sitting room. A comedy programme. Loud studio laughter. They reached into their track-suit tops and pulled out guns. Black automatics with bulbous silencers. The men didn't expect to have to use them.
But they were prepared to, if necessary.
Their biggest worry was the dog. People could be threatened,
people knew the damage that guns could do, but dogs would just growl and bark, maybe even attack to protect what they considered to be their territory. The dog was in the sitting room, so if they moved carefully they wouldn't be heard.
One of them eased open the door to the hallway. More studio laughter. They moved on the balls of their feet, hardly breathing as they crept to the stairs. The stairs would be the dangerous part. Stairs creaked. They went up two stairs at a time,
keeping close to the wall, guns at the ready.
They froze as they heard a police siren, but then relaxed as they realised it was on the television. Somebody had changed channels.
They heard a roar. A football match, maybe. Then muffled voices.
Then studio laughter again. The men moved along the upper hallway and knelt down at the door to the back bedroom. One of the men was wearing a small rucksack, and he slipped it off and placed it on the carpet. From the rucksack he pulled out a cloth and a small glass bottle containing a colourless liquid. He unscrewed the top and doused the cloth with the liquid, turning his head to avoid the worst of the fumes. When the cloth was soaked, he nodded at his companion, who opened the door and stepped inside.
They moved quickly through the darkness to the bed. A small girl was asleep, her blond hair spread across the pillow, a cuddly Garfield toy clutched to her chest. The man with the cloth held it tightly against the girl's face. She stopped struggling after a few seconds, but he kept the cloth pressed over her mouth and nose for a full minute before releasing his grip on her.
The other man put a white envelope on a bedside table and gathered up the little girl. The Garfield toy slipped on to the floor. The man who'd drugged the girl picked up the cuddly toy, hesitated for a second, and then put it and several other toys into his rucksack. The man holding the unconscious girl made an impatient clicking noise. Even with most of his face covered by the ski mask, it was clear he was glaring at his companion. He nodded at the door.
The two men moved down the stairs as silently as they'd gone up, and two minutes later they were in a Ford Mondeo,
driving south with the little girl hidden under a tartan blanket.
The chloroform would keep her unconscious for the best part of thirty minutes, and they didn't have far to go.
'Coffee?' asked Martin Hayes.
His wife grinned at him. 'Are you making it, or are you asking me to get one for you?'
Martin pushed himself up off the sofa. The golden retriever at his feet wagged its tail hopefully. 'Okay, Dermott - I'll let you out.' He looked pointedly at his wife.
'You're all heart,' said Andrea Hayes. Martin leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of her head, then ruffled her soft, blond hair. 'Woof,' she said. 'I'll go and check on Katie.'
Martin went through to the kitchen and let the dog out before switching on the electric kettle. The coffee was in the freezer. If it had been up to Martin, he'd have made do with instant, but Andy was fussy about her coffee. And she could tell the difference. Martin had long ago given up trying to test her.
She didn't think his attempts to palm her off with Nescafe were funny.
'Martin!'
'What?'
'Martin, come here.'
Martin could tell from her voice that something was wrong.
He ran down the hall and up the stairs. 'What? What?' he shouted, a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He found Andy standing at the foot of the bed. He put his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling. The bed was empty.
Katie had gone. He looked around the room. Nothing. He turned around and went to the bathroom. The door was open and he could see
But they were prepared to, if necessary.
Their biggest worry was the dog. People could be threatened,
people knew the damage that guns could do, but dogs would just growl and bark, maybe even attack to protect what they considered to be their territory. The dog was in the sitting room, so if they moved carefully they wouldn't be heard.
One of them eased open the door to the hallway. More studio laughter. They moved on the balls of their feet, hardly breathing as they crept to the stairs. The stairs would be the dangerous part. Stairs creaked. They went up two stairs at a time,
keeping close to the wall, guns at the ready.
They froze as they heard a police siren, but then relaxed as they realised it was on the television. Somebody had changed channels.
They heard a roar. A football match, maybe. Then muffled voices.
Then studio laughter again. The men moved along the upper hallway and knelt down at the door to the back bedroom. One of the men was wearing a small rucksack, and he slipped it off and placed it on the carpet. From the rucksack he pulled out a cloth and a small glass bottle containing a colourless liquid. He unscrewed the top and doused the cloth with the liquid, turning his head to avoid the worst of the fumes. When the cloth was soaked, he nodded at his companion, who opened the door and stepped inside.
They moved quickly through the darkness to the bed. A small girl was asleep, her blond hair spread across the pillow, a cuddly Garfield toy clutched to her chest. The man with the cloth held it tightly against the girl's face. She stopped struggling after a few seconds, but he kept the cloth pressed over her mouth and nose for a full minute before releasing his grip on her.
The other man put a white envelope on a bedside table and gathered up the little girl. The Garfield toy slipped on to the floor. The man who'd drugged the girl picked up the cuddly toy, hesitated for a second, and then put it and several other toys into his rucksack. The man holding the unconscious girl made an impatient clicking noise. Even with most of his face covered by the ski mask, it was clear he was glaring at his companion. He nodded at the door.
The two men moved down the stairs as silently as they'd gone up, and two minutes later they were in a Ford Mondeo,
driving south with the little girl hidden under a tartan blanket.
The chloroform would keep her unconscious for the best part of thirty minutes, and they didn't have far to go.
'Coffee?' asked Martin Hayes.
His wife grinned at him. 'Are you making it, or are you asking me to get one for you?'
Martin pushed himself up off the sofa. The golden retriever at his feet wagged its tail hopefully. 'Okay, Dermott - I'll let you out.' He looked pointedly at his wife.
'You're all heart,' said Andrea Hayes. Martin leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of her head, then ruffled her soft, blond hair. 'Woof,' she said. 'I'll go and check on Katie.'
Martin went through to the kitchen and let the dog out before switching on the electric kettle. The coffee was in the freezer. If it had been up to Martin, he'd have made do with instant, but Andy was fussy about her coffee. And she could tell the difference. Martin had long ago given up trying to test her.
She didn't think his attempts to palm her off with Nescafe were funny.
'Martin!'
'What?'
'Martin, come here.'
Martin could tell from her voice that something was wrong.
He ran down the hall and up the stairs. 'What? What?' he shouted, a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He found Andy standing at the foot of the bed. He put his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling. The bed was empty.
Katie had gone. He looked around the room. Nothing. He turned around and went to the bathroom. The door was open and he could see
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