motion and heat detectors inside, panic alarms, trip-wire alarms perhaps, and
every one of them would be linked directly to the local police station. And, perhaps, to the homes of the
BMW men. Weighing those risks against breaking in when the mayor was up and about, there had been
little choice.
Terence reached the timber decking, vaulted the low fence, and lay along the conservatory's dwarf
wall. He stretched to look in through the open doors, signaling back that the coast was clear.
Harry and the kids let out a final roar, then their voices died out quickly as they left. Be safe, Jazz
thought. There were sirens wailing in the distance, but she knew that the United Kingdom was expert at
avoiding capture.
She broke cover first, dashing across the lawn and step-ping lightly through the open doors. No alarm
sounded, no shouts erupted, and no dogs barked.
Stevie was beside her then, crouched down low, and through the glass walls of the large
conservatory they saw Terence skirt around toward another door farther along the rear of the house.
"Take care," Stevie said. He gave her a quick smile that reminded her of how it used to be, and for a
second she wanted to reach out and touch him. But then he was gone, so light on his feet that she heard
nothing, just saw him dis-appear quickly into the house.
This was the most dangerous part of the operation. They hoped that the people around the cars
would be leav-ing now, instead of coming back inside. They suspected that the mayor's staff would be
relaxed, many of them preparing to go home for the day. Maybe the mayor himself was even having a
snooze after a hard day's campaign planning. But they could rely on nothing other than their own stealth and
talent to get them through the next half hour.
Jazz took a quick look around the conservatory and thought, We don't even know what the hell
we're looking for!
The battery, Terence had said. Something strange and out of place. Something unusual that
doesn't belong. You'll know it when you see it.
There were several huge pots in the conservatory, home to various exotic cacti, thorns long and
cruel. A bit of furni-ture, a table with a few empty cups and a spread of paper-work, nothing unusual.
Room by room, Jazz thought. So here we go.
She slipped into the huge kitchen. There were three doors in here, and she knew that Stevie must
have taken the one on the right. Jazz headed left, crouched low and listen-ing all the time for approaching
footsteps. The air smelled of old food. As she passed one work surface, she saw the detritus of a meal:
bread crumbs, meat scraps, shreds of browning salad. There were a few plates piled up beside the double
sink, and on an island unit in the center of the kitchen sat several full shopping bags.
She opened the first door she reached, still crouched down low. She winced as the hinges creaked,
stared through the narrow gap, squinted against the bad light. It was a walk-in larder, at least eight feet per
side. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with all manner of canned and bagged goods. The entire
rear wall was taken up by a wine rack, at least two-thirds of it filled with bottles. There were built-in
cupboards at floor level, all of them shut with padlocks.
Weird, Jazz thought. So what's in there? Posh food? She closed the door gently behind her and
switched on the light.
The cupboards were solid, and when she tapped the first door it sounded heavy. Metal lined with
wood laminate, per-haps? She jiggled the padlock, but the hasp and eye were bolted firmly into the door. If
she had a crowbar, perhaps she could pull it off, given time. But she had neither.
Last place to look, she thought. If we don't find it anywhere else...
She turned off the light, opened the door slowly, peeked out, and exited back into the kitchen.
The final door from the kitchen led along a short corri-dor to a large dining room. This was a grand
place, with a table that seated at least twenty being the only item of furni-ture. The walls were paneled with
dark wood from floor to ceiling, and a portrait held pride of place in each separate bay. At first Jazz thought
they would be pictures of the Blackwood Club and that the accusing eyes of her father would soon bear
down upon her. But then she recognized one of the paintings as the previous mayor of London, and from
the end wall Mayor Bromwell stared at her. She smiled and gave him the finger.
Jazz hurried through the dining
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