Hail to the Thief (or, Climbing Up The Walls)

I’m sure Fiona’s 24th will rank amongst the more memorable of her birthdays. We had been away on a long weekend up to the beautiful Glen Coe region of mid-Western Scotland, and we were up early on the Monday so we could make the most out of the day before having to catch a coach back to Glasgow. When Fiona’s mobile rang early on, it was expected to be her family calling to wish her a happy birthday. Unfortunately, it turned out to be our letting agents who asked “sorry to bother you, but are you aware that your flat has been broken into?” Um, no actually.

At some point on Sunday, a neighbour had reported to the police that our back window was missing. A police officer had arrived on the scene to investigate, and concluded that it was likely an “unlawful entry” but couldn’t legally gain access to the flat without the permission of the tenants. After a bit of digging they finally managed to find the owner of the flat, then the letting agency who then contacted us. At this point nobody had any idea what had really happened, and we were still a good six hours from being able to get back to Glasgow. The worst part was definitely the unknown factor – was the flat trashed, fully cleaned out, or both? As much as one wants to avoid thinking about it, the brain forces you to speculate about things. Such as, “I can deal with losing CD’s but hope they didn’t take my passport, and if they did I’ll have to go to the embassy and…” Luckily, we were able to get the letting agency to give their keys to Fiona’s parents who would go over and inspect the flat. It took several hours before this all worked out, and after waiting several anxious hours we finally got the call Fiona’s father said people had definitely been in the flat, and that shelves and doors had been opened, but it didn’t seem too bad. We bombarded him questions – was this still there, did they take that? It seemed as though everything was still there!

We were able to get back to Glasgow by 3pm and finally saw the situation for ourselves. We live on the second floor, and it seemed as though the thief had climbed up the back drainpipe and had used tools to unscrew the bathroom window. We wandered around the flat and sure enough, stuff had been riffled through but it appeared that nothing had been taken. I’m still typing this from our home computer. Bank cards, passports, CDs, TV, mobile phone - everything was still there. When the police later arrived, they said we had been quite lucky. Usually if nothing is taken, the intruders would at least break things or leave “evidence” that they had been there (you can use your imagination on that one…). The worst that we had was the odd thing strewn about - the intruder(s) hadn’t even broken the window, they had set it down nicely on the bathroom floor. They had even moved the potted plant in the sill to one side, which I suppose was quite nice of them.

That all being said, it was hard to shake the sense of violation I felt towards my personal space. The thought of somebody walking around your place, going through all of your possessions and picking and choosing what they wanted really shook us up. We felt it necessary to do a serious bout of cleaning and laundry to get back the feeling that it was “our” flat. And then the “what-ifs” kicked in. What if we had been home? What if we were lucky only because they had been interrupted by noise from a neighbour? And now, a week later, it’s a case of moderate paranoia. At around 4am, a spoon from the pile of dishes fell over in the kitchen. We were both instantly awake, and I ran into the kitchen fully expecting (in a half-awake state) to confront somebody.

The police response certainly didn’t give me much confidence in law enforcement either. After the first officer who came on the scene determined that we weren’t home, he attempted to determine the whereabouts of the occupiers – fair enough. But in the meantime, our back window was wide open and was left as such for a full day and half until we got home. What was stopping anybody else from hopping in and helping themselves? It also took over three phone calls to the police after we got back to get anybody to show up to file a proper report. It wasn’t until the Tuesday before we had anybody come by to do an investigation and check for fingerprints. Their conclusion - “looks like the thief wore gloves”. Well, duh. Thanks Sherlock. We did get a formal apology from the police a few days later, which was nice, but I felt that they really should have helped us as opposed to us having to make so many calls to get them to do their job.

My most recent thought on the matter was my most absurd. Did the thief not take anything because they were interrupted? Or did they just walk around and conclude that nothing was worth taking? Did they browse through my CDs and think, crap? Should I be grateful, or insulted?

In the end, I know these things happen and I hold no ill will whatsoever towards the flat or Glasgow or Scotland. And at the end of the day, it was certainly the best possible result of a bad situation!