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which in turn sent a fax alarm to a security company or the
local plods, complete with diagram pointing out which
window someone was having a go at. The doors on the
converted stables were the same. Two hundred and fifty
grand's worth of security. The place wasn't going to be the
pushover that he had anticipated.
'Mr Shief.'
'Ian?' Laughter and music still there.
'Problems. The place is more secure than it looks.'
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'As I suspected, Ian.'
'As they've left, there's no point my waiting until the small
hours. But the security systems will be armed, so I'll need a
casual caller.'
'Twenty minutes, Ian.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Ian used the time to stow the Hovercam in its case and
unpack his tool-kit, transferring those tools he would need
to a linesman's pouch belt. His climbing rope was a coil of
plastic strapping attached to a grapnel, lighter and less
bulky than rope. He was pulling on a balaclava helmet when
a pair of headlights turned into the drive and sprayed light
on the front of the house. The security lights retaliated,
exploding into glaring life, trouncing the approaching car's
efforts by 3000 watts.
Shief parked his Rolls-Royce near the front entrance. The
car was lit up like a lone ballerina. He stepped out, blinking
in the harsh glare, moved to the front door so that the
CCTV camera would see him, and rang the bell. The door
was fitted with a facial recognition system. It responded
with: 'Sorry, Mr Shief.' It was Christine's sampled voice.
'We're not available at the moment. Please leave a voice
message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible. Speak
now.'
'Hallo, Chris,' said Shief genially, smiling at the smart
door's logo. T was visiting friends nearby and saw your
lights on, so I thought I'd drop by. I'll ring you in the morning.'
He returned to his car and called Ian. 'I expect you
noticed my arrival.'
'I certainly did, sir.'
'So how was it?'
'I'm now in position, sir.' He sounded slightly out of breath.
Shief resisted an impulse to glance up at the roof. The
cameras would still be watching him. 'You're quick. Do you
need me for anything else?'
'No thank you, sir. I can manage fine now.'
'What about the lights coming on when you've finished?'
'That won't be a problem, sir.'
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'Don't go sabotaging anything. There must be no evidence
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of your visit.'
'There won't be, sir.'
Shief grunted and drove off.
Ian waited until the security lights timed out and
remained motionless for a further five minutes on the roof
until his night vision was back to normal. He was crouching
in the valley between two steeply pitched dormer ends. The
zinc rain trough he was standing on creaked as he tested the
nearest row of tiles. They were modern cement pantiles,
imitations of the Victorian originals on the front of the
house. The first row refused to give. Nailed. He tried the
lower row and was able to ease the tile from its batten without
trouble.
As any decent gale knows, the greatest weakness in most
houses with conventional pitched roofs is the tiles. British
building practice is to nail every fifth row, relying on the
weight of the tiles to keep the intervening rows in position.
Owners spend considerable sums making their premises
secure with alarm systems and armoured windows and yet
pay scant attention to the roofs. An intruder equipped with
the simplest of tools and rudimentary knowledge of building
construction can gain access without trouble.
Ian had no trouble.
As a university student his vacation jobs had been labouring
on building sites. He left university with a degree that
was not first class, but with a knowledge of the way houses
are built that certainly was. Two successful years raiding
large houses without getting caught ended when he found
himself confronting the business end of a shotgun in the
hands of the owner of a Wimbledon mansion. Shief took a
liking to Ian and offered him a job instead of handing him
over to the police. The oil man needed a chauffeur - someone
who was presentable, intelligent and bent. Qualities that
rarely came together except in accountants. Until then the
agency had been sending him either gorillas or limp young
postgrads. They agreed terms, which was why Ian was now
making a hole in the Roses' roof.
173
He used a claw hammer to lift the tiles one by one, stacking
them carefully, until he had exposed half a square metre
of tile battening. A few strokes with a pad saw through the
wooden battens, three cuts with a Stanley knife to make a
flap of the felt roof lining, and he had a hole in the roof large
enough for him to wriggle through with ease. But first he
checked the roof space, using an infra-red torch to sweep the
dark interior. The torch's tiny screen revealed close-boarded
ceiling joists piled high with ancient suitcases, old mattresses
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