Adam was disappointed that he didn't personally get to break into Peterson's house. It was also deeply irritating that his wife kept following them around, nagging them about placing ornaments back in the correct position. He felt as if he were being assessed by a menopausal infant school teacher.
That was the only reason Adam decided to check her phone.
It was not part of standard procedure, but he could easily justify it later as being the way to get her out of their hair and allow a proper search. This turned out to be correct as she kicked up such a fuss she left everyone else alone and concentrated all her ire on him.
Margery looked highly perturbed as Adam plugged her phone into his laptop and scanned it, but almost certainly because she was socially affronted rather than having anything to hide.
He really wasn't expecting to find anything, just to keep her occupied.
He was therefore as surprised as Margery when his laptop emitted a loud alarm.
"What's that?" she demanded, leaning around to look at his screen.
He pushed her unceremoniously away.
"That's classified information," he half shouted.
She was about to protest but checked herself. Adam sometimes displayed a passive, even slightly wimpish exterior when it suited him, but now his eyes betrayed a seriousness that was not to be challenged. Margery saw sense and made a tactical withdrawal to the kitchen.
Adam stared for a moment longer at the piece of information that had triggered the alarm, allowed himself a smile of self justification, unplugged her phone and put it in his pocket. Saving the search information, he closed the laptop and went upstairs to see what the rest of the team had found.
"In here," said an enthusiastic young man in his first few weeks with T14.
Adam looked over his shoulder at the piles of money hidden away at the back of Peterson's sock drawer.
"Ten thousand quid, all in twenties," he said, handing one of the piles to Adam.
He leafed through them. Non-consecutive serial numbers, all in different states of wear and tear.
"Maybe he was going to buy himself a suit from this century," quipped the young man.
"Maybe," said Adam distractedly. What the hell was the old man planning to do with the money? "Okay, photograph and log it all and put it back. Carry on."
The rest of the search turned up nothing else but Adam was confident he had more than enough. In these days of virtually instantaneous electronic transfer of money, where even a newspaper could be bought more quickly by waving a card than by handing over coins, there was no legitimate reason for anyone to have large amounts of cash in their home.
Ten thousand pounds was about the going rate for an amateurish hired killer these days, and the number flagged up on his wife's phone belonged to somebody who possibly fitted that job description.