As black as the general’s heart, Tracy thought. As black as my world without Nick.
She headed to the master bedroom. This, too, was a dull space, as uninspiring as any corporate apartment. There was a simply upholstered Habitat bed with plain white linen, a chest of drawers with a carved, Chinese box on top and some built-in closets with mirrored doors. A lone cushion in the shape of a sausage dog, propped up against the pillows, was the only sign of humor or personal taste of any kind. Clearly, General Frank was as controlled and uptight at home as he was at work.
The safe was exactly where Jacob said it would be, at the back of the large master closet. Tracy didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, but the safe seemed a good place to start. She entered the code and this time there were no mishaps, no alarms or lights or warning signals. The thing popped open as obligingly as a hooker’s legs, as Jeff used to say.
Why must she always think of Jeff at times like this? Irritated, Tracy focused on the job at hand.
Gingerly removing the safe’s contents, item by item, she examined each one with her flashlight.
The general’s will.
Deeds to the house.
A string of pearls that Tracy’s expert eye could see immediately were of more sentimental than material value.
Twenty thousand pounds in cash.
That was unexpected. Twenty grand was a lot of money for a family of modest means to keep at home, stuffed into a dirty envelope. But Tracy put her curiosity aside for now. She didn’t have time to waste wondering where Dorrien might have come by such a sum, or what he intended to do with it. Instead she looked through everything again, carefully separating each banknote and each sheet of the legal documents, forcing herself to slow down so she didn’t miss anything. But it was no good. She was right the first time.
There’s nothing of Achileas’s here.
Tracy relocked the safe and looked at her watch. It was still only 6:45 P.M. Plenty of time before Cynthia Dorrien got back from her bridge game.
Tracy retraced her steps back downstairs to Frank’s study.
The general’s desk was as orderly as everything else in the house, clean as a whistle and perfectly devoid of clutter. Infuriatingly, his computer was gone. He must have taken it with him to tonight’s meeting at the barracks. Tracy couldn’t get a break tonight.
She started opening drawers, looking for papers, photographs, a thumb drive, anything.
Nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
There has to be something here, she told herself. There must be something in this house.
Tracy searched each room in turn. At first she was methodical, closing kitchen cupboards behind her, replacing carpets that she’d peeled back, covering her tracks. But as the minutes ticked by, then the hours, she grew more and more frantic, pulling paintings down off walls, sweeping piles of books onto the floor.
She was on the point of giving up when she found it. Of all places it was in the loo. A tissue box beside the washbasin felt heavier than it ought to. Tracy ripped it apart like a wild woman, pulling out the precious hard drive like a diver plucking a pearl from its oyster.
She stared at the little black square for a moment, overwhelmed that after so much disappointment she’d actually found it. This is it. This has to be it.
I did it!
There was no time to stop and celebrate. Stuffing the drive deep into her rucksack, Tracy stepped back into the hallway. She was almost at the front door when the beams from a car’s headlights suddenly blinded her.
Shit!
Tracy froze. She heard the unmistakable noise of an engine drawing closer, then idling and finally switching off. The headlights went off.
Cynthia Dorrien was home.
Worse, she wasn’t alone.
PARKED A FEW YARDS down the street, in an unremarkable Ford Transit, Jeff sat in the darkness, watching the police arrive.
Things had gotten complicated the moment Jeff realized that Tracy was hitting General Dorrien’s house. Then again, things always got complicated with Tracy.
Should he tell Jamie MacIntosh what she was planning? Or keep it to himself?