It was bound to happen one day, Frances thought, staring at the hefty steel ‘security door’ which had been slammed in her face. She heard the customer’s drunken laughter as he slid two bolts across as well.
Being an on-call locksmith in the early hours of the morning had its occasional problems. She was adept at defusing stroppy drunks, and lechers who fancied their chance with the little owner of Lady Lock. Bounced checks and refused card payments were surprisingly rare. But just stepping in and slamming the door was a first.
She trotted down seven flights of stairs, not trusting the tower block’s lift, deftly picked the door to the maintenance room, and removed the disc from the CCTV recorder before relocking the door and trotting back up to knock the thieving customer’s door again.
No reply, not even a muted snigger. She took the tube of Liquid Metal from her overall pocket and squeezed a generous portion into the lock. It would be rock solid in five minutes. If the drunken git was already asleep he’d not find out until morning. If he called out another locksmith they’d have to drill out the damned lock and that would cost him a fortune. And hurt his hangover.
Her lost time and petrol were an irritation rather than a disaster, but it was a matter of principle. She chuckled as she drove away in her little van. “The labourer is worthy of her hire.”
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