Текст книги "The House on Cold Hill"
Автор книги: Peter James
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
41
Saturday, 19 September
After he ended the call, Ollie returned to the deeds, trying to decipher the increasingly illegible handwriting as they went back in time, steadily adding more names to the list of past owners of Cold Hill House. But all the time his mind was focusing on what he could say to his two major clients to recover the situation. He would have just one shot with each of them. It was going to need to be good. And so far he was still at a loss about what to say.
If he blamed being hacked he knew, in his current mood, that Cholmondley would blame him for having insufficient firewalls. So would Bhattacharya.
Suddenly he heard the click of the door and spun round. He was becoming scared of his own shadow, he realized. Caro came in, dressed in jeans, cardigan, sleeveless puffa and designer trainers. ‘I’m going off to Waitrose in Burgess Hill. Anything you can think of that we need?’
He wondered whether to tell her to wait for the vicar. But then decided it might be better, initially, for him to chat to the man on his own. ‘I’ll have a think – I’ll text you.’
‘And anything you fancy for supper tonight?’
He pointed his finger at her. ‘You!’
It had been a sign of affection between them, in answer to that question, ever since they had been together. But instead of her usual grin in response, she gave him a wan smile.
‘We’ve got Phoebe with us tonight, and all day tomorrow, too, as well as Ruari for lunch.’
‘Avocado and prawns for sups, and some grilled fish if you see something nice and not crazy money in the wet fish department? What about the kids?’
‘Jade’s said she wants pizza. I’ll pick some up. And I have a very specific chocolate ice cream order from her, too. For lunch tomorrow I thought I’d do a roast. Jade says she doesn’t want lamb – she’s been looking at the sheep on the hill. Beef or pork or chicken?’
‘Maybe pork?’
She nodded. Then she walked over and put her arms round his neck. ‘What was that conversation with Cholmondley about, darling? If there’s a problem it’s better if you share it with me.’
Maybe he should tell her, he thought. But she looked so strung out as it was. The vicar was coming shortly and she would be out. He’d seemed a wise man. Perhaps he could talk everything through with him, quietly, on their own. Man to man.
‘Everything’s OK, darling. We need more eggs, and we’re getting low on milk.’
She nodded. ‘They’re on my list.’
Five minutes later he saw her Golf head off down the drive, and was feeling bad for not telling her the truth. He read again the two emails that had gone to Cholmondley and Bhattacharya.
What the hell could he say to them?
Was something in here, looking down at him, having a laugh?
He returned to the deeds, and twenty minutes later had completed his search through them. Eighteen people had owned Cold Hill House since it was built, in the 1750s. Next he googled death registry websites, and signed up to one, for a fourteen-day free trial, called DeadArchives.com/uk.
Then he began the laborious task of entering each name in turn, from the bottom up. The information he got back was scant. It gave him the name, address and date of birth and death of each person, though little else. But it was sufficient.
He worked feverishly, speeding up even more as 11.30 approached. He was just looking at the names of the first owner in the nineteenth century when he saw a small, boxy-looking purple Kia coming up the drive.
He logged off then hurried downstairs, along the hall, and opened the front door, in time to see the vicar closing the door of his car, then carefully locking it. The vicar turned to see Ollie standing in the porch, and gave him a wave.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Ollie asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Builder’s tea would be very nice – milk, no sugar, thank you.’
Five minutes later they sat in the drawing room, facing each other on sofas. Fortinbrass, in jeans, a sweater with his dog collar beneath it, and stout brogues, sipped the mug of tea Ollie handed him. Ollie gestured to the plate of Penguins he’d laid out on the coffee table between them.
‘I’m tempted but I mustn’t, thanks – putting on a few too many pounds at the moment.’ Fortinbrass smiled. ‘This is such a very beautiful house,’ he said, looking up at the ornate cornicing moulding around the ceiling, and the grand marble fireplace.
‘It will be if we ever get the place finished!’
‘Well, I’m sure you will. It reminds me of the house I grew up in. My father was a vicar, also, and until I was fifteen we lived in a very grand rectory in Shropshire. I say very grand but it was a nightmare in winter because my father couldn’t afford to put the central heating on. I’m afraid we’re not paid very much in the clergy. We spent the winters of my childhood living in the kitchen, sitting as close to the Aga as we could get.’ He sipped his tea, then eyed the plate again, clearly wavering. ‘So tell me how you and your family are settling in here? You said on the phone that things were not all right?’
‘Yes – I – well, I thought it would be good to have a chat with you on my own.’
The vicar nodded, his face giving nothing away.
‘I went to see your predecessor, the Reverend Bob Manthorpe, as you suggested,’ Ollie said.
‘Good! And how is he?’
‘You didn’t hear?’
‘No – hear what?’
Ollie gave him the news.
‘Good Lord, that is so very sad. I only met him a few times. He seemed a very dedicated man – he—’
The vicar stopped in mid-sentence, looking distracted, staring at the doorway into the hall.
Ollie followed his gaze. He could see a shadow moving, very faintly, as if someone was hovering outside the door.
‘Do you have someone else living here, in addition to your wife and your daughter – I think you said daughter?’
‘Jade, yes, she’s twelve. No one else living here.’
Fortinbrass was staring again at the doorway, his face troubled. Ollie could still see the shadow, moving very slightly. He jumped up, strode out of the door and into the hall.
There was no one.
‘Very strange,’ Ollie said, walking back into the drawing room. Then he stopped in his tracks, and stared.
The vicar wasn’t there.
42
Saturday, 19 September
Ollie stared around at the empty room. Where the hell could the vicar have gone? There was no way he had gone out of the door. And the windows were closed.
But then he saw the plate of Penguins wasn’t on the coffee table either. Nor were their two mugs. The room felt still, as if no one had been in here all morning. He could smell furniture polish and new fabric. The curtains hung motionless.
He frowned. He’d only been gone a few seconds, into the hall. He ran across to one of the bay windows and stared out at the driveway. The vicar’s little purple Kia was not there, either. What – what —
He was startled by a patter behind him.
He turned and saw Sapphire walk in, her back arched, looking around as if something was bothering her.
‘Hey, girl!’ Ollie knelt to stroke her, but before he could touch the cat it let out a meow and shot back out of the room.
Then he heard the sound of a car arriving. Through the window he could see a purple Kia heading up the drive towards the house. He watched in astonishment as it pulled up, then the vicar climbed out, locked the door carefully, and strode towards the front door.
Had he imagined it? Ollie wondered. Was he having a Groundhog Day moment?
Feeling dazed, he walked through into the hall, and opened the front door.
Fortinbrass, dressed just as he had seen him only minutes ago, in jeans, a sweater with his dog collar beneath it and stout brogues, gave him a wave as he came towards him.
‘Good morning, Oliver!’ he said, giving him a firm handshake. ‘Very nice to see you again.’
‘Yes,’ Ollie said, hesitantly, staring at the man’s face for any sign that he was being hoodwinked in some way. But all he saw was a pleasant, open smile.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Ollie asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Builder’s tea would be very nice – milk, no sugar, thank you.’
Exactly the words the vicar had just used only minutes ago.
‘Righty ho!’ He showed Fortinbrass through into the drawing room, then went into the kitchen, still dazed. What the hell was going on inside his head, he wondered? Was he actually going mad?
He opened a cupboard where the biscuits were kept and looked in. There was an unopened family pack of Penguins. He studied the cellophane wrapping, then opened them and placed several on a plate.
Five minutes later he was seated, as before, on the sofa opposite the vicar, with a mug in his hand. Ollie gestured to him to help himself from the biscuits he’d placed on the table between them.
‘I’m tempted but I mustn’t, thanks – putting on a few too many pounds at the moment.’ He smiled and patted his stomach. ‘This is such a very beautiful house,’ he said, looking up at the ornate cornicing moulding around the ceiling, and the grand marble fireplace.
This was so weird, Ollie was thinking. This was exactly the conversation they’d just had, surely? ‘It will be if we ever get the place finished!’ he said.
‘Well, I’m sure you will. It reminds me of the house I grew up in. My father was a vicar, also, and until I was fifteen we lived in a very grand rectory in Shropshire. I say very grand but it was a nightmare in winter because my father couldn’t afford to put the central heating on. I’m afraid we’re not paid very much in the clergy. We spent the winters of my childhood living in the kitchen, sitting as close to the Aga as we could get.’ He sipped his tea, then eyed the plate again, clearly wavering. ‘So tell me how you and your family are settling in here? You said on the phone that things were not all right?’
‘Yes,’ Ollie finding this extremely weird. ‘– I – well, I thought it would be good to have a chat with you on my own.’
The vicar nodded, his face giving nothing away.
‘I went to see the Reverend Bob Manthorpe, as you suggested,’ Ollie said, for the second time in – how many – minutes?
‘Good! And how is he?’
‘You didn’t hear?’
His demeanour darkened. ‘No – hear what?’
Ollie gave him the news, again.
‘Good Lord, that is so very sad. I only met him a few times. He seemed a very dedicated man – he—’
The vicar stopped in mid-sentence, looking distracted, staring at the doorway into the hall.
Ollie saw the shadow moving again, as if someone was hovering outside the door. His skin crawled with goose pimples.
Still staring at the door, Fortinbrass asked, ‘Do you have someone else living here, in addition to your wife and your daughter – I think you said daughter?’
‘Jade, yes, she’s twelve. No, no one else living here.’
Ollie could still see the shadow, moving very slightly. He jumped up, strode out of the door and into the hall again.
There was no one.
‘Very strange,’ he said, walking back into the drawing room. To his relief the vicar was still there, and reaching for a Penguin.
‘Can’t resist these, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘What was it Oscar Wilde said about temptation?’
‘I can resist everything except temptation,’ Ollie prompted.
‘Yes, so true.’ The vicar unwrapped the end of his biscuit and bit a small piece off. ‘These always remind me of my childhood,’ he said after he had swallowed.
‘Me too.’
Ollie was feeling slightly disassociated, as if he wasn’t actually fully in his body, but was floating somewhere above it.
Suddenly the words of Bruce Kaplan, after their tennis game yesterday, came back to him.
‘Maybe ghosts aren’t ghosts at all, and it’s to do with our understanding of time . . . What if everything that ever was still is – the past, the present and the future – and we’re trapped in one tiny part of the space–time continuum? That sometimes we get glimpses, through a twitch of the curtain, into the past, and sometimes into the future?’
But they were in the present now, weren’t they? The vicar took another bite of his chocolate biscuit. Then another. Ollie stared back at the doorway. The shadow was there again, just as if someone was hovering outside.
‘Who’s that out there, Oliver? Is there someone who wants to join us?’
‘There’s no one there.’
Both men stood up and walked to the doorway. Fortinbrass stepped out, followed by Ollie. The hall was empty.
They returned to their seats.
‘It’s why I called you,’ Ollie said, and glanced out of the window, hoping Caro would not return until they’d finished this conversation. She would be an age, he knew – it would take her a good couple of hours to finish her shopping. But nevertheless he worried.
‘Please feel free to speak openly. Tell me anything that’s on your mind.’
‘OK, thank you. When I went to see Bob Manthorpe on Thursday, he told me some quite disturbing rumours about this house. He said that every county in England has a diocesan exorcist – or Minister of Deliverance, I believe you call them? Someone to whom clergymen can turn when something happens within their parish that they cannot explain. Is that correct?’
Fortinbrass nodded, pensively. ‘Well, broadly, yes. You want me to see if I can arrange someone to come here?’
Ollie watched the vicar’s eyes move back to the doorway. The shadow was still there, lurking.
‘Tell me something, you seem a very rational man to me, Ollie. Are you sure you want to open yourself up to this? Might it not be preferable to close yourselves to whatever is bothering you, ignore it and wait for it to go away?’
‘You’ve seen that shadow out there, right, Vicar – Roland – Reverend?’ He pointed at the doorway. There was nothing now.
Fortinbrass smiled, amiably. ‘It could just be a trick of the light. A bush moving outside in the wind.’
‘There is no wind today.’
Fortinbrass cradled his mug and looked thoughtful.
‘I’m an atheist, Roland. I had religion drummed into me so much at school. All that Old Testament stuff about a vengeful, sadistic, egotistical God who would kill you if you didn’t swear undying love to him? What was that about?’
The vicar studied him for some moments. ‘How God presents himself in the Old Testament can indeed challenge all of us, I can’t deny that. But I think we need to look to the New Testament to find the true balance.’
Ollie stared hard back at him. ‘Right now I’m prepared to accept anything. We’re living a nightmare here. I feel like we’re under siege from something malign.’ He glanced up, warily, at the ceiling, then his eyes darted around at the walls, the doorway. He shivered.
Fortinbrass set his mug down on the table and placed the Penguin wrapper next to it. ‘I’m here to try to help you, not to judge you. Would you like to tell me exactly what has been happening?’
Ollie listed everything he could remember that had happened. His mother-in-law’s first sighting of the ghost. His father-in-law’s encounter with her. Caro’s sighting of her. Jade’s friend’s sighting. The spheres he had seen. The bed rotating during the night. The taps. The photograph of Harry Walters. Parkin then Manthorpe being found dead. The computer messages. The emails to his clients. He omitted only the curious déjà vu he had experienced over the vicar’s arrival this morning.
When he had finished he sat back on the sofa and stared, quizzically, at the clergyman. ‘It sounds mad, I know. But, believe me, it’s true. All of it. Am I insane? Are all of us?’
Fortinbrass looked deeply troubled. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I believe you.’
‘Thank God,’ Ollie said, feeling a sense of deep relief.
‘I’ll put in a request. I’m not sure of the formalities, but I will ask.’
‘There must be something the church can do,’ Ollie implored. ‘We can’t go on like this. And we can’t leave – if we could, we’d be out of here like a shot. But there must be something – something you can do to help us, surely?’
An hour later, as Ollie stood in the front porch watching the vicar’s car heading away, Caro’s Golf appeared.
‘Hi, darling,’ she said, as he opened her car door for her. ‘Who was that?’
‘The vicar,’ he said.
‘And – what did you tell him?’
‘Pretty much everything.’
She walked round to the rear of the car and opened the tailgate. The boot was crammed with white and green Waitrose carrier bags.
‘I’ll help you in with everything,’ he said.
‘So what did the vicar say? Was he sceptical or helpful?’
Ollie hefted out four heavy bags. ‘He saw something himself, while he was here.’
Following him into the house, holding a clutch of grocery bags herself, she said, ‘Did he have a view on it?’
‘He took it seriously.’
‘Great,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.’
They dumped the bags on the refectory table. Ollie took her in his arms. ‘We’ll get this sorted, darling, I promise you. In a year’s time we’ll be looking back on all of this and laughing.’
‘I’m laughing right now,’ she said. ‘I was laughing all the way down the supermarket aisles. Just how much fun has our life become, eh?’
43
Saturday, 19 September
Early that afternoon Ollie glanced out of the tower window to the north, and for some moments watched Jade and her friend, Phoebe, standing at the edge of the lake looking playful and happy, throwing something – bread perhaps – to the ducks.
Throughout his own childhood, which had not been particularly happy, he had longed to be an adult and get away from the dull and stultifying negativity of home. But right now he envied them the innocence of childhood. Envied them for not having to deal with arrogant shits like Cholmondley. He knew childhood and growing up were fraught with their own traumas, but with everything that was bombarding him right now, he’d trade places in an instant.
What had the vicar’s first appearance been about? He’d seen him, he’d spoken to him, and yet – suddenly he was gone. Then reappeared. He thought back again to his conversation after tennis with Bruce Kaplan, trying to make sense of his theory. ‘We live in linear time, right? We go from A to B to C. We wake up in the morning, get out of bed, have coffee, go to work, and so on. That’s how we perceive every day. But what if our perception is wrong? What if linear time is just a construct of our brains that we use to try to make sense of what’s going on? What if everything that ever was, still is – the past, the present and the future – and we’re trapped in one tiny part of the space–time continuum? That sometimes we get glimpses, through a twitch of the curtain, into the past, and sometimes into the future?’
Had he been through some kind of time-slip earlier on? Or was his mind playing tricks on him, somehow reversing time inside his head?
Or was he cracking under the stress of everything?
Suddenly there was static crackle from the radio, which he had on in the background for company, and he heard the unmistakeable, deep, sonorous voice of Sir Winston Churchill.
‘Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.’ The static increased steadily in volume, drowning out some of Churchill’s words.
Shit, Ollie thought. Was he now inside some weird time loop?
Then he heard the voice of a radio presenter. ‘Well, Bill, can you think of any UK politician today, in any party, who would have that same quality of leadership that Churchill displayed? Anyone with those powers of oratory?’
Ollie switched the radio off then turned back to his desk and his most pressing problem. Cholmondley and Bhattacharya must know, like everyone, surely, that there were some weird and nasty people out there on the internet. Trolls. Facebook bullies. Malicious hackers. Did a disgruntled customer have a grudge against Cholmondley? Was a rival jealous of Bhattacharya’s success?
Or was it someone with a grudge against himself?
Who?
He really could not think of any enemies. Everyone had been happy with the sale of the website business. He was treating all the tradesmen at the house decently. He’d never screwed anyone over. Why would someone want to do this?
He stared, gloomily, at the screen. On it was the screensaver image of a close-up of Caro and Jade’s smiling faces pressed together, cheek to cheek. Normally, seeing it always made him smile, but at this moment he could find nothing to smile about.
His door opened behind him and Caro stuck her head in.
‘I’m just off to pick up Jade and then collect Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Be back in about an hour. Anything you need while I’m out?’
‘Pick up Jade?’ he said, puzzled. ‘What do you mean? And Phoebe?’
‘Yes, picking Jade up from her riding lesson – then we’re going into Brighton to collect Phoebe from her parents.’
‘Riding lesson?’
‘Yes.’
He shot a glance through the window towards the lake. There was no sign of Jade or Phoebe.
‘You’re taking Jade or you’re picking her up?’
‘I’m picking her up.’ She gave him a strange look. ‘Are you all right, Ols?’
‘All right? I – yes – about as all right as it’s possible to be at the moment. Why?’
‘We talked about it a couple of days ago – I told you I was going to try to book her into a riding school in Clayton, just a few miles away.’
He swivelled his chair to the left and looked out of the window again towards the lake. Jade and Phoebe had been playing there just a couple of minutes ago, he’d been watching them. Was the start of a nervous breakdown? Or something even worse?
‘When – when did you take Jade to the riding place?’
Caro looked at her watch. ‘Over an hour ago. I’m going to have to rush, I’m late.’
‘Drive safely,’ he said, lamely. ‘You’re picking up Phoebe, too?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘She’s not – already – sort of here or anything?’
Caro frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No!’
‘You’re behaving very oddly. I’ll see you in a bit, OK?’
He was staring back out through the window at the vast lawn, which he would have to mow tomorrow, and at the ducks on the lake. There was no sign of Jade or Phoebe. No children. No humans. Nothing.
He’d imagined the vicar this morning. Now his daughter and her friend?
His computer made a barely audible ping. An incoming email.
He hit the keyboard and instantly held his breath as he saw the name. It was from Cholmondley. Perhaps, he thought, with hope momentarily rising, the classic car dealer had found out the source of the toxic email sent to him earlier, and was writing now to apologize for his outburst? After all, he was a businessman, and however angry he might have been, Cholmondley would know he had to keep his website up and running – and for that he needed him.
Then, as he opened the email, his heart sank even lower.
There was a short message from Cholmondley at the top, with a longer one from himself beneath, sent from his personal email address, with his electronic signature, and timed and dated just over thirty minutes ago.
Sent from this computer.
Cholmondley
I imagine you’ve been waiting all day for a grovelling apology. Well, so sorry not to oblige, dear boy, but I just wanted to let you know that I stand by every word in my earlier email. I despise you, you arrogant little shit, with your natty bow tie. Just found out about your criminal record, too. Tut, tut, tut! You kept that one a secret, didn’t you? My oh my, you are a dark horse! Bad boy, you got caught turning the odometers back on second-hand cars. Made to sit on the Naughty Step for that one, weren’t you? Eighteen months in Ford Prison. I’m afraid I cannot take the reputational risk of dealing with someone of your background.
I have sent you in a separate email all the codes and files you will need for someone else to take over the management of your website in a smooth – quite seamless – transition.
Oliver Harcourt,
CEO, Harcourt Digital Solutions Ltd
Once again, he saw to his horror that it was copied to the same wide number of Cholmondley’s rival dealers. And all the files for the website, which would have been the only leverage he had to get paid by the man, had been handed over. So now he had no hold over him. And reading Cholmondley’s reply, it was even clearer than this morning that he would never see one penny of the money he was owed.
Dear Mr Harcourt
This email is outrageous. I will hold you personally liable for any sales I lose through your vile and deeply libellous communications today. For the record I’ve never been charged with, or convicted of, any of the offences you allege. I have no criminal record and I’ve never been to jail. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers on Monday and you will be a very sorry man.
C. Cholmondley
