Noelle McCarthy: The case of the laptop and knickers

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In 1997, Allen Pace, the safety inspector at the Dunbar Armoured warehouse in Los Angeles, used his inside knowledge of the facility to execute the largest cash robbery in American history.

Pace worked at the armoured car depot, at the warehouse, where a fleet of vehicles dropped off thousands of dollars in cash every day. He used his 9-5 gig to photograph the layout of the warehouse, time the security camera circuits and memorise the guards' routine.

He then conscripted five of his old school pals to break in on a Friday night when he knew the vault would be open with large amounts of money inside.

Pace's knowledge of the vault was encyclopaedic - he even knew which bags contained the highest denomination bills. It took him and his buddies exactly 34 minutes to overpower the security guards, break into the vault and make off with about US$19 million ($24.8 million) in the back of a van.

The gang was caught in the end, of course. Pace's cronies couldn't help spending up large and police always knew they were looking at an inside job. It took 10 years but justice caught up with Allen Pace in the end. He's currently serving a long stretch in jail.

His capture notwithstanding, Pace was a clever man. I'm not sure the same can be said of the hoodrat who burgled me last weekend.

My place was broken into last Sunday morning and my conviction that the person who did it is a simpleton as well as a miscreant is based on the inventory of what was taken.

Having got into my apartment while I slept, the robber was free to roam. All my worldly goods were spread out before him or her, the question being, where to start?

For an individual of discernment, it would be hard to go past the lounge. There lay an impressive array of soft furnishings including a cushion in the shape of an owl. There was enough quality literature there to tempt the most fastidious of bibliophiles and Marion Keyes and Martin Amis for everyone else.

Books aside, I'm not big on home entertainment but a burglar of prodigious strength might have considered making off with my giant, 10-year-old TV.

Pickings were rich for the sweet-toothed - the house was full of Irish confectionery, there was even a box of Ferrero Rocher.

With such an extensive selection of treasures to choose from, what do you think this idiot took? A pair of frilly knickers and an HP laptop, minus the cord. The laptop was ancient and so virus-infected as to constitute a new form of life.

The knickers were newer and in much better nick. My burglar, it seems, is both a Luddite and a creep.

The laptop was an obvious swoop; out on the kitchen table, it was one of the first things you'd set eyes on as you walked in the door. I'm hoping the knickers were taken because they were on the drying rack and similarly close to hand. I'm telling myself it's of no import that they were by far my fanciest pair. For obvious reasons, I'm loath to see the knickers theft as what my best friend is calling "the sexual element to the crime".

Likewise, I'm sure my laptop was stolen because it was light and portable, and easy to flog, not because there's anything on there anyone would want. All I've got on my hard drive are three years of Herald columns and 200 pictures of Chanel pret a porter Spring/Summer 2009.

This isn't a Watergate scenario and I'm hardly Valerie Plame. That said, it's a creepy sort of theft. Two items that are undeniably personal, for different reasons, and of little use to anyone but myself.

The computer is a beast of a thing, outmoded when I bought it in 2008, a relic of the time when you were lucky to get a laptop that would fit in the back of your car. It takes about two hours to boot up and you can't actually put it on your lap because within 20 minutes, it heats up to the point where it burns your knees.

As to the resale value of the underwear, the mind boggles. I have no idea who'd pay money for a pair of those.

So having ruled out the accumulation of riches, industrial espionage and right-wing conspiracy as key motivators, I'm left with opportunism as the motive. The same spirit of opportunism that inspired Allen Pace.

But breaking into my apartment wasn't as hard as the Dunbar heist as I hadn't locked my front door. It has been gently suggested to me since that door-locking is a habit I may want to cultivate.

For the sake of my underwear drawer at least, I'm game to give it a go.