feel a little bit better.
But upstairs called to her. Whoever the other person in the house was, they seemed to have forsaken
the first floor to go up. Which led Jazz to believe that they knew something she did not.
She climbed the stairs quickly and quietly. The open landing at the top had one door at the end, which
was closed, and beside this another, smaller staircase led up to the third floor. To her right, a corridor
branched away, lit by open doors.
She peered around the corner, counting two doors on each side and another corridor at right angles at
the end. Many places to hide, and many places from which the other intruder could emerge and surprise
her.
She fingered the knife again. Considered opening it. Decided against it. If it was a man and he turned
aggressive, her mum had told her often enough what to do. A swift kick to the balls, love, and then a
knee in the face when they double up in pain. A blokes life is led by what's between his legs, so it
follows that it'll hurt the most.
And if it was a woman... ? Then perhaps they could share notes.
Jazz glanced once more at the closed door at the end of the landing. She went to it, put her ear
against the wood, then pressed the handle. The door clicked open and she peered through. A clean, spartan
bedroom: one bed and a chair, a small window, and little else. She left the door open slightly and turned
back to the corridor leading deeper into the house.
She feared creaking floorboards, yet found none. Though the outside presented a different picture,
the inside of this house was well kept. It was old, yes, but it reeked of care and of money well spent. The
wallpaper in this corridor probably cost more per roll than some people earned in a month. She could almost
smell the money seeping from walls and rising from expensive carpets. And that made her think: What can
you steal from someone who has so much, to make it really hurt?
Jazz would return to the United Kingdom with a back-pack filled with stuff to sell. But she would
also find some-thing special. A trophy, something priceless beyond money. She knew that it would be here,
and she was confident it could be found.
There were picture frames lining the walls, photographs of people and places that must be personal
to the owner. She paused to look at a couple that showed Mort smiling on some exotic seafront. She
wondered who had taken the picture, and the thought of someone intimate in his life came as a shock.
Whoever it might be, would they know what he was? Would they understand?
She moved on and paused beside the first two open doors, directly opposite each other. The one on
the left smelled like a bathroom, damp from a recent shower and loaded with aftershave aromas. The door
on the right led into another bedroom, and as she edged a few more inches forward, she saw the messed-up
bed, open wardrobe, and clothes strewn across a chaise longue. There was a magazine open on the bed,
and even from here she could see the pale spread of naked flesh.
Charming.
The next two doors, standing half open, led into further bedrooms, both of them smart and well
presented but lack-ing any touches that indicated they were used. There was no sign of the intruder.
At the junction with the next corridor, Jazz paused and listened hard. She must be nearing the rear of
the house now, and every room she looked in, every corner she turned, took her closer to the other
intruder.
Unless they're upstairs! It was possible. But she could hear nothing —no footsteps, no flexing
floors, no doors creaking open or closed. Maybe whoever it was knew she was here and they were waiting
for her to pass by—or until she was close enough for them to attack.
For a crazy moment she considered calling out, asking who and where they were and telling them
she wasn't here to hurt them. But no thief was likely to share their loot with her, and giving away her
position would be madness.
Jazz glanced around the corner into the new corridor. It ran in both directions, finishing at both ends
with a large stained-glass window. Four doors were spaced evenly along the far wall, two in either leg of
the corridor. They were all closed.
More bedrooms? she wondered. That'll make eight, for a house occupied by one man and his
porno mags.
There were also more photographs on the walls here, a lot more, and as she turned the corner she
peered closely at
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