The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  THE SECRET OF COLD HILL

  PETER JAMES

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  Acknowledgments

  FOR ISOBEL DIXON,

  MY WONDERFUL AGENT

  1

  Saturday 20 October

  ‘There are, of course, no skeletons in this attic!’ the estate agent said with a wink, as she threw open the door with a flourish and ushered her clients into the loft space.

  ‘Wow!’ said Mike Diamond.

  ‘Wow!’ his wife Julie echoed.

  ‘It sure has the wow factor, wouldn’t you say, Mr and Mrs Diamond?’

  ‘It sure has,’ Mike replied.

  And it sure did.

  The young couple stared around in wonder as they entered the high-ceilinged room. Painted all in white, it covered almost the entire top-floor area of the brand-new house, and was flooded with light from gable windows at each end. The view to the north was across the long, newly turfed garden ending at the lake, the fields and the hill that rose beyond, and to the south across the partially completed housing estate and down to the village of Cold Hill, half a mile below them. There was a rich smell of fresh paint and timber.

  ‘I can tell you, this is a far superior property to the show house, which was sold in the first hour it was on sale. Far superior.’ The agent pointed out the four Sonos speakers and the voice-activated electric blinds, then showed them the equally teched-up en suite bathroom. ‘This would make a great master bedroom, or an office,’ she enthused. ‘It’s rare to find a room so well equipped, even in a modern home, you’d have to agree.’

  Mike and Julie looked at each other. He pulled a face and his wife grinned at the signal. This estate agent was already irritating them, and they’d only been in the house for a few minutes. An elegant woman in her thirties, with short, dark hair, power-dressed in a black suit, white blouse and court shoes, she marched in front of them, brandishing the particulars as if she was about to present them with a certificate. Future Owners Extraordinaire of Lake House, No. 47 Lakeview Drive!

  They followed her back down the spiral staircase to the first floor and along a short landing, where she opened another door with an equal flourish, onto a small bedroom. ‘This will make a great room for your baby,’ she said.

  Again, the couple shot another secret glance at each other. Mike frowning and Julie frowning back a What? Her pregnancy had only been confirmed yesterday by their doctor, and there was no possible way it could be showing yet.

  They followed the agent into two further small bedrooms – perfect spare rooms for guests, she enthused, or maybe one of them a den? Then into the master bedroom. ‘You’d have to admit, this is pretty much a wow room, too!’ She strode confidently across it, unlocked French windows and opened them onto a wide Juliet balcony.

  ‘Can you imagine, on a fine day like today, Mrs Diamond? The two of you sitting out here, having an early morning coffee, looking across the lake?’

  ‘It’s north-facing,’ Mike said. ‘So, no morning sunlight.’

  ‘Who wants morning sunlight in a bedroom?’ the agent said. ‘Not me! But of course, if that’s a concern, then you could make the upstairs space your bedroom.’ She gave them a conspiratorial look. ‘I tell you, if it was me – and I could afford a house this beautiful – I’d make that loft space my master bedroom. It would make anyone feel they were masters of the universe, just like you two truly are – I can tell!’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m so sorry, we’ll have to hurry, I have viewings of this place every twenty minutes today. It won’t be staying on the market for long, that’s for sure. Not with the shortage of quality new-build stock there is today, believe you me.’

  She hurried them through the downstairs: the open-plan kitchen and family room, stacked with smart-gadgets, including the memory fridge; the dining room; the small office; the spacious hall; and then the pièce de résistance – the large, luxuriously carpeted living room with a photochromic-glass conservatory at the rear, overlooking the wide lawn running down to the lake. ‘Of course, it would be easy to fence off the lawn part way down, to make it safe for your baby.’

  The Diamonds looked at each other. How does she know about the baby?

  Then, profusely apologetic, she ushered them to the front door. Her next clients were due any moment. If they wished to make an offer, she most strongly advised them to do it sooner rather than later. This was the first day of viewings and this property, priced to sell, would not be hanging around on the market for long.

  As she opened the door she said, ‘Mr and Mrs Diamond, I can so see you living here – in your forever home! And your baby son – what a wonderful environment for him to grow up in. But please, I urge you, don’t think about it for too long.’

  As they stepped out into the bright, mid-morning sunlight, and the front door closed behind them, Mike and Julie Diamond stood on the path, with the newly turfed lawn on either side, as a car came along the road. They looked at each other. The same look.

  What the fuck?

  Our ‘son’?

  A Mini emblazoned with the logo of RICHWARDS ESTATE AGENTS pulled up behind their parked Mercedes. A tubby, smiling man in his forties, in a flamboyant suit, clambered out and hurried across to them, holding a bunch of keys like a gaoler.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Diamond?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mike said, hesitantly.

  ‘Paul Jordan, I do apologize for being late – I had a viewing of another property that ran over.’ He shook hands with each of them, once again apologizing profusely. ‘You are going to love this house, I promise you. It is really quite special. On the whole of the Cold Hill Park development, this is my very favourite, by a country mile.’

  As he rummaged through his keys, Julie Diamond said, ‘Yes, it is very lovely.’

  ‘Wait until you view the inside! And let me show you the technology – wow!’

  ‘We’ve actually just seen it,’ Mike Diamond said.

  Jordan looked at both of them, puzzled. ‘Seen it?’

  ‘Your colleague just showed us around.’

  ‘Colleague?’

  ‘Yes.’


  The agent frowned. ‘I’m sorry – we are the sole agents for this development, and none of my associates are here today.’ He looked hesitant. ‘Someone showed you around?’

  ‘Yes,’ Julie replied. ‘A lady, she said she had viewings back to back all day and could only allocate twenty minutes to us.’

  ‘It isn’t possible,’ Jordan said. ‘I – I don’t understand. What was her name?’

  The couple looked at each other, then Mike shrugged. ‘Well, she didn’t give us her name. To be honest, she was a bit odd.’

  ‘Can you excuse me?’ Jordan asked. ‘Please, just a couple of minutes?’

  Reluctantly, the couple nodded.

  He let himself into the house, walked through the hallway and called out, ‘Hello! Hello! It’s Paul Jordan – hello!’

  He went into each of the downstairs rooms, then up to the first floor, checking each of the rooms there. Then up to the loft, being sure to check the bathroom.

  There was no one.

  Frowning, he hurried back downstairs and out the front door. And caught a glimpse of the Diamonds’ Mercedes, already several hundred yards away.

  2

  Saturday 27 October

  ‘I love it!’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No!’ he said, beaming. ‘I don’t love it – I FUCKING love it!’

  Standing in the huge loft, with autumn sunlight streaming in through the south-facing window, Jason put his arm around his wife and hugged her. ‘I abso-fucking-lutely love it!’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my husband’s language!’ Emily said to the estate agent.

  ‘Oh, please, Mrs Danes,’ Paul Jordan beamed. ‘Artistic licence with language is permitted, for such a famous artist as your husband!’

  ‘I’m hardly famous, but thank you,’ Jason Danes replied.

  ‘Oh, I would question your modesty, Mr Danes. I took the liberty of looking you up on Wikipedia, and imagine my excitement when I realized I have one of your oil paintings hanging in our living room – a wonderful picture of an old man in an armchair with a spaniel at his feet. So full of charm. My wife bought it for me for Christmas a couple of years ago, from a gallery in Lewes. In the Jordan household, you are indeed famous! And I’m quite certain that should you decide to buy this beautiful, unique home, one day there will be a blue plaque with your name on the wall outside.’

  ‘Not too soon, I hope,’ Jason Danes replied. ‘You have to be dead for that to happen.’

  Jordan smiled. ‘Well, don’t they say that death is always a good career move for an artist?’

  As if given a cue, the sunlight faded behind a cloud. The room darkened, and the expressions on the faces of Jordan’s two clients darkened with it. Their enthusiasm for the property suddenly seemed to be draining away.

  ‘Only joking!’ Jordan said quickly, trying to recover the situation.

  ‘Of course,’ the painter replied. ‘I’m only thirty-nine – I hope to have a few more years yet.’

  His wife, five years his junior, gave the agent an awkward smile.

  Neither of them, looking out at the views in turn, noticed the nervous glance the agent suddenly shot at the doorway.

  Jason stared out through the rear gable at the huge lake, and the sloping field beyond, and the soft round contour of the hill rising up steeply beyond that. He watched the ducks – mallards and Indian runners – on the lake. It was so tranquil. ‘I could work here, I know I could – it’s just, wow, so inspiring! Well, this view to the north is, anyway. It is north I’m looking at?’

  ‘Yes indeed, Mr Danes, and that is part of the South Downs National Park, so it can never be built on.’

  ‘Unlike the other directions?’

  The view to the south looked down at the brand-new houses directly opposite, and the rows of houses beyond, most of which were just shells still under construction. To the west was a vast, muddy site, on which there were bulldozers, diggers, men in yellow hard hats with theodolites, and marked-out plots. To the east was a huge empty and overgrown field.

  ‘I’ll show you the shape of the whole plan,’ the estate agent said, kneeling and unrolling a large map on the bare oak floor.

  It was headed, COLD HILL PARK DEVELOPMENT – PHASE 1, PHASE 2, PHASE 3.

  ‘The whole site comprises just over twenty-five acres, Mr and Mrs Danes. Now this, where we are, is part of phase one, which is, frankly, the most exclusive area, with the largest homes, the very best of which – and of which this house is the very best – have the lake and rural views. The position is, frankly, superlative – you see, phase one is built on the curtilage of the original mansion that was here: Cold Hill House. Whatever your views on aristocracy and gentry, you have to admit they all knew a thing or two about position and views. And all the infrastructure is already in place – the roads, drains, utilities and, of course, the all-important super-fast fibre broadband. The area to the west, which you can see, is phase two, which will be smaller buildings: townhouses, a few two-storey apartment buildings and some affordable housing.’

  ‘You mean council houses?’ Emily quizzed.

  Jordan looked a little awkward. ‘Well, in all but name, yes. But you’ll never even know they’re there, with their separate road network. And then to the east, that field, that will also be detached homes, very classy ones.’

  ‘How many residences in total will there be here?’ Jason Danes asked.

  ‘When phase three is completed, there will be one hundred and thirty altogether.’

  ‘So, this place will be a building site for the next two years?’

  ‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Danes, but honestly you’ll scarcely be affected. There’s very little phase one left, and of course the price of this house reflects the temporary inconvenience.’

  Jordan noticed the flicker of doubt between the couple and went on, hastily. ‘Let me show you a feature that is very rare in modern houses.’ He strode over to one window, unlocked it and pulled it up. ‘Genuine sash windows, in every room! A true Georgian feature. You see, this house has been designed almost as a miniature model of Cold Hill House, which once stood here. Sash windows, I tell you – no expense was spared by the builders on this beautiful home.’ He smiled. ‘For your catering business, Mrs Danes, I don’t think you’ll find a more magnificent kitchen on the market anywhere in Sussex.’

  ‘Let’s take another look at it,’ she said.

  ‘Please follow me,’ Jordan said, checking his watch, mindful that the Danes had already overrun their allotted thirty minutes and another couple would be arriving for a viewing shortly. But hell, they could wait. He had a good feeling about Mr and Mrs Danes. He could get them over the line.

  He rolled up the plan, tucked it under his arm, and led the way down the staircase to the first-floor landing. ‘Note how wonderfully light the house feels everywhere, from the clever use of mirrors.’

  Jason and Emily looked around, and he was right. Mirrors along the landing walls, and down in the hall, created both light and the illusion of even greater space. Entering the expansive kitchen, Jordan said, ‘It’s almost as if the architect designed this house with you two in mind. The kitchen perfect for your catering business; the attic a truly divine artist’s studio!’

  ‘It is perfect,’ Emily said, regaining her former enthusiasm as she strode around. ‘So much storage, and how rare to have a walk-in pantry!’

  ‘Not to mention the technology,’ Paul Jordan added. ‘All the houses on this development have this feature.’ He pointed at a small cylindrical device with a glowing green light, sitting on the kitchen unit. ‘All the switches and controls and taps throughout the house are voice-activated from that one command box – and its satellite units around the house. You each have to get it to learn your voices. Then anything you want – heating turning up or down, appliances switched on or off, curtains and blinds opened or closed – can be done by simply saying, for instance, “Command! Kitchen blinds down!”’

  T
here was a whirr. The kitchen darkened as blinds lowered over each window.

  Again, unnoticed by the couple, Jordan shot another wary glance around, before saying, ‘Command! Kitchen blinds up!’

  Immediately they rose, and light returned.

  ‘You can even open the fridge and freezer doors by voice command! So hygienic, never needing germ-infected hands to touch any switch or control.’

  ‘Presumably there’s a manual override?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He walked over and pressed a button. The command box light turned red. ‘Now everything is operated manually, or by remote controls.’

  ‘No one realizes quite how many germs are spread by hands,’ Jason Danes said, solemnly. ‘The average bowl of peanuts sitting on a pub bar counter contains twelve different traces of urine and five of human faeces.’

  Jordan blanched slightly. ‘I think I’ve just developed a peanut allergy!’ He rapidly changed the subject. ‘And of course you can set up your phones to operate anything in this house remotely – just a simple app – from wherever you are in the country, or indeed the world! You can even be lying on a beach in Greece and check the contents of your fridge if you like!’

  Emily opened the integral door to the double garage and utility room and went in, followed by her husband and the agent. The lights flickered on automatically. ‘I could make this into my catering kitchen. It would work, don’t you think, darling?’

  Jason nodded. ‘It could.’

  ‘It really could!’ she insisted. ‘I could get all the fridges, freezers and ovens I need into here.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jordan said, ‘some people – especially an artist of your calibre, Mr Danes – might prefer something old, quaint, historic. Rustic, perhaps? If you would rather view an Edwardian property, or Victorian or even Georgian – I do have some very attractive houses within your price range I could show you. But of course, along with their beauty, old and historic properties come with a raft of maintenance issues. Here, with a totally new build, you get the builder’s ten-year guarantee. Ten years maintenance-free! You don’t have to worry about draughts or leaks or doors sticking. When you buy new, you are buying worry-free.’

  ‘And germ-free,’ Jason Danes added.

  ‘Absolutely, quite right! Germ-free. Ah, yes, indeed, germs are of course not included in the purchase price – they are extra!’ Jordan chuckled, but his clients stared blankly at him.