There was no reply.
Straker strained his ears. He couldn’t hear anything.
‘Sandy?’
He suddenly heard staccato breathing – a series of juddering breaths. With a hint of urgency Straker asked: ‘Sandy? What's wrong? Are you all right?’
‘No,’ came a bleated reply followed by what sounded like sobbing.
‘What's up? Where are you?’ Again there was silence.
Something was seriously wrong. ‘Tell me where you are – I’m coming right over.’
Twenty minutes later Straker's taxi pulled into Sretensky Boulevard and the driver was looking out for the numbers of the houses. They ran along the north side of an extensive municipal park before finding their destination. Quickly climbing out, Straker found himself in front of some ornate wrought-iron railings and an intricately decorated set of gates. Looming over him was the facade of a pre-revolutionary mansion block, just catching the last of the day's sun. But he didn’t stop to study it any further. Leaving the park behind him, Straker hurried through the gates and along a short pathway decorated with an abundance of carved stone. He was about to take in the large front door – its door handles and grand brass entry panel – when his attention was distracted.
Sitting on a low wall, hunched over, was the unmistakable figure and strawberry blonde hair of Sandy McMahon. Straker ran forward; she was clearly in a state of distress.
‘Sandy?’ he asked gently.
Slowly her form unpeeled. She looked up. ‘Matt,’ she said as she then shot to her feet and, taking him by surprise, flung her arms round his neck, leaning heavily into him.
Straker enveloped her shoulders with his arms. Immediately he felt her sobbing.
A few seconds went by. He said quietly: ‘What's happened?’
Straker felt her shudder.
‘I’ve been burgled.’
Straker hugged her even closer.
‘Yo u’ r e okay, though – not hurt?’ he asked, placing a hand on the back of her hair.
Straker felt a shake of her head.
‘Has anything been taken?’
McMahon sniffed. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t been inside. I ran the moment I saw the front door.’
Moving both hands onto her shoulders, Straker eased her away so he could look into her face. Her complexion was pale; her eyes were wide and staring; her mouth and jaw were taut.
‘Do you want to leave, or should I go in and take a look?’
McMahon didn’t know.
‘Stay here, then, I’ll go and check things out.’
Without looking up, McMahon nodded.
Straker, removing his jacket, eased it over her shoulders. He helped her sit back down on the low wall beside the entrance.
Straker emerged onto McMahon's landing three minutes later. With his senses on full alert, he made his way down the wide corridor to her apartment at the far end.
Even at a distance he could see her door was ajar, swaying slightly in the breeze.
As he closed in, Straker saw the signs of a forced entry. A substantial splinter hung from the door frame; it could only have been jemmied. Directly below, other slivers were scattered across the carpet. Straker stopped, listening out – trying to sense if anyone was still inside. His ears hissed as he strained to hear.
As far as he could tell, there were no signs of activity within the flat.
Nudging the door gently inwards, Straker kept listening. Inside, he began to make out some of the layout. There was a generous entry hall with intricate plasterwork across the ceiling and an artful almost imperial-styled coving around the edges. Two doors led off from the hall, each doorway decorated with a heavily moulded architrave. Leading with his shoulder, Straker moved on a few paces. That gave him sight into the kitchen. While large, it didn’t look to have spaces big enough to conceal anyone, whether hiding or lying in wait. Straker looked through the other door. This led into the sitting room: a large well-proportioned space with a high ceiling and a chandelier hanging from what looked like a plaster rose in the centre. He could see a marble fireplace at the far end. Down the long wall, two sizeable shuttered windows looked out over the park. It was a dignified room with elegant furniture.
Surprisingly, nothing inside seemed to be disturbed.
Straker moved on into the room. In an instant he was caught off guard.
One of the curtains billowed out, causing him to flinch.
His pulsed raced.
Darting swiftly across to the wall beside it, he studied the floor beneath the curtain – for any signs of a presence. Judging there was none Straker pulled the left-hand drape to one side. There was nothing there; the billowing had come from a half-opened window directly behind it. Still with his body facing the room, he leant over his shoulder and peered out through the opened window. He could see he was three storeys up above the pavement below. There was no balcony, no ledge to either side, no obvious pipework running up the side of the building – and it faced onto a public park. Straker ruled out the window as an exit point.
The intruder, therefore, could still be inside.
Straker moved away to check out the rest of the flat.
Another closed door led off the sitting room. Swiftly, in one movement, he twisted the handle, pushed the door inwards – concealing himself to one side – waiting for the door to fly back against the inside wall.
He waited, listening.
