‘Look out for him,’ I told Frank, as I eased my way through the people emerging from the parks, laden down with parasols, plastic seats and cool boxes, taking special care near the many who were pushing push chairs or shepherding youngsters. I took a turn to the right, into a road that few cars use, then forked off up the track that leads to my garage.
As I approached, I slowed to a crawl, scanning the surrounding trees for watchers, for if Sebastian had really done his homework, that was where he would be waiting. But I saw no one. I found my remote in the storage bin where I had left it, pressed it, then counted to ten to give the garage time to open. I gunned the motor, shot forward and swung the Jeep in a blind turn. Frank was almost standing upright in shock, until he saw the opening, relaxing as I swept through it. We both sighed with relief as I hit the closer button and as the darkness descended.
My headlamps came on automatically as I opened the driver’s door, allowing me to switch on the garage lights. I stepped across to the keypad, to deactivate the alarm, until I realised there was no sound. The warning tone that gave me thirty seconds to enter the code was conspicuous by its absence; the system had not been activated. ‘That’s funny,’ I said aloud.
‘What?’ asked Frank.
‘The alarm’s not set.’
‘Should it have been?’
‘Standing operating procedure.’
‘Who was the last person in the house?’
‘It must have been Tom, or Conrad Kent, but no, Conrad doesn’t know the code.’
‘There you are.’
‘But Tom does. He knows to set it, always.’
‘Would they have left through the garage?’
‘They didn’t have to. The system has twin control pads. This one, and one at the front door.’
‘In that case, I’m afraid, the likeliest explanation is that young Tom has slipped up.’ I wasn’t certain, but I suspected there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
I beat back my indignation, and focused on what should have been our primary concern. ‘The real question is,’ I said, ‘is there someone here now?’
I’m not a DIY woman, but I do keep a big wrench in the garage, for emergencies. I picked it up and went to the fire-and smokeproof door that opens on to the stairway to the house. I was about to lead the way up, when Frank stopped me. ‘Let me,’ he murmured. He took the makeshift bludgeon from me. ‘Shut that door after me, bolt it, open the garage, and unless you hear three knocks on the other side, or if I’m not back in five minutes, get the fuck out of here.’ I didn’t have time to argue. He thrust his rucksack into my arms and headed for the stair, pulling the door closed after him.
There was nothing for it but to do as he had said. I secured the exit with the two big bolts I had installed, top and bottom. When it came to opening the garage, I had second thoughts. That would make me vulnerable from behind, and if the need did arise, I could get the Jeep out of there whether it was closed or not.
There’s a big white Timex on my garage wall. My dad gave us a hand-made cuckoo clock as a housewarming present: it went into the kitchen and the one it replaced went downstairs. I watched it, counting off the minutes, listening all the time, in vain, for sounds from above. No noise was good noise, I decided, until four minutes had gone by, and I found myself watching the second hand as it swept round in a final countdown.
Nothing happened. Not a single knock did I hear, far less three. I gave him a sixth minute, then a seventh. . it’s a big house, after all. . but still there was no action, no knocks, no movement from the handle being tried. After eight minutes, I reckoned it was time to follow Frank’s instruction. I got behind the wheeclass="underline" the key was still in the ignition. I reached for the remote control. . and then I said, ‘Oh, shit!’
I couldn’t leave the little bloke. I’ll never know why, for sure; maybe it was because we had a date for that night, but I just couldn’t.
My garage is big. When Tom’s older, it’ll hold his car as well, there will still be room for a third and for our bikes. Right now, I keep a lot of stuff down there. One night not long after we moved in, once Tom had gone to bed, I watched a Jodie Foster movie called Panic Room, the one where she and her kid are under siege in a secure room in their house. I’d decided that the garage would be ours. That’s why I had the bolts fitted. That’s why I have a small fridge down there, and a freezer and a microwave; all spares, I tell Tom, but the fridge and the freezer are always stocked and the microwave is tested regularly. I call them ‘garage barbies’ and he thinks it’s a joke. I also have a safe; it’s built into the wall, at my head height, it has a combination and it’s one of the very few things in the place that my son is not allowed to touch. In it, I keep my most valuable jewellery, some cash, our birth certificates, a certified copy of my will, in Spanish (my sister, who witnessed it in Scotland, has the other), and the deeds to the house. I got out of the car, went across to it and spun the dials until I heard the click and it opened. Oh, yes, and I keep something else in there.
Domestic firearms are pretty much illegal in Spain, and that’s fine, because I wouldn’t have one. However, I do own an air taser: I bought it over the Internet without any questions being asked. It weighs next to nothing, it works off eight AA batteries, and it looks like a conventional gun, but instead of firing bullets it shoots two little darts on wires over up to fifteen feet. They hit your attacker, then fifty thousand volts paralyse his central nervous system and he fall down. He isn’t dead, but for the short term he’s pretty well goosed.
I took it out, closed the safe again, spun the dials, and then I headed for the door. I slid the bolts as quietly as I could, and opened it. Happily its hinges are just about the only ones in the house that don’t ever squeak. I crept upstairs towards the light that came from the basement utility room at the top. Reaching it I peered into the space, ready for instant action, but there was nobody lying in wait for me, no recumbent Frank, nothing. I pressed on, checking the boiler room and the basement store, before steeling myself to climb the next flight of steps up to street level.
This time there was no door at the top: I would be exposed as soon as I set foot on the first rung. I stepped out, the taser trained on the space before me, knowing that there were more than fifteen feet between me and the top of the stairs. Again I saw nobody; I climbed quickly and silently, until I was in the entrance hall.
The front door was ajar. I gazed at it, then spun round, holding the gun on the living-room door. It was open; just inside on the floor, I saw the wrench, and the blood. There wasn’t a lot, but it was fresh and I realised that the spots led towards me. I followed the trail; it seemed to end just short of the door. I stepped into the living room, hoping against hope that I’d find brave little Frank recovering from a fight, stunned but victorious, having seen off his opponent.
But I didn’t. He was gone.
Twenty-eight
I almost ran out into the village brandishing the taser, but stopped myself just in time. Instead, I checked the rest of the house, thoroughly, in case I’d interrupted the intruder and he was holding Frank somewhere within.
It was clean. There was no sign of anyone, or that anyone had ever been there, apart from the blood. I did go out into the square then, just as the first of the holiday-makers were making their way up from the beach to grab open-air lunch tables at the cafés before they all filled up, as they do every day in the high season. It was busy already: I scanned the faces seated under the big waterproof umbrellas, deployed against the sun and against the odd shower, which can sometimes sneak down from the Pyrenees when no one is looking in that direction. Not that I expected to see Frank there, tucking into a beer with the Canadian: it was a reflex, that was all, born of the need to be doing something. I looked at Esculapi, Can Coll, Mesón del Conde, Can Roura, drawing waves at all of them from their friendly staff, but no chat, since everyone was busy.