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The first thing Manny saw was a pair of trainers, and not simply any trainers. These were Vans – definitely expensive. He reached down, pulled the right one toward him. With a bit of luck they would fit.
Dropping his swag bag, Manny carefully reached further into the room, to a collection of carrier bags in the corner. He placed one on the floor and removed his shoes. He stepped into the trainers and tied the laces. Perfect. He slipped his own shoes in another carrier and left them on the back doorstep – stroke of genius. Everywhere he walked now, he would be doing so in the trainers of the man who owned the house. And you’d certainly expect to find his footprints everywhere.
He carefully negotiated the room, bag in hand, peering into all the cupboards and drawers. He found very little of interest.
Lousy bastard. Whoever had been here before had no consideration for anyone else.
He checked the fridge before moving on. He found chocolate ring doughnuts in a bag as well as a number of energy drinks. Now you were talking Manny’s language. He scoffed two of the doughnuts and downed a can. He threw the empty in his bag. Safety first, thought Manny.
The living room was a little tidier. The TV screen on the wall was probably the biggest he had ever seen, so that was no use to him. It was too well fastened anyway. A number of paintings of horses adorned the rest of the walls. He didn’t want those either. The room was also furnished with an incredible amount of equine ornaments: there was even a fucking rug with a horse’s face on the floor. Keith Lemon would have a field day. Manny laughed at his own thought.
Turning his attention to the hi-fi unit, Manny froze, almost certain he had heard something from the floor above. Crouching down he waited, listened further. He wasn’t sure why burglars crouched down. Stupid really. If anyone came in and switched a light on you’d hardly be perfectly placed to make a move, would you?
He lingered long enough to realise it was probably his nerves playing tricks on him, remembering the first time he’d taken up his new hobby. He was so nervous he actually shit himself. He wasn’t too happy but the old hands in his trade had had a good laugh about it. They’d all done it. They hadn’t thrown up afterwards, though.
Manny stood back up, using a small pen torch to rifle through the CDs. They were crap, as far as he was concerned. Fetch a few quid in the pubs or on the market stalls but he definitely wouldn’t be listening to them. Glam Rock? Who the fuck listens to that stuff?
An entire shelf had been dedicated to Slade CDs, mostly originals, possibly a lot of bootleg stuff. Manny reckoned there was some money’s worth here. The owner of the house was very obviously a collector. So was Manny, and he was collecting these: proper money here.
Manny bagged the lot and moved on.
In the front hall he came across two things of interest. One was a shitload of music gear: amplifier, speakers, guitar case, leads and extensions. T
he man of the house was obviously a musician. But if the place had already seen one burglar why would he have left the expensive music gear? The heavy stuff yes, but the guitar...
Manny opened the case carefully. It was a nice bit of kit. Not that he knew much about guitars. It had the Fender logo and he knew they were good. Manny could make a fair bit here. He closed and latched the case and moved that – as well as his swag bag – to the back door.
The second point of interest was an unlocked door. Inside, the cupboard was nothing out of the ordinary. Tall and narrow with a number of shelves containing a selection of boxes.
Manny checked his watch. Well… it wasn’t his but he was taking damn good care of it. He really didn’t want to waste too much time in case the homeowner returned. A quick peek wouldn’t hurt.
It was mostly crap to do with horses: horseshoes, small bits of tackle used for riding. One was even full of hay. Who was Manny robbing tonight?
He forgot the boxes, and shone his torch toward the floor. More stuff connected to music in the shape of vinyl. He checked: more Slade. He figured it was collectible, and he could probably carry it.
The floor of the cupboard was timber. One of the boards squeaked as he stepped on it, indicating it was loose. Manny found a screwdriver, knelt down, forced the board upwards. Inside was a lockable metal box. Very interesting. Peering deeper into the cupboard revealed a key under a carpet. Most people were stupid enough to leave keys nearby. The box was about fifteen inches by twelve, and perhaps a foot deep. He unlocked and removed the top.
Now what do we have here, thought Manny. I think we’ll have these. Never know what’s in them. Silly bastard probably doesn’t even know he has them.
Manny closed and locked the top, then put the key in his pocket. What you’ve never had, you don’t miss.
He closed the cupboard door and carried the box to the rest of the stuff he’d piled up near the back door.
Manny was aware that his luck couldn’t really last out much longer but he would have to check the upstairs. No burglar worth his salt would leave a possible treasure trove uninvestigated. The room to avoid would be the one with the light on. He doubted anyone was in there but knowing his luck – no matter how good it had so far been – some arsehole outside would be walking his dog, irrespective of the time. That would be curtains for Manny.
But at the top of the stairs, he suddenly froze. Manny had clearly heard a loud click, as if the timer for the central heating had kicked in – but he couldn’t be sure.
Chapter Three
Cragg glanced around. It didn’t make sense. The door leading outside was perfectly still, as if it hadn’t been opened at all. But he knew it had. You couldn’t imagine a sound like that. “Hello?”
No reply came.
He moved forward, placing his hands on the counter, his finger on the panic button. To call it a panic button was a bit excessive. What it actually did was send a wi-fi signal to the computer in the patrol car, and the phones of the men in uniform, which basically said, “whatever you’re doing, come back to the station”.
“Is there anyone there?” he called out again, walking to the end of the counter and lifting the hatch to step into the main room, where he received yet another shock.
To his left, was a man on his knees. Even though he was crouching, Cragg figured he had to be six feet tall at least, with a solid muscular frame. He had wavy black hair, combed back in an Elvis style. His features were chiselled and tanned. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans and wore a check-patterned shirt. His arms were stretched out in front of him with his hands bunched into fists resting on the floor. He was shaking, breathing heavily. “Oh, God,” he said quietly.
