Kate Thompson - That Gallagher Girl

‘Open, Sesame!’ cried Cat. ‘Bring on the breaking-and-entering master class, Raoul.’

Raoul gave the façade of the house the once-over. ‘Okay. Your first challenge is to find out if a joint is wired for alarm. You’re safe with a place like this, because the security system has never been activated. You’d be amazed at how few holiday home owners on the west coast bother to set alarms while they’re away.’

‘Why don’t they bother?’

‘Too much hassle if they’re activated by stormy weather. There are only so many times you can prevail upon your local neighbouring farmer to reset your alarm. A lot of those boxes are dummies, by the way.’

‘So which houses are the most likely candidates?’

‘Ones that haven’t been lived in for a while.’

‘How can you tell if they haven’t been lived in?’

‘Jemmy the mail box and have a look at the postmarks on the envelopes. The dates will tell you. If you find bills it’s a bonus, because they’re unlikely to have been paid. Unpaid Eircom Phone Watch bills mean that the joint’s no longer being monitored.’

‘Isn’t there a battery backup on those systems?’

‘If the bills haven’t been paid, the Phone Watch people are under no obligation to let the home owner know that their batteries need replacing.’

Cat moved along the side of the house, and set her palms against a picture window, pressing her face close so that she could peer through. With the sun bouncing off the glass, it proved difficult, but she could make out an expanse of timber floor and walls painted in a bland shade of cappuccino.

‘Why are people so careless about protecting their properties, Raoul?’

‘It’s a sign of the times. A decade ago people were reckless when they bought their second homes. All that money being thrown at them by the banks made them buy into an unsustainable lifestyle, and now they can’t sell it on.’ Raoul shaded his eyes with a hand, and squinted up at the roof, where a seagull was eyeing him suspiciously. ‘The tax on second homes was a disaster for the property market on the west coast. The owners resent every penny they’re obliged to spend on a place they can’t afford to maintain, so they just don’t bother their arses. They’re not going to throw good money after bad – look at the state of this place.’ He indicated the garden with an expansive gesture. ‘Once upon a time the lawn would have been mowed every month to keep up the showhouse façade. It hasn’t been done for a year, by the look of it.’

Cat turned and surveyed the quarter acre of garden. The grass was thigh-high, the flowerbeds thick with weeds. Dandelions were pushing their way up through the golden gravel that covered the path to the front door, and to judge by the wasp activity immediately overhead, a nest was being constructed in the eaves.

‘Keep an eye out for unkempt gardens and “For Sale” signs,’ Raoul told her. ‘The properties that have been on the market for more than a year are the ones you want to target.’

‘How can I tell how long they’ve been on the market?’

‘Go to Daft.ie and see how much the price has dropped. The bigger the bargain, the more desperate the seller, and the further down the listing, the more obvious it is that nobody’s been interested enough to view. These are generally the babies that have been languishing with no TLC.’ Raoul gave her a shrewd look. ‘Now, tell me. How do you think you’re going to get in here?’

‘Not through the front door, that’s for sure.’

‘Top marks. And not through the front window, neither. Let’s have a look around the back.’

They made their way to the rear of the house, where the door to a utility room was located. A look through a small window to the left of the door told Cat that there was access to the kitchen from there. Pulling a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, she slid them on. ‘Do I smash it?’ she asked Raoul.

‘Tch tch, Cat! How inelegant. Think again.’

‘Cut the pane with a glass cutter?’

‘No, darling. You’d need suction pads, you could cut yourself, and you don’t want to leave samples of your DNA splashed around. Take a closer look.’

Cat ran a finger over the edge of the window. It was beaded with varnished teak, in which plugs of matching hardwood were dotted at regular intervals.

‘What’s underneath those?’ she asked. ‘They’re camouflaging something, aren’t they?’

‘You could be right, Kitty Cat,’ said Raoul. ‘What do you think they might be camouflaging?’

Cat turned and gave him a speculative look. ‘Nails?’

‘Have a gander.’

Raoul reached into his backpack and handed her a narrow-bladed chisel. Inserting it into the fissure between the plug and the main body of the wood, Cat found purchase and prised out the fragment of teak. Underneath was the slotted crosshead of a screw. Setting to, she methodically removed each knot of wood, then set down the chisel.

‘I guess I need a screwdriver now,’ she said, pushing an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. ‘But a regular one won’t do the job. The screws are too close to the glass.’

‘That,’ said Raoul, ‘is why I have one of these.’ Reaching into his backpack again, he produced a Z-shaped tool and handed it to Cat.

‘A right-angled screwdriver?’

‘Go to the top of the class. I’m not going to help you, by the way. You’re going to have to learn how to do this on your own.’

‘Why did they fit the screws on the outside of the window?’ she asked, taking the screwdriver from Raoul and inserting the bit in the crosshead of the first screw. ‘It would make a lot more sense to fit them inside.’

‘You’re inviting serious problems if you fit them on the inside. The rain streams in.’

Cat smiled. ‘This is so simple, it’s stupid.’ She started to unscrew the beading from the glass panel, frowning a little in concentration as she manipulated the bit. Once she got to the final couple of screws, she held the window in place by leaning her shoulder against it. Then she prised away the strip of wood, dropped the screwdriver, and went to lift the glass from its frame.

‘Wait,’ said Raoul. ‘You’ll need proper gloves for this. Here.’

Taking care not to let the glass fall, Cat slipped her hands into first the right, then the left glove, and turned back to her task.

‘Voilà!’ she said, as the double-glazed panel came away. ‘Access all areas!’

With great care, she leaned the pane against the exterior wall before setting her palms on the sill and hoisting herself up.

‘Wait!’ said Raoul. ‘Take your boots off. You don’t want to leave footprints.’

Cat undid the laces on her boots, pulled them off and dropped them on the muddy ground below the window. Then she twisted around, slid her legs through the empty frame, and eeled herself into the house.

‘How easy was that!’ she crowed, and her words came back to her, bouncing off the smooth plaster walls of the house that would never be sold, never be lived in. ‘Come and have a look, Raoul.’

He followed her through.

Both utility room and kitchen were equipped with state-of-the-art white goods. The kitchen floor was marble, the work surfaces polished granite. The adjacent sitting room boasted a gas fire and a panelled alcove in which to house a plasma screen. Beyond the sitting room, beyond doorways that accessed study, den and conservatory, carpeted stairs led from the light-filled lobby to bedrooms and bathrooms above. Upstairs, the walk-in wardrobe in the master bedroom was nearly as big as Cat’s room in Hugo’s house.

She wondered what it must be like to live in a house like this. Would you live a life here, or a lifestyle? Would you curl your feet up on a suede upholstered sofa while aiming a remote at your entertainment suite? Would you microwave a ready meal from a top end outlet while uncorking a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc? Would you cuff an infant lovingly when he or she trotted mud onto your marble tiles before reaching for your eco-friendly floor wipes?