“They’re the same model our fella had,” Richie said, a touch sheepishly. “I figured we should have them too. See what he saw, yeah?”

“Oh, Jesus. Tell me you’re not one of these touchy-feely types who get all into the idea of seeing through the killer’s eyes while they have a good rub of their intuition.”

“No, I’m bleeding not. I meant literally. Like could he make out facial expressions, could he see anything on the computer—the names of the websites they were on, or whatever. That kind of thing.”

Even in the moonlight I could see his fierce blush. It touched me: not just the idea of him spending his own money and time to track down the right binoculars, but how openly he cared what I thought. I said more gently, holding them out, “It’s a good idea. Have a look; you never know what might turn up.”

He looked like he wished the binoculars would disappear, but he adjusted them and leaned his elbows on the windowsill to focus on the Spains’ house. Our Fiona was at the sink, rinsing her mug. I said, “What are you getting?”

“I can see Janine’s face, really clearly; like if I could lip-read, I could see anything she said. I couldn’t see the screen on the computer, if it was there—wrong angle—but I can read the titles on the bookshelf, and that little whiteboard with the shopping list: eggs, tea, shower gel. That could be something, yeah? If he could read Jenny’s shopping list every night, then he’d know where she was gonna be the next day …”

“It’s worth checking out. We’ll pay special attention to CCTV from her shopping route, see if anyone keeps cropping up.” At the sink, our Fiona’s head flicked round sharply, like she felt our eyes on her. Even without the binoculars, I saw her shiver.

“Man,” Richie said suddenly, loud enough that I jumped. “Shit; sorry. But look at this.”

He passed me the binoculars. I trained them on the kitchen and adjusted them for my eyesight, which was a depressing notch worse than Richie’s. “What am I looking at?”

“Not the kitchen. Past there, down the hall. You can see the front door.”

“So?”

“So,” Richie said, “just left of the front door.”

I shifted the binoculars to the left and there it was: the alarm panel. I whistled, low. I couldn’t see the numbers, but I didn’t need to: watching someone’s fingers move would have told me everything I needed to know. Jenny Spain could have changed the code every day, if she wanted to, and just a few minutes up here while she or Patrick locked up would have undone all her caution. “Well well well,” I said. “Richie, my friend, I apologize for slagging your binoculars. I guess we know how someone could have got past the alarm system. Good work. Even if our man doesn’t show up, tonight hasn’t been a waste of time.”

Richie ducked his head and rubbed at his nose, looking somewhere between embarrassed and pleased. “We still don’t know how he got the keys, sure. Alarm code’s no good without those.”