The House on Cold Hill

by James, Peter

  Ollie nodded and said nothing as he pushed his bike, shivering with shock as he passed the wreckage, and went in through the gates. But he knew.

  Knew that from the point where the Cadillac had passed him, to here, there was no turn-off.

  58

  Monday, 21 September

  Two alpacas trotted over through the misty gloom, as Ollie stopped again for a rest, halfway up the drive. He was feeling so exhausted that if he’d had his phone with him, he might have called Caro and asked her to come down and pick him and his bike up in the Range Rover. But in his haste he’d left it up in his study.

  He had a bug, clearly. He needed to go to bed when he got home. Maybe he should have gone to bed over the weekend to shake it off.

  He was feeling sick and feverish. Images of two crushed bodies, bleeding, maybe some of their internal organs exposed, went round in his mind. Friendly, caring Roland Fortinbrass. Crushed. The Minister of Deliverance whom he had not met. Crushed.

  TWEEDLEDUM AND TWEEDLEDEE ARE ON THEIR WAY!

  THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK. THEY’RE DEAD. YOU ALL ARE.

  The house loomed ahead in the starless darkness. He could see the yellow glow of the hall light, and the one up in his office. Drenched in perspiration, he wheeled his bike, treading carefully in the darkness, round to the back of the house. There were more lights on here – the atrium and the kitchen, their bedroom and Jade’s room. In the weak glow from the windows he put the bike back in the shed, then went into the atrium.

  ‘Hi, darling!’ he called out.

  Then he saw the two suitcases in the hall, by the front door.

  ‘Caro?’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m up here,’ she shouted back.

  He climbed the stairs and went along into their bedroom. Two more large suitcases lay on the floor. She was folding clothes into one of them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

  ‘I tried to get hold of you, you weren’t answering your phone.’

  ‘I left it up in my office.’

  ‘The old lady from Garden Cottage called me. She told me about the accident – the vicar’s car. She said there are two people in it. I think we both know who they are, don’t we?’

  She turned to face him.

  He walked over to her and put his arms round her. ‘We’re going to get through this, darling.’

  ‘We’re leaving. Now. Jade, you, me, Bombay and Sapphire. We’re not staying another night here.’

  ‘I don’t feel well, I need to go to bed.’

  Breaking gently away from his arms, she walked over to the bed and put her hand on it. ‘You’re going to sleep in this? Touch it, Ollie. Touch it!’

  He followed her and touched the counterpane. It was sopping wet. He touched the top pillow and it was sodden.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Look at the walls,’ she said, pointing with her finger.

  They were glistening with moisture.

  ‘We could sleep in the drawing room again.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘All the bedding is sopping wet. Jade’s room is the same. We don’t even have a dry towel in the house. We need to leave, now.’

  She closed up her suitcase. ‘Get packing. Just take whatever you need for tomorrow. Mum and Dad are expecting us, she’s making some supper.’

  ‘Caro, this is—’

  ‘This is what, Oliver?’

  His head was swimming. ‘Darling – OK – give me an hour, I’ve got to get some stuff together up in my office.’

  ‘No, we’re going now. I’m taking Jade and the cats. You come on when you’re ready. I’ll make sure we keep some supper for you.’

  There was no point arguing. ‘OK,’ he said, thinking about the news report he had heard earlier today on his way back from Cholmondley’s showroom. ‘Take the Range Rover, will you?’

  ‘I don’t like driving it, you know I don’t, it’s too big for me.’

  He held her again in his arms and tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away. ‘Please, tonight, take it. I’ll bring the Golf.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ He hesitated, not wanting to tell her what he had heard on the radio. ‘You can get all the stuff in there more easily.’

  She shrugged. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand loading it.’

  ‘No, get on with your packing. Jade’ll help me. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ he said, reluctantly.

  He lugged her suitcase down into the hall and placed it by the front door with the other cases. As he turned round he saw his daughter coming towards him holding the two cat baskets.

  ‘OK, my lovely?’

  ‘Are we coming back soon, Dad?’

  ‘Soon.’ He kissed her, then climbed back up the stairs. He stopped on the landing to get his breath back, feeling giddy and as if he was about to throw up. He took several deep breaths, then carried on up the tower stairs and into his office.

  He walked over to his desk and sat down in his swivel chair in front of his computer, completely exhausted and half-expecting to see another message on the screen.

  But there was nothing.

  He closed his eyes. It felt like a steel band was tightening round his chest. He sat there for several minutes, dozing fitfully.

  A ping from his phone startled him.

  Down below, he heard the crunch of tyres on gravel, and the sound of a car receding.

  He dozed again for a few moments. There was second ping.

  Only half aware, he reached forward for his iPhone, picked it up and looked at the display. There was a message from Caro.

  Range Rover has a flat battery. Have taken Golf. Call RAC and then join us as soon as you can. Love you. X

  ‘Noooooooooooooo!’ he yelled, jumping up from his chair with his phone in his hand, and throwing himself down the stairs, along the landing, down into the hall and to the front door. He raced out on to the driveway. ‘Caro!’ he shouted. ‘Caro!’

  The Range Rover sat there, dark and silent. Red tail lights were moving away from him, disappearing down the drive, over the brow of the hill.

  ‘Caro!’ he screamed. ‘Caro!’ He ran after her, breaking into a sprint, the tail lights receding further and further into the distance.

  The police would stop her at the bottom, he thought. The accident. The road would still be closed. They wouldn’t let her pass. Oh God, please don’t!

  As he ran on down past the field of alpacas he lost sight of the lights. Still he kept going, his chest tight, the steel grip tightening, tightening, tightening. The pain was excruciating.

  It worsened.

  Worsened.

  Like daggers pushing into his chest and then twisting. He could not breathe.

  Then, all at once, he felt unseen hands pulling him backwards.

  ‘Noooo! Lemmego!’

  It felt as if he was running against an ever-tightening elastic band. Running, fighting for breath.

  ‘Lemmego!’

  The faster he ran, the more the band hardened, tightened. The more the daggers twisted.

  And suddenly he was treading air as if he was treading water.

  The pain stopped.

  He was being dragged backwards.

  ‘Nooooooooo!’

  He was pedalling air. Floating. Rising skywards.

  ‘Noooooooo! Caro! Caro! Caro!’

  Something was pulling him back towards the house. Faster and faster. Accelerating. Accelerating.

  He saw the silent Range Rover right below him. He was going to be smashed to pulp against the front of the house.

  Then, suddenly, he was in the kitchen. Everything was calm. All the pain around his chest was gone. Caro and Jade were seated at the table looking at him, and smiling. They were bathed in shimmering green light, as if a powerful lamp was shining behind each of them.

  ‘Darling!’ Caro said.

  ‘Dad, epic!’ Jade greeted him.

  ‘Welcome home!’ Caro said.

  Jade nodded, enthus
iastically.

  The television on the wall was switched on. There was an aerial shot of emergency vehicles. A lorry at a skewed angle on a country road he recognized as being on the way to Caro’s parents. The remnants of a Volkswagen Golf lay on its side a short distance away.

  ‘See!’ Caro said, happily. ‘That’s us! The dead have no more fears! We’re in a good place now, aren’t we, Ols?’

  ‘We can stay here forever now, can’t we, Dad?’ Jade said.

  As he looked at them both, they began to fade, the light behind each of them dimming.

  ‘Come back! Come back!’ he cried out.

  His own voice was becoming weaker.

  Then a stranger, a smartly dressed man in his late thirties, with slicked-back fair hair, wearing a grey suit with loud socks and buckled loafers, came into the kitchen, holding a clipboard with a notepad on it, a digital measurer and a camera.

  He took several photographs from different angles.

  ‘Excuse me, who are you?’ Ollie asked.

  The man ignored him, as if he had not seen him. He began to ping a laser off the walls, measuring the width and length of the room, jotting them down on his pad.

  ‘Hello?’ Ollie said. ‘Excuse me, hello?’

  The man moved on, without responding, through into the scullery.

  59

  Wednesday, 21 September 2016

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

  Connor, sitting on the rear seat next to his sister in the Porsche Cayenne hybrid that was loaded to the gunwales with their possessions, had been driving both his parents nuts all the way down from London.

  ‘Just a few minutes now.’

  Why the hell couldn’t his son be quiet, like his sister, Seb wondered? Leonora was sitting next to Connor with her headphones on, absorbed in the movie playing on the screen set into the rear headrests.

  Nicola glanced at the satnav and turned to Connor. ‘Five minutes, darling!’

  They passed a sign saying Cold Hill – please drive slowly, then moments later the car, gliding fast and silently on electrical power, almost took off over a humpback bridge.

  ‘Whoops!’ Seb said.

  ‘Slow down, darling,’ Nicola cautioned him.

  ‘Dad!’ Leonora chided.

  ‘Can we do that again, Dad?’ Connor asked, excitedly. ‘Can we, can we?’

  It was a fine, late summer day. The roads from London had been clear all the way and they’d made good time. Seb was excited. He’d been a townie all his life, as had Nicola, but moving to the country had always been his dream. Now the takeover, by an American bank, of the wealth management company he’d been employed by for the past ten years had given him a massive windfall on his share options, enabling them to afford this country pile a few miles north of Brighton.

  He shot a glance in the mirror and saw his son’s excited face. ‘This is where we’re going to be living, Connor. We’ll have tons of opportunities to do that bridge again!’

  ‘Yeahhh! Coolio!’

  ‘Coolio!’ Seb replied.

  He had never felt so happy in all his life. They were now minutes away from their new life.

  It was going to be incredible!

  Cold Hill House.

  They’d already had the headed notepaper printed. Cold Hill House.

  Not bad for a state-school-educated chap, whose dad had been a London postman. Not a bad achievement for a man who had not yet reached his fortieth birthday. Not bad at all, he thought, the grin on his face growing wider by the second.

  They drove past a Norman church on their right, with an ornate wooden lychgate, a row of terraced Victorian artisan cottages, then the poshed-up gastropub, Bistrot Tarquin, where, just two months ago, he and Nicola had lunched on Oysters Rockefeller followed by grilled lobster, washed down with a rather fine Pouilly-Fuissé, and made the decision to offer on the house.

  They passed a building with a sign, YE OLDE TEA SHOPPE. The road wound steeply uphill, past detached houses and bungalows of various sizes on either side.

  The satnav read: 150 yards to destination. An arrow indicated right.

  Seb slowed the car down and flicked the right-turn indicator. ‘Here we are!’

  On their right, opposite a red postbox, were two stone pillars, topped with savage-looking ornamental wyverns, and with open, rusted, wrought-iron gates. Below the large Richwards ‘Sold’ board, fixed to the right-hand gatepost, was a smart gold-on-black sign announcing: COLD HILL HOUSE.

  A minute later they crested the drive, and the house was directly in front of them. Seb’s heart did a little flip at the beauty of the location. ‘We’re here!’ he whooped with joy.

  Nicola, peering through the windscreen, said, ‘Who’s that in the house?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I saw some people – there’s a man, a woman and a young girl up there – in that window above the front door. The one with the Juliet balcony.’

  Seb slowed down and stared up to where she was pointing. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘I must have imagined it,’ she smiled.

  ‘It looks pretty spooky!’ Leonora shouted.

  ‘Maybe it’s full of ghosts!’ Connor shrieked. ‘Wooooo . . . wooooo!’

  Seb halted the car in front of the porch, and glanced at the house through the windscreen. ‘Just as soon as we get the planning permission through, we’re going to tear the whole place down and build our dream home here!’

  Nicola leaned over and kissed him.

  A moment later his phone pinged with an incoming text. He looked at the screen and saw the message on it.

  OVER MY DEAD BODY.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I owe an enormous debt of thanks to the Rance family – Matt, Emma and their daughter, Charlie – for allowing me to use the lovely and smart Charlie as the model for my character Jade Harcourt. She and her parents were massively generous in their help and advice and I could never have conjured such a personality out of thin air.

  In addition I’d like to thank others who helped so much with my research, including Gary, Rachel and (superstar!) Bailey Kenchington, Jim Banting, Richard Edmondson (Senior Partner, Woolley Bevis Diplock solicitors), Michael Maguire, Robin and Debbie Sheppard, Jason Tingley, and the Reverend Dominic Walker.

  I’m fortunate to have a terrific support group, whom we jokingly call Team James, who all provide vital feedback at various stages of the writing process. A massive thank you to Susan Ansell, Graham Bartlett, Martin and Jane Diplock, Anna-Lisa Hancock, Sarah Middle and Helen Shenston. To my agents Carole Blake, Julian Friedmann, Louise Brice, Melis Dagoglu, and to all the team at my UK publishers, Pan Macmillan – including Wayne Brookes, Geoff Duffield, Anna Bond, Sara Lloyd, Toby Watson, Stuart Dwyer, Charlotte Williams, Rob Cox, Fraser Crichton, and my wonderful publicists, Tony Mulliken, Sophie Ransom, Becky Short and Eve Wersocki of Midas.

  I need to single out three people above all others – former Detective Chief Superintendent David Gaylor, my model for Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, who has become my good friend and sometime-slave driver(!);my assistant, Linda Buckley, who has an endless capacity for hard work and helping free up my time for writing, as well as a brilliant eye for detail; and lastly, but also first – my beloved Lara, who is such a wise head and brilliant sounding board, and a constant pillar of support in every possible way. And of course no acknowledgements would be complete without a mention of our wonderful canine friends, Oscar, our Lab/Bull Mastiff/Parson Russell cross rescue dog and our recent arrival – our labradoodle puppy, very appropriately named, for this book, Spook!

  As ever, thank you, my wonderful readers! I always love to hear from you, either on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram, and your comments give me such constant encouragement.

  Peter James

  Sussex, England

  scary@pavilion.co.uk

  www.peterjames.com

  ( You can also sign up to my regular

  Newsletter – the link is on my website.)

  w
ww.facebook.com/peterjames.roygrace

  www.twitter.com/peterjamesuk

  www.instagram.com/peterjamesuk

  By Peter James

  The Roy Grace Series

  DEAD SIMPLE

  LOOKING GOOD DEAD

  NOT DEAD ENOUGH

  DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS

  DEAD TOMORROW

  DEAD LIKE YOU

  DEAD MAN’S GRIP

  NOT DEAD YET

  DEAD MAN’S TIME

  WANT YOU DEAD

  YOU ARE DEAD

  Other Novels

  DEAD LETTER DROP

  ATOM BOMB ANGEL

  BILLIONAIRE

  POSSESSION

  DREAMER

  SWEET HEART

  TWILIGHT

  PROPHECY

  ALCHEMIST

  HOST

  THE TRUTH

  DENIAL

  FAITH

  PERFECT PEOPLE

  THE HOUSE ON COLD HILL

  Short Story Collection

  A TWIST OF THE KNIFE

  Children’s Novel

  GETTING WIRED!

  Novella

  THE PERFECT MURDER

  First published 2015 by Macmillan

  This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-5592-5

  Copyright © Really Scary Books / Peter James 2015

  Jacket photograph © Shutterstock

  Design and art direction by Neil Lang

  Roy Grace®, Grace®, DS Grace® and DI Grace® are registered trademarks of Really Scary Books Limited.

  The right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Lyric excerpt from ‘Sunny Afternoon’ by The Kinks on this page written by Raymond Douglas Davies © Abkco Music Inc., Davray Music Ltd.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third party websites referred to in or on this book.