Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) by Iain Cameron Page B

of the alarm control panel which he could hear beeping somewhere at the end the hall. The code worked first time and as he walked back to the front door to close it, he felt a tiny bit smug for not alerting the whole neighbourhood to their presence, providing of course Peeping Tom Longman had not already done so.
    He sent the young man upstairs while he looked downstairs to save any more wear on his dodgy knees. Mr Young’s mail was as unexciting as his own with three official-looking letters from banks and credit card companies, two invoices from companies he hadn’t heard of, and a couple of bits of junk mail, one for a charity and another for a pizza delivery service. The one thing he did notice were the postmarks, as they suggested his letters had been lying there since Friday. He placed them on the hall table and opened the door into the lounge.
    It felt a bright, airy room with fantastic views through the large front window over the rooftops of Hove, weather permitting of course. The room contained little furniture, only a settee, matching chair, coffee table, hi-fi and television. It was tidy, with only a few magazines scattered over the coffee table to detract from the utilitarian nature of the place.
    If he lived alone without his wife Julie’s stern, but guiding hand, he would live like a slob with pizza boxes, Chinese takeaway cartons, and empty cans of beer scattered all over the place, but then David Young was a well-paid business executive and not a piss-poor copper, and probably spent most of his time at the office than slumming around at home at the end of a shift.
    The kitchen was clean and tidy with no unwashed dishes, packets of cereal, or half-closed coffee jars lying around worktops. If the cooker, fridge freezer, and microwave were of more recent purchase, the house could be mistaken for a furnished rental or a house sale with vacant possession.
    With some trepidation, he opened the dishwasher. In some houses this would have been an act of supreme folly, akin to sticking your head in the bin or down the toilet, but he needn’t have worried as it contained only a plate, cup, and a few bits of cutlery and exuded a pleasant, lemony smell.
    In the study, he stopped and leaned against the desk, trying to build a mental picture of the missing man. The kitchen was filled with a range of modern appliances and appeared to be a bright and inviting place to eat, while the lounge with its LCD television and a sophisticated sound system, looked a comfortable place to relax, but neither of these rooms were lived-in and he would bet by the appearance of the well-worn chair, scratched desk, and enough paper to start a bonfire, Mr Young spent the majority of his time in the study.
    In the Rogerson household, two teenage daughters hogged the TV as if they owned it, while his wife often held book clubs and knitting circles in the kitchen, and so the study, a glorified cupboard under the stairs, was the only place in the house where he could read a newspaper in peace. Once, when the house was particularly noisy, he went outside and tried reading in the car. It scored high in terms of tranquillity and comfort, but low on improving his credibility with the neighbours as it drew a number of funny looks and left him feeling like a right dork.
    In addition to the desk, there was a matching bookcase and filing cabinet, certificates and photographs on the wall, papers and folders scattered everywhere, and a laptop, sound system and printer. It looked to be a well furnished and fully functioning home office but he wondered why Young bothered, as his workplace at Markham had to be equipped with way more sophisticated gear than this.
    A thumping noise above his head snapped him out of his reverie, as Longman came downstairs in the company of a couple of people he found up there, or at least that was how it sounded.
    ‘No sign of ‘im up there,’ Longman said, ‘no indications of foul play either.’
    ‘Such as what, Mr