The swirling wind blew drizzle into Amy’s face and
threatened to turn her umbrella inside out as she stood, bedraggled and
helpless, in the feeble pool of light cast by a streetlamp. She looked around
anxiously, but if there was anyone hiding in the deep shadows beneath the beech
trees she couldn’t make them out.

“’
Scuse
me, love!” called a gruff
voice. “Are you all right?”

She spun round, her heart thumping, and was relieved to see
a kindly face leaning out of the window of the black cab that had drawn up
opposite.

“I think so,” she replied. “Just broke my bloody heel,
that’s all.”

“Got far to go?”

“No. Just round the corner.”

“Hop in, I’ll take you home.”

Amy hesitated.

“On the house, love. I’m off duty. On my way home now. Been
a long day.”

Me too, Amy said to herself. Me too. She looked at the
wreckage of her shoe, at the pavement slick with rain. It wasn’t a hard
decision. “Thanks,” she sighed, and scrambled into the rear of the taxi.

“Where to, love?” the driver asked, through the intercom.

“Chalfont Parade, please. Number 8.”

“No problem, darling. Have you home in no time,” replied the
cabbie, and the taxi clattered off into the night.

Amy sat back in her seat and sighed. Home, a hot bath, a big
glass of wine while I agonise over dinner, she thought. I can’t wait!

Then she heard his metallic voice through the intercom. “I
saw you running back there, love. Was someone after you?”

She leant forward. “I thought so, yeah. I heard footsteps
behind me, but when I looked back there was no-one there. Then I tried to make
a run for it,” she smiled ruefully, “but I didn’t get very far, thanks to these
stupid shoes.”

The cabbie grunted sympathetically.

No more than a minute later, the taxi reached the end of
Amersham Avenue and swung into Chalfont Parade. “Number 8, was it, love?”

“Yes please.”

“Here OK?”

“Perfect.”

He slotted the cab into a tight space in front of a
detached, redbrick Edwardian villa. Amy opened the door and clambered out with
as much dignity as she could muster. “Thanks ever so much,” she smiled.

“My pleasure, darling. Look after yourself, OK?”

“I will. Goodnight!”

She waited until the taxi had disappeared into the
sodium-lit gloom before retrieving a bunch of keys from her capacious handbag
and unlocking the communal door of the adjacent house. Once inside, she slipped
off her shoes and climbed the stairs in her stockinged feet. She unlocked her
own front door, closed it behind her, and sighed with relief as she switched on
the living room light.

Then she smelt it.

She inspected the shoes she held in her hand, and was
relieved to see that she hadn’t trodden in something. She sniffed
experimentally, but couldn’t work out where the smell was coming from. Drains,
maybe, she thought. It wouldn’t be the first time. Talk about dodgy plumbers!

She tossed her ruined shoes into a corner of the living
room, followed by her handbag, laptop bag, and umbrella. Then she unbuttoned
her coat and padded across the pine floor into the sleek, modern kitchen. She
poured herself a large glass of mineral water from the bottle in the fridge,
and sipped it as she headed towards the bedroom.

There it was again. The smell of raw sewage.

She opened the bedroom door and switched on the light. Her
stomach sank as she took in the open window, the smashed mirror, the ransacked
drawers. Then she saw what had been smeared over the pale blue emulsioned walls
and across her white Egyptian cotton bedding.

“Oh Christ!” she groaned.

“Listen, Darren,” sighed Detective Inspector Allen Chase.
“You’re looking at five years, minimum. And not in some soft open prison
either. You’ll be in with the real hard cases. Murderers, rapists, people like
that. Terrorists, even.”

The lanky youth in the hoodie looked back at the rumpled,
middle-aged detective scornfully. “For a first offence?” he scoffed. “Community
service, more like.”

“First offence?” retorted Chase, irritation accentuating his
flat northern vowels. “First offence?” He produced a sheaf of laser printed
paper and tossed it dramatically on to the coffee-stained interview room table.
“Here are twenty more burglaries with your fingerprints all over them.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Yup.”

“Fuck off! I ain’t done twenty break-ins, no way!”

Chase smiled long-sufferingly. “It’s a metaphor, Mr
Hitchins.”

“A what?”

“A metaphor.”

The youth frowned.

“Never mind.” Chase riffled through the sheaf of papers.
“Every one of these burglaries has your modus operandi. Your way of working,”
he added quickly, as a series of wrinkles rippled up Darren’s shaven head.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Says who?” Darren glared belligerently at the detective.

“The Metropolitan Police Forensics Department, for
starters,” Chase replied, looking back at the youth evenly. “And me.”

Before Darren could think of a response, the door swung open
and a smartly uniformed young PC appeared. “Sergeant Baker wants a word, Sir,”
he said. “Says it’s urgent.”

“I’d better go and see what the Sergeant wants,” sighed
Chase. He reached into the jacket of his worn blue pinstripe suit and offered
Darren a pen. “While I’m gone, why don’t you go through these crime reports and
mark which ones are yours, eh?”

Darren frowned, before reluctantly accepting the pen.

“Constable Pollard will stay with you, Darren,” Chase added,
gently. “If you need any help, just ask him.”

“Another one?” asked Chase.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Baker.

“Chiltern Park again?”

The solid desk Sergeant nodded grimly. “10d Chalfont Parade.
It’s a first floor flat.”

“Who’s the victim this time?”

Baker peered at the screen of her PC. “Amy Birkdale, it says
here. Came home from working late, you can guess what she found.”

“Does she live by herself?”

“Yeah.”

“No boyfriend, flatmate, anyone like that?”

“No.”

“OK. Anybody with her now?”

“Her Mum, Sir. She lives nearby.”

“That’s good. Who’ve we got there, Bridget?”

“Blackaby and Neville. DS Thomas’s dropping in on his way
home. Scene of Crime should be there by now, too.”

“Thanks,” replied Chase. “I’d better get back to Mr
Hitchins, I think. Ask Ken to give me a buzz if he needs anything, will you?
Otherwise I’ll see him in the morning.”

The front door was answered by a shapely blonde, wearing a
faded navy sweatshirt, tight jeans, and bright yellow Marigolds. Her hair was
swept up in a loose bun. Chase found it almost impossible to guess her age,
though if pushed he would have plumped for not more than forty.

“Ms Birkdale?” he asked, producing his identification card.

“That’s right.”

“We spoke on the phone earlier.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Did we?”

“Yes,” he replied, flustered. “I’m Detective Inspector Allen
Chase. Aren’t you Amy Birkdale?”

She smiled broadly and opened the door wider. “Come in,
Inspector. I’m Amy’s Mum. Anna Birkdale. Please excuse the muddle.”

He negotiated the array of bulging black bin bags and
stepped inside. “Is Amy in?” he asked. “I’d arranged to meet her here.”

“Yes. She’s just getting changed.”

Chase frowned.

“She had to go into work this morning. Some big meeting or
other. So I decided to come over and make a start.”

At that moment a younger woman appeared in the hall, wearing
a plain black T-shirt and ripped, faded jeans. She was dark haired, a little
taller and somewhat slimmer, but just as blue-eyed and very nearly as
curvaceous. “Hi, I’m Amy,” she said, as they shook hands. “Come on through.”

She led the way through a white panelled door and into the
lounge. “Have a seat, Inspector,” she said, gesturing at a brown distressed
leather sofa.

Chase did as he was bid and looked around. Nice place, he
thought. This is how a conversion should look: bright, uncluttered, and well
proportioned. Tasteful, that’s the word. Not like my cramped and messy shoebox.

Anna loitered in the doorway, rubbing cream into her hands.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.

“Yes please,” he said.

Amy perched on the arm of the chair opposite and leant
forward intently. “Any news, Inspector?”

“News?” he replied, trying not to stare too blatantly at the
tanned knee protruding through a strategic rip in her jeans.

She sighed. “About the men who did this, Inspector. What do
you think I mean?”

“Why do you think it was men?”

“Because women wouldn’t do something so – gross!” She
frowned. “They wouldn’t, would they?”

“You’d be surprised, Ms Birkdale. What I meant was, why do
you think it was more than one person?”

“How should I bloody know!” she retorted. “You’re the detective
– aren’t you supposed to tell me?”

Before he could respond, Anna reappeared, clutching a mug of
tea in each hand. She handed each of them a mug before beating a tactful
retreat.

Chase watched her disappear into the kitchen. “Did they take
much?” he asked.

“Hard to tell, really. It’s still a mess in there. I know
I’ve lost some jewellery and a bit of cash, but they didn’t get my iPod, my
laptop, or anything like that. And I had my phones and credit cards with me, of
course.”

“Did they take anything valuable?”

“Not really. Sentimental value, more than anything.”

“Much cash?”

“Not sure. Thirty quid or so, I think.”

Chase nodded thoughtfully.

“You were going to tell me what you know,” prompted Amy,
fiddling with a stray lock of dark hair.

“Right,” said Chase. “Here’s what I do know, which isn’t
much. In the last year or two there have been twenty similar burglaries in the
Chiltern Park area.”

“Twenty?” Amy’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up.

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t I heard about them?”

“Because the owners wanted them kept quiet.”

“Why?”

“Embarrassment, maybe. Bad effect on property prices. Who
knows? We’ve kept them quiet to discourage copycat incidents.”

“So you’re saying this is just the latest in a succession of
burglaries?” asked Anna, from the kitchen doorway. She walked over to Chase and
handed him a heavy glass jar and a teaspoon. “Sorry, I forgot to ask. Do you
take sugar, Inspector?”

“Thanks.” He shovelled two spoonfuls into his cup and
stirred it vigorously. “Is this the latest in the series? I don’t know. It’s
very similar, it’s true. But there are certain, er, differences.”

“Like the text I got this morning?” asked Amy.

“What text, Ms Birkdale?”

Amy held out her Blackberry. Chase read:

Where did you sleep last night, bitch? And who with?

He jotted down the details before asking, “Do you recognise
the number?”

“No,” she retorted. “Do you?”

Chase shrugged. “OK, Ms Birkdale. Where were you when you
received this?”

“At work. In a meeting with a bunch of other people. Pretty
senior, most of them.”

“First thing?”

“Yeah. I was running late, so I just dumped all my stuff on
my desk and ran straight into the meeting.” She frowned. “I’ll tell you
something else, too. I don’t know what to make of it, but I guess that’s your
department.”

“Go on.”

“I sent a reply. Rather abusive, I’m afraid, but I was
pretty pissed off. A second or two later my boss received a text.”

“Coincidence?”

“Maybe. But he reacted in a really strange way.”

“How do you mean?”

“He smiled. Like he’d got a love letter or something.”

“Who is he, your boss?”

“Bryn Lewis. Information Technology Director.”

“Does he know about your break-in?”

“I told him about it after the meeting. I had to explain why
I needed to take the afternoon off work, of course.”

“And was he surprised?”

“He seemed surprised, yeah.”

“Did anyone else in the meeting have mobiles with them?”

“They all did, Inspector. And every time I looked, someone
or other was fiddling with their phone.”

“Have you ever had messages like that before?”

“That’s the third in the last week.”

“Same number every time?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they say?”

“Hold on a mo.” Amy flipped through the menus on her
Blackberry. “This was the first one.” She held out her phone. Chase read:

You only got the job coz you’re shagging Bryn.

“And this was the second.” She pressed a few keys
and held the phone out again.

You’ll crash and burn, whore. I promise.

Chase looked up at her. She raised her eyebrows ironically.

“Ever had this problem before?” he asked.

“Never,” she replied. “Not even when I was working in the
City.”

“You were saying something about a series of break-ins,
Inspector,” Anna interjected, settling herself next to the detective on the
small two-seater sofa and looking intently at him over the rim of her mug.

“That’s right,” said Chase, acutely conscious of her
proximity, her soft floral perfume. “But this one’s different, in several
ways.”

“Like what?” Amy demanded.

“Well, for one thing, all the other break-ins took place
when the victims were away for several days.”

“On holiday, you mean?”

“Mostly, yes. A couple of people were on business trips.
Most of them were out of the country. You’re the first person to have been
burgled when they were working late.”

“The thieves are getting cocky, are they?” asked Anna.

“I don’t know, Mrs Birkdale. Maybe.”

“Or perhaps it was meant to look like one of the series,”
murmured Amy, almost to herself.

“Why would anyone want to do that, love?” asked her mother,
soothingly.

Amy turned to the Inspector. “I’ve just started working on
this new project,” she said. “It’s my big break, so it’s really important I
don’t screw up. But loads of jobs are at stake, including at least two very
senior people. So there are plenty of people who want me to fail.”

“What about money?”

“That too. Several million pounds, potentially. A big order
for somebody to win. And a major account for someone to lose, too.”

“Can you give me some names, please?”

“I’d start with my boss, Bryn Lewis.”

“The bloke you mentioned just now?

“About the text? Yeah. He’s got a major personal stake in
the success of the project, so he can fill you in on all the politics. The IT
heads of the two subsidiaries affected, Frank Usher and Lorna Hilton, are the
senior people at risk. There may be others too...” She rubbed her eyes wearily,
leaving dark smudges of mascara. “Sorry, Inspector. I’m not thinking straight.
I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK. What are they like, these two?”

“Frank’s a major control freak. Needs to know everything that’s
going on in his empire. And he’s a stirrer, too.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know. He likes to wind people up, that kind of thing.
Just for fun. And he loves to gossip, too.”

“I see. And what about the other one?”

“Lorna? She trusts her team more, leaves them to get on with
things. But she’s more of a political player than Frank. She’s had a few
victories in recent months so she’s riding high at the moment.

“Thanks,” said Chase. “I’ll go and see them in the morning.
Right.. About last night. What time did you leave work?”

“About ten to nine, I think. Something like that.”

“Were you the last to leave?”

“Yes. Well, Bryn and I left the office together.”

“And you came straight home?”

“Yes, I did.”

“On the tube?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see anyone between the time you left the office and
the time you arrived home?

“No. I mean, there were people moving around, of course, but
no-one I knew.”

“What about when you arrived home? Did you notice anything?”

“Not that I can remember.” She yawned and stretched. Chase
found himself staring at her tanned midriff, her trim navel, the neat roll of
flesh above the waistband of her jeans. He swallowed hard and looked away
quickly.

“Didn’t you say something about a taxi,” prompted her Mum.

“Oh yes,” sighed Amy. “I broke a heel on the way back from
the tube station, and this taxi driver gave me a lift home.”

“Why didn’t you drive to work?” asked Anna, sharply.

Amy turned to her mother. “I told you, Mum. Because of the
gas main works on Cardigan Road. It takes over an hour to drive during rush
hour, and it’s only three stops on the tube.”

“But you were working late!”

“I didn’t know I was going to be working late, did I?
Monday’s my gym night, don’t forget.” She sighed. “Look, Mum. I had to go through
my presentation for today with Bryn. But he got caught up in an emergency with
the website, and it was gone five before we even started. Then he wanted me to
make a whole load of changes, of course.”

“But...”

“Before you give me the lecture, Mum, it was wet and dark,
and I could barely walk after my stupid shoe broke. I made a note of the
cabbie’s license number, and I gave him the wrong address.” She turned back to
Chase. “I’m not completely stupid, you know.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” he replied. “Now then. You gave a
statement to my Sergeant last night. Anything you want to add or change? Now
you’ve had a chance to sleep on it, I mean.”

“No. Nothing. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. What about you, Mrs Birkdale?”

Anna shook her head. “But I don’t understand,” she blurted.
“Surely you can trace these people from the DNA in their... what they left
behind?”

“We might be able to do that, it’s true. If it was their own
excrement, that is.”

“Their own... how do you mean, Inspector?”

“It was canine excrement, Madam.”

BOOK: Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1

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