“Hello, dear,” Ivy says, her face brightening when she sees me. “Come in and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
“Thanks,” I say, going in and shutting the door behind me. “I brought a tin of tuna for Winston.”
“Oh, bless you. He’ll like that, won’t you boy?” This question is asked of the cat, who rubs around her legs as she makes her way to the kitchen. I follow her, then stop at the door when I see Rob North lying on his back on the kitchen floor, head inside the cupboard under Ivy’s sink. There’s a large open toolbox next to his legs, his baseball cap resting on top of it.
Ivy must sense my hesitation because she waves me into the kitchen. “It’s all right, dear, he’s just fixing a leak under my sink. I reported it a week ago and he’s finally got around to doing something about it.” She emphasises the word “finally” and aims her words at Rob’s torso and legs.
“I’ve been busy,” he says, his voice muffled by the fact that his head is in the cupboard.
“Busy my backside,” Ivy retorts. She clicks the kettle on and waits, arms folded, for it to boil. As she does so, she scowls down at Rob.
I also look at him and see that where his T-shirt has ridden up, wicked-looking scars are visible on his stomach and sides. It looks like his body is covered in them.
I avert my gaze as he slides out from within the cupboard and gets to his feet. “All fixed,” he says to Ivy. He hasn’t acknowledged my presence here at all. When I finally look at him, I notice a long scar stretching from just above his temple to the back of his head. He sees me staring and fixes the baseball cap onto his head.
“Good,” Ivy says. “Next time, respond a bit earlier. I can’t have water leaking out from my cupboard. Winston was drinking it. What if it’s poisonous?”
He sighs. “It’s the same water that comes out of the tap.” He packs up his tools and hefts the toolbox before stepping past me and into the living room. He opens the front door and exits without another word.
“Bye then,” Ivy shouts after him. She turns to me, shaking her head. “That boy has no manners. No manners at all.”
“Do you know where he got those scars?” I ask as she fusses with the teapot and cups.
“What’s that, dear? Oh, yes, I think he must have got those from the accident.” She drops some teabags into the pot and adds water from the kettle.
“The accident?”
“The car accident.” She closes the lid on the pot and turns to face me. “Apparently, it was quite awful. The whole family was involved. It didn’t happen here, though. They were on holiday at the time.”
“That sounds terrible.”
She nods, then frowns, as if racking her brain for some information. “Were they in Spain? No, that’s where Fred and Wanda live now. Oh, I can’t remember, dear. I’m not very good with names and places.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. The fact that Ivy constantly calls me “dear” has already made me suspect that she can’t remember my name.
“Now you sit down and I’ll bring the tea,” she says.
I sit at the kitchen table and she brings the china tea set over and pours a drink for both of us. “Would you like a biscuit?” she asks.
“No, thank you, I really couldn’t. I’ve had enough cake and biscuits today to sink a battleship. I won’t be able to eat my dinner.”
She puts sugar and milk into her tea and stirs it thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about what I told you this morning,” she says. “About me not being able to get out. Now, I don’t want you thinking that I’m a helpless old lady stuck in this flat. I have my groceries delivered, and my newspaper every day. And my daughters visit me every now and then. I do all right. And when the weather’s nice, I go out in the garden.”
“I don’t think you’re helpless at all,” I assure her.
“Good.”
“Do you know where that door leads to? The one in the garden.”
Her eyebrows knit together for a moment as she considers this. “I don’t think it leads anywhere, dear. I suppose it was the original back door, back when the house was a single dwelling. Now that it’s been separated into flats, I can’t think where that door would lead to. There’s probably nothing behind it but a brick wall.”
I know that isn’t the case; someone stepped out of that door this morning and walked around the house to my car. But it’s obvious Ivy doesn’t know anything about it so I change the subject. “What are your daughters’ names?”
“Chloe and Laura,” she says. “They’re both married. Chloe has a son.” She thinks for a moment. “Sam. Yes, that’s it: Sam.”
“Does he visit you?”
Her eyes turn sad. “He’s been here once or twice but I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault. And you’re here keeping me company so don’t apologise for my daughters. You’re a much kinder person than they are; I knew that as soon as I met you.”
I feel a well of pity for Ivy and a tinge of dislike for her daughters. No matter how busy they are with their own lives, they should make time for their mother. She won’t be around forever and they’ve forgotten her already. Then I feel a stab of guilt when I remember that I haven’t called my parents back yet.
Changing the subject to something that won’t make Ivy feel down, I ask, “What do you like to watch on the telly?”
“This and that. Anything that keeps me amused. Oh, you just reminded me, it’s almost time for Neighbours.” She gets up and shuffles over to the sofa, picking up a remote from the side table as she sits down. She points it at the TV and flicks it as if it’s a wand as she presses the button to turn the telly on. “Are you going to watch it with me?” she asks as the theme music begins.
“Sure,” I say, joining her on the sofa. Winston jumps up and sits between us. As the programme goes on, I have no idea what’s happening or who the characters are but Ivy seems happy to have some company. Winston closes his eyes and settles down for a nap.
When the closing credits come on half an hour later, Ivy says, “It’s Home & Away next. Are you going to stay for that?”
“I think I should get back to my own flat,” I tell her. There’s something I want to do before Greg gets home.
Ivy looks disappointed but nods. “All right, dear. Mind how you go.”
I let myself out of her flat but instead of heading for the stairs, I go outside and walk around to the rear of the building. The snow has almost all gone now, melted away as if it were never here.
Starting at the corner of the house, I walk along the path to the mysterious door, counting my strides as I do so. Forty five.
Then I go back inside and count out the same number of strides along the hallway, beginning at the entrance door. That take me past Ivy’s and Rob’s doors, almost to the staircase. But not quite. I turn to my left, the direction of the rear of the house, and face a blank wall. Behind this wall is the room the back door leads to. Unless it’s been bricked up as Ivy suggested.
I put my ear close to the wall and rap on it three times with my knuckles. It sounds hollow. There’s a room back there that seemingly can only be reached by the black door that opens onto the garden.
It’s probably just where Rob keeps the lawnmower and gardening tools, I tell myself. But I know that’s unlikely; I’ve already seen the large shed at the bottom of the garden. Surely the garden tools are kept in there.
To satisfy my curiosity, I go back outside and wander down the garden, pretending I’m just having a look around. For all I know, Rob could be watching me from one of the windows in the house. “And speaking of windows,” I murmur to myself as my gaze travels up to the roof high above me, “there’s a window in the attic.” A small dormer window juts out from the roof like a dark eye staring down at me.
I turn away from the house and resume my walk along the lawn, pretending to inspect the trees and shrubs while I try to look at the shed out of the corner of my eye. A p
adlock secures the door but I can see in through the window.
I was right; there are tools in there, including a lawn mower. Whatever the room behind the back door is, it isn’t a storeroom for gardening equipment.
I go back inside and up to the second floor. As I pass beneath the large attic hatch, which Greg said tilted down like a ramp and might even have stairs built into it, I wonder if anyone ever lived up there. The dormer window suggests it could be a possibility. Maybe my imagined Mrs Rochester character isn’t so far from the truth after all.
Or maybe the hatch is wider and longer than usual simply so that large items of furniture can be stored in the attic.
See, there’s a simple explanation for everything.
I enter the flat and close the door before leaning back on it and taking stock of my new home.
The flat was supposed be perfect; close to the sea, in a lovely Victorian building, away from our past troubles. Nothing has changed; it still has all those things going for it and it is perfect. But something has changed in my outlook. Why am I looking for things that don’t seem right about the house?
So what if I don’t know what’s in the room behind the back door? It’s really nothing to do with me. I’m just being nosy.
So what if the landlord is rude? There are lots of rude people in the world. Judging by his behaviour in Ivy’s flat, Rob seems to want to ignore me and that’s fine by me.
So what if an unknown person walked out of that door and went to my car? Maybe they were just wondering why the Mini’s engine was running with no one inside.
I shouldn’t let these things bother me.
Yet they do.
When I worked as an investigative journalist, Greg said my mind was always in work mode, trying to unravel things and place them into a sensible pattern. I don’t like unknowns. As far as I’m concerned, mysteries should be solved, secrets uncovered.
According to Mum, my inquisitive mindset began right after Max died. Because I don’t know for sure, without a shadow of doubt, what happened. The police, the coroner, and my parents are satisfied that Max wandered away from our campsite and fell into a ravine but no one can say with any certainty if that is exactly what happened. What if someone took him from the campsite and left him to wander in the wilderness? What if someone pushed him to his death?
Unanswered questions. I can’t stand them.
Knowing that I’ll never know exactly what happened to my little brother, I decide to get a couple of hours of work done. If I can’t solve the mysteries of Northmoor House, maybe I can read how the ones in Falcon House turn out.
It’s almost an hour later, as I’m sitting at my desk, that I hear a noise above my head. At first, I’m sure I must be mistaken. The heroine in Falcon House is about to discover what her husband has hidden in the folly and I’ve been with her every step of the way as she creeps through the moonlit garden to the dark structure. The noise I heard is surely nothing more than the result of my overactive imagination, fuelled by the tense scene in the book.
But then I hear it again, soft footfalls above my head. Someone is in the attic, walking around up there but trying to be quiet.
Spinning my chair away from the desk and pushing myself out of it, I rush out of the flat and into the hallway, expecting the ramp to be down and for the mystery of the attic to be solved once and for all. Maybe I can get a look in there and satisfy my curiosity.
But the hatch is closed and locked, the silver padlock dangling from the hasp.
No, that can’t be right. I wasn’t hearing things. I know there’s someone up there.
I pivot back into the flat and stand stock still in the middle of the living room, listening. The footsteps are still moving about in the attic, the floorboards up there creaking under someone’s weight.
Outside, I hear a car crunching over the gravel. I go to the window and see Greg’s silver Honda pull into the space next to my Mini. He gets out and crosses to the door, briefcase in hand.
The ceiling continues creaking as someone passes over it.
When Greg appears at the doorway, he looks at me with a bemused expression on his face. “What are you up to?”
“Ssshh. Listen.” I point up at the ceiling.
Greg looks up and listens for a moment, then looks back at me and shrugs. “What am I listening to?”
“Someone’s in the attic,” I whisper.
This prompts a second shrug, a lengthier one this time, accompanied by arched eyebrows. “So?”
“What are they doing up there?”
“Hopefully checking for more leaks.”
“Look at the attic hatch.”
He leans out of the door and looks along the hallway. “It’s closed. And still locked.”
“So how is someone up there?”
“Kate, there’s probably another way up. I don’t see what the problem is. You weren’t like this last night when Rob was stomping around up there.”
“This is different,” I tell him. “Like you just said, Rob was stomping around last night. We knew he was up there fixing the leak. This time we don’t know what he’s doing up there. And he’s…creeping.”
Greg puts his briefcase down and closes the door to the hallway. “Creeping? Now you sound paranoid. He has a right to go into his own attic and creep or stomp as the mood takes him. He can even dance up there is he wants.” He laughs at his own attempt at humour.
“This isn’t funny.” I know that technically, Greg is right; Rob can go into the attic by whatever secret route he pleases. In fact, now that I think about it, we didn’t actually see him go up there last night so he might have used the same unseen access point he’s using now instead of the hatch in the hallway.
But remembering those furtive footsteps directly above my head is still making me feel creeped out, despite Greg’s logical assessment of the situation.
“See?” Greg says, “he’s gone now.”
I listen carefully, straining my ears to hear the slightest sound that would betray Rob’s presence in the space above our heads. There’s nothing. It’s gone quiet up there.
“Right,” Greg says. “I’m going to make some food. I’m starving. How does spaghetti sound?”
“Great,” I say, following him into the kitchen. “How was your first day?”
“It was good. The work is basically the same as I did in Manchester but now I’m doing it with a lot of new people. A few of them took me to lunch to welcome me into the fold.”
“I bet you loved that.” Greg loves meeting new people and being in their company. I’m sure his name is short for gregarious. I’m the opposite; I have a few close friends I can trust and that’s it. Quality over quantity.
“It was fun,” he says, retrieving the frying pan and a saucepan from the cupboard. “I think I’m going to like it there. My boss, Terry, seems to be a nice guy and the other managers are very friendly.”
I’m relieved to hear that. If Greg didn’t like his new job, I’d feel totally responsible. “I bought a bottle of wine to celebrate.”
“Great, I’ll put some into the bolognese as well.”
I lean against the kitchen table and watch him as he makes dinner. Even after being together for nine years—seven of them married—I love watching Greg cook. He becomes totally focused on the task at hand, precise in the way he adds ingredients to the pan, and I can sense an enthusiasm in him that comes from knowing he’s good at what he does and knowing the result will be mouth-wateringly delicious.
Soon, the kitchen is filled with the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and basil. The meat sizzles in the frying pan and the salted water for the pasta bubbles in the saucepan. I’m suddenly so hungry that I can barely wait for Greg to dish the meal out.
“Did you hear the news?” I ask him when we finally sit down at the table, the dishes of spaghetti and two glasses of red wine between us. “About Stella Coates?”
He nods. “Sounds like she finally flipped.”
“You make her sound like she ha
d mental issues.”
He takes a sip of wine. “Her actions made it obvious that she did, don’t they?”
“Greg, she thought Simon killed their child.”
“But he didn’t.” Before I can protest, he raises a hand and adds, “Not in any way that can be proven.”
“Just because it can’t be proven doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”
“In the eyes of the law it does. The only evidence was circumstantial. And now Stella is going to be spending the rest of her life in prison.”
I take a few bites of spaghetti and then say, “I think I should visit her.”
Greg looks at me incredulously. “What? Why?”
“I feel partly responsible. It was my story that blew everything up. Maybe if I hadn’t published it—”
“Kate, no. Listen to me. Publishing the story was a mistake, we all know that, but everything you wrote came out of Stella’s mouth. They were her words, not yours. You are in no way responsible for her murdering Simon.”
“I know that, it’s just—” I let my words trail off. I can’t explain how I feel. I spoke with Stella on lots of occasions after her son’s death. She was confused and distraught, seeking answers that might never be found. I tried to help her but only made things worse, both for herself and me. It felt like we were the only two people in the world who suspected there might be more to Danny’s death than the official verdict. Now that Stella’s in prison, how alone must she be feeling? I need to let her know that I haven’t abandoned her.
“I hope this isn’t some sort of guilt you’re feeling,” Greg says. “If you did anything wrong, then you more than paid for it by having to endure over a year’s worth of harassment. We both did.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no idea it was going to get ugly like that.”
“You have nothing to apologise for. You did what you thought was right at the time.” He takes another sip of wine and brightens. “Hey, we’re here now, in our new home. By the sea. I’d say things worked out all right in the end, wouldn’t you?”
I nod and spin my fork in my spaghetti, wrapping it with pasta.
The Red Ribbon Girls Page 5
