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A sharp tapping sound to his left spooked him. Summers glanced around, strained his eyes but it was too dark to see anything.
Quickly, he reached into his left side jacket pocket and pulled out his house keys. Once inside with the door locked, he’d feel better. Although why, he wasn’t sure. Whoever had smashed his window could still be in there.
Glancing around the house, he noticed the place was in darkness. That could work to his advantage if he had an intruder. At least he knew his own house.
Quickly rushing in, he turned and locked the front door and immediately switched on the light. Apart from the mess that the planter had caused – soil, glass and the like – nothing else was out of place.
Summers took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing, he switched on another light. Nothing untoward.
He crept over to his bedroom and opened the door carefully. With the light on, he studied the room. All clear. He reached up to a wardrobe and pulled a suitcase down and onto the bed. Rifling through drawers and cupboards made him feel like a burglar.
He slipped into the en-suite bathroom and collected everything he thought he might need for a few days.
As he stood by the bed, he strained his ears, but the house was quiet. He hadn’t yet come across anything missing so, what the hell had happened at the front of the house, he had no idea.
A sudden thought hit him. Although the police may have gone through the place, he could pretty much guarantee they wouldn’t have found everything capable of incriminating him. He had two separate safes hidden within the ground floor of the house that he needed to check on.
Summers dropped his toiletries on the bed and left the room, taking the staircase to the ground floor.
He ran down the passage to the back of the house, to his study.
As soon as he opened the door, he stopped dead in his tracks, shocked. Why was the study the only room in the house with the lights on?
He peered around the room. Everything was in order. He crept forward very slowly, glancing into every corner. As he reached his desk, he bent down, slowly circling the piece of furniture. There was no one squashed into the gap behind, where he normally sat.
He turned and faced the door in the corner – the one that led into the library. Creeping slowly forward, he picked up a letter opener from the desk. It wasn’t much but it might come in handy.
As he opened the door, he had his second shock. The coat of arms was at an odd angle and the panel was open, allowing access to the film studio.
Summers was sweating profusely, his breathing heavier. His stomach rumbled and he considered himself lucky there was nothing in it, otherwise he couldn’t guarantee how long it would stay there.
Studying the library, he realized it would be impossible for anyone to hide. He had no alternative but to take the steps down into the film studio, meaning any element of surprise was now gone.
He could always turn and flee. But it would all depend on who was waiting for him. If it was that lunatic Irishman who tried to kill him at the police station, Summers would be wasting his time. He couldn’t outrun him in a month of Sundays.
No, he wouldn’t do that. It was his house and it was up to him to check and see what was happening.
He strolled to the edge of the stairs. Staring down, he could see the lights were on.
“If there’s anyone down there you’d better come out now.”
There was no reply.
“I’m armed,” shouted Summers. “The police are on their way.”
The silence was deafening.
He descended the steps, the paper opener held out at arm’s length, his other arm on the banister to steady himself.
It seemed like hours before he reached the bottom. When he did, he received his third and near fatal shock.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Chapter Seventy-nine
The surface of the table was covered with paper. Reilly and Malcolm were standing, bent forward, reading passages. Chris was still in his room.
Gardener glanced at Reilly, pleased with Colin Sharp’s dedication, disappointed by his own lack of perception.
