Ben drove on another eight hundred yards, until the road curved out of sight of Abbott’s property, and parked the Alpina in a grassy layby. He popped the bonnet and quickly retrieved his Browning from its hiding place. If Anthony Abbott was still alive, Ben had every intention of keeping him that way for now. But Abbott wouldn’t know that, and the sight of the pistol would terrify him into cooperating any way Ben wanted. Wolf made do with the stiletto knife they’d taken from Alejandro Morales. One look at the slim, sharp little blade would likely frighten Abbott even more.

They left the car and made their way towards the house on foot. The spring sunshine was warm and the sky was blue. Wolf showed Ben the spot where he’d slipped over the property wall, shaded by a large oak whose droopy branches would hide them from view of the house as they dropped down the other side. They stalked inside the property, moving as fluidly and silently as ghosts. Ben held the pistol loosely at his side, scanning right and left as he went. There was no movement from the house. Not a sound except for the humming of bees among the nicely tended flower beds and the twittering of the birds in the trees. Skirting around an ivied corner of the house he could see a double-bay oak-framed carport with the doors open and a silver Lexus saloon parked in one of the bays, the other filled with garden clutter. The house itself showed no obvious signs of forced entry. An upstairs window was partially open, the sound of soft classical music faintly audible from inside. Someone was definitely home. Wolf nudged his arm, pointed up at the window and whispered, ‘That’s his study.’

Ben was wondering about the best way in when Wolf beckoned him around to a recessed side door framed with a climbing rose. Ben was good with locks. The security Yale on the door took him less than a minute to defeat, and then they were inside.

The time was exactly midday.

Chapter 30

Twenty minutes earlier

11.40 a.m.

Anthony Abbott was in his study at the top of the house, working at the desk with the door locked behind him and a nice Corelli violin sonata playing on his Pioneer. How wonderful to be alone and free again after his enforced baby-sitting tour of duty, courtesy of that bitch Debbie. Abbott had never really wanted kids, and often suspected that his darling wife had pumped them out purely to vex him – not to mention, as a sly means of screwing more cash out of him further down the line.