way could I get past the copper. Once the burglar-alarm technician arrived and reset the system, I wasn’t going to be able to get out without setting off the alarm again, and this time they’d realize it couldn’t be a fault. OK, I’d be long gone, but with a murder investigation going on that might just lead back here, I didn’t want any suspicious circumstances muddying the waters.
For all of five seconds, I considered the fire door leading off the half-landing below me. Chances were the hinges would squeak, the security lights would be on a separate system from the burglar alarm and I’d be spotlit on a fire escape with an apron full of exotica that I couldn’t pretend was my knitting bag. Not to mention a pocketful of computer disks that might well tie me right into an even bigger crime. I could see only one alternative.
With a soft sigh, I got down on my knees again and started to unlock the door of Helen Maitland’s consulting room.
I’ve slept in a lot less comfortable places than a gynaecologist’s sofa. It was a bit short, even for me, but it was cosy, especially after I’d annexed the cotton cellular blanket from the examination couch and peeled off my latex gloves. I’d locked the door behind me, so I figured I was safe if anyone decided further investigations were necessary. Looking on the bright side, I’d managed to postpone a thrill-packed evening in Garibaldi’s with some spaced-out rock promoter. And I’d used up every last bit of adrenaline in my system. I was too tired now to be scared. As I drifted off to sleep, I had the vague sense that I could hear electronic chirruping in the distance, but I was past caring.
I’d set my mental clock to waken me around nine. It was five to when my eyelids ungummed themselves. Six hours sleep wasn’t enough, but it was as much as I usually squeezed in when I was chasing a handful of cases as packed with incident as my current load seemed to be. I unfolded my cramped body from the sofa and did some languid stretching to loosen my stiffened muscles. I peed in the sink, rinsed it out with paranoid care then splashed water over my face, dumping the used paper towels in the empty bin below. It looked like Helen Maitland had even taken her used bin liners home. Learning a lesson in caution from her, I used a paper towel to open cupboard and box and helped myself to a pair of her surgical gloves, then moved across to the door and listened. I couldn’t hear a thing.
As quietly as possible, I unlocked the door. I opened it a crack and listened some more. Now I could hear the sort of noises that an occupied building gives off: distant murmurs of speech, feet moving on stairs and hallways, doors opening and closing. I didn’t know how appointments were spaced at the Compton Clinic, but I reckoned that the best time to avoid coming into contact with too many other people was probably around twenty-five past the hour. I softly closed the door and checked myself over. I’d taken off the ski cap and headlamp, but I still looked a pretty unlikely private patient in my black hockey boots, leggings and polo-neck sweater. Even the fashionable bagginess of Richard’s designer-label jacket didn’t lift the outfit much. If anyone did see me, I’d have to hope they put me down as someone in one of those arty jobs never seen by the general public — radio producer, publisher’s editor, novelist, literary critic.
I watched the second hand sweep round until it was time. Then I inched the door open. The landing was clear. I slipped out and pulled the door closed behind me, holding the handle so the catch wouldn’t click into place. I carefully released it and stepped away smartly. The door was going to have to stay unlocked, but with luck, by the time it was discovered, the fault in the burglar alarm would be ancient history. I tripped down the stairs with the easy nonchalance of someone who’s just been given some very good news by their gynae. I didn’t see another soul. When I reached the foot of the stairs, I sketched a cheery wave at the video camera. Then I was out on the street, happily sucking in the traffic fumes of the city centre. Free and clear.
I walked up the street to the meter where I’d left the car the night before, expecting to pay the penalty for parking without payment for the first hour of the working day. This close to the traffic wardens’ HQ just off Deansgate, it was practically inevitable. By some accidental miracle that the gods had obviously intended for some other mortal, I hadn’t been wheel-clamped. I didn’t even have a ticket.
The luck didn’t last, of course. The phone was ringing as I got through the door and I made the mistake of answering it rather than letting the machine deal with the call. ‘Your mobile has been switched off since this time yesterday,’ Shelley stated without preamble.
‘I know that,’ I retorted.
‘Have you lost the instruction manual? To turn it on, you depress the button marked “power”.’
‘I know that too.’
‘Are you coming in today?’
‘I doubt it,’ I said briskly. ‘Stuff to do. Clinkers to riddle, pots to side, cases to solve.’