Into the Fire

by Rachael Blok

  ‘You accusing us then?’ she asks.

  ‘Not accusing. But this letter has appeared on the doorstep and it’s clearly been delivered by hand. Most of the guests have been in the other room for the evening. You’ve all been out here. I’m asking you if you’ve seen anything. The front door is watched by a PC. The French doors have been open in the dining room, but I think we’d have noticed if a stranger had come in. There are no signs of breaking and entering. This letter has been left on the mat by someone in here. By someone in the house.’

  Six pairs of eyes stare back at him.

  ‘I want to reiterate—’ His eyes are hurting now. He realises how tired he is from the flashes of light behind his eyelids when he blinks. ‘I want to reiterate the serious nature of the investigation. The serious consequences to any failure to comply with our questions. Did anyone, anyone at all, see anything?’

  The six pairs of eyes look back; most look nervous. The staff range from very young to older than him. Not so obvious in their uniforms.

  One looks younger than the rest. A young girl, who can’t be more than seventeen. He remembers passing her in the hallway earlier. She has red hair and she kicks one heel against the other foot, fidgety. Her eyes, when he looks at her, look away, look down.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks her, trying to sound gentle, approachable.

  ‘Alison.’ She speaks to the toes of her shoes.

  ‘Alison, can you come next door and talk to me?’

  Leaving the room, her head drops, her shoulders sag. Her walk has guilt written all over it.

  They move to a study. Compared to the other rooms in the house, it’s tiny, but it’s actually the size of his lounge, fitting a three-seater sofa, a coffee table and one large window, open to the gardens, which are black in the dark. The female PC nods as she enters from her position in the garden.

  They sit. Alison’s knees cling together, her hands clasp tightly. Her cheeks are flushed; a pale-pink scarf is tied in her hair. She’s all the shades of ochre.

  ‘Alison,’ he says, ‘could you tell me what you know?’

  The wind in the trees rustles up against the glass panes behind her head. She flinches. Laughter can be heard coming from the dining room. The front door bangs.

  Her head bows slightly lower, like she is offering up a prayer.

  He says nothing. He can sit out the longest of silences.

  The branches tap again, fingers of the night. Alison jumps, turning quickly, eyes darting round the room.

  Still Maarten says nothing.

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause any trouble!’ Her voice is quick, high-pitched.

  Maarten nods.

  ‘I didn’t. I mean, anyone would have done it, wouldn’t they? For the money.’

  Raising his eyebrows, Maarten tips his head to one side, offering up an agreement of sorts.

  ‘They’re so pissed in there, all them rich people. They won’t miss it!’ Even higher now, the tone of Alison’s voice becomes thinner, like it’s climbing in altitude and thinning in oxygen.

  ‘I didn’t mean to!’ And she bursts into tears, her head falling to her knees. Maarten pulls a tissue from the box on the coffee table, passing it to her.

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’ he asks gently. ‘Go from the start.’

  Through tears and snot, the girl tells her story in bursts. ‘I was on my break. I got my coat, so I could go outside…’ Big sniff, big blow. ‘Anyway, while I was outside, having a fag, I felt an envelope in my pocket. It was thick and I just knew it had money inside. Like notes, you know.’ Another sniff. Maarten passes another tissue.

  ‘So, I pulled it out and, on the front, they’d written: £500 for anyone who can pass on a letter. Someone had stuffed it in my pocket.’ This time a big gulp of air, sucked through an open mouth. ‘So, I opened this envelope, and there it was, five hundred pounds. In fifties. They’re red, you know? I’ve never seen one, have I?’ She shrugs her shoulders and she’s looking at Maarten now, calmer. ‘Anyway, at the back of the notes was another envelope. And a note. It said to leave the envelope on the mat. And that was it.’

  She leans and takes another tissue. She’s not quite enjoying herself, but she’s settled into the story.

  ‘I thought, what harm can it do? That’s more money than I’ll see in a while. So, I did. I left it on the mat and then I carried on.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Maarten asks, thinking that whomever had chosen Alison had known exactly what they were doing.

  ‘Don’t know. I don’t wear a watch really, I just use my phone. But we’re not allowed to carry our phones at work. We have to leave them in our bags.’

  Nodding slowly, Maarten considers this. ‘What time was your break?’

  ‘Ten o’clock, innit. I had a fag outside,’ she answers, her eyes a little brighter, but still scared. ‘Will I get into trouble?’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’ll need a full statement,’ Maarten says. ‘Do you have the original envelope?’

  She nods, smiling at him now. ‘I know where it is. I was going to get rid of it later so I stuffed it in my bag.’

  ‘And the money?’ The words hang for a second; her face clouds over. He feels sorry for her. She’s right. It is such a big sum.

  ‘All of it?’

  As he nods to the PC to sit and take Alison’s statement, Maarten catches a flash of something in the trees.

  Is there movement outside? Something is stirring tonight. There are secrets at work in Ostle House. Either someone has breached its walls, or someone already inside is making trouble.

  Hours stretch ahead of him. This night is not done with him yet.

  25

  LOIS

  ‘Marieke, how are you?’

  Lois brings hot chocolate into the snug, where Marieke is waiting to be told she can go to bed. A PC stands in the corner of the room and he nods to Lois as she passes.

  ‘Tired, mainly. I’m a bit sick of being told on Twitter to shut up, that they’ll kill me in my sleep. That I’m a whore! And these letters say they’re watching me. It’s not a day out; it’s not a minor downside to my job.’ She sounds angry, weary, but Lois sees shadows and shade: she looks scared.

  ‘When did it all start?’ Lois asks, sitting next to Marieke, passing her a blanket from the sofa.

  ‘The letters? A few months ago. I’m used to threats warning me off. It’s part of life in the public eye. I’ve been pushing this legislation for years. But the letters? They first arrived to my office, in the post, from a central letter box in Rotterdam. The next from Paris. Then a few arrived at my home. One from the US, the UK… Nothing too detailed. One suggested I take a holiday; one that I think carefully about my actions. They’re short. Never explicit – a menace rather than a clear threat. But my team are taking them seriously. And now tonight, here. With no postmark. Delivered by hand. That’s the worst part. This girl who laid it on the mat – she has no idea how it makes you feel. So vulnerable!’ Marieke shakes her head and Lois takes her hand.

  ‘Well, we’ve got protection.’

  ‘You know, it’s not that I’m scared – I really don’t think anything will happen. I think if it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. It’s the feeling of being watched. It’s been widely publicised that I’m here this weekend. So, I get it. But who goes to the lengths of finding out the members of staff and getting one of them to sneak the letter in?’

  Lois nods. ‘Is that what happened? I haven’t heard.’

  ‘Well, I assume so.’ Marieke drinks the hot chocolate. The wind has picked up outside and it rushes in bursts up to the house, whining.

  ‘No, you’re right. How stupid, but when I saw it, I worried it was one of the guests!’ Lois shivers. ‘How ridiculous.’

  Shaking her head gently, looking into the mug, which swirls with the sweet dark liquid, Marieke says, ‘It’s not ridiculous. You never know what people have to lose. We eat and drink together, but it could be one of us. One of us roun
d that table might want me stopped, very badly. If my legislation goes through, the cost implications could be huge. This deal is a great start, and paves the way for others. However, for those with other investments, it would be far less profitable if they had to pay everyone fairly. It could easily be someone round the table.’

  Marieke stands and looks outside. ‘One of the letters mentioned my daughter. You have no idea how vulnerable it makes me feel. It’s the surest way to get to me. Worrying about her has been the closest I’ve come to stopping.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter. How old is she?’ Lois asks.

  ‘She’s just had her twentieth birthday. I try to keep her private. Keep her out of the public eye.’ Marieke sags, sitting back down.

  ‘Oh, Marieke. Can her father help?’

  ‘Her father is an old boyfriend. He has nothing to do with her. Never has.’

  There’s a startled yelp behind them. Lois turns. ‘Oh, Liv! I didn’t see you there. Do you want to come in?’

  Liv shakes her head. She looks pale.

  ‘I was… I was looking for…’ she starts, but tails away. She’s looking at Marieke.

  ‘Maarten’s in the other room. I can take you?’ Lois rises.

  But Liv shakes her head, taking a step backwards. ‘I’ll find him. On my own.’

  Marieke looks after her, her features settling into a different expression. Some discomfort. ‘That was…’

  ‘That’s Liv. Maarten’s wife,’ Lois says, reaching for her drink. Her head is starting to ache. ‘She’s lovely, don’t worry. She won’t mention your daughter to anyone, if you’re worried about it.’

  ‘Do you think she heard it all?’ Marieke asks, her voice soft. She bites her lip.

  ‘She’ll be discreet,’ Lois says, wondering at the colour Marieke has turned. She tries to reassure her. Something has just happened, and it’s slipped by quickly; Lois replays the last few minutes in her head. ‘Here, let me get you another drink.’

  26

  MAARTEN

  It’s almost 2 a.m. – it’s officially Saturday – and it’s not that the letter looks any different to the others. He sits in Lois’s study downstairs, reading the letter again, which he has laid down gently, awaiting fingerprint dusting:

  SLUTS LIKE YOU ALWAYS GET WHAT THEY DESERVE.

  I KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP TONIGHT.

  THINK A BIG HOUSE CAN PROTECT YOU?

  LOOK OVER YOUR SHOULDER.

  THERE I AM.

  WATCHING YOU.

  Short and vicious. In thick black block English capitals.

  Next to it he’s laid out the envelope that contained the money. Next to that is the money itself. The PC stands guard.

  ‘There are more officers coming soon. It seems like it’s come from the house, so as long as no one is allowed to leave, I don’t see any point in pursuing anything further tonight. This looks similar to the rest of the letters. I’ll get the other officers to station themselves outside Ms Visser’s door and at the exits to the house. We’re watching for anyone unaccounted for. Anyone off the list. If anyone already in the house asks to step outside, then obviously let them, but no one leaves the grounds – no cars. Let’s get some statements in the morning.’

  The sounds from the dining room are raucous now.

  He repeats, ‘No one is to leave the grounds, so garden only – we can’t stop people stepping out to smoke, but no one gets in a car; no new people are to be admitted to the house. I want the evidence fingerprinted then bagged. We’ll leave it at Alison Hampshire’s statement tonight, while it’s fresh. Everyone else is tired, or drunk.’ He thinks of the dining room, of the champagne. He’d phoned it in to the super and she’d been anxious about disrupting the guests. Her message had been unequivocal: Be discreet, Maarten.

  ‘Can you take the fingerprints of all the staff tonight? As long as all the guests remain, we can do them in the morning.’

  Tired, he thinks of his coffee, undrunk in the dining room.

  ‘Not quite ready for home yet,’ he says. But it’s past midnight, it’s the thirty-first. Candles flicker on the wall, and the goblins are getting ready.

  Halloween has begun with a trick.

  27

  LOIS

  Lois steps into the kitchen, which is quiet now. The staff are in another room with the officers. There’s a flicker outside. Someone is there.

  Partly curiosity, partly just to be outside, needing air, she steps through the doors.

  The night has a bite to it.

  The warmth from earlier has disappeared, and she shivers – but that could be fear. The fairy lights surrounding the house are behind her as she makes her way down the lawn, past the trees. Her hands shake as she steps into the black of night: the moon is behind a cloud and she spins at the crack of a twig, the hoot of an owl.

  This letter is vicious. Much like the rest. Is whoever posted the latest one waiting outside? Is there more to come?

  The leaves crunch underfoot as she passes under the final trees, which head down towards the Roman amphitheatre. A crunch sounds, further away – an animal? Lois clamps her arms to her sides for extra warmth, for extra protection.

  Who did she see? Are they still there?

  She takes the steps down to the theatre surrounds. Usually the gate is bolted, but they’d had permission this weekend to leave it open for the guests. The moon reappears; it’s high now, and the shadows black.

  ‘Hello?’ she calls.

  What is she doing? She’s come out so far, alone, and a threatening letter has been delivered in her home tonight. What on earth is she thinking? Sweat slides down her back as she shivers, and she breathes quickly, her chest tight.

  There’s a shout behind her, and the sound of running feet, behind the stones. The amphitheatre is huge. Grass, low stone walls, all massing into a circle, looking down on the old stage. In the dark, nothing is clear. Is there someone behind the wall?

  She runs up the side of the grass to get a better view, feet slipping on the damp. Over in the far corner, by the hedge that follows the perimeter, she is sure she can hear sounds of crying. It looks as if someone is lying on the ground, under a tree. Is it more than one person? Maybe a couple?

  She can’t think why anyone from the house would have come down here. It can’t be Ebba – not with all the rooms in their house. Perhaps someone has broken through the hedge to the theatre: teenagers with alcohol and cigarettes, or a rough sleeper?

  Lois finds she can’t move – the black of the night is overpowering. The letter flashes up in her mind: Watching you.

  The moon passes back behind a cloud. The dark of the sky shades her view. The sound of crying faint on the wind.

  28

  MAARTEN

  Exhausted, Maarten pushes open the door to the snug. Marieke is there on her own. The velvet curtains are open, and the windows reflect the room.

  A figure moves in the trees, catching his eye. It’s black outside, but the fairy lights cast mini haloes in the garden. It’s only a flicker, but he was right – someone is out there.

  ‘Stay here,’ he says to Marieke. ‘Back in a minute.’

  ‘Maart, I have to tell you something…’

  ‘Tell me in a minute. I think there’s someone on the lawn, heading down towards the trees, the amphitheatre.’

  ‘What? Be careful, Maart,’ she says, and she half rises as he turns the key in the French doors that lead down to the lawn.

  ‘It’s probably nothing. Just teenagers scaling the hedges into the garden, daring each other. They probably heard a film star was here. It will just be messing around. I’ll check.’

  He leaves her on the sofa, to the fire, with the whisky. He doesn’t think it’s kids messing around. This evening is too spiked.

  The doors open on to the grass and his shoes sink as he steps outside. The cold of the air is a shock after the heat of the room, and his first thought is Liv – how hard tonight might have been for her. Or not. Is he making too much of it? His
past, which he feels is secret and close. Maybe it would melt into the air if he spoke the words aloud?

  Work, he thinks, can be hard. And he thinks again of the drunk vomiting over him last night, how much he’d stunk, how tired he’d been. Exhaustion had settled in his bones like decay.

  And tonight, facing a threat, facing his past.

  That laugh. He hears it so far back in his mind. Seeing that man in Marieke’s apartment when he turned up with that stupid bunch of flowers. She’d been remorseful, but there had been pity on her face. And the laugh of the other man, derisive, full of scorn. Marieke had run after him when he fled her apartment. But he hadn’t stopped, couldn’t stop.

  Even once he had driven away, his face had burnt with the shame, the embarrassment. When a call had come through from work…

  He’d lied when he filed the report. Marieke had known and said nothing.

  If he’d only behaved differently, would he still be in Rotterdam? Instead of here, chasing the demons of others?

  Speeding up, his feet pad on the grass and he jogs under the trees. The rain has started. It’s wet against his face, like a mist, and his glasses are quickly speckled with water, which blurs with the fairy lights from the trees. He catches sight of the figure again, up ahead. He sees the Roman amphitheatre. There’s movement on the steps. He runs.

  There’s definitely someone there.

  He weaves through the trees. The bark catches his arm and he ducks from a low branch. Down the steps now, he can see a solo figure by the stage.

  Leaves fall behind him and he pushes his back up against a thick trunk and looks out.

  His breath is loud to his ears – he hopes whoever it is can’t hear him – and he sees an arm; the limb is bare, catching traces of light.

  He takes the central steps down two at a time, moving towards the figure.

  Is it a woman?

  Stepping quietly, he inches forward. He’s still quite high up, where families spread their picnic blankets in the summer.