‘How long has it been empty?’ asked Hannah as Jane gave the door a shove.
‘Twenty-five years. It was bought by the Saudi royal family for a million or so and then forgotten.’
‘A million quid.’
‘Pocket change to them.’ Inside the air was dank, the walls peeling. ‘They shipped their Bentleys here but never got round to the furniture. The cars are just sitting there in the garage.’
The skin of the house – the plaster covering the walls and ceilings – was mostly gone, exposing wooden rafters and dirty insulation.
‘There are so many empty on this road. Has anyone ever moved back in?’
‘One was sold last year but they didn’t bother to renovate. It’s much easier to tear the whole mess down and start again.’
They made their way up a set of stairs, through a door hanging askew from a single hinge, and came out into the mansion’s entrance hall.
It was enormous, fifty feet wide and a hundred feet high, a giant rectangular window stretched above the front door. To their right was a staircase, its balustrade gilded with bird droppings. Every stair was lush with ferns, the leaves so shiny that Hannah found herself wanting to reach out and rub her thumb across their surface.
She took a step forward and something crunched underfoot. The floor was littered with pigeon skeletons and rubble from half-collapsed ceilings.
It was surprising how much damage not touching something could do.
‘Want to see the bedrooms?’
Hannah nodded and they broached the staircase, pushing past the lurid foliage to get to the top.
They reached the first floor and Jane pulled her into a room with a giant chandelier.
‘The master suite.’
Hannah edged past an arrangement of wooden crates resting against the wall. The words BULLET PROOF GLASS were scrawled on the side in black marker.
‘Seriously?’ said Hannah.
‘I know, right?’ said Jane, moving toward a huge window framed by ragged curtains, the pelmet ruched with moss. ‘Where did they plan to install it? The living room?’ She laughed. ‘The toilet?’
Below they could see the garden and beyond it, the pond.
‘That’s my house,’ said Hannah, pointing to the terrace on the other side of the water. ‘There.’
‘Where?’ said Jane, lifting her binoculars.
‘The one covered with ivy in the middle,’ said Hannah, ‘see?’
‘Got it,’ said Jane and clicked her tongue approvingly. She tilted the binoculars up a fraction and laughed. ‘I see your husband.’
‘Not possible,’ said Hannah. ‘You must be looking at the wrong one.’
‘See for yourself.’ She handed her the binoculars.
It took a few seconds to single out her property and then a few seconds more to focus. The view of the kitchen was blocked by the trees at the bottom of the garden but she could see into all the other windows. She scanned each one in turn. Nothing.
‘You were definitely looking at the wrong house,’ she said, about to hand the binoculars back, then stopped. It wasn’t much, a flash of colour streaking across her bedroom, but it belonged to a figure. She was sure of it.
She wanted to shout, to blare a megaphone across the pond and order them out.
Her heart bolstered against her ribs.
‘I need to call the police,’ she said, picking her way back through the pigeon bones. ‘I’m being burgled.’
Hannah called 999 while she was still in the mansion, and arrived home to find an officer waiting by the front gate.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Hannah, looking past her toward the front door. She’d expected to find it open, the lock splintered. It was shut, no sign of forced entry.
‘You reported a break-in?’ said the policewoman, following her down the path.
‘I was on the other side of the pond,’ said Hannah, opening the door. ‘I saw someone in my bedroom.’
Inside, they checked every room in turn but the house was empty and nothing seemed to be missing.
They saved the kitchen till last. Jem was lying on his bed, reading. Seeing the police officer, he sat up.
‘Everything OK?’
Hannah went to the French doors and rattled them. Locked. The officer tugged at the cell door. It too was secure.
‘Hear anything strange,’ said Hannah, ‘while I was out?’
Jem shook his head.
‘And you haven’t had your headphones in?’
‘Nope.’ He put down his book.
Hannah turned to the policewoman.
‘My neighbour,’ said Hannah, ‘she keeps seeing someone hanging around. She thought they were sizing the place up. Maybe it was them?’
The officer unlocked the French doors, walked to the bottom of the garden and squinted across the pond.
‘How far away was this house you were at?’ she asked once Hannah had caught up.
‘There,’ said Hannah, pointing at the broken-down mansion. ‘I was on the first floor.’
The policewoman looked from Queen’s Crescent to Hannah’s place and back again. Sunshine bounced against the windows, rippling the glass with light.
‘Maybe it was a trick of the eye?’ she said, returning inside. ‘A false alarm.’
The Warlaby hotel, Clerkenwell. Hannah stepped into the lobby and swerved to miss a rich-looking couple, all hair and sunglasses, sashaying toward the street. She felt for the picture of John in her back jeans pocket and, dazzled by the bulbs lining the wall and ceiling, moved toward reception.
Piotr Nowak had said the Heppels, the family John had been looking into, owned and ran various hotels in the city. Piotr hadn’t known whether this place belonged to them or not, but regardless, her phoning here and mentioning John’s name had led directly to a call warning her off. Whatever stuff John had been involved in, that warning had left her sure of one thing: it had something to do with this place.
Today she wanted to find out what kind of reaction her turning up and asking questions in person might unleash.
She flashed John’s picture to the staff behind the front desk, then the bellboy and concierge. None of them recognised him and although some reacted oddly she sensed their discomfort was more down to the weirdness of the situation – having a strange woman ask if they knew her deceased husband – than to them trying to mask any criminal connection.
She retreated to the bar, took a seat at one of the tables near the back, and placed John’s picture down. His face looked out at her, his eyes kind, his white hair ruffled.
She still couldn’t get her head around the idea of him as a dirty cop. He’d cared so deeply about the Met, what it stood for, his colleagues, Mickey. He would never betray that, no way. Reluctant to confide in anyone other than Aisling about the accusation – the thought of repeating those words to Rupert, false as they may be, felt like she would be sullying John’s memory – she’d decided that she’d keep it to herself until she knew more.
A waiter came to take her order, a young guy with cropped neon-pink hair. She waggled John’s picture in his face.
‘Do you recognise him? His name was John, he was a detective? Do you remember him ever being here?’
The waiter took his time looking at the photograph and then handed it back to her.
‘Sorry.’
‘How about Slig? Know anyone by that name on the staff?’ She was about to press him further when the lift dinged open and out stepped someone she knew.
Curls bouncing, she wore a black T-shirt and leggings, a chunky turquoise stone on a chain round her neck.
Aisling.
Hannah sprang to her feet, almost upending the table, and shouted her friend’s name. Aisling startled and as they locked eyes her face fell. She stepped back a fraction, as though she was about to retreat into the lift, then seemed to decide against it and crossed the bar to where Hannah sat.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said when she reached her.
‘I could ask
you the same question,’ laughed Hannah and they hugged.
‘I cover the odd shift in the spa when they’re short-staffed,’ said Aisling as they drew apart. Her gaze twitched between the bar and reception.
Hannah patted the chair for her to sit down.
‘This is the hotel I told you about, remember, the one Jem said John mentioned on the phone that night.’ She gestured at the milling staff. ‘I wanted to ask about him in person, see if I could find anyone he knew.’
‘And,’ Aisling tried to brush her curls out of her eyes and failed, ‘any joy?’
‘Nope. Nobody remembers him.’ She paused. ‘Or at least they say they don’t.’
Aisling nodded and let out a breath.
‘Ash, are you all right?’ Hannah took her hand. ‘You seem on edge.’
The question seemed to drain Aisling of her nervous energy and she collapsed back into the chair.
‘On the way here I saw that bloke from the Heath again, the dormouse.’ She shuddered. ‘The whole time I’ve been on shift I’ve been scared he was downstairs waiting for me.’ She nodded at the lift. ‘When you called my name I freaked.’
Hannah squeezed her hand.
‘You should go to the police.’
‘And tell them what?’ Her hands jittered around her throat. ‘I don’t even know his name.’
‘Talk to Rupert. Maybe he could find out who he is, have a quiet word.’ Hannah gathered her things. She’d learned nothing new by coming here, but it was another thing ticked off her list. Looking up, she saw Aisling was staring through the glass lobby to the street outside, her face ashen.
Hannah followed her gaze and soon located the source of her dismay.
The dormouse.
Leaning against a tree, he was wearing the same grey suit as the first time she’d seen him, his black eyes narrowed against the sun. Hannah was struck by his brazenness. He was so nearby and so obviously watching the hotel entrance. She thought again about the women with the taser. What had he done to deserve their wrath? No wonder Aisling was scared.
Hannah marched toward the doors, intending to go outside and confront him, but as he clocked her approach he stepped away from the tree and, pretending to check something on his phone, scurried off into the crowds. Still, Hannah stayed there by the glass a few minutes more, watching and waiting. When she was sure he wasn’t coming back she returned to Aisling.
‘What a creep,’ she said and took her hand. ‘We’ll leave together. Make sure you get home OK.’
‘Thank you for being my friend,’ said Aisling as they headed for the lobby. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
Jem
‘Boiled eggs for breakfast?’
I put down my book and pretend to think seriously about the question.
‘Sounds good.’ I pause and lift my eyebrows. ‘And soldiers?’
A smile.
‘You’re a grown man.’
I shrug.
‘They make the toast taste better. Everyone knows that.’
She rolls her eyes, fills a pan with water and sets it on the gas. Then she turns on Magic Radio. A power ballad fills the room. It’s one of those songs that manage to tell an epic love story in three minutes. Hannah knows all the words and is singing along under her breath and popping bread in the toaster when the doorbell goes.
She runs upstairs and returns with the post and a parcel. She drops one of the envelopes in the hatch and sets to work opening the box of what look to be baking supplies.
I pull the drawer through and reach for the letter.
So far, the only correspondence I’ve had has been the edict from Roost telling me I need to move my stuff. Kenzie would never write and besides, he has no need, we sorted everything over the phone.
The handwriting is small and blockish, the biro smudged.
It’s from Alina.
My heart lifts.
Maybe she’s had a change of heart? Has she decided to help after all?
But when I open it I see she has bad news.
‘Things have got worse,’ she writes. ‘There is less time than we thought. I realise things are hard, impossible even, but you need to act quicker. You’ve got till Christmas, then it’s over.’
Christmas. Three months from now.
A clang. Hannah places a tray in the hatch. A boiled egg, its shell speckled brown, and two slices of buttered toast cut into soldiers.
‘Breakfast is served,’ she says and I see she’s set an identical meal on the table so we can eat together. Her toast is also shaped into long thin slices, ready for dipping.
She sits and begins to eat.
‘Who knew?’ she says, once the first soldier is gone. ‘They do taste better.’
We share a smile and I can tell she wants me to tease her some more, for us to banter back and forth, but I’m too floored by this latest development to say anything and so she shrinks down into her chair.
I take the tray to my table but my appetite is gone. I bite into the toast and chew. It’s like swallowing sludge. I make sure to give Hannah a big thumbs-up and then I keep going until the shell is clean and my plate empty.
Hannah
Thursday evening and Hannah had invited Aisling over for shepherd’s pie and Rioja. Jem made Aisling uncomfortable and so she’d asked if they could hang out in the living room while they waited for the pie to cook.
‘Bad news,’ said Aisling as Hannah handed her a goblet-size glass of wine. ‘Maraschino has decided to go with someone else for the anniversary cake. She loved the samples but they decided to go for a more traditional approach.’
‘Shame,’ said Hannah, ‘I could have done with the money.’
‘Rich people.’ Aisling shrugged and rolled her eyes. ‘No taste.’
Hannah had put olives and focaccia out for them to nibble on and before she reached for a piece of bread she pricked her finger and placed the strip in the meter.
‘Ever get sick of that?’ said Aisling, spitting out an olive stone. She mimed her hands exploding out of her brain. Pow. ‘The maths alone.’
‘It’s easier now,’ said Hannah, holding up her clicker pen. She’d switched from bottled insulin and single-use syringes a year earlier. ‘Still. Thirteen prick tests a day, plus the same number of injections. Then there’s all the kit. Test meter, sharps bin, test strips, lancets.’ A doctor had once told Hannah about a computer game that had been developed to help teenagers better understand their glucose levels. Based on the Tower Defense genre, it involved the player being holed up in a castle they had to defend from a constant onslaught of enemy fire while at the same time trying to earn enough points to maintain the castle’s energy levels. Hannah had thought the analogy perfect but what had really struck her was the never-ending nature of the game, how, no matter how long or well you played, it could never be won or completed, how you had to remain vigilant forever. ‘Then there’s the fact that everything – sleep, stress, exercise, if I’m on my period – messes with my sugars.’ Hannah took a breath. ‘It’s shit.’
‘So,’ said Aisling, flipping open her laptop. ‘What shall we look at to soothe your troubled soul? Choose your poison. DILFS of Disneyland or Hot Dudes Reading?’
Hannah chose the Insta feed and they settled in, readying to oooh and aaah. There was a dad pushing a double stroller, wearing the same mouse ears as his toddler daughters, his forearms strong and tanned, there was the dad rocking a baby in a papoose, baseball cap on backwards, while he queued with his under-5 for the Teacups ride, there was a dad with his son on his shoulders, both transfixed by the Princess Parade.
The stream was mainly old favourites, but there was one picture Hannah hadn’t seen before. It showed a dad on the grass in front of the Magical Kingdom with his young daughter. Sitting cross-legged, he was holding her to him and their foreheads were pressed together, their smiles scrunched. The foliage behind them was a deep green, the flowers tropical.
There was something about the pose that took her breath away and for a moment sh
e had to avert her gaze, to steel herself against the arm of the sofa.
She wondered if the wanting ever went away, if the need – so primal as to be obscene – would ever leave her.
She and John had tried for years to have kids. They’d gone it alone at first and then, when it became clear there was an issue, had consulted a doctor. Age wasn’t thought to be a factor, Hannah had been thirty-one at the time, and while John was older at forty-six, his sperm count had been more than decent. Tests had been done and although there was nothing obviously wrong, there was a theory that Hannah’s diabetes might be compromising her fertility. Four rounds of IVF had followed, the first funded by the NHS, the rest by John’s work health insurance. Hannah remembered seeing one of the invoices the hospital sent out after each appointment, agog at the thousands involved.
The scans, blood draws and follicle tracking had been relentless. Every cycle had been disastrous in different ways but the moment that stuck in her mind was the morning a peppy Italian embryologist had called to tell them that none of the eggs they’d retrieved the previous day had fertilised. She’d been so cheerful, so bright, so oblivious to their devastation.
When, at the end of their fourth fruitless cycle, John had told her meekly that his health insurance would not fund any more treatment, she’d felt relieved.
Hannah decided to sit out the rest of this scroll session and was about to say as much, when she saw that Aisling had already done the same and was staring off to the right of the computer, her thumb autopiloting the mouse.
‘Ash?’
She came to.
‘What? Sorry.’
Clocking Hannah’s distress, she flipped the laptop shut and they sat there in silence, Aisling nodding and gripping Hannah’s hand – she understood how much Hannah had wanted a child and how, even if she were to meet someone new, her age, diabetes and fertility history meant it was probably never going to be. Then Hannah caught sight of the time and jumped to her feet.
‘Food.’ She motioned for Aisling to stay on the sofa. ‘Stay put. I’ll bring it up. We can eat off our laps.’
The Captive Page 14