that would count down the
period he had to get inside, enter the code, and disable it. She'd have heard all that. She had been
concentrating on the handle, true, and the beaded sweat on her forehead attested to that. But she would
have heard Mort coming home.
Footsteps passed by outside, very soft, as though bare-foot. Mort always wore expensive shoes. She
remembered that of him; he'd prided himself on his appearance, and there was no way he'd have left the
house in anything other than exquisite dress.
Jazz had still not moved, for fear that the detector was active —but if it was, then whoever was out
there would have set it off. If Mort had returned, then he must have deacti-vated the alarm system without
her hearing. Remote control, perhaps?
If it wasn't Mort, then she had to see who was out there.
Wincing, preparing herself for the shriek of the alarm, Jazz stood and backed down a couple of
steps.
Nothing happened. She let out a sigh of relief, then a groan as pins and needles rushed into her leg.
Kneeling, she looked under the door, able to see right across the hallway. The dark-oak floor was highly
polished, broken up here and there with rugs, and across the hall stood at least two closed doors. She turned
and looked to the left, just in time to see a foot lift out of view onto the staircase. It had been wearing
soft-looking shoes, like a dancer's. And now it was gone.
Jazz's heart thumped. Who could it be? Maid? Cleaner? But no, not if Mort had set the alarm on his
way out.
She kept looking for a while, waiting for the foot's owner to come back down. But there was no
more movement.
Another thief? What were the chances of that? But right then it was all she could think of. There
would have been no reason for Mort to set the alarm if he knew there was going to be someone in the
house; therefore, he did not know. So whoever owned that soft-shoed foot was not supposed to be here.
Jazz took a deep breath and considered her options. She could turn around and leave, pick up the
others and go back down below, tell Harry that someone had beaten them to it. But that felt like failure, and
it also meant that she would have no more opportunity to find out about Mort, his relationship with the
mayor, and what it had to do with her and...
Mum. She shouldn't forget her mum. The owner of this house had been there when she was
murdered —not in the same room perhaps, but certainly in the same house. Maybe he'd heard her fighting,
heard her gurgling as her throat was slit and the air rushed from her lungs, blood spewed from her
arteries...
No, if Jazz left now, it was not only knowledge that would elude her. It was some measure of
revenge.
She held the door handle and gently turned it. When she felt the latch disengage, she opened the door
an inch and peered through the crack. The hallway was large, hung with several expensive-looking
paintings and adorned with four huge porcelain vases on their own metal stands. The porce-lain was
cracked and chipped in a couple of places, which meant that they were old and probably worth a lot.
She'd save them for on the way out.
The staircase was wide and it curved up and to the left. Banister and newel posts were ornately
carved from oak and polished to match the hall floor. The stairs ended with a wide landing that overlooked
the hall, and there was no one in sight. Whoever had climbed the stairs was busy exploring the second
floor.
He or she doesn't know I'm here, Jazz thought. Need to keep it that way. She slipped off her
trainers, tied the laces, and slung them around her neck. Her socks left sweaty imprints on the floor as she
walked across the hallway, but by the time she reached the stairs and looked back, they were already
fading away. Like a ghost's, she thought, and smiled.
She stood on the lower stair. The whole first floor was available to her to explore. There could be a
study down here, a drawing room, library, other places where she could find stuff worth taking and perhaps
something that would tell her more about Mort. She fingered the short folding knife in her pocket and looked
at the paintings, and the urge to destroy was great. She hoped that Mort loved this place, hoped that his
parents had handed all these nice things down to him, because she was going to ruin them. Petty and basic,
maybe, but it would make her
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