There was no point in delaying. There was nothing to be seen through the streaming wet glass as I peered down, but I knew what was there. Three large iron beams braced the roof structure below the skylights. I counted off the right number of panes and knew I was above the first, nearest the door. Then I attached a professional climber’s suction pad left of centre by pulling the little lever in the device, which created a strong vacuum. These panes were large, heavy duty items, and they were ready to tumble into the void as soon as I completed the cut. I had to cut in two stages to be sure I could hold them. After having scored the glass all around I held tight to the suction pad and tapped the glass. Nothing. I tapped harder. Still nothing. I repeated the cut all around, though it was difficult to see where the diamond had scored the surface before, then thumped the glass hard. No alarms, no whistles or bells. It snapped off and hung heavily but the suction cup held. I levered the glass out and released it on to the roof. I stuck my head into the opening. Warm air rose towards me.
The next part of the pane came away more easily and cleanly. I pocketed the suction cup and glass cutter and, thrusting my arm deep into the opening I had created, chanced a flash of my pencil torch. There was the beam, just below me. I killed the light and swung my legs over the edge, braced myself on the frame either side and lowered myself down until my feet made firm contact with the beam. This felt easier. Even though there was a twelve-foot drop below the beam this was inside and inside wasn’t half as scary as outside, don’t ask me why. The beam was broad and felt solid under my feet. I managed to persuade my hands to let go of the skylight and straddled the beam. With the pencil light in my mouth I removed the first fire escape ladder from my rucksack, hooked it on to the beam and let it go. It rolled out with a high metallic tinkling sound and hit the hardwood floor below with a startling bang.
My legs took some persuading but I managed to get first one foot on to a thin aluminium tread, then the next. The ladder swung inwards, being designed to work against the walls of a house, but it got me down, next to a glass vitrine full of. . stuff; china and glass and antique knick-knacks. I had no time to browse. If I had set off an alarm already then I had probably three minutes until the first police car came to a screeching halt in front of the main door. I didn’t bother to take the torch from my mouth and crossed to the double doors. The lock was an old-fashioned one. It engaged bolts top, bottom and sides, effectively defending the door against being rammed open, but it wasn’t sophisticated enough to defeat a man with lock-picking skills. Even my laughable skills. Tim would, no doubt, have been on the other side of the door by now, whereas I had three picklocks inserted and tried and jiggled while first long seconds, then an entire minute ticked away. At last the lock snapped open with an echoing din and I pushed through. I had trouble keeping myself from screaming all the way down the stairs to the next door. I’d gone through the first door and the clock was ticking. No alarm bells. That meant a silent alarm had been triggered at Manvers Street station and police were at this very moment pouring out of the doors towards their cars.
I skidded to a halt in the small lobby in front of the next set of doors. The glass panels tempted me with their apparent fragility, yet smashing all the heavy panes and removing enough of the framework to squeeze myself through would take longer than defeating the lock. Quite apart from being a lot noisier. It was a race against time, a contest, police driver against lock breaker. This was an identical lock to the one upstairs. I already had the right picks out and knew in which order to insert them, only my hands were shakier and my nerves thinner. Sweat was running into my eyes as I stood in the little lobby, my back to the entrance door. One moment all I could hear was the metallic clicking of my picks, then suddenly behind me the sound of an engine and the crunch of brakes being applied hard, car doors opening, muted voices. Ignore it.
The lock snapped open under my efforts, the door yielded to the pressure of my shoulder. I stowed the picks, taking the few steps up into the exhibition space at a run. The piercing beam of my torch picked out the exhibits, scowling shapes with jumping shadows. The little Rodin was there, standing in the centre, in pride of place, waiting for me. I grabbed the dancer by the cold scruff of his neck, pulled him off the plinth and lowered him into my rucksack, secured the top with the speed cords and heaved it on to my back. And I nearly staggered backwards. It was surprisingly heavy for its size and one of its sharp angles poked painfully into my back. I wouldn’t get much running done while carrying this load of junk. Crossing the lobby I could hear voices and the nasal whine of a police radio on the other side of the main entrance door. Ignore it. I climbed the stairs steadily, using the handrail, pacing myself. I had a long way to go carrying this thing and it was no use running out of puff halfway to the boat with the police already here.
Back on the upper floor I pulled the double door shut behind me. I fished my cheap combination bicycle lock from my jacket pocket, slipped it through the brass loops of the door handles, wound it round tight and clicked it shut. That would keep them out until they decided to break the door down or send some poor bastard on to the roof.
This was it. I tugged the escape ladder tight, took a deep breath and started climbing. The heavy rucksack made me swing nearly horizontal as soon as I had both feet on it. It was an awkward operation. Halfway up, my left foot got tangled in the links and treads of the ladder. I couldn’t look down to see, it was too dark and the angle was wrong. My arms started to ache while I thrashed about until at last I was free and could start moving again. Still no noise of pursuit, which was puzzling me but I wasn’t about to complain. I heaved myself up on to the beam, breathing hard, unhooked the ladder and let it clatter to the floor. As I stood on the beam and slipped the rucksack off my shoulders so I could push it out of the skylight I could hear noises below me. Ignore. Once rid of the weight I felt featherlight and pulled myself up easily. The sound of hammering came from somewhere, probably the cops trying to get through the upstairs door, as I let the second ladder roll down the side of the building towards the next level down. I shouldered my burden once more and swiftly climbed down. A vigorous shake dislodged the hooks by which the ladder had held on to the masonry with worrying ease. Leaving it lying where it was, I retraced my steps, down another level, then across the semicircular parapet. The extra weight made the mossy surfaces difficult to negotiate and I slipped back twice before I gratefully slithered down into the leaded trough around the cast-iron lights surrounding the central roof structure of the market.