‘That’s what happens when you take away handguns,’ he says.
‘I don’t see the connection.’
‘Well, your general, garden-variety scumbag and gangbanger will always look for another weapon. That’s why they’re all carrying knives, or throwing acid.’
‘You’d prefer guns.’
‘Not necessarily, but mankind has been making weapons for sixty-four thousand years – Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Nuclear Age. You ban one weapon and they’ll find another.’
‘Finbar and the Art of War.’
‘I read books,’ he says, sounding affronted. ‘I know your dad thinks he’s the only pseud in this family, but you don’t need a diploma from a whatnot to know things.’
‘A university?’
‘Yeah. How many Shakespeares have you read?’
‘You mean the plays?’
‘Plays. Sonnets. Tragedies. Comedies.’
‘Three, maybe. Four. I studied them at school.’
Finbar taps his chest. ‘All of ’em.’ He begins to recite a sonnet. ‘“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”’ He adds. ‘OK, I’m not sure what temperate means, but I know he’s talking about love and the weather and how the two are pretty similar.’
‘When did you read those?’
‘In prison. Fuck all else to do. Pardon my French.’
He laughs and I am transported back to my childhood when my favourite moments were making my uncles laugh, particularly Finbar, who had a smile I could fold up and carry with me all day.
‘I need another favour,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t normally ask.’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’
Nine o’clock. Light fading. Air turning cool. Finbar is late. I can’t call him because I’ve turned off my phone. Maybe he lost the address, or had second thoughts. I wouldn’t blame him. I should be at home, curled up on the sofa with Henry, watching re-runs of Top Gear, or some Netflix series about impossibly beautiful teenagers with super-powers. Instead, I’m waiting in the shadows, looking at an empty house, preparing to commit a crime. London never gets fully dark, not with the ambient light from a billion bulbs and TV sets. My collar is turned up, and my white face is turned away from the streetlight. I stand at ease, weight on both feet, legs straight, balance slightly on my heels. It’s the way I was taught to stand at Hendon when we were on parade.
The dark blue Saab is parked nearby, beneath the branches of a tree. Pigeons have deposited splatter marks on the bonnet, which will annoy Goodall, but provides me with a fleeting moment of perverse joy.
Further along the road, I see headlights, a van moving slowly. I step from behind a tree and wave to Finbar, showing him where to pull over. The engine idles and dies, as he shoulders open the door.
‘Are you nicking this motor?’
‘I’m retrieving a set of keys.’
‘To the motor?’
‘To a house.’
‘You’re breaking into a house.’
‘I’m using the keys.’
‘With or without permission?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
Finbar isn’t convinced. He knows that I need a warrant to search a car or a house, and that the Met has approved locksmiths for a job like this one.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me why.’
‘No.’
I glance up and down the street, hoping the neighbours aren’t the sort who twitch curtains or take note of number plates. I asked Nish to check Goodall’s work roster. He’s not due home for another few hours.
Finbar takes a box of tools from the van. He chooses a long metal rod with a hook on one end. Then he takes two small rubber wedges and inserts them at the top corner of the driver’s side window. Using the palm of his hand, he hammers each wedge deeper, forcing the door to slightly bend outward, creating a gap that is wide enough for the metal rod to enter. He slides the thin rod into the car and manoeuvres the hook until it reaches the internal button that triggers the door mechanism. The car opens with a tell-tale click. The entire operation has taken less than thirty seconds.
Finbar offers to bypass the electrics and ‘take it somewhere else’ if I need more time.
‘That won’t be necessary. You can go now. Thank you.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
The house keys are in a small compartment between the seats, amid a handful of petrol receipts, sweet wrappers and a coffee club discount card. The keychain is a faux rabbit’s foot. How retro.
Finbar has gone by the time I climb out of the car. A part of me wishes that he’d stayed. He would have helped me if I’d asked him to, and I feel guilty about that. Our argument at the hospital café still haunts me. My accusations. His hurt. I won’t risk getting him into trouble. This is my decision, not his; and I have weighed up the possible outcomes. If I don’t find Imogen’s ring, then it’s likely Goodall has destroyed it, or hidden it permanently, or had it broken up and fashioned into a new design. And if I do recover the ring, I’ll have to convince Alison Goodall to say she took the ring with her when she fled from her husband. Nobody can know of my involvement without tainting the evidence or incriminating myself. These are the ifs and buts and maybes that have brought me here, to this road, and to this house.
When I reach the front door, a security light comes on. Immediately, I feel the pressure of the houses behind me, the inquisitive neighbours who might be watching from the windows. There are two keys on the keychain – one for a lower deadlock, which I open first. Once inside, I shut the door immediately, but hear the warning beeps of an alarm. Shit! Shit! Shit!
For a split second, I want to run. The control box will be nearby, but I have only thirty seconds to deactivate the device. Last summer, I disabled our alarm system when it shorted during a thunderstorm. The code didn’t work, so I found the main control panel and uncoupled it from the power source. That’s what I look for now, searching the usual places, beneath the stairs and in the laundry. I find the grey metal box tucked behind a rack of winter coats in a cupboard near the kitchen.
I search for a knife, or a screwdriver, something that can force open the flimsy metal lock. The beeping stops and a moment later the alarm explodes. My heart somersaults. I open another drawer and find a small chisel. Jamming the sharpened tip into the slot, I pop it open. The leads are screwed into place. I don’t have time to be delicate. I wrench them out of the transformer and back-up battery, red and black.
The alarm stops so suddenly, it feels as though the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, along with the noise. I listen to the silence until my chest begins to hurt. Then I realise that I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale and inhale, slowing my heartrate and taking a moment to study the console. A lot of modern security systems are linked to mobile phones. Goodall could have already received a message and be on his way home.
Quickly climbing the stairs, navigating by the soft glow of a child’s night-light, I reach the landing. Alison said she slid her suitcase beneath Nathan’s bed. The little boy’s room overlooks the garden. It has racing car wallpaper and a shelf full of dinosaurs. Kneeling on the floor, I lift a corner of the duvet and reach underneath the bed, feeling with my fingertips. There is no suitcase. Goodall must have found it. What would he do? Put it somewhere, expecting Alison to come home with her tail between her legs.