Текст книги "Beneath the Shadows"

Автор книги: Sara Foster

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

An hour later, Grace and Annabel walked up the hill, their breaths sending clouds of mist into the icy air. The wind had dropped, but Grace’s head was swirling, both from the wine and the commotion.

There was a loud screech, and Annabel cried, ‘Jesus, what was that?’

‘I heard it the other night too. It’s probably a bat or something.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Annabel quickened her pace. ‘It scared the life out of me, whatever it is. Let’s get inside.’

As they reached the cottage and Grace unlatched the gate, she automatically looked back down the road towards the pub. A man was standing outside, silhouetted by the light from the open door. She couldn’t see his face at all, only the outline of him, but she was sure he was watching them.

‘Look,’ she hissed at Annabel.

A moment later, the man wheeled around and they heard the distant creak and slam of the pub door.

‘That was odd,’ Annabel said. ‘Do you know who it was?’

‘No idea.’

Annabel gave a visible shudder. ‘This place is creepy, Grace. Why on earth did you and Adam move here?’

Grace didn’t want to dwell on that right now. ‘Emma and Carl were nice enough, though, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, thank goodness,’ Annabel agreed, and her mood seemed to lighten. ‘Right, get that little one into bed and we’ll crack open another bottle.’

Grace was about to say that she was tired, but before she could speak, Annabel gave her a look. Grace knew she wouldn’t be let off easily. ‘All right, just a glass. You do realise Millie will probably be up at dawn.’

By the time Grace had settled Millie into bed, Annabel had poured the wine. Grace was about to take a sip when both of them suddenly jumped as someone banged hard on the front door.

‘What the hell …?’ Annabel spluttered on her drink.

Before Grace could even reply, there was another bang. She got up, opened the curtain a fraction and peered towards the door. She could make out a shadowy figure. Annabel joined her, pulling the curtain further back. ‘He doesn’t look like an axe murderer,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Do axe murderers knock?’ Grace whispered. They looked at one another and burst into nervous laughter.

As Grace turned again to the window, trying to get a better look, the man glanced across, staring straight at her.

She stepped backwards in shock. It was the man from the pub, she was sure of it. And now she had seen his face, her memories shifted, forming an old picture. She had opened the same door to him twelve months earlier. She could still remember how her hands had trembled as she let him inside.

‘It’s okay,’ she told Annabel. ‘I recognise him.’ She headed through the hallway and opened the door.

The man on the step was short and thick-set, his face red from the cold, his eyes watering in the wind.

‘Now then, Grace.’

‘It’s Niall, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ He looked pleased that she remembered. ‘Can I come in for a minute and have a word?’

Grace turned to see Annabel brandishing an umbrella, as though ready to use it as a weapon. Her stance jolted Niall into understanding.

‘I’m sorry, love.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I was caught unawares when I saw you at the pub. I couldn’t place you right away, but when I realised who you were I reckoned I’d better come up and see you.’ He held out a hand to Annabel. ‘Constable Edwards, call me Niall.’

He was much smaller than Grace remembered, but perhaps the uniform he’d worn when they’d first met had made him more of a presence. His eyes were the same, though – extending an unspoken compassion that Grace found as unbearable now as she had done a year ago. In his presence it was impossible to pretend that nothing was wrong.

She realised they were waiting for her to speak. ‘Come in,’ she said, and stepped back to let him through. ‘Annabel, this is the policeman who came round first on the night Adam disappeared.’

Niall waved away Annabel’s offer of a drink. He sat on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. ‘How’s your little lass doing?’

‘She’s fine,’ Grace replied. ‘She’s asleep upstairs.’

‘That’s good.’ He looked pleased. ‘I’ve often thought about you two, you know. I have to say I didn’t think I’d see you back round these parts.’

Grace stiffened. ‘There are things that need sorting out. I want to tie up the loose ends, so Millie and I can move on with our lives.’

‘Well, that’s fair enough. I kept an eye on the investigation, and I don’t think much has changed …?’

‘No.’ Grace looked into her wine glass, swirled the liquid and took a large sip. ‘I haven’t heard from the police recently.’

Niall’s sigh was sympathetic. ‘It happens, I’m afraid, when there are no new leads, and new cases coming up all the time. Everyone scurrying about, overworked and under-paid. Did you have a Family Liaison Officer?’

‘Yes – Ken Barton.’

‘Have you told him you’re back?’

Grace shook her head. ‘No. Should I?’

‘Wouldn’t hurt. But listen, I won’t keep you.’ He got to his feet, then fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘Have you got a pen handy?’

Grace found one for him. He scribbled on the paper. ‘If I can be of any help to you, while you’re here …’ She looked at the mobile number scrawled on the scrap he’d handed to her.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ve two lasses of my own, and I’ve always found it hard to believe that your husband just ran off that night, leaving your bairn on the step like he did.’

Grace’s jaw felt tight as she replied, ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know what really happened. But now that a whole year has come and gone without a word, I’m trying to accept it. I’m only here to sort out the cottage.’

Niall nodded. ‘Well, I’ll leave you be then.’ He turned for the door.

After they had seen him out, Annabel considered her for a while, then said, ‘Are you going to tell me?’

Grace frowned at her. ‘What?’

‘Come on, Grace, something is bothering you. Spit it out.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Grace ran a finger round the rim of her glass.

‘Well why don’t you explain, and then I can decide that for myself.’

Grace looked squarely at Annabel. ‘It’s just – I keep thinking about the day before Adam disappeared. He was out for a few hours. He said he was going to watch the Arsenal match at the pub in Ockton, and do some Christmas shopping afterwards. But then, while I was in France I heard Dad grumbling about how many games Arsenal had at the end of the season, because of all the ones cancelled for bad weather around Christmas. I went on the internet – and the game had been cancelled that day.’

‘Right. So …?’ Annabel looked uncertain.

‘Well, it means I don’t know where he was.’

‘Perhaps he went shopping.’

‘He didn’t come home with any bags. There was nothing on our credit card. I never found any presents hidden away.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’

‘Dad convinced me it was nothing – said he probably watched another match instead. I rang Ken Barton as well, but he sounded as sceptical as Dad. There was a big local derby on that day, apparently, which went ahead, and all the pubs would have been showing it.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘I don’t know. They might be right. But seeing Niall reminded me of it, that’s all.’

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their wine.

‘Perhaps mention it again when you next speak to Ken Barton,’ Annabel suggested.

‘I will,’ Grace agreed, but doubted she’d be taken seriously. Anyway, her dad was probably right. It wasn’t relevant. Except she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was.

Annabel left early the next morning, keen to avoid the Sunday afternoon tailbacks on the long journey to London. Soon after she had gone, heavy rain had begun to pound the windows, and so far showed no signs of slowing. When Millie was settled for her lunchtime nap, Grace sat down in an armchair and began to reflect on everything that had happened since she’d returned. Gradually, the fizzing of her mind abated, and she fell into a half-slumber.

She was woken abruptly by a loud knocking. For a moment she was confused, before she remembered that it would be Ben, calling about the renovations.

‘Hello,’ he said as she opened the door, taking down a large black umbrella. Bess sat next to him, droplets shimmering at the tips of her wet, clumpy fur, her tail wagging. ‘Can I leave Bess here?’

‘Of course.’

Ben led the dog underneath the porch. Bess shook herself, water spraying off her coat, then lay down as Ben said, ‘Stay.’

‘Come in.’ As Grace stepped back she wondered if it were in fact a good idea to let him in, after what she’d witnessed in the pub.

‘So, what are you planning for this place?’ he asked as he followed her through to the kitchen.

Grace pulled out Mike Muir’s papers, and a few rough sketchings of her own. ‘These are really basic,’ she said as she gave them to him, half-embarrassed by her simple designs. But Ben sat down and began studying them carefully.

‘Ah, I see what you’re thinking. Knock out this wall,’ he banged the wall next to him, ‘and you’ve got a nice cosy area. And sort out the bathroom upstairs so it’s en suite. This looks like a good plan.’ He glanced up. ‘Want me to do some proper drawings for this, and then figure out the best way to go about it?’

Grace had gone across to the kettle. ‘Well, we’d better talk money before we get too much further. I’ve only begun thinking about this recently, and I need some idea of how much it would cost.’

Ben folded his arms and looked down at the sketches for a while without saying anything. ‘I’ll tell you what – let me do the plans for nothing, and we’ll figure it out from there.’

Grace was taken by surprise. Ben’s expression was unreadable, but not unfriendly. As she looked at him she noticed that his eyes were framed by grey circles, and there was a melancholy aspect to his face that struck her as almost tragic. A Heathcliff, she thought, and couldn’t decide if the current that ran through her was fear or something else.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ she said.

She thought he might smile, but he just said, ‘I know,’ and began to browse through the papers again. ‘To be honest you’re doing me a favour. I’d be grateful for a project to keep me busy at the moment.’ He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Okay?’

Grace faltered under his direct stare. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘Can I take these?’ He held up the loose sheets of drawings.

‘Of course. Would you like a drink?’

Ben shook his head as he got up. ‘Don’t worry about that. Why don’t you give me a quick tour of the place, then I can get out of your way.’

‘All right, then,’ Grace agreed. He came for work, she reminded herself, not to pass the time of day. She was only looking for excuses to delay sorting through the cottage.

She showed him the upstairs rooms, careful not to wake Millie. As they came back down the stairs, Ben gestured towards the corridor and said, ‘What’s in your cellar?’

Grace spun round. ‘What cellar?’ she asked in confusion.

‘Er –’ Ben had diverted his course, heading for a small wooden door behind the stairs. ‘This cellar,’ he said as he rapped on it.

‘I thought that was a cupboard,’ Grace answered. ‘Are you sure it isn’t?’

For the first time since he’d arrived, he smiled. ‘Pretty sure. You’ve never looked inside then?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s locked. I’ve never seen the key.’

She tried to recall what Adam had told her. She was sure he hadn’t contradicted her when she’d asked about the cupboard under the stairs. He’d said it was locked, and they needed to find the key. That was as far as they’d got before he disappeared. She’d told the police that it was a cupboard when they searched the place. They’d wanted the key. But they must have forgotten.

‘It is locked, isn’t it?’ she asked.

He rattled the handle. ‘Yep.’

‘I don’t know where the key is.’

‘Do you want me to pick the lock for you?’ he offered.

‘Ha ha.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Misspent youth, hey?’

He smiled again, but it barely reached his eyes. ‘Something like that. I need a paper clip or a safety pin.’

Grace went to find a paper clip. Ben inserted it into the keyhole and slowly moved it around. There was a click, then he twisted the handle and pulled the door open.

‘There,’ he said, holding it ajar.

Grace looked past him. Sure enough, steps led away from her into blackness.

‘Have you got a torch?’ Ben asked as he felt about for a light switch.

‘Yes,’ she replied, but she didn’t move. The thought of what might be down there had caused panic to spring up from nowhere. She felt sick.

‘Want me to take a look?’ he offered, seeming to read her mind.

‘Yes, please.’ She ran through to the kitchen to get the torch. When she returned, Ben took it from her, flicked it on and headed down the stairs.

She didn’t release her breath until he called up, ‘It’s mostly boxes.’ Giddy with relief, she peered down to see a beam of light illuminating what looked like pile upon pile of odds and ends. ‘Come and see,’ he suggested.

She began to make her way down carefully, hands pressed against the walls that closed in on her from either side of the staircase. When she reached the bottom, she said, ‘Ben?’

‘Hang on.’ His voice was alarmingly close, but the torchlight was flitting over the wall. She remembered the old couple’s faces in the pub last night, how scared they had looked, and her mouth went dry. What was she doing down here with a man she barely knew?

Another flash of panic disorientated her, and she blindly whisked around to head back up the stairs. As she did so, light flooded the room. ‘I thought there must be a switch,’ she heard Ben say to one side of her. ‘Why the hell did they put it down here?’

She swung to face him. Ben caught her expression before she could recompose herself, and she saw his astonishment fade into something more like disappointment. He switched off the torch and put it into her hand without meeting her eyes. ‘I’ll wait for you at the top,’ he said, then took the stairs two at a time, his upper body tense.

She surveyed the small room, now lit starkly by a white bulb dangling overhead. It was the kind of place that should have a chair in the middle, with someone tied to it being interrogated, but the reality was far more mundane. And wearying. Because everywhere she turned she saw junk – spilling out of boxes and cupboards, oozing from shelves. Just piles of assorted debris and dusty rubbish. She grimaced, hands on hips, considering the amount of extra work she had found in this one small space. Then, taking note of where the light switch was, she pressed it and used the torchlight to guide her back up the stairs.

Ben was leaning against the corridor wall, waiting for her.

‘I think I’ve just found a few months’ work,’ she said dejectedly.

‘You might be right. It looks like they literally threw stuff in there. What a state.’

‘I know.’

‘You could always lock it again and tell everyone it’s a cupboard.’

She tried to laugh but could only manage a weak smile. ‘It’s tempting. Still, at least I know what I’m up against now.’

As the conversation died away, Ben seemed to decide that it was his cue to leave. ‘Right, I’ll take a look at all this,’ he waved her notes in the air, ‘and come and see you again in a day or two when I’ve got something to show you.’

‘I really appreciate it.’ Grace followed him to the front door. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said. As he opened the door, Bess got to her feet. ‘I’ll see you soon, Grace.’

Then he was gone, Bess trotting next to him, and Grace was left staring at the empty garden path.

She went to make a cup of coffee, before deciding to head down to the cellar again. As she looked around, she wished she could afford to pay someone to empty the place, to save her the stress, but she didn’t have any money to spare. At least Annabel would be back soon to help out, she consoled herself, although she imagined that Annabel might have convulsions if she saw the state of this place.

However, she hadn’t come down here simply to commiserate with herself over the hard work ahead. Something had caught her eye earlier – the boxes she’d spotted in the corner. She hadn’t wanted to check them out while Ben was there, but now she opened one of them and stared miserably inside. They were Adam’s mementos. A cricket statue. An old T-shirt with handwriting all over it, the jokes and scribbles of teenagers elated at their impending freedom from school. A collection of Arsenal programmes. The problem was, Grace had seen these things before. They had been in the London flat she and Adam had shared. Which meant he’d brought them down here. So it looked like he had known there was a cellar, after all.

The day’s events weighed heavily on Grace’s mind as she sat in the lounge next to Millie, who was slowly turning the pages of a picture book. She wished Annabel were here to lighten the atmosphere. Instead she listened as the rain turned to ice, the hailstorm hammering on the windowpanes in cracking staccato bursts. All around her the shadows of the room languidly stretched themselves out, resettling as the darkness grew. She jumped as the upstairs landing creaked, not yet used to the cottage’s strange nocturnal echoes.

Why hadn’t Adam told her about the cellar? Was this an indication that he had something to hide? Her father was convinced that if Adam had been about to vanish, there would have been warning signs, but Grace had always been adamant there weren’t. Adam had been his usual self on that last morning, joking around, his face glowing with pride each time his glance fell on Millie. It was a new look in his eyes, one that Grace was still getting used to, but it was already among her favourites. He was minding Millie for the afternoon, while Grace did some shopping in town. It was the first time she had left Millie for so long, and she was both excited to be going and reluctant to leave.

By the time she got home, laden with bags, Adam had taken Millie out, leaving her that strange, serious note. And she had never seen him again.

He wouldn’t leave Millie like that, Grace knew it. But after the police had combed the area looking for him and found nothing, they began to suggest he might have run away. It wouldn’t be the first time, they said. New fathers sometimes couldn’t cope with the responsibility. And he’d withdrawn a thousand pounds from their account the day before he vanished.

Adam had told Grace about the money – he’d said he intended to keep it at the cottage, because they were so isolated – but she had never found it. The police thought he might have used the cash to do a bunk. He’d left the baby where he knew she’d be found, and disappeared.

But Grace had so many questions. Why not leave Millie in the cottage? Why run away without telling her, cutting off all contact? And if he was ready to vanish into the night, then why on earth would he have moved Grace all the way out into the country before he did so? Not to mention the fact that her last memory of Adam before she left for the shops was of him sitting on the floor in front of the television, half paying attention to a morning chat show, his legs crossed and his baby girl cradled within them, her mouth clamped around a bottle. He had appeared so relaxed as he tilted his head up to kiss his wife goodbye. He’d said, ‘Go on, enjoy the break … we’ll be fine.’ No, he was not a man about to run off – whatever he’d been doing the day before, and no matter that he hadn’t told her about the cellar.

Grace tried to guide her mind away from these never-ending loops of questions. She needed to stop getting caught up with thoughts of what might have happened. The questions had crippled her for the past year, and she wanted to go forwards now. She was here to sort out the cottage, not rake over the past. This was a hiatus between the past and future, a necessary stopgap, that was all.

She took Millie up for her bath, then got her ready for bed. After Millie was settled, Grace headed downstairs and switched on the TV. She avoided the inevitable horror stories on the night’s news, grateful to come across an old film until she realised it was Rear Window. Even though she’d seen it before, tonight she needed something safe, so eventually she settled for a few old episodes of Friends. After they finished, she switched the TV off and was left looking at her reflection in the blank screen. She was slouched on the sofa, a blanket over her legs. She looked like an old lady, slumped there alone.

She made her way up to bed, got undressed and settled down under the duvet. She flicked the light off, then waited for sleep to come and claim her. But, as she feared, nothing happened. So she switched the light back on and read some more of Rebecca, imagining the second Mrs de Winter sitting under a chestnut tree, contemplating the fickleness of time. For a while, Grace was there too, breathing in the scent of fresh-cut grass, hearing a bee buzzing close to her ear, the sea murmuring in the distance. She grew drowsy, so put the book to one side, switched off the lamp and closed her eyes. Against her will, her ears attuned to the noises in the cottage. Every now and then an unexpected creak would startle her. She could also hear a faint scratching, and feared she really did have a mouse. She didn’t know if she could bring herself to set traps, and decided to ignore it, concentrating instead on the ticking of the grandfather clock. Its steady rhythm slowly infiltrated her mind, lulling her into a slumber.

And then the clock stopped.

She opened her eyes to the darkness. Listened more intently. But all stayed silent.

It had just wound down, she told herself. But somehow the hush was disorientating. She closed her eyes again, but she couldn’t relax. After a while, her ears began to ring from the effort of straining when there was nothing to hear.

My grandfather used to call it the heartbeat of the cottage.

She rolled over and snapped on the light. For a second her vision quavered, the walls shifting slightly before settling. Then the room was there before her, just as it always was … why had she expected it to be different somehow? She peered round from behind the covers, but nothing moved, yet the atmosphere felt full of energy, a living current swirling around her, willing her to get up and go downstairs.

She opened the door to the landing. She snapped the light on and edged along to the next bedroom, to see Millie soundly asleep, face to the wall.

She looked down the stairs, thought fleetingly of the cellar two storeys below her. She decided she would go and turn the television on again, find some company that way, and so she made her way down to the lounge and switched on both the fire and the TV. Then she went and closed the curtains so that not a tiny crack of darkness could peek through. She needed to fortify her surroundings, to make believe that she was in a different room, somewhere else. London at night sprang into her mind. The brilliant neon glow of it, the electrifying bustle. People always passing by. Sometimes she felt that this place was the dream, and soon she would wake up and find herself in their old flat, listening to the distant thumps of music, the regular rumble of traffic, and she would only need to turn over to see Adam asleep beside her.

There it was – the familiar spasm of pain at the thought of him. She shook off the fantasy and flicked through the channels until she came across a late-night music programme. She tried to concentrate on the soothing rhythm and blues, but found that she kept turning the sound down on the remote, checking to see if she could hear anything. Finally, she stomped back into the hallway in frustration, and stood before the grandfather clock, their faces level, its pendulum still. The air around her was so chilly she could see her breath. It hadn’t been that cold before, surely?

She had imagined that it would be a blessing once the clock stopped, but now she knew what Adam’s grandfather had meant. Without the incessant ticking, the cottage was too quiet; too still. She sighed. And as though in reply, the pendulum suddenly moved and the clock gave a loud tock.

She jumped backwards in shock, disbelieving, holding her breath. But when the noise came a second time, she fled upstairs, crawling rapidly under the bedclothes and clamping a pillow over her head.