Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Katie
Being back in London is unnerving, but it’s time I came home, especially after my last few weeks at Eden House. Who knew so much crime could be taking place under your nose, and you never realized?
It turned out the Edens were high profile art and antique thieves travelling the world and living a life of luxury on the proceeds. Not collectors, not eccentric millionaires—actual criminals.
The main house was packed full of stolen goods. The lower rooms were decorated like a normal house, but upstairs and the cellar were filled with contraband. All the movement of art and furniture I’d seen were gangs moving the goods to buyers on the black market or storing newly acquired stock.
On the first Saturday in June, Amy and I were sitting in the garden sipping tea and enjoying the summer sunshine.
I was due to be leaving the next day, as my house-sitting contract was finished and it was time for me to move on.
The dogs barked suddenly, and moments later three police cars tore up the drive, sirens screaming.
It was only Amy and me at the estate that day. Harold had been absent for a few days, and no other member of the ‘team’ came unless he was there. The officers approached with guns drawn, ordering us to put our hands in the air.
It felt like stepping onto a cop show, but the guns were real. Terror swept through me. One wrong move and someone could end your life with a click.
“Identify yourself,” the officer in charge barked.
“I’m Katie Clark, and this is my friend Amy Trodden,” I stammered.
“And your relationship to Jeffery Eden?”
“Um... I’m his house sitter. Amy’s my friend. She’s visiting.”
“You’re both going to need to come with us to answer some questions,” he practically growled. “Anyone else here?”
“No. Just us. I’ve not seen anyone for a few days. I only look after the cottage and animals.”
“We need access to the main house. Do you have a key?”
“Do you have a warrant? And ID?” The words came automatically, years of watching TV crime shows paying off. “I’ve never been in the house. Only Harold and his team go in there.”
He passed me a crumpled piece of paper that resembled what I thought a warrant should look like then flashed his badge. I retrieved the key from the box, thanking my lucky stars Harold had finally parted with the code a few weeks ago.
As Amy and I were being led to the police cars, a gunshot rang out from the trees behind the cottage. Four masked men burst out, firing at the police. One officer went down with a blood-curdling scream, clutching his leg. His colleagues ran to him. We ducked for cover, hearts pounding.
I enjoy writing stories, not being in one.
Harold then appeared from the woods, sprinting for the main house. Within minutes, smoke poured from the windows, and flames licked the glass. The orange glow gave the place an even eerier appearance than before.
Harold looked down from an upper window and smiled, an actual chilling smile, then, with a small wave, he vanished.
“Shit,” someone yelled, “they’re burning it all!”
While the officers ran to fight the fire, Harold’s expensive sports car shot out of the back drive and disappeared. He must have escaped through the kitchen door. I didn’t even know he was on the estate. The realization that he might have been watching me all this time turned my stomach.
Amy and I were taken to the station. During the interview, I told them what I knew—my restricted access, the regular security calls, the strange deliveries, but they learned nothing worthwhile.
When they accepted that this was the truth, they took us back to the cottage.
We immediately packed, then moved into a local hotel to get out of there. Staying on the estate felt dangerous.
A week later, the police confirmed we could leave. They had our details if they needed any more information.
So, Amy and I filled my battered old car full of our stuff and headed back to London. Another new beginning.