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‘This gang have their own signature – something that hasn’t been written about in the papers.’
‘And that is?’
The WPC looked away. ‘They masturbate on the bedclothes.’
Judith pulled a face.
‘I knew dusting here would be a waste of time,’ the WPC sounded firm.
‘No ID?’
She shook her head. ‘No prints at all.’
‘What?’
‘Whoever did this job was very professional. Didn’t leave a trace behind.’
Judith immediately glanced back at her computer and disks.
‘Do you see a lot of this?’ she said, chewing her lip. ‘Not leaving any prints behind, I mean?’
‘Far from it,’ the WPC was firm. ‘Most criminals don’t give a damn. Usually teenage junkies in too much of a hurry.’
It was not the answer Judith was looking for.
‘But’, she asked, urgently needing reassurance, ‘have you seen professional burglaries in the area at all?’
The WPC flipped shut the notepad she’d been carrying, and slipped it into her pocket. ‘I’ve been working this beat for five years, and I’ve never seen a job like this. It has all the hallmarks of a teenage break-in, but it’s been carried out by a very slick operator.’
Judith felt her mouth going dry.
‘It’s almost’, the WPC continued, ‘as though this was some kind of copycat operation; a professional trying to look like an amateur.’
Judith met her eyes with a look of desperation. ‘But why … us?’ Her voice was strained.
In the pause that followed, she realised it was a question to which there was no answer. The WPC looked sympathetic as she admitted, ‘I really can’t say, madam. But I can request—’
‘A Community Liaison Officer. Yeah, sure.’ Judith glanced about anxiously.
‘Would you like a visit?’ the other persisted.
Judith shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘About this time of day?’
‘Any time after eight.’
‘I have your details.’ The WPC tapped her pocket. ‘Someone will be in tou
ch first.’
‘Fine.’ She wouldn’t hold her breath, Judith thought, as the WPC turned and left the room. She wouldn’t expect any answers either.
As she stood in the centre of all this mess, she looked around her with a growing horror. What if it was, as the WPC had suggested, a break-in designed to look like a burglary, but with a very different motive? Stepping back to her computer, she was now a lot less certain than she’d been earlier. They could have come in here and copied every single disk – and she’d never know. They could have downloaded the entire contents of her computer. Were these the guys who had murdered Merlin de Vere, and dressed up the crime to look like a squalid episode of autoeroticism; the same guys who had made sure William van Aardt had been found strung up?
She fumbled in her handbag for her cigarettes and hastily lit one. Her only consolation, she thought as she exhaled, was that even if they had checked through all her computer files, they would have found she was clean as a whistle. Ditto her computer at The Herald. Everything to do with the Starwear investigation was safely stored on three computer disks she kept with her, in the pocket of her cosmetics bag, at all times.
Dropping on to her knees, she began collecting up the clothes and books that had been thrown to the floor. In her mind she went back to her last contact with Starwear – the conversation with Mark Hunter. They must have realised he’d screwed up, she thought. They must be wondering if she’d discovered that Hunter had lied to her. It was a lie that would be hugely damaging if reported in the press – a lie that would send the price of Starwear shares into free fall, and see half the Starwear Board fired; including, probably, Jacob Strauss.
