The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  ‘Bet you they have one of those fake, shiny ones!’

  ‘Ssshhhh! Keep your voice down, Jason!’

  ‘We could pretend we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and don’t do Christmas. Or, we could really piss them off and make an even bigger Santa’s grotto. How about a ten-foot high, fairy-lit, vibrating dildo for the front garden?’

  ‘You’re terrible!’

  ‘They’re bound to have a selection in here.’

  ‘Bound to!’

  14

  Saturday 15 December

  ‘Are you really sure it’s going to fit, darling?’ Emily asked.

  ‘If it’s too tall we’ll just have to lop a bit off the top.’

  ‘But the top’s pretty – we’re so stupid, we should have measured the height of the room.’

  There was a howling draught in the van, and the roar of the exhaust and the road, as they drove with the rear doors partially open and held by string, with the end of the Christmas tree poking out. Emily slowed, as the sign to Cold Hill loomed ahead in the bright sunlight.

  ‘I’m starving!’ Emily said.

  ‘Me too.’

  There was a tantalizing smell of curry from the warm samosas they’d bought in the garden centre for their lunch, along with provisions for the next week, a box of candles and a couple of powerful torches just in case of power cuts. Jason picked up the carrier bag at his feet. ‘Want a bite?’

  ‘No, let’s wait, we’ll be home in five minutes and we’ve got some nice salads to go with them.’

  ‘I was about to say we could bung the samosas in the microwave!’

  ‘Not funny. Shit, that voice last night,’ Emily said. ‘I can’t get it out of my head. I’m still really freaked by it. Then the microwave exploding.’

  ‘There has to be a rational explanation.’

  ‘Great, I’m still waiting for it. Do you have one?’

  ‘Hopefully the manufacturers will. I’ve never been totally comfortable with them – microwaves. I googled microwaves last night. They can explode if the wrong things are put in them.’

  ‘Like my rhubarb crumble?’ she said. ‘What kind of wrong thing is that?’

  ‘I don’t know – maybe you can’t put crumble in a microwave.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can! It’s fine to warm it up as I was doing.’

  She turned left off the main road onto a winding, narrow lane. They passed a sign saying COLD HILL – PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY THROUGH OUR VILLAGE, with 30 mph warning roundels, then swooped over a humpback bridge, the tree scraping alarmingly along the van floor.

  ‘Hey, slow down!’ Jason said, reaching an arm through the gap between the seats and grabbing the base of the tree.

  ‘Sorry!’

  There was a cricket pitch with a small pavilion to their left and a short distance on, a decrepit-looking Norman church on their right. It was set well back and perched high above the road.

  They passed through a corridor of terraced Victorian artisan cottages on both sides of the lane, a pretty-looking pub called the Crown, a smithy, a cute cottage with a white picket fence at the end of its immaculate garden and a sign reading BED & BREAKFAST – VACANCIES, and a shop: COLD HILL VILLAGE STORE. The lane then went steeply uphill, past detached houses and bungalows of varying sizes on either side.

  A tractor came thundering down towards them, a grizzled old man in the cab with a look of grim determination on his face, and making no sign of slowing down. Emily pulled the van hard over to the left, onto the verge, the wing mirror scraping along the hedgerow. ‘Thanks a million, mate!’ she called out.

  ‘Bloody lunatic!’ Jason said.

  She carried on a short distance up the hill. A red postbox, partially buried in a hedge, came up on their left, and a high, weathered stone wall on their right. She braked, indicating as they approached the entrance to the new estate, which was marked by two stone pillars topped with savage-looking ornamental wyverns, and open wrought-iron gates. Affixed to the wall to their right was huge blue board, reading:

  FOREST MILLS DEVELOPMENTS

  COLD HILL PARK, 2, 3, 4 & 5 BEDROOM HOUSES

  AND APARTMENTS.

  SALES AND MARKETING OPEN 7 DAYS, 9 A.M.–5 P.M.

  CONTACT RICHWARDS ESTATE AGENTS.

  PHASE 1 COMPLETING SHORTLY.

  They drove in, and ahead was a sapling-lined traffic island with a KEEP LEFT sign, dividing the incoming traffic from the exiting via a short dual carriageway, and which ended fifty yards on in a plethora of road signs: PARKVIEW WAY; COLD HILL CLOSE; THE AVENUE. Lakeview Drive was the first left.

  The brand-new road, with brick pavements and Victorian-style street lights, curved to the left past several partially completed detached houses with steel Heras fencing securing them, and no sign of anyone working on them. As the road curved right, the houses were finished, each with sale boards and details fixed close to their front doors.

  ‘Sort of weird being almost the first here,’ Emily said.

  ‘I rather like it,’ Jason replied. ‘Very atmospheric. I’m looking at all these houses, wondering what kind of lives the people who buy them will have.’ He changed into a strange, Mitteleuropean accent. ‘Zer might be veirdos; swingers; serial killers; it might be so dangerous to go out we vill have to lock all ze doors and stay inside vor effer!’

  ‘Yep, and they’ll be pointing at our house and saying, “Zat ist vere zer real veirdos lif!”’

  He shook his head. ‘Not after they see our neighbours’ Christmas decorations, they won’t. Then they’ll know vere zer true veirdos lif.’

  15

  Saturday 15 December

  ‘They’re coming!’ Jason said, standing out of sight, peering through the window. ‘And, oh shit, they’re bringing us a present – we don’t have anything for them.’

  ‘We can get them something, darling – it’s still a week to Christmas.’

  ‘Perhaps a nice garden gnome.’

  ‘Lovely. Then we’d have to look at the sodding thing all year round.’

  ‘Yep, bad idea, strike that one.’

  In between visitors, they had spent most of the afternoon decorating the tree they’d bought, and getting it to stand straight, as well as putting out their cards – most of which had arrived with postal redirects on the envelopes – and generally making the living room look Christmassy.

  The packing cases had gone, and the room looked tidier, the white sofas now with magenta cushions. They had set bowls of olives, nuts, vegetable crisps and mince pies they’d bought in the garden centre on the glass-topped teak coffee table, and placed bowls of Christmas-spiced pot pourri around the room. Flames were dancing in the grate. The room did actually feel really Christmassy, Jason thought.

  They stood together at the front door.

  ‘Hello!’ said Claudette Penze-Weedell, looking, as before, like she was on the first leg of an expedition to the Arctic.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ her husband said, making it sound like an apology, thrusting a wrapped bottle at Jason, while his wife handed a pot plant in wrapping paper to Emily.

  A few minutes later, with their neighbours seated on one sofa and Emily on the other, Jason came in with a bottle of Pol Roger. ‘Champagne?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, if you have any prosecco that would be lovely,’ Claudette said. ‘I do find it has so much more flavour than champagne.’

  ‘Champagne would be lovely,’ her husband said, giving his wife a stern frown. Then he smiled at his hosts. ‘As I don’t have to drive, ha ha, that would be very nice.’

  ‘Oh, of course, champagne, how lovely. It does give me indigestion, but very nice, thank you,’ his wife said.

  Avoiding catching Emily’s eye, Jason carefully popped the cork, filled all their glasses, then sat down next to his wife and said, ‘Cheers!’

  They all clinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers!’

  It was followed by an awkward moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Maurice Penze-Weedell munching on a b
eetroot crisp.

  ‘Such lovely decorations you have outside your house,’ Emily said, struggling to start a conversation.

  ‘Why, thank you,’ Claudette said in her exaggerated accent. She was wearing a dress sparkling with sequins.

  ‘What a beautiful dress!’ Emily said.

  ‘Cost a bloody fortune,’ her husband, in a dark suit and tie, grumbled.

  ‘Maurice!’ she chided, then looked at the tree. ‘How nice to see a real tree – it smells so – so—’

  ‘Christmassy,’ her husband helped her out.

  ‘Exactly!’

  There was another awkward moment of silence.

  ‘You see,’ Claudette went on, ‘Maurice is an accountant, so we have an artificial tree.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Jason, not seeing at all and trying to ignore the nudge under the table from Emily’s foot.

  ‘Well, much more practical,’ Emily said. ‘They don’t shed their needles.’

  ‘And it means you don’t have to buy a new one each year,’ Maurice added, smugly. ‘Christmas is quite expensive enough as it is.’

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ Emily turned to her husband. ‘Maybe something we should consider for the future.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ Jason replied. ‘Definitely something we should explore.’

  ‘I must say, it’s nice to have some neighbours,’ Maurice said. ‘Been a bit lonely these past weeks.’

  Claudette leaned forward and took an olive. After chewing it, she removed the stone from her mouth then held it, expectantly, wondering where to put it.

  Emily rushed to the kitchen to find a receptacle. Maurice took another crisp. Jason asked, ‘So, are you a Chartered Accountant?’

  ‘I’m a corporate one.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ he replied.

  Emily dashed back in and placed an empty bowl on the table. Placing her olive stone in it as precisely as if she were moving a chess piece, Claudette said, ‘Maurice has been the Chief Operating Officer of a very large insurance company – very large indeed.’

  As she spoke, she glimpsed a woman out in the hall walk past the doorway.

  ‘Ah,’ Jason said again. ‘Insurance.’ He wondered how long he could endure these people before he could escape upstairs and get on with painting. Although he hadn’t unpacked everything, he had now set up his easel and work materials.

  ‘Do you have children?’ Claudette asked.

  ‘No,’ Emily said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ah. Someone staying here?’

  Emily smiled. ‘No, just us.’

  ‘You don’t have a relative staying – an elderly relative?’ Maurice asked.

  Emily looked at him oddly. ‘No, no we don’t, we haven’t really had many visitors yet.’

  ‘Today is pretty much the first batch,’ Jason said.

  Maurice frowned then peered at the coffee table. ‘Is that your wedding album?’ he asked, leaning forward and peering at it more closely.

  ‘It is, yes.’

  Maurice put a handful of crisps into his mouth, picked it up and began thumbing through it. Looking for the woman whose face had been at the window. ‘Five years you’ve been married?’

  Annoyed at the idea of these people thumbing through their precious album with greasy fingers, Jason dashed to the kitchen.

  ‘Six in July,’ Emily replied.

  Jason came back in and placed a paper serviette in front of each of the Penze-Weedells.

  ‘Claudette and I, we’ve been married for thirty years – I’d have got less for murder!’ he said, bringing out the old joke again and glancing at his wife. She was not with them. She was staring at something across the room – very rude of her, he thought.

  ‘Thirty years? Wow!’ Jason said. ‘So, what made you move here?’

  ‘Well, we lived in Brighton for many years,’ he replied. ‘Very convenient for the kids. But once the last one left home we thought it would be nice to move out to the countryside. I guess that makes us UFBs.’

  Jason frowned. ‘UFBs?’

  ‘Up From Brightons!’ Maurice replied.

  Claudette shovelled a handful of nuts and crisps into her mouth all at the same time. As she spoke she spattered fragments of each as if her mouth was a shotgun. ‘Maurice and I are so happy you’ve moved in. I told him the moment I saw you, here come PLOs!’

  ‘PLOs?’ Emily queried, while Jason topped up their glasses, finishing the bottle and hoping not to have to open the second one of the three that he had been keeping for Christmas Day.

  ‘People Like One,’ Claudette replied. ‘Can you imagine how frightful it would be, on a closed environment like Cold Hill Park, to have difficult neighbours?’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ Emily replied.

  Jason nodded in agreement.

  Maurice nodded, thoughtfully.

  There was a stilted silence, relieved only by the sound of crunching from Claudette’s mouth.

  ‘So,’ Jason said, ‘how long have you both been in Sussex?’

  ‘All our lives,’ Claudette replied. ‘Both of us. Wouldn’t live anywhere else.’

  ‘I’m with you on that,’ Emily said.

  There was another long silence. Mrs Penze-Weedell ate more crisps, nuts and olives. Jason wondered again how long this ordeal was going to last.

  ‘Happy Christmas, everyone!’ Emily said, raising her glass.

  They all clinked. Then fell back into the same awkward silence.

  Emily broke it, addressing Maurice Penze-Weedell. ‘So how are you guys spending Christmas?’

  His wife answered for him. ‘We have our whole family with us this year. Fortunately, our house is very large. We like a family Christmas.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Emily said.

  ‘How nice,’ Jason added, and noticed, to his dismay, their glasses were already empty again. He opened a second bottle. And half an hour later, having finished the remainder of the bottle from last night as well, found himself having to open a third.

  ‘Have you met anyone else from Cold Hill Park yet?’ he asked them.

  ‘No, we haven’t. I don’t think there’s anyone else moved in yet.’

  ‘What about the house next door to you? The one opposite us – number thirty-four?’

  ‘That rather ghastly little house?’ Claudette said. ‘Mr P-W and I call it the Noddy House.’

  ‘Yes, that one.’

  ‘There’s nobody there,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine who would want to buy it.’

  ‘I’ve seen a family there,’ Jason said.

  ‘Probably viewing,’ Maurice said. ‘I must say it will be a lot jollier when the estate’s fully occupied.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that whoever has bought it can have absolutely no taste whatsoever,’ Claudette declared.

  It was nearly two hours later before the Penze-Weedells, having requested and been given a full tour of the house, put on their coats, making all kinds of appreciative comments and issuing invitations for Christmas morning drinks, New Year’s Day drinks and an insistence Emily and Jason come to dinner early in the New Year.

  As they watched the tipsy couple make their way across the road, Jason turned, quizzically, to his wife.

  She closed the front door. ‘Jesus! I didn’t think they were ever going to leave.’

  ‘But, darling, they are People Like One.’

  ‘Yeah, right. If I’m ever like either of them, take me out and shoot me.’

  ‘It’ll be too late – I’ll already have committed hara-kiri.’

  ‘They are just awful. I don’t ever want to endure another evening like that!’

  ‘Me neither; at least we can have some peace and quiet for a few hours.’

  As he said it, there was a loud bang upstairs.

  16

  Saturday 15 December

  Jason and Emily spun around.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  He ran out and up the stairs to the first floor and switched on the landing lights. The doors to their bedro
om, and all three of the spare rooms, were ajar. He frowned and checked each of the rooms, but could see nothing amiss.

  As he went back down, Emily was carrying glasses through to the kitchen. He followed her in and saw to his surprise that the green light was glowing on the command box, and the television was on: an advert showing a car racing up a twisting road.

  ‘I couldn’t see anything. Maybe it was a bird striking a window. Or something on the television.’

  She looked at the command box. ‘I thought we’d left that thing switched off?’

  ‘I’m sure we did.’ Testing it, he said, ‘Command, dim kitchen lights.’

  Instantly, they faded.

  Testing it further, he said, ‘Command, switch on induction hob ring four.’

  He heard a faint whirr from the electric hob.

  ‘Command, switch off induction hob. Brighten lights.

  The whirring sound ceased, and the lights brightened.

  ‘And turn our neighbours across the road into frogs,’ he muttered under his breath.

  Emily laughed. Then, more seriously, she asked, ‘Do we need it? Can’t we just throw the bloody thing away?’

  ‘I think it’s just a question of getting it sorted, Em. It could be really useful – I’ll read through the instructions tomorrow and see what’s what.’

  She nodded reluctantly, then pointed at the empty bowls. ‘That woman is like a sodding hoover. She shouldn’t be called Claudette; she should be called Dyson. I lost count of the number of times I refilled the olives, nuts and crisps.’

  ‘Three bottles, can you believe it? Our best champagne. Actually, more; almost four.’

  ‘Take the positive, my love,’ she said. ‘Look on it as an investment.’

  ‘Investment?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘In exactly what?’

  ‘Neighbourhood relations. OK – they are awful people. But until more people move into the estate, we need, at least, to get on with them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on, darling! How much have you drunk?’

  ‘Not enough. Shall I open another bottle?’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘We’ve a lot to do tomorrow, I’ve had quite enough. We need some food.’