Nightshade

60





Eddie Morris opened one eye and looked at the speedometer. ‘You can put your foot down, you won’t hurt it,’ he said. ‘German engineering.’

It was Tuesday morning and the BMW was powering along the A1 at a steady seventy miles an hour. They had shared the driving since leaving London in Morris’s brand new Series 5. ‘I don’t want a speeding ticket,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s why we’re driving and not flying, I don’t want anyone to know that we’re up here.’

‘It’s one hell of a drive,’ said Morris, folding his arms and stretching out his legs.

‘I’m paying you by the hour, aren’t I? And by the look of this motor, the housebreaking business is booming.’

Morris grinned. ‘Can’t complain. I’ve been doing really well since I started targeting Russians and Arabs. They always have a lot of cash and jewellery in their houses, and as a lot of it is hooky they don’t call the cops.’

‘Be careful with the Russians, mate.’

‘They’re not all mafia, Jack. But most of them are dodgy.’

Nightingale had insisted that they drive up to Berwick and had agreed to share the driving. They had to use the BMW because Nightingale’s classic MGB wasn’t up to a 700-mile round trip. Morris had picked Nightingale up in Bayswater at five o’clock in the morning. They had made good time, stopping only for fuel and coffee, and they reached Berwick at one o’clock in the afternoon. Nightingale had Morris call Stevenson from a phone box to check that he was in his office, then they drove around to the policeman’s house on the outskirts of the town.

It was a terraced house of grey stone, with a white door that opened off the pavement. ‘I hate terraces,’ said Morris. ‘Front and back overlooked and the neighbours are right on top of you.’ He nodded at the burglar alarm box between the two upstairs windows. ‘See that?

‘Alarms never worry you, Eddie. Not bog-standard ones like that. Are you going to go in the front or the back?’

‘I’ll have a walk by and check out the lock,’ said Morris. Nightingale took out his cigarettes. ‘Don’t even think about lighting up,’ said Morris. ‘I don’t want to lose the new-car smell.’

‘Your body odour has put paid to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d be doing you a favour by fumigating it.’

Morris pointed a warning finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You smoke in my motor and you’re walking back to London.’

Nightingale groaned and put the pack away as Morris climbed out of the car and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He crossed the road and walked by the house, glancing sideways at the front door, then continued down the pavement to a side road. He disappeared from view and Nightingale settled back in the comfortable leather seat. He’d known Morris for the best part of three years. They had been introduced by the solicitor who was representing Morris on a case of breaking and entering which, to almost everyone’s surprise, Morris hadn’t actually committed. Morris had been set up by a former girlfriend, who’d arranged for a pair of his gloves to be dropped at a crime scene. Nightingale had tracked down the real burglar and Morris had walked. Morris wasn’t exactly a criminal with a heart of gold, but he never resorted to violence and usually stole from people who could afford to lose a few grand. Over the years he and Nightingale had become friends.

Morris returned after fifteen minutes and slid into the rear passenger seat behind Nightingale. ‘The front lock is a Yale, so that’s not a problem, but the back is easier. There’s an alley behind the houses and a small walled yard. There’s a Yale on that door, too. I’ll sort the alarm from the outside and go in the back.’

‘No breaking, just entering. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been there.’

‘No problem,’ said Morris.

There was a black kitbag on the back seat and Morris unzipped it. Inside was a pair of dark blue overalls and he took them out and unrolled them. Under the overalls were several dozen Velcro-backed cloth badges, for most of the country’s main burglar alarm and security companies and a few generic ones. He pulled out a badge that matched the logo on the alarm box and waved it at Nightingale. ‘It’s all in the preparation,’ he said. He placed the badge on the Velcro pad on the back of the overalls, then slipped them on over his clothes. He zipped them up, then picked up a small toolbox up off the floor. ‘Pop the boot, will you?’ said Morris, as he got out of the car. He walked around to the back of the BMW and took out a telescopic ladder that he pulled out to about eight feet. He walked over to the house, the ladder on one shoulder, whistling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.





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