The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  He gave them a smile and a wave, and mouthed, ‘Hi!’

  They waved back, all big smiles, just like they had that morning. Nice neighbours!

  He turned away and continued to unpack.

  10

  Friday 14 December

  In the kitchen, Emily shredded a lettuce and dropped it into a glass bowl, diced cucumber and tomatoes and added them, then cut an avocado in half, carefully removed the stone and sliced the flesh into the bowl, adding pine nuts, quinoa and chia seeds, an olive oil dressing, then salt and pepper.

  She removed the cover from the pasta bake her mother had made, put it in the preheated oven and called up, loudly, ‘Supper will be ready in twenty minutes, darling!’

  Next, she pulled a rhubarb crumble out of the fridge, put it in the microwave and closed the door, making a mental note to switch it on a little later, just to reheat it.

  To her surprise, the machine suddenly began whirring. She was about to switch it off, when a shadow slid silently across the floor.

  ‘Oh, great, you’re down quickly! How hungry are you? I’ve got some garlic bread in the freezer – I could bung it in the oven if you’re—’

  She turned around.

  There was no one there.

  She stared at the doorway to the hall. ‘Jason?’ Her voice came out small and scared. ‘Jason?’ Louder. ‘Jason?’

  She walked over to the hall.

  A shadow moved past her.

  She spun around.

  No one.

  She looked at the television. It was off. She turned to the command box. The red off-light was glowing.

  She stood still, scared, eyes darting in every direction. Staring out at the darkness beyond the windows. Feeling even more strongly the presence of an unseen person here in the kitchen with her.

  Very nervously, looking over her shoulder every few steps, she went over to the cupboard where she’d stored the dinner plates, opened it and lifted out two. Halfway across to the refectory table there was a massive bang, like a gunshot.

  Something hot struck her face, hard.

  Screaming in shock, she dropped the plates, which shattered on the tiled floor.

  Jason came running into the room. ‘What—?’

  He stopped in his tracks.

  His wife was standing in the middle of the kitchen. White stuff in her red hair. Blood pouring down her face. Smoke was belching from the microwave, its door open, swinging, the glass blackened. The walls and ceiling spattered with red splodges.

  He ran over to her. ‘Em, Em, are you—?’

  Then he saw to his relief it wasn’t blood, it was rhubarb juice. Her hair was covered in specks of crumble and rhubarb fragments, juice trickling down her cheek. He put his arms around her. ‘Jesus, are you OK?’

  Sobbing, she said, ‘No. NO. I am not OK.’

  11

  Friday 14 December

  ‘Maurice, what on earth are you up to, coming in and going out, coming in and going out like this?’ Claudette said through a mouthful of Orange Cream, while stroking the cat.

  Her husband stood in the doorway in his coat, shaken by the man with the cigar he had just seen outside.

  On the television screen, a couple dressed in matching bright-yellow outfits were dancing a tango.

  ‘Are you all right, Maurice?’ she said, anxious suddenly. ‘You look very pale.’

  ‘I – I – I – I’m fine.’

  She shook her head. ‘I really think you should go and see Dr Reade. You’re behaving very strangely recently, ever since we’ve moved here. I’m worried you might have had a small stroke, or perhaps you have early-onset dementia.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘You need an MRI scan.’

  I need a drink, he thought.

  ‘Make an appointment tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he said and removed his coat, hanging it on a hook in the hall. Then he walked through to the kitchen and headed straight for the drinks cabinet, where he poured himself a large whisky, and knocked it back in one gulp.

  As the dancers finished their act, Claudette Penze-Weedell saw a figure pass by in the hallway again, heading towards the front door.

  ‘Maurice!’ she called out sternly. ‘Maurice, where are you going now?’

  He stood in the kitchen, still very shaken by what he had seen, and heard her voice. He poured himself a second, equally large whisky then walked, ambling at his own pace, back towards the living room.

  ‘Maurice!’ she called again.

  He entered the room.

  ‘Where did you just go – and why?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I just saw you heading towards the front door.’

  ‘You must have been mistaken, I was in the kitchen.’

  She frowned. ‘I – I definitely saw you going to the front door.’

  ‘I definitely was not.’

  ‘I saw you!’

  ‘Maybe you’re the one who needs to go to the doctor, my love.’

  ‘I’m telling you I saw you! You can’t even remember what you did thirty seconds ago. I’m coming with you, you need a check-up.’

  He glanced at the screen. ‘Who’s in the lead?’

  ‘Not the couple I’ve been rooting for. They’ve just been eliminated.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah,’ she echoed, with a mimicking tone. ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘What would you like me to say – or do? Prostrate myself on the floor with grief? Turn up at their funeral carrying the Hanging Gardens of Babylon on my shoulders as a wreath?’

  ‘Don’t be so pathetically dramatic.’ Turning away from him, she once again concentrated on the screen. After a short while she glanced back at her husband. ‘I’d just like you to show some emotion, some feeling, some interest in what I’m interested in.’

  He pointed a finger. ‘At all those people prancing around in fancy dress?’

  ‘It’s quality dancing – not something you’ve ever been any good at.’

  ‘No, well, I’m going to a quality football match tomorrow. Brighton and Hove Albion against Spurs.’

  ‘What?’ she said, crossly. ‘Tomorrow is free hot drinks day at Wyevale Garden Centre. With my loyalty card. You know that, you have it in your diary.’

  ‘A free hot drink?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said emphatically.

  ‘The petrol to get there probably costs more than the drink’s worth.’

  ‘My car is electric, so I don’t think so. We need more Christmas decorations, and I’ve a lot of food still to buy for Christmas dinner – they have a good cheese selection there. We need a Stilton. Stilton and port for your father.’

  He did not want to go to any garden centre. Claudette went bonkers in them. Ever since discovering the loyalty cards she seemed to have organized her entire life around their monthly free hot drinks days. But of course, they were never free. On the last one he had attended with her, they had spent over six hundred pounds on plants.

  Days before his redundancy.

  Now he was conflicted. As a season ticket holder for the Albion – and this might well be the last year for some while that he could afford one – he badly wanted to go. But equally, if Claudette went to claim her free hot drink at the garden centre, God only knew what she might spend. At least if he was with her, he could prevent that. They could perhaps go on Sunday, but that would mean missing his golf.

  As he dwelt on the dilemma, a voice inside his head sharply and clearly said, ‘Cancel the fat bitch’s credit cards and go to the footy! Be a man for once!’

  12

  Saturday 15 December

  In the morning, the kitchen still stank of burned electrics and plastic. Jason, tired after an uneasy night of fitful sleep, sat in silence at the refectory table, reading the microwave instructions while eating his breakfast.

  Behind him, Emily, a strip of sticking plaster across the two cuts on her cheek from flying glass, worked on emptyin
g a packing case, thinking. She’d not said anything to Jason about the shadows she’d seen in the room last night, unsure now whether she had really seen them. Sky News was on, the sound low, but neither of them, immersed in their thoughts, looked at the television screen.

  ‘All I did was put the crumble in the oven, in a microwavable glass bowl, with clingfilm – which I’d pierced – covering it,’ Emily said.

  ‘The machine’s obviously faulty. They’ll replace it under warranty, for sure.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want another – at least not from that company. They’ll have to do a pretty good job convincing me a replacement won’t do the same thing. I’ll bring my catering one in from the garage in the meantime.’

  ‘I had a look online,’ Jason said. ‘I can’t find any other instances of something like that happening – other than idiots putting ridiculous things in, deliberately – and that—’ He broke off in mid-sentence, distracted. ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing!’

  ‘Seeing what?’

  Jason pointed out the front window.

  Emily looked, not seeing anything. ‘What?’

  He pointed again. ‘Across the road! She looks like she’s dressed for a polar expedition!’

  Emily peered out and finally saw the woman standing outside her open front door, as a driverless, boxy little purple car reversed out of the double garage and around to the door, stopping in front of her.

  ‘Gosh, that must be one of those self-park cars. How nice, wouldn’t mind one of those!’ she said.

  Moments later a rather meek-looking man in an anorak, carrying a shopping bag, hurried out the front door. He climbed into the passenger seat of the little car as the woman got behind the wheel and they drove off.

  ‘They look fun, our neighbours!’ Jason said.

  ‘Fun – not! We must go over later and tell them how much we love their Christmas decorations,’ Emily replied, mischievously.

  ‘And perhaps get invited in for a lovely glass of lukewarm Liebfraumilch.’

  ‘You really think they’d be that classy?’

  ‘Now now, don’t be a snob, Em. I’m sure they’d be classier than that. Lidl’s rosé at least.’

  Santa was still rocking away in his grotto, but at least, in the bright morning sunlight, they couldn’t see his flashing eyes.

  ‘Oh look!’ Emily pulled out a large, embossed album from the packing case. ‘Our wedding album! Where shall we put it?’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  She handed it to him. On the front, against the plain grey background, was a picture of himself and Emily. She was radiant in a cream dress and a sparkly tiara, and he was beaming, in a white shirt, black suit and a buttonhole matching her bouquet of red gerberas. Alongside them were their bridesmaids and his best man.

  ‘Can’t believe it was six years ago next July!’

  ‘Me neither!’ she kissed him. ‘It’s not been totally shit, has it?’

  Jason screwed up his face. ‘Nah, not totally.’ He gave her an impish smile. ‘There’ve been some good moments . . .’

  ‘Just a few . . .’

  He stood up and embraced her, holding her tight. ‘Every second has been amazing. I love you to bits.’

  ‘I love you to bits, too.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘As soon as we get straight, can we get a puppy?’

  He frowned. ‘I’d rather a cat, they’re cleaner.’ He patted her tummy. ‘Maybe we’ll soon be having some of our own kittens, finally?’

  ‘I’d like three. Ideally, two boys and a girl?’

  ‘Two boys – that’s what royalty call an heir and a spare.’

  ‘That’s horrible!’

  ‘Joke.’

  ‘Not a funny one.’ She gently unwound his arms and stepped away. ‘So, plan for today?’

  ‘Make love?’ he suggested.

  ‘We’ll fit that in. First we need to find a garden centre and buy a Christmas tree and then stop by the pub and village store.’

  ‘And then make love?’ He put his arms around her.

  She shook her head, giving him a quizzical look. ‘Why can I never be angry at you for long?’

  ‘Because you fancy me too much.’

  She flicked two fingers at him then turned back to the packing case. As she continued removing stuff, he returned to his breakfast, putting the microwave instructions to one side and flipping through pages of the album as he ate. ‘God, it was such an amazing day!’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Tom and Marianne are coming over some time this afternoon, if that’s OK?’ he said. ‘They’re dying to see the place.’ Tom Bedford, a fellow painter whose career was really taking off, was his best friend, and Emily got on really well with both him and his wife.

  ‘That’s fine. Louise is coming around four to help me get the work kitchen straight, and we have to go through the menu for the anniversary event and make sure we have everything we need for it, this side of Christmas. How’s Tom and Marianne’s little boy getting on – Kit?’

  ‘Just had his fourth birthday.’ Jason finished his porridge and put the bowl in the dishwasher. He went to the window and looked at the little house across the road, where last night he had seen, for the second time, the couple with the young children in the upstairs window. There was no sign of life. And he noticed, for the first time, the blue developers’ sign by the front door, with writing so large he could read it from here.

  SQUIRREL’S NEST. 34 LAKEVIEW DRIVE.

  FOR SALE.

  So, who, he wondered, had he seen in the window yesterday? The new potential buyers?

  He hoped so. They seemed friendly.

  13

  Saturday 15 December

  Shortly before midday, Maurice Penze-Weedell pushed the fully laden shopping trolley across the busy car park of the garden centre. It had been as costly an experience as he had feared it would be, with Mrs P-W managing to rack up a bill of over three hundred pounds on plants they did not need, cheeses, Christmas tat, new gardening gloves and God knows what else she had bunged in when he hadn’t been looking.

  Happy wife, happy life, he’d reminded himself.

  And at least, he’d consoled himself, they’d had two free hot drinks – a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream for her and a tea for himself. She’d further splurged on a slice of Battenberg cake, which she had enjoyed so much she’d had a second. Now she strode ahead of him, holding out her arm imperiously as they approached her purple car.

  ‘Stop here, Maurice!’ she said and pressed the key fob.

  As obedient as her husband always was, Claudette’s car reversed itself out of the parking space and stopped in front of them. And just at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, Claudette saw a familiar-looking bright pink van approaching. ‘Oh my God!’ she said.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Emily Danes said, as they drove through the rammed car park of the garden centre, looking for a space. ‘Look who’s here!’

  ‘It’s the Neighbours from Hell!’ Jason replied.

  She gave his thigh a reproachful slap, hissing, ‘Be polite to them!’

  ‘I shall be all sweetness and light,’ he answered. ‘Here they come, the Addams family, about to meet their neighbours, the Munsters, for the first time. We like neighbours, don’t we? We like them fried with a little garlic, and some chilli peppers!’

  ‘Stoppit!’

  The older couple were staring at them or, more accurately, gawping.

  Emily braked to a halt alongside them and slid down her window. ‘Hi!’ she said, breezily. ‘I think you live across the street from us, in Lakeview Drive?’

  The woman gave an awkward smile, and then in a very put-on posh voice said, ‘So nice to meet you. Claudette and Maurice Penze-Weedell!’ She pointed at her husband, who stood behind her.

  ‘Emily and Jason Danes,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, we know just who you are,’ said the woman’s husband, stepping forward as if emerging fro
m his own shadow and raising his hat, politely, revealing a shiny head. ‘So very nice!’

  ‘You must come and have a drink with us,’ Emily said enthusiastically, before her husband could stop her. ‘How about this evening?’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ said Maurice, his wife nodding and beaming.

  ‘About seven?’

  ‘Perfect!’ he replied.

  ‘Doing your Christmas shopping?’ Emily continued.

  ‘Oh, you know, a few last-minute additions to the decorations,’ Claudette said.

  ‘Such beautiful lights you have outside your house,’ Emily said.

  ‘Oh, I am so pleased you like them!’ she simpered.

  ‘See you later; seven!’ Emily drove into the space their car had vacated, waving gaily.

  Jason waved gaily, too. Then, as she slid her window back up, he said, quietly, ‘Jesus, what have you lumbered us with tonight?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Penze-Weedell!’

  ‘They look awful.’

  Halting the van, Emily turned to him. ‘Who was it who said, Begin each day with a smile and get it over?’

  ‘W. C. Fields,’ he replied.

  ‘You should be on Mastermind, my love. You know every damn quote there ever was.’

  ‘“The Bible tells us to love our neighbours and also to love our enemies, because generally they are the same people” – G. K. Chesterton,’ he retorted.

  ‘Shut it!’

  They got out of the car, smiled at the Penze-Weedells, who were loading the stuff from their trolley into the boot, and walked across to the stack of Christmas trees that flanked the entrance to the main building. They stopped and studied them.

  ‘Anything you see that you fancy?’ Emily asked.

  ‘You!’

  She kissed him. ‘Trees?’

  ‘Something bigger than the – what’s their name – Pins-Needles?’

  ‘Penze-Weedell.’

  ‘We need something bigger than theirs.’

  ‘We’ve been moved in for twenty-four hours and already we’re playing keeping up with the Joneses? Come on! We don’t even know how big their tree is.’