Chapter - A quiet night out
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"I'd like to thank you for a lovely evening, Timothy."

"You're welcome, I'm sure, Mary. We should do it again."

"Yes, let's. But I must say, I wasn't sure what to expect when you asked me out. I thought you were single, but whenever I met you at the supermarket, you kept referring to Mrs. Robertson."

"Whereas I had the advantage of knowing you to be divorced."

"And to think that a grown man like you should give his stove a name!"

"Well, it keeps me in practice in case I get married, doesn't it? And I can eat home-cooked meals like my mom makes without people at the market making remarks about a man cooking."

"Wait." Mary Simpson put her hand on Timothy Robertson's arm. "What's that?" she asked quietly.

They both watched as a black shadow moved in the dark yards behind the rows of houses. As it moved, it passed briefly through a patch of dim light from a window. The light gleamed off the bald head of a man dressed in black.

"Bald, or a skinhead," Constable Robertson murmured. "Is that your back garden he's in?"

"Not yet. Next one, I think, where the light is on in a second floor window. That'll be the boys studying together for an exam. It's math tomorrow."

"Let's go around front and see you to your door before I revert to my official capacity and chase after him." Timothy murmured quietly.

"You go on. I can get home."

"I think I would do better waiting for him at the other end, anyway." The constable, still with her hand on his arm, led quietly but briskly around the corner to Mrs. Simpson's house.

He unobtrusively checked up and down the street, but there were no lurkers. Mrs. Simpson's house was 6th of eight rowhouses.

At the door step, she turned to the constable. "What if you came through and went out our back door?"

"Is it locked? Would it be hard to break in?"

"It's locked. It's solid wood with no windows, as old as the house."

"Then you should be safe enough if I go around. And he may have moved on, anyway."

"I could look and see?"

"No, please no. And don't let the boys look out the windows. I don't want to spook him."

"OK, if you say so."

"Thank you. Whatever happens, I'll call you in half an hour or an hour."

"See you later then."

"See you later."

The constable dashed quietly to the other end of the block of row houses, slowing to a stop as he reached the end, listening for his prey.

No sounds.

He crouched on the side street, at the back of the end house, looking through the picket fence.

No movement.

He checked the area behind and around him, and looked again. A lump of dark had moved, a couple of houses down, and it moved again. A head and arm were raised above the low fences, and moving up. The constable remained below the fence and moved farther down, to see from a better angle. He looked around. There were houses behind, mostly dark, and the narrow side street was unlit. He would not be silhouetted if he looked over the fence, or found a way to go over it quietly.

He checked again. The prowler was standing on a fence, looking in a lit window of a second floor room in the third house. Mrs. Simpson's house! And her son John's!

The figure lowered its head below the brightly lit curtains of the window. Then the head rose again to the level of the window ledge. A hand rose and rested briefly on the window, moving around a bit.

The head and hand disappeared.

Constable Robertson considered. If this was the same group that had hit John over the head, they seemed to be acting more circumspectly. What was the figure doing at the window? Putting something on the window or window sill? A bomb? Not likely. And it seemed too small, small enough to hold hidden in one hand. A microphone? Possible.

He watched the figure climb down and disappear in the darkness below. Quietly he moved to the front of the house and dashed to the far end of the street. He walked nonchalantly across to the opposite alley, stepped in the shadows, and waited. A moment later, he heard a scuffing sound. About 15 metres away, or 40 feet, a head was silhouetted against dimly lit yards for a long moment.

Nothing moved on the street.

The head moved forward and became a black clad figure lightly jumping over the fence. It was the skinhead who had a swastika tattooed on the back of his head. He turned and slouched off toward downtown, just another young man in black clothes.

It could still be a bomb, possibly an incendiary bomb. Constable Robertson walked briskly back to Mrs. Simpson's house. He spotted a shadow on a neighbouring window. He smiled. His activities had been noted. Perhaps the other's had, as well.

He knocked on Mrs. Simpson's door. A shadow flashed briefly on a front window, then the door opened.

Mrs. Simpson looked concerned. "Come in, come in."

With the door closed, she spoke quietly. "I brought the boys down and we had hot chocolate and cookies. They are still down here, but I had to tell them why."

"Good. Is the light still on upstairs?"

"Yes."

"OK. Is there another room where I could look out back without casting a shadow on a window?

"My room opens on the same side. I have dark curtains, always drawn, so no one will see you enter the room."

Constable Robertson went upstairs. One door was open with a light on. One was closed. He entered the lit room, bending low to avoid shadows on the curtain. He leaned on the wall on the opposite side of the window from the device and slowly moved the edge of the curtain until he could see the far side of the window. There it was. A tiny microphone was pressed against the glass in the bottom corner of the window. Not a bomb. Good.

Quietly he moved out of that room and entered the closed room. From behind drawn curtains, he studied windows across the back gardens. Some had lights on, and he noted which. He waited for any movements that would indicate a watcher in one of them.

A dog barked a block away. After two minutes, he returned downstairs for some hot chocolate.
 

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