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“I’m a police constable at the station in Bramfield.” He extended his hand. “Mike Atherton.”
“Nice to meet you.” Though she never took the offered hand.
“Let me take some details.” She turned back to her desk and opened a pad. After writing down his name, address and contact number, she passed him one of her cards. “Please, feel free to contact me anytime. I’m here every day.”
He nodded, took the card and left.
Her stomach growled once more. “I’m coming.”
Chapter Nine
Known to everyone else as Jane Rogers, Grace Browne stepped outside and locked the door. A number of cars were parked in the high street. Most of the local shops were busy – trade was good. The two pubs advertised a specials board for lunch outside and their car parks had a number of vehicles in. Despite being November, the sun was up and it was unseasonably warm.
She popped across the road to the local mini mart, collecting fresh ingredients for her evening meal ahead.
Having returned, she unlocked the door between the estate agent and the café next door. Three separate locks had to be taken in sequence of bottom, top and then middle. If not obeyed, the tumblers would reset themselves and she would have to start again. The middle one was the awkward one as it had a series of numbers that had to be keyed in.
Once inside, a fresh exotic smell brightened up the hallway. She locked the door, slipped on a pair of latex gloves from the box on the table behind the door, collected her post and took the ten steps leading to her flat. She glanced behind her once more before tapping the electric panel to the left of the door. The oblong shape was made from titanium, five inches by three, with a voice-activated LCD display.
Grace was deeply obsessed with personal security. The alarm system outside the door randomly generated a question from a list of five hundred before allowing entry. The required answer had to be accurate, word for word – otherwise the door would not open.
The voice was clear and concise and picked a question: “Which prime minister was defeated by Margaret Thatcher in the 1979 general election?”
She leaned forward to the small speaker. “James Callaghan.”
Nothing more was said: nothing more was needed. A buzzer sounded, followed by a series of sliding tumblers and the door opened.
She stepped into a small hallway with two doors leading to other rooms. One was a large cupboard where she could hide anything she considered clutter, which was very little, as Grace was a minimalist. Everything was a commodity to her, including people. If she had no time for either then she discarded and moved on. She used the space to hang her coats and jackets and leave her shoes.
She took the door into an open-plan living and dining room with wooden floors. She had no TV, only a hi-fi system with low lighting. A number of oil paintings, mainly places of interest like the Yorkshire Coast, adorned the walls.
Passing the wooden table and dining chairs she went into the kitchen and deposited a carrier bag on the countertop. She’d bought chicken breasts, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, and pasta. She loved pasta and almost anything Italian. Her love of their food came courtesy of two months touring the Italian lakes and mountains. Her kitchen was decorated with a number of oils with scenic views of the Italian coastline. She washed her hands before placing the items in the fridge and cupboards.
Back in the main room she turned her attention to the large wooden crate in the middle of the floor that had been delivered earlier, shipped in from America. Removing a pair of disposable gloves, pliers, a screwdriver and some scissors from a storage unit, Grace pulled out all the staples and systematically set about gaining entry.
Having removed all the items before placing them on the table, she was elated by the quality. The kit contained a number of tactical weapons including a bulletproof vest, as well as a variety of nasty little surprises should anyone wish to try and take advantage of her. It had cost a fortune and, in her opinion, would be worth every penny when the time came. And it would.
She was eager to try it on before returning to work.
Grace skipped back into the kitchen and made herself some fresh Italian coffee before strolling over to the bathroom. After shedding her clothes and using the toilet, she stepped into the showe
r.
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a bath towel she glanced at the kitchen clock. Half an hour left.
She put her coffee onto a tray, along with two belVita breakfast bars, an apple and a banana and headed for another door. She slipped the tray onto one of the chests of drawers and turned round. There were two walk-in wardrobes in the bedroom, one of which housed her computer and state of the art security system.
Switching on the PC, she retrieved the tray and placed it on the desk, to her right. Grace logged on and sipped coffee while she checked her emails. There was nothing of any importance so she logged out and entered the next site: the important one.
The blue and white homepage of Findadate.com flashed into life and she immediately signed in. Her photo stared back at her. She had very stylish, black shoulder-length hair in a fashionable bob, blue eyes, and wide mouth. The outfit she had chosen for the photo had been the very latest fashion. She had maintained a trim figure due to a daily workout. Her make-up had been professionally applied, as always, due to time spent in a beauty salon.
She had perfected the vision that he normally went for.
Having finished the breakfast bars and the fruit, she was almost at the end of the coffee, and the time she had before her return to work was diminishing.
She moved the cursor to the “connections” panel and clicked, glancing at the three candidates she had marked as favourites: two were of no real interest to her but she felt that marking only one would be a little odd.
Homing in on the one she really wanted, Grace noticed that he had taken the bait and picked her out as one of his favourites as well.
