Chapter Nine

The colourful ceramic cat lay on the floor, smashed into small, bright pieces. Most of the head remained intact, leaving the beautiful Moorcroft eyes looking up in mournful contemplation at the injustice of being thrown to the floor. Pemberton’s great aunt had passed the antique ornament on to him. He never liked it, not nearly enough. The garish vibrant colours reminded him of ‘Titan’, the sly cat illustrated in a series of books from his childhood. Until his teens he occasionally had bad dreams and nightmares about the adventures of Titan, usually tormenting him into crossing a freezing river or running into a dark forest. In adulthood he still disliked the Moorcroft cat, though had come to recognise its rarity: the piece attracted much attention from the varied visitors to the Pemberton house. And naturally he was aware of the cat’s growing value. Now his great aunt’s precious heirloom lay beyond repair, awaiting a digital picture, insurance claim and undignified sweep into the kitchen bin. The pieces were too small to stick together again. The whole thing puzzled Pemberton. This was an act of malice, deeply personal, the next best thing to pushing Pemberton to the floor. Whoever did this had no sense of the cat’s value; anonymously sold on eBay it would easily top a thousand or three. It could be that they had panicked and dropped it, or perhaps they never intended to steal anything, though if this were true it confused Pemberton. What could possibly be the intention? Were they victims of some hate crime? There was nothing obvious about the break-in, nothing purposeful.

Constable Lane returned to Pemberton’s study to find the balding businessman deep in thought. He had been on the scene now for over forty minutes. Soon he must begin to wrap things up, filing a report that would be mopped into the crime statistics for the local paper. The call had come in over three hours ago, a tearful Mrs Pemberton reporting the broken Moorcroft cat and suspicion of forced entry. With no clear indication of the perpetrator remaining on the scene, the call was downgraded and Constable Lane came round once his pressing schedule allowed. His initial summary was that the burglar was in some way disturbed, either by the postman or perhaps a passing friend buzzing on the doorbell. Sometimes a ringing phone was all that was needed to send the amateur thief scurrying back over the garden fence. Very little seemed out-of-place and nothing of value was reported as missing, though very often things could show up as stolen some time later. He took out a cheap biro, standard police issue, and prepared to note anything further the Pembertons could readily remember.

“Right sir, so as far as you know nothing has been taken?”

“Not that I can tell,” Pemberton replied, his tone slightly muted. “They seem to have done little else other than break the cat.”

“You have checked your bureau drawers?” the constable added, keen to ensure the Pembertons were at least methodical in their hastily scrambled search, emotions understandably running high given the circumstances. “Cards and a growing trend for identity theft are becoming the choice for the modern thief. Birth or marriage certificates; anything like that can turn a tidy profit to the black marketer on certain websites.”

“It all looks to be in order,” Pemberton answered, “though we’re no experts. What would you begin to look for?” Growing frustration was edging his monotone voice up a pitch.

From his search of the downstairs, all that Constable Lane could conclude was that the cat had been broken, either dropped in a hurry or clumsily knocked to the floor from its perch on the Victorian dresser. His trained eye had noted a professional entry. The front Yale lock displayed few surface scratches as a steel pick had most likely been skilfully plied within the standard keyhole. Most break-ins were more basic. Youths or addicts tended to prefer a firm boot against weakened timber doors, or an elbow through a side-window. This entry showed a high element of know-how, a professional job. Luckily his beat encountered very few specialised break-ins. To his mind, the Pembertons had been very fortunate not to have had their house stripped bare and ferried directly to market in a white van.

“Thanks sir, if you don’t mind I’ll just take a look upstairs before completing my report,” he said.

“Sure, though I’ve obviously taken a quick look myself.” Pemberton replied.

Passing a pale and angry-looking Mrs Pemberton seated with a cup of tea in the hallway, the two men proceeded to the upper level. An open door revealed a tiled bathroom sporting an elegant Italian sunken bath. The choice of floral patterns indicated the predominant female influence prevalent throughout the house. Constable Lane methodically peered into each room, briefly noting the general appearance and checking for signs of any disturbance. The final door at the end of the landing opened into a smaller bedroom; a single bed pushed against the back wall lay covered with a red duvet swathed with Bristol City FC logos. The plywood picture board above was crammed with snapshots of a young woman’s recent life - a group wearing formal gowns dressed pouting for the camera before a ball, beach scenes and a snow-topped alpine lodge with girls in goggles waving their ski poles. At the foot of the bed sat a Dell Desktop resting on an old school desk, the hardwood painted with a dusty pink. The constable noticed the power light blinking, causing him to pause for thought. Above this the DVD drawer lay open, extended like a flat plastic tongue. He again noted the small bed, neatly made up, giving the general air of an undisturbed room. A small wombat mascot sat guarding the pillow, one of the toys glass eyes slightly higher than the other. It all looked so orderly, the immaculate bed and scattered ornaments around the desk, showing little sign that the Pembertons came here too often, less likely to loiter in front of the Dell. From the little he could judge them by, the Pembertons did not come across as people who would idly leave electrical equipment needlessly burning up the planet’s resources, or more likely, burning up their bills. It either had to be recent or someone was in a hurry. Perhaps the DVD drawer had flipped open if closed in a hurry, unbeknown to the previous user? There was a very slight whiff of peculiarity, a sent that the things had been hastily put back, the similar sense some chambermaids felt when making up a room made to look occupied. To him it just seemed strange that someone was until recently powering-on the computer. During his earlier search downstairs he had noted a laptop in the study, resting on a dark wood bureau. Why not use that? Perhaps this was otherwise in use at the time, though he still figured there would be some urgency if you were to come upstairs for a browse. The Dell PC clearly belonged to a daughter, presumably the happy girl with the confident smile in the pictures by the bed. A further scan of the room revealed cupboard doors left slightly ajar, desk drawers not fully closed. A bundle of letters looked to have fallen to the floor, a few of them opened.

“Whose room is this?” enquired Lane, a cheap biro poised to add anything further for his report.

“It’s our daughter’s, Louise. She’s been away some time - over in Thailand. It’s a belated gap year. In fact we’re trying to locate her ... she’s not been in contact, you see. Thought she might be missing, but, well ... you know how children can be sometimes. She’ll turn up. Probably wonder what all the fuss is over!”

The constable nodded with empathy and understanding. His growing offspring would forever be children to him. Even on leaving home they seemed so young, still in need of some guidance and protection. His own father had been the same when Lane was growing up. It had annoyed the hell out of him, emotions of his long since forgotten.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” he said. “I’m sure that you’ll hear news very soon. Kids just don’t realise the importance of keeping in regular contact. Anyway,” Lane continued, “it’s probably nothing, but whoever broke into your house appears to have been in this room by the look of things. Probably looking for iPads, even some headsets can fetch a bit these days. Am guessing if this, um, Louise, has been away, then letters and paperwork might be tucked away, though it looks like there has been a general rummage, a few things here and there looking out of place. Would you say she was a fairly untidy sort?”

“Well, better these past years, but yes, in general she kept a good ship” Pemberton replied, a mix or pride an

“Well in that case,” Lane went on, “someone’s been taking a little dig, trying their luck a little. I think they might even have taken some trouble to hack her PC, the power light was showing on, unless your wife or you have been trying to logon recently?” With Pemberson slowly shaking his head, Lane continued, “To be honest, it will be near impossible with my technical competency to tell exactly what they found or indeed if they were after anything. You were lucky they did not decide on carting the computer away with them. I would check that she had no online bank accounts and the like, make sure there has been no cyber theft. There are illicit web sites out that petty criminals can use to sell and post details on. Also, the desk drawers look to have been opened up and given a rummaging as well. I’ll have to take a closer look, though I can tell from here that they’ve probably been thoroughly searched. I’ll need a list of any personal items of value, anything that they might have taken. It seems a little odd though. With the majority of break-ins the contents are tipped out over the floor. Makes it easier to spot the trinkets, so to speak. Here they have taken some care in a general tidy-up, or at least, selective enough to mask where they were keenest to look. ”

Constable Lane left Pemberton pondering in the doorway and went to take a closer look around the room. He was careful not to disturb any possible evidence as he went about his work. The whole thing puzzled him. This was no simple break and entry. Much had been left untouched, even the downstairs laptop. Most of the interest was focused on one room only. The job had the look and feel of professionals imprinted over it. Whoever clicked open the front door with a steel pick had come looking for something specific, something tied in with the overseas daughter, Louise.