And the lights clacked off again.
Soon as they did, he was on the move – hoofing-it across the lawn to the back door without setting the motion sensors off again. Because people never set this stuff up properly.
There, he dropped to one knee and a gloved hand appeared on screen, holding an Electric Pick Gun. Then an angry buzzing noise as it vibrated in the lock, and the back door swung open.
You know, probably didn’t need to see the whole thing in real time.
He clicked fast-forward and the video whizzed through the utility room to the kitchen, then into the hall – focussing for a moment on the security system. A fancy bit of kit, and expensive with it. But no sodding use if you didn’tarmthe thing.
The camera whooshed around the ground floor, then sweptupstairs. Mirror. Empty bedroom. Box room. Then the kid’s room. Then Natasha Agapova’sboudoir.
Andrew slowed the video for the exciting underwear rummage, then sat back, chewing on his thumb as Natasha and DS Davis arrived.
‘Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss Agapova?NatashaAgapova?’
‘Go away, I’m not in the mood.’
‘No. Sorry. Yes. But I’m with the police, see? Detective Sergeant Davis. Can I come in? I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Did he sodding ever.
Just hearing the man’s voice was enough to make Andrew’s balls clench again. He hit mute, and watched in silence as the camera scurried down the corridor to hide in the child’s bedroom, behind the door.
Holding his breath as the footage replayed the horrible scene where DS Davis almost caught him. Not daring to exhale until the vicious bastard headed back downstairs again.
Andrew sagged in his seat, willy drooping like a little wrinkly chipolata.
Maybe it’d be better to shredeverythingright now? Get rid of it all. Leaving nothing behind to connect him to the house, or Natasha, or the terrifying monster with the warrant card.
Onscreen, the night-vision goggles rushed to the window, peering out between the curtains. Zooming in on DS Davis as he dragged his unconscious victim to the boot of his car.
Wait a minute...
Andrew thumped the spacebar, pausing the video.
DS Davis’s Vauxhall Astra filled the laptop’s screen, and right at the bottom of the image, clearly visible and sharp as The Knife, was the car’s number plate.
Will you look at that.
A wee smile tugged at the corner of Andrew’s face.
Maybe he didn’t have to delete the footage after all?
Maybe this video was his own personal Cashline machine, and DS Davis was the banker.
Andmaybethe vicious, violent bastard wasn’t so scary after all.
Because how difficult could it be to track someone down from their number plate? Pretty sure there were AI tools on the dodgier bits of the internet that would do it in seconds.
Piece of cake.
Andrew cracked his knuckles and got to work...
The moon had barely risen, just skimmed its way along the horizon. It was still swollen and baleful, but now it was beautiful too. Because the night hadgoldin its mouth.
Andrew sidled over to the garden incinerator and peeked inside. Nothing left but ash and some blackened rubble – all of which was getting bagged up and ditched in a roadside bin somewhere, tomorrow, while he was out getting some stuff to celebrate his newfound wealth.
Maybe pick up some prawns and steak and champagne. Hell, why not a lobster too? Live a little.