SIXTEEN
Seb stepped toward the door and into his perfect green wellingtons, shrugged into his perfect slick coat, clicked the remote that automatically put all of his equipment on stand-by and into secure mode. He stepped out and the shed door swung shut, the automatic locks whirred and clicked perfectly behind him. He strode surefooted down the path which, in the pouring rain, offered an attractive reflective sheen from the porch light, and he was soon in the rear hallway of Sexton House, shaking himself down.
He could hear his Mum’s high-pitched voice in the kitchen, arguing with the policemen. He hung up his coat, lined up his Wellingtons along with all the other shoes and boots that were crooked, straightened the coats, slipped his Sexton House slippers on, and went to the kitchen. G
