New Directions (34)

The first thing I wanted to do when I arrived home (apart from having a wee) was call Karen. Except for a couple of messages each way loaded with emoji kissy faces we hadn’t had much contact, both of us busy with our work. At 4.20 in the afternoon I knew she would be home after a morning of surgery on so called small animals - if you can class slobbering Great Danes as small. Now I had Mercer in my sights I reckoned I could relax for a while. 

The moment I turned the house key I felt uneasy. Some might call it sixth sense, but it was more likely combat experience. Pushing the door open a few inches I muttered, ‘oh shit,’ and slammed the door closed. Turning around I returned to the car and shammed collecting something I’d left in the back. Opening the tailgate allowed me to scan the face of the building through the rear screen while I faked a search for stuff. It looked as it always did except for a few remaining bits of snow in shady parts. The curtains in order, no sign of movement. Closing the rear I transferred my search to the front passenger side slipping the antique truncheon into my wallet pocket at the same time. I picked up the book Karen’d discarded in the glove box after rating it total crap and returned to the house scanning the driveway. I saw nothing until I noticed a pale beige spot on the camellia bush by the window from a recently snapped twig end. Careless!

There was no point in going around the back, that would arouse suspicion of my suspicion if I were being watched. I opened the door making sure to rattle my keys, entered and slammed it shut. I didn’t really need the truncheon concealed in my hand, but it doesn’t hurt to have some help, my special combat skills might be a bit rusty.

Apart from an unusual smell so faint most people wouldn’t notice the entrance appeared untouched as I hung my coat and squatted on the hall chair to take off my shoes. I moved around as normally as I could recall when I came home. Dumping my keys in the art deco bowl on the shelf in the kitchen, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and carried it into the living area, my senses on the kind of high alert I hadn’t felt since my ops days.

Flopping on the sofa I zapped the TV on and necked my bottle scanning every surface and corner as I moved. Nothing out of place, not even a couple of millimetres. Leaving my bottle on the coffee table I remembered my bladder’s call and headed upstairs. No further pretence: after my piss I swept all the rooms and cupboards. 

Nothing. It was too perfect, this had to be a message from Guido’s guy. The ten second loop from a porn movie I found when I checked recording on my - pretty basic - CCTV system confirmed it. I let it run a few times trying to fathom if there was a message in it before I removed the SD card and switched the bloody thing off. Muttering, ‘fuck you, whoever you are,’ I returned to my beer and Channel 4 bollocks, Whatsapped another message with a kissy emoji and wondered how long it’d be before I was contacted.

1.34 glared at me as I picked up the phone lying on the coffee table table ringing hell. I swiped the open icon and listened. ‘That stone age security system of yours gave me more trouble than this modern Wi-Fi crap.’

Sure I’d be contacted, but not knowing what to expect, I decided best option was to stay up. ‘You made a mistake, Erik I knew you’d been even before I opened the door.’

‘Ah the camellia bush, you noticed . . . you still got it then. I thought I’d make it easy for you.’ 

‘That’s bollocks,’ I said except I knew it wasn’t. Men like him never lose their mojo. Eric Van Veere had been a highly skilled Amsterdam burglar in his youth who, like many of us, fled his country to avoid detection. Trained to hack defence systems, he was attached to our unit until he took retirement. Anything I had for him would be kid’s play.’

‘Let’s keep it short. Get some rest, I’ll see you about nine, I’ll bring some decent coffee.’