by Peter James
‘You mean exorcists?’
‘Yes. Do you know any?’
‘That doesn’t always work. Did you see that old film The Exorcist?’
‘Yes, a long time ago. I thought it was scary, but stupid.’
He looked down at his plate then up at her again. ‘In my view, Caro, the only thing that would be stupid would be to ignore what’s happening.’
Caro felt the vibration of her phone, which was on silent, signalling an incoming text. She pulled it out of her handbag and glanced at it.
The message said:
YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE MY HOUSE.
Then, moments later, it vanished.
31
Thursday, 17 September
Ollie had a hectic morning, dealing first with amendments to the Cholmondley website, followed by a lengthy Skype conversation with his new client, Anup Bhattacharya, on the content of his website. He was also pleased to see three new enquiries come in, following his visit to all the stands at the Goodwood Revival last weekend. In someway she was glad of the distractions of work, but he badly needed time to think.
At least with a blue sky and sunshine outside, the house felt more welcoming and normal than it had during the early hours of this morning. He’d called Caro a couple of times to see how she was, but only got her voicemail. He’d also called the previous vicar of Cold Hill, the Reverend Bob Manthorpe, and had left a message on his voicemail. Now, at 1.45 p.m., having just got off the incredibly long-winded conference call, he was hungry and went downstairs to grab himself some lunch.
The house was a hive of activity, which he was glad about. As he entered the kitchen he saw the head of the building firm, Bryan Barker, in discussion with his foreman, Chris.
Barker, in a lumberjack shirt, jeans and heavy-duty boots, was an affable, energetic man with a dense crop of silver hair and youthful good looks that belied his sixty-seven years.
‘Ah, Ollie,’ he said. ‘I was about to come up and see you. Chris is very worried about the cellar. There are two structural walls down there in extremely bad shape.’ He gestured to his foreman, a lean, pensive and pleasant-natured man in his thirties, to continue.
‘We’re going to have to hire a structural engineer, Mr Harcourt,’ the foreman said. ‘I think we need some Acrow props urgently. I’ll show you where I mean.’
Ollie followed them both down the brick steps into the cellar. Bryan Barker pointed to a large space which led through to the disused kitchen. There had clearly been a wall here at some point. ‘This is what we’re worried about.’
The foreman pointed up. ‘It looks to me as if the developers who were working here before they went bust, as I understand, had taken down a wall to open this space up. But the problem is, this is a main load-bearing wall.’ He then pointed at several large cracks in the ceiling. ‘I’m not at all happy about these,’ he said. ‘We’ve only discovered them since removing the plaster here. I don’t want to alarm you, and I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure these have widened in the last few days.’
‘If any of them went,’ Barker chipped in, ‘it could have a domino effect on all the floors above. It could literally bring down the entire house – this part of it, anyway. I think we should get an engineer out here quickly.’
‘How much would he cost?’ Ollie asked, gloomily, knowing that underpinning was unlikely to come cheap.
‘I think he’d come out for a site visit without charge. Then it would depend on how much work he has to do. I really don’t think you have any option.’
‘Why the hell didn’t the surveyor mention this in his report?’
‘He did.’
The foreman nodded, adding his confirmation too.
‘Shit, did I miss it?’ Yet another thing Ollie realized he had missed – or at least had misinterpreted. There was so much wrong that after a while his eyes had glazed over each time he’d reread the report. He and Caro, who had red-penned a copy of it, realized in the end they were going to have to take a view. Buying the house was a gamble – a massive gamble. They both knew it and they took the risk, thinking they could just do a small bit at a time, room by room. But it hadn’t occurred to him – and he was certain not to Caro either – that the place could actually be in real danger of falling down.
‘I don’t suppose we’ve any chance of getting any of this on insurance?’ Ollie asked.
‘Not a hope in hell, I shouldn’t think,’ Barker said.
The foreman shook his head.
‘OK,’ Ollie said. ‘You’d better do it.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Bryan, when you have a moment, could you come upstairs and take a look at something for me?’
‘Of course. Want to do it now?’
As Ollie led the way up to the attic bedroom, Barker suddenly asked him, ‘Were they relatives of yours or Caro’s who were here earlier?’
Ollie stopped and turned. ‘Relatives? Here earlier? Who do you mean?’
‘The couple with two small children.’
Ollie frowned. ‘Couple with two small children? I didn’t have any – visitors.’
‘About an hour ago. He had a big cigar. I thought he must know you pretty well to be smoking in your house!’
Cigar. Ollie was thinking back to last night. The middle of the night. The smell of cigar smoke in the room before the bed had rotated. Barker had seen something, he realized. But he didn’t want him getting spooked, and perhaps telling his workmen, and risk some of them leaving. Equally, he knew that Bryan Barker was no fool.
‘Oh, right, yes, Caro’s brother and his family popped in briefly to see her – so I gave them a quick tour,’ he lied. Then he carried on up the stairs to the attic and went in first. The clock radio still lay on the floor. Caro had stripped the bed – there was no way they were going to sleep in this room again, although he hadn’t yet figured out where they would sleep tonight. The spare beds they’d brought from Carlisle Road were all dismantled and stacked, at the moment, in the library. They would probably have to make do on the sofas. Barker had a full team working on the ceiling repair and was confident they’d be able to move back into their bedroom by tomorrow afternoon.
‘I’ve not been up here before,’ the builder said. ‘What a very pretty room. Reminds me of a little hotel in France where Jasmin and I stayed some years ago!’
‘That’s funny,’ Ollie said, grinning, but feeling very uncomfortable being back here, despite the bright daylight streaming through the window. ‘Caro and I said the same thing – it’s just like a place we stayed in a few years ago, near Limoges.’
‘Beautiful old bed – a real antique. Worth a few bob.’ Then Bryan Barker frowned. ‘A bit odd, though. I would have put it the other way, facing the window rather than the door.’
‘Actually,’ Ollie said, guardedly, ‘that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. How easy would it be to rotate it – a hundred and eighty degrees – without dismantling it?’
‘Rotate it a hundred and eighty degrees?’
‘Yes.’
Barker looked at the bed, around at the walls and up at the ceiling. Then he pulled an industrial-looking tape measure from his back pocket and measured the length, width and height of the bed. Next, he did the same for the room dimensions. When he had finished he did some mental calculations. After some moments he shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be possible, Ollie, not without taking it apart.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘How easy would it be to take it apart?’
Barker lifted one corner of the mattress and looked at the nut. ‘Doesn’t look like this has been touched in years.’ Then he checked around the entire bed, lifting each corner of the mattress in turn. When he had finished he said, ‘Well, it all comes apart. The easiest way would be to unscrew and reverse the headboard and the footer as they’re not welded to the frame.’
‘And if we actually wanted to rotate the entire bed?’
The builder gave him a puzzled look. ‘The legs would come off a
ll right, with a bit of effort, but that still leaves the frame.’ He thought for some moments, looking even more puzzled. ‘If we took all four legs off, then we could rotate the frame – but –’ he shook his head – ‘it’s just over two metres long. The room is just under two metres wide.’ He opened one of the cupboard doors and peered inside. Then he stepped back. ‘We’d have to chop out the cupboard doors and then remove all the shelves. The only way would be to remove the legs, then take the frame out of the room, down the stairs, turn it and bring it back up again. But why do you want to make it so complicated?’
‘There’s no way two people could rotate this bed, in this room, on their own and without tools?’
‘Not in a million years,’ Bryan Barker said. ‘If it’s not a personal question, why are you asking?’
Ollie smiled. ‘I’m not very good at spatial stuff. Caro and I had a bet about it last night.’
‘And you reckoned it could be done?’
He nodded.
‘Hope you didn’t put too much money on it. I need you to pay my bills!’
Ollie stared warily around the room, wondering silently, as he had been all morning. What had happened in here last night? What the hell had happened in here?
Then he patted the builder reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Relax, I didn’t bet the ranch.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
32
Thursday, 17 September
Twenty minutes later, after wolfing down a ham sandwich, and then a chocolate bar that he found in the fridge, Ollie walked back upstairs and along to the tower, momentarily preoccupied with thoughts about where he and Caro would sleep tonight.
The other spare rooms were in very poor condition, with rotten floorboards, peeling wallpaper, damp and black patches of mould. The big, extra-wide red sofas in the drawing room, which they’d bought some years ago and were great for lounging back in and watching television, seemed a lot more appealing.
That settled, his thoughts returned again to last night. He was still trying to find an explanation for what had happened. The only one so far, and it was a weak one, was that the bed had always been that way round and somehow they were mistaken in thinking otherwise. But he wasn’t convincing himself.
And just what the hell had Bryan Barker seen today? The O’Hare family? There had been four of them, according to the headstone in the graveyard. Two adults and two young children.
As he entered his office, his mobile phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the display.
‘Oliver Harcourt,’ he answered, warily.
The voice sounded elderly but richly sonorous, as if from someone long used to public speaking. ‘It’s Bob Manthorpe, you rang me earlier?’
The previous vicar of Cold Hill, Ollie realized. ‘Reverend Manthorpe, yes, thank you so much for calling back.’
‘Not at all, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, the thing is –’ Ollie stepped through the maze of packing cases and stacked files to his desk, and sat down – ‘my wife and I – we’ve just moved into a house called Cold Hill. I understand you were the vicar in the village some years ago?’
There was an extremely prolonged silence. Ollie wondered if they had been disconnected – or if the old man had hung up. Then he heard his voice. ‘Cold Hill House?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was being restored, I recall, a long time back. A very beautiful place indeed. Jolly good. Hope you’ll be very happy there.’
Ollie could detect the unease in his voice. ‘Thank you, we hope so too. I wanted to ask you a few things about your time here.’
‘Well, you know, I’ve been retired for some years. And these days my memory’s not what it was.’
‘Is there any chance we could meet? Just for a quick chat? It’s really quite important.’
‘Well, I suppose so.’ He sounded hesitant. ‘I’m free all afternoon today if you’re able to pop over?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Do you know Beddingham?’
‘Yes – just outside Lewes.’
‘I’m in a little cottage just off the roundabout at the bottom of Ranscombe Hill – the junction of the A26 and A27.’
Ollie did a quick calculation. It was about twenty to thirty minutes’ drive from here. He looked at his watch. It was 2.20 p.m. Normally he had to pick Jade up from school at 3.30, but she was staying on late today for a school orchestra practice and he’d agreed to collect her at 5.30. ‘I could be with you by three,’ he said.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Manthorpe said, then gave him a few more details on how to find the house.
Ollie went down to look for Bryan and Chris, and told them he was going out for a bit. Then he climbed into his car and headed out. Driving down the hill and into the village, although he knew it was ridiculous, he still found himself keeping an eye out for Harry Walters.
A short while later he headed down the A23 towards Brighton, then turned left at the roundabout at the bottom of Mill Hill, and up onto the A27, driving fast, thinking about all the questions he wanted to ask the retired vicar.
He passed the sprawling, tree-lined campus of Sussex University to his left, and glanced ruefully at the stunning superstructure of the Amex football stadium to his right. He’d been a season-ticket holder since it opened, but because of buying the house, and having to cut down on all expenses, he’d had to let that go for this new season. Hopefully, he’d be back before too long. He was already missing the Saturday afternoon gatherings there with his mates.
At the next roundabout he carried on along the Lewes bypass. A few minutes later he drove, on the dual carriageway, down a long hill, with sweeping views of Sussex farmland to the right and the gentle slopes of the South Downs and Firle Beacon in the far distance. Many of the fields, harvested now, were just yellow stubble, with rows of round bales. This was normally one of his favourite Sussex views, but today he was too distracted by his troubled thoughts to appreciate it.
At the roundabout at the bottom of the hill he followed the Reverend Manthorpe’s instructions, turning right almost immediately onto a slip road. He then made a left and pulled up behind an elderly people carrier parked outside a semi-detached Victorian cottage. A small rusted caravan that the retired vicar had told him to look for was propped up on bricks in the driveway.
He rang the doorbell, feeling nervous suddenly, wondering what reaction he was going to get. The old man had invited him over with considerable reluctance in his voice. A dog yapped inside. Moments later the door was opened by a tall man in jeans, battered slippers and a grey cardigan, holding a smouldering pipe in one hand. He had a mane of white hair that flopped over his face, which, although aged, showed that he must have once been strikingly handsome. He was stooped over, holding the collar of an excited Jack Russell in his free hand. ‘Shssshhhh, Jasper!’ he said commandingly to the dog. Then he smiled up at Ollie.
‘Mr Harcourt? Come on in!’
He stepped back, sideways, in the tiny hallway that reeked of tobacco smoke, and the dog jumped up against Ollie’s trouser leg, excitedly wagging its tail.
‘Down, Jasper!’
‘It’s OK, I like dogs,’ Ollie said. ‘He can probably smell our cats.’
‘He’s a little bugger, still trying to train him!’ Manthorpe said, closing the front door. ‘Come on through. Down! Down, Jasper!’
He led Ollie into a cramped, shabby but cosy sitting room, with several logs piled up in an unlit fireplace, a leather couch and two leather armchairs arranged around a wooden chest serving as a coffee table. A large glass ashtray, with a pile of ash, sat on it, and there was a copy of the Daily Telegraph and a local parish magazine beside it.
‘Hope you don’t mind this?’ Manthorpe held up his pipe.
‘Not at all, I love the smell, it reminds me of my grandfather!’
‘Cup of tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea would be great. Builder’s, please, just a touch of milk and no sugar.’
‘Plo
nk yourself down.’ Manthorpe indicated the sofa.
Ollie settled into it and the dog jumped up beside him and pushed his nose against him. He stroked the animal’s wiry coat while the vicar went out of the room, and looked around. He glanced at a photograph on the mantelpiece of a much younger Manthorpe, in a grey suit and dog collar, arm-in-arm with a pretty, serious-looking, dark-haired woman. On the wall were several framed watercolours of Sussex rural scenes, one very recognizable as the Seven Sisters.
‘My late wife,’ Manthorpe said, coming back into the room some minutes later with a tray on which were two steaming mugs and a plate of digestive biscuits. He set it down on top of the papers. ‘She was a jolly talented painter. Please help yourself.’
Then he sat in an armchair, lounged back, dug a box of matches out of his pocket and relit his pipe. Ollie found the smell of the curling blue smoke took him back to his childhood.
‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ he said.
‘Not at all. To tell you the truth, it’s nice to have company. I’ve been jolly lonely since my wife died.’ He looked at the dog. ‘He seems to have found a friend!’
‘He’s gorgeous,’ Ollie replied, continuing to stroke the animal and struggling to hold him back from his attempts to sniff his crutch.
‘So.’ Manthorpe laid his substantial frame right back in the chair, tilting his head at the ceiling, and drew hard on his pipe. ‘Cold Hill House?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite an undertaking, I would imagine.’
‘You could say that.’
‘You must have deep pockets.’
‘We’ve only been there a couple of weeks – I’m not sure my pockets are ever going to be deep enough. It’s a serious money pit.’
Manthorpe smiled. ‘Did you ever see that film?’
‘Which film?’
‘The Money Pit. Tom Hanks. It’s very funny.’ He hesitated. ‘But perhaps not to you. Might be a bit off-putting.’ He grinned. ‘So anyway, I don’t imagine you’ve come to touch me for a loan – what can I do for you? You said it was urgent.’ He sucked hard on his pipe again, then blew a perfect smoke ring which rose almost all the way to the ceiling before starting to lose its halo shape.
