sister. He had been responsible for teaching her to row a boat and fix a bike chain and skip stones, and now he was mentoring her in the art of housebreaking. Their father, Hugo, had never mentored her in anything much, apart from how to tell the difference between a Burgundy and a Bordeaux.
Cat and Raoul both took after their father in looks. It was said that the Gallaghers were descended from shipwrecked survivors of the Armada, and that they had Spanish blood. Both Cat and Raoul were dark-haired and olive-skinned, with patrician noses and cheekbones like razor shells. Today, Cat’s vaguely piratical appearance was enhanced by the fact that she sported a bandana, and a small gold hoop in one ear. Her eyes were heavily rimmed with black kohl, but that was her only concession to cosmetics. Cat had never used lipstick in her life, nor had she ever painted her nails or GHD’d her mane of black hair.
‘I wonder what Hugo would say if he knew you were teaching me how to break into houses,’ Cat remarked as Raoul upended the bottle into their paper cups before sticking it in his backpack.
‘Being a champagne socialist, he’d applaud the fact that I’m encouraging you in the redistribution of wealth.’
‘I told you, Raoul – I’m not doing this to steal stuff. I just need to know how to get into places.’
‘Why, exactly?’
‘I have a feeling in my bones that it’s going to be useful some time. My bones tell me loads of things, and they’re usually right.’
‘When you become a fugitive from justice, you mean?’
‘When I become a fugitive from our father, more like.’
‘You’ll let me know, won’t you, when you decide to run away? I’ll worry if you don’t keep in touch.’
‘You’ll be the only person I’ll tell,’ she told him, kissing his cheek. ‘You’ll be the only person who’ll worry.’
Cat drained her cup, then got up from the wall and stumbled sideways as her foot clipped the edge of a pothole and the earth crumbled beneath her boot. ‘Yikes! Look at the size of that pothole. I wouldn’t like to be negotiating this place at night.’
‘Better get used to it. Good cat burglars – excuse the pun – need extrasensory night vision.’
‘Let me say it again – I ain’t in the business of burgling, Raoul.’
‘Never say never.’ Raoul took Cat’s cup and drained his own before stowing them and the bottle in his backpack. ‘Let’s go recce,’ he said.
Together they made their way along the path that led to the front door of the unoccupied house. It was fashioned from solid oak, and had an impenetrable air.
‘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
