* * *

He stood in the doorway, watching her, his eyes as narrow as those of the cat staring back at him. He froze. A cat! He hadn’t reckoned with one of those. And it was growling at him. He backed away.

He turned and ran back down the stairs. It had been going so well until he’d spotted that animal. He’d been fortunate, getting in before she locked up and concealing himself in the integral garage.

He went into the lounge and cast around. Where was it? Photographs lined the shelves and windowsills, hung in clusters on the walls, framed memories instead of artwork.

There it was, grouped with two others on the top of a bookcase in a solid silver frame. He picked it up in a gloved hand and slipped it into his bag.

He should go back upstairs and finish his work. He wanted to look closely at the woman and then make his decision about what should happen, but he couldn’t face the cat. At least he had what he’d come for. He let himself out of the back door, leaving it open and blowing in the draught. Only the cat knew he’d been there.

* * *

Startled from sleep, Natalie looked at the clock — 3.14 a.m. Hadn’t she left the light on last night? She leaned across and pressed the button. Nothing wrong with it. She must have switched it off in her sleep.

Arthur blinked at her accusingly. Maybe he was the culprit. He had been restless last night. Even in her sleep she had felt him move, grumble to himself and even hiss at one point. She wondered if cats had bad dreams.

Then she heard it. A rhythmic banging, coming from downstairs.

It was no good, she had to go and see what it was. There was no one to send anymore. She put on her dressing gown and crept downstairs. The noise was coming from the kitchen. She wondered if she had put the washing machine on and frowned. She seemed to be getting very forgetful these days.

As she opened the kitchen door to see, the cold air hit her. Not the washing machine but the back door, wide open and banging against the outside wall.

Natalie stood in the doorway and stared. How could that be? She had definitely made sure the door was locked before she went up to bed. She even pictured herself turning the key, and then checking the handle. So, why . . . ?

She edged into the kitchen and found it empty. She flung open the pantry door and jumped back, but it was empty too. Where was the person who had opened the door? Out? Fled into the night? Or still inside?

Natalie swallowed hard. Her mobile phone was still there on the counter, charging up. She grabbed it, ran outside into the garden and dialled 999.

* * *

Marie and Gary got to the village of Old Fleet within twenty minutes of receiving the call. They soon found Crosswinds, the bungalow they’d been called to, and parked outside.