Brute Force

35

0126 hrs

Though the rain had stopped the sky was still overcast, making the night even darker. The grass at the apex of the triangle where the road forked each side of the target was soaked.

Two large wrought-iron gates hung from stone pillars, with nothing either side of them. They were closed, and the driveway had grown over long ago. This must have been the entrance to the house when it really was just a house. Maybe Nelson and Lady Hamilton had a couple of nights out here.

Day sack over my shoulder, binocular night-viewing aid hanging round my neck, I had left the car at the entrance to a field about two hundred from the target. The pistol was tucked down the front of my jeans and the box-cutter was in the pocket of my fleece. I was glad to be moving as I bypassed the gates and hit the hard standing. It was freezing.

Alot of what-ifs raced through my mind as I approached. I'd be finding out some answers soon enough.

The family photo I'd seen on Lynn's desk in 1998 showed his wife, two kids and a Labrador. The kids had looked about nine and eleven. That would make them university age now. They would surely have come home for the Christmas vacation. What if they were still here? What about his wife? What if the wife was alone but Lynn came back while I was there? What if one or both of the children were at home? What if the whole family were out? What about the Labrador? That particular one would be dead, but Lynn would have bought another. His sort loved the smell of wet dogs in the kitchen.

I hunched down, my back against the wall of one of the breezeblock growing sheds. Judging by the complete absence of compost smell and no sign of activity from the refrigeration units, business wasn't exactly booming on the mushroom front. There were no lights at all, anywhere.

I watched and listened as the trees rustled in the wind, then switched on the night-viewing aid. The electronics kicked in with a gentle hum and the National Geographics treated me to a fantastically sharp black and white negative picture. The old guy at Norfolk Country Pursuits hadn't let me down.

I settled into the hedge and scanned the front of the Lynns' family seat. It was gracious, rectangular and Georgian, with six huge windows top and bottom and a grand doorway dead centre.

I wondered what their forebears would have made of the family having to convert three acres of front lawn and driveway into a fungus farm. Apoplectic was the word that came to mind.

There was smoke from the chimney but no other immediate signs of life. None of the interior lights were on either, or heavy curtains had been drawn.

I started to shiver. Time to get moving again. I worked my way around the side of the house, aiming for the rear.

Cats or foxes had scattered frozen-food packaging and the odd banana skin from the solitary refuse bin. The cartons told me they'd contained meals for one.

Light spilled from a downstairs window to the right of the back door, and through a gap in the curtains from another to the left. I stood back from the house, in the shadows, and heard a toilet flush on the first floor. There was no sound of a TV or radio. No dog barking.

A muddy Volvo 4x4 was parked on the cracked tarmac.

I stayed where I was, just looking and listening, sweeping the area with the binos now and again in case anything or anyone out there was doing the same.

I moved a step or two in the direction of the uncurtained window, close enough to see that it belonged to the kitchen. I let the binos hang from my neck. I was still in shadow, but there was too much light for them now.

I sat on the tarmac, my back against the Volvo, and waited. Whoever had just taken a leak upstairs would have to turn the lights off at some stage, or come and make a brew in the morning.

Twenty freezing minutes later, Lynn appeared at the window, kettle in hand. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown over striped pyjamas. He really was a toff. The little that was left of his greying hair was wet and slicked back.

His lips weren't moving, and he gave his full attention to the tap. Moments later, he was gone.

I flicked up the collar of my jacket to give me some protection from the biting wind as I waited for him to return to the kitchen to finish making what I hoped was just the one brew.

He did, fleetingly, mug in hand, then the crack of light from the curtained window strengthened.

I packed my binos away in the day sack and crossed the open ground towards it. He was sitting on a packing case, nursing his brew by a big wood-burning stove with glass doors. The room was bare. Not a stick of furniture or a single painting on the wall. Battered tea chests littered the floor.

I checked my watch as he raised the mug to his lips. Was he waiting for his wife to come home? Not by the look of things. The empty room and the food cartons were telling me a different story.

I kept watching him through the gap between the curtains, making sure my mouth was far enough away from the glass not to leave any condensation. Maybe his retirement had been a front. Maybe he hadn't left the Firm at all, and was just relocating. Maybe the reason he'd summoned me was to come and help him with his packing.

I wanted to get moving, take action, do something positive. I went back to the kitchen window. The sink was empty, and there weren't any pictures on the fridge, or happy snaps on the walls. This room, too, had been stripped.

The light went off in the living room and a hand came through the doorway and hit the kitchen light switch. A dressing-gowned shadow, thrown by the glow of the wood-burning stove, moved towards the stairs.

I waited for a light to come on above me. Nothing. I edged slowly round to the front of the house. Again, no light at all to help me locate him.

I'd kept the carrier bags from my shopping trip. I'd wrapped my passport, phone and credit cards in them, and stuffed them inside my jacket. I'd made the decision to take them with me instead of going into the house sterile; Lynn knew who I was, and if I got caught now, I'd be dead.

I headed back to the rear, took the mini-Maglite from my pocket and, holding two fingers over the lens to minimize the light, shone it through the living-room window. It was a simple latch job on a sash. The frame was old softwood, and its paint was peeling. A spider's web covered a Chubb window lock screwed down tight.

I moved across to the back door and shone the Maglite into the keyhole. It was an ordinary domestic four-lever. But it's no good attacking a lock if the thing is firmly bolted.

I pushed gently on the panel beside the lock, then pulled the handle towards me, to see if there was any give. There was about half an inch. I ran my hands down to the bottom of the door and pushed hard and slow. It gave an inch, then moved back into position. I did the same at the top. It also gave way, and I eased it gently back into position. No bolts; only the one lever lock to deal with.

You could spend hours picking a lock only to find out that the fucking thing was already open, so I always took my time and checked the obvious. Holding my breath, I twisted the handle. No such luck; the door was locked.

The next move was to check all the most likely hiding places for a spare key. Some people leave theirs dangling on a string the other side of the letter box or on the inside of a cat flap, others under a dustbin or just behind a little pile of stones by the door. I checked the old rusting paint tins by the door, along the top of the door frame and in all the obvious places. Nothing.

I got down onto my knees and looked through the keyhole. I shone the torch through and had another look. There was a glint of metal.

What a dickhead.

He'd left the key in the lock.