Текст книги "The House on Cold Hill"
Автор книги: Peter James
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
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
www.peterjames.com
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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
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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
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Lyric excerpt from ‘Sunny Afternoon’ by The Kinks on this page written by Raymond Douglas Davies © Abkco Music Inc., Davray Music Ltd.
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Floor plan artwork by Hemesh Alles
Gravestone artwork by Atomic Squib
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