Not a good feeling. Last time he'd felt like this was at his mother's funeral. Took a couple of days before he'd felt the hand retreat. And even then, it left a big messy hole. A cab appeared and the front door of number six opened shortly afterwards. After strapping her kid into a child seat, a woman got into the taxi. She looked flustered and tired. Wallace lived next door, number eight, a main-door flat. Alone. The windows were boarded up at street level, which suggested that the lower floor was unoccupied. Either that, or Wallace really liked it dark. Or his windows had been broken and he hadn't got round to fixing them. With the house now empty, there was nothing stopping Pearce from barging on in and making himself at home. Give Wallace a nice little surprise when he opened the front door. Tempting. Of course, when he thought more about it, he realised there was one thing stopping him. He had no idea how to break in. At least, not with any subtlety. He could kick the door in, but somebody might see him.
