The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  As he worked, he could not shut out the endless roaring and grinding, the jangling clatter of metal chains and tumbling rubble. He hadn’t really noticed the noise from the site when they’d originally viewed the house – probably because they were focused on the house and excited. Nor had he really been aware of it on Friday, distracted by the task of moving in.

  Was this going to be the reality for months to come, now? At least the workers would be knocking off for Christmas sometime soon – in the next few days – and with luck they’d not be returning until the New Year. That would give him nearly a couple of weeks of peace and quiet, after finishing his two commissions, to concentrate on his portfolio of work for his show in February. Maybe he should get a pair of ear defenders, like many of the workers on the site were wearing, to cut out the din?

  An orange crane with a grab-bucket had appeared on the site during the morning, moving slowly across on caterpillar tracks like some giant scaly creature from the Jurassic age. The driver was currently swinging the bucket into a diminishing mountain of rubble – one of a line of them – scooping it up and depositing it into the deep rectangle, a good fifty feet wide and three hundred long, that had been excavated – presumably the foundations for a number of houses.

  From time to time, with the light outside changing from bright sunshine to darkly overcast, Jason stepped away from finishing the portrait of the two dogs, opened the window and zoomed in through his camera lens on different workmen. He was collecting dozens of photographs. He loved the starkly contrasting image of the yellow jackets and hats against the dark brown mud of the landscape. Part of his exhibition, he had decided, would definitely be images of these men. It would be different from anything else out there; Lowry-inspired, sure, but very different from that great artist’s images.

  One worker caught his eye now, spotlighted by the sun in another break in the clouds. An olive-skinned man in a white hard hat, ear defenders and a yellow hi-viz jacket, standing facing the deep rectangle and rummaging in his pocket. The labourer leaned against another mountain of rubble and began rolling a cigarette. The man’s body language was such a giveaway; his head was just below the top of the rubble and he was peering around, furtively checking that no one could see him. He’d chosen his position well, invisible to the Portakabin where no doubt the site manager and foreman were working, and to his fellow workers.

  Jason snapped away, zooming in even tighter. He already had the name for this painting in his mind. The Skiver!

  Suddenly, a shadow fell across the pile of rubble, moving steadily, rapidly darkening it.

  Jason took his eye away from the viewfinder and looked up, puzzled for a second; the sky was still a brilliant blue.

  Then he saw the cause of the shadow. The orange crane had turned away from the stack it had just finished emptying into the pit, to this new one. It was moving steadily towards it. He saw the driver busy in the cab with his controls, unaware of the man lighting his cigarette on the far side of it, craftily out of sight.

  The skiver, wearing his ear defenders, wouldn’t hear it.

  Jason stared, transfixed, wanting to shout out a warning, but he was far too far away. He emitted only a quiet, lame croak.

  No!

  He watched the two halves of the clamshell bucket of the crane open. Swinging from its cables. Dropping jerkily. Hovering over the top of the stack.

  Two huge jaws.

  Over the man.

  Then, like a bird of prey, it dropped, pouncing, momentarily blocking him from Jason’s view.

  The two halves closed together, scooping up rubble, then rose sharply again.

  With something dangling from them.

  Oh Jesus, no.

  It was the skiver, being hoisted in the air, his head invisible inside the jaws. All Jason could see of him was from the neck down, body twitching, his legs kicking, work boots flailing.

  Abruptly the grab bucket stopped with a jerk in mid-air, and opened.

  The skiver’s torso plummeted like a rag doll, twenty feet to the ground, toppled sideways and lay still. Blood spewed from his neck.

  A second later, something white fell from the bucket, bounced on the ground near the motionless body and rolled. As it did so, something tipped out of it.

  Jason stared in utter horror as he realized what it was.

  Oh Jesus.

  He turned, his stomach heaving, and threw up on the studio floor.

  40

  Monday 17 December

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Emily glanced at the large round clock on the kitchen wall. It was a replica antique French railway clock, with Roman numerals. 1.15 p.m. Louise had left because she had heard there was a special offer on large prawns at a wholesaler in Worthing, and the saving would be a good boost to the somewhat meagre profit they would be making.

  She opened the fridge door and was about to take out a couple of pies for lunch for herself and Jason, when he came in, looking very pale.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, alarmed. ‘Are you OK? What is it?’

  ‘I – I need a bucket and a mop. Where can I find them?’

  ‘They’re in the utility room – why? What do you need them for?’

  Hesitating, he said, ‘I think I just saw someone die – killed.’

  She followed him up to his studio, carrying a bucket of warm soapy water and several cloths.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said, entering and ignoring his puke on the floor. ‘Oh Jesus, it was horrible.’ He stared across at the construction site, his face pale.

  ‘What?’ Emily walked over and stood beside him. She saw an orange crane, and a swarm of workers in hard hats all around it.

  ‘I just – just—’ He began sobbing. ‘Oh God.’

  Alarmed, she put an arm around him. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I – I can’t believe what I just saw.’

  ‘What? What, darling? What exactly did you just see?’

  ‘It was horrible. Jesus, it was horrible.’

  ‘What, please tell me.’

  ‘An accident – a terrible—’ He shook his head. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I. Just. Saw. A. Man. Killed. Killed. I saw him killed.’

  ‘Where? There, on the site?’

  He continued staring. Shaking. Without answering her.

  ‘Tell me what happened, what did you see?’

  All the machines had stopped. There were now twenty, maybe thirty workers standing in a semi-circle. More running over to join them.

  In the distance was the wail of a siren, coming ever closer.

  Followed by another.

  A siren screamed by, close to the house. Two paramedics ran onto the site and through a gap that opened up in the semi-circle of workers. They were closely followed by two police officers.

  Jason turned away and buried his face in her neck. ‘Don’t look, Em,’ he sobbed. ‘Please don’t look. Oh God, I could have saved him, I saw – saw . . .’

  ‘Saw what? Please tell me, Jason, tell me. Come away from the window, come on, sit down, can I get you something?’

  He shook his head.

  She guided him over to the couch and got him to sit down, then joined him. ‘Please, tell me what happened, what did you see?’

  It took some while before he was calm enough to speak. He told her all he’d seen.

  When he had finished, Emily said, ‘You need to call the police and tell them – you might be the only witness.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I will do – oh God. I will call them. All he was doing was having a sneaky fag.’

  She put her arms around him. ‘You poor darling.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘There wasn’t anything you could have done.’

  ‘I know.’

  Emily cleaned up the vomit, went out of the room and returned a few minutes later, and stood looking at the easel.

  ‘The picture is beautiful – amazing how you’ve caught their personalities.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He gave her
a weak smile, his face still sheet white.

  ‘It looks finished.’

  ‘Just about. I’ll start on the spaniel soon.’

  ‘Good. Call the police, then try to put it out of your mind and focus.’

  ‘I know.’

  They both stood up.

  ‘I was about to make us some lunch. Do you think you could manage anything?’

  ‘Maybe in a while.’

  As Emily went back downstairs, he looked again at the painting. After being up all night, he’d planned to crash out for a couple of hours after finishing it, before starting on the spaniel. But he was so wired, that was no longer an option.

  More sirens wailed.

  He walked over to the window and looked out. It was like a scene from a television crime show. An ambulance, a cluster of police cars, and a dark green van with an emblem on it, crime scene tape . . .

  Squinting through the zoom lens of his camera, he closed in on the emblem.

  HM CORONER. WEST SUSSEX.

  He wondered whether he should dial the Emergency number, 999. But whatever emergency there might have been was over. Instead, removing his gloves and binning them, he dialled the number for non-emergency incidents: 101.

  It was several minutes before a call handler answered. Jason told him what he had seen.

  The man asked him for his contact details, thanked him and told him someone would be in touch.

  He ended the call, turned back and carried on, applying the finishing touches to the painting. Thirty minutes later, removing the portrait of the dogs from the easel, he placed it safely and securely on the floor, face-out, to enable the paint to dry and harden.

  It was 2.20 p.m. Feeling utterly shattered, but drawn by compulsion, he walked across to the window and looked out yet again. A square white tent had been placed a short distance in front of the crane. A group of people in blue oversuits and baggy overshoes stood around it, and a police officer with a clipboard stood a short distance in front of them.

  Too exhausted to care right now, Jason lay down on the couch and was asleep in seconds.

  41

  Monday 17 December

  He dreamed he was on a treadmill, pedalling harder and harder, trying to hand a finished gesso board to David, his framer, who was standing at the end of the treadmill, but never able to reach him.

  Then a headless torso was dangling from the jaws of a mechanical digger. The legs twitching and kicking as if trying to break free of its grip.

  Voices coming at Jason from every direction.

  You could have saved him.

  Why didn’t you try?

  He was my husband.

  He was my father.

  He was my brother.

  He was my son.

  I loved him so much.

  He was a good man.

  You could have shouted louder, mister. You could have. You could have saved him, but all you thought about was your art, you selfish bastard.

  Jason woke in darkness, in confusion, hot, sweaty, gripped with anxiety. What time was it? How long had he slept? Panicky, he looked at his watch.

  Shit!

  8.20 p.m.

  He’d been asleep six hours! Why hadn’t Emily woken him? 8.20 p.m. The sketch of the spaniel had to be with his framer by 10 a.m. tomorrow. He did a mental calculation. It would take him a good twenty minutes to get there. Which left him approximately eleven hours to get it done – assuming he worked through the night – and he had no option but to.

  The horror of what he had seen earlier came flooding back. He rolled over and peered out of the window, feeling the cold draught through the panes on his face. All looked dark out there, apart from one patch of bright light. Lit up by it was a solitary police officer, looking cold and bored, with crime scene tape either side of him. Beyond, the silhouettes of heavy machinery stood out against the moonlight, which cast a sinister glow on them.

  I could have saved him.

  How?

  Impossible, he knew, no one would have heard him however loud he had shouted. But he still felt bad for not trying. Guilt as dark as the night leached into him, as if via osmosis.

  ‘Shit!’ He jumped up, picked his way carefully to the door and switched on the lights. He blinked as they came on, bright and harsh – the light he liked to paint by at night. He felt dirty all over. Filthy. Dirt in every pore of his skin trying, like the guilt, to worm inside him.

  ‘Get off!’ he shouted, shaking his arms, shaking his whole body.

  He hurried down to their bedroom, through into the bathroom and stripped off all his clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor – they’d not yet unpacked the laundry basket, wherever it might be. Opening the glass door of the shower, he switched on the rain shower head, which was the size of a dinner plate, adjusted the temperature until it felt right, then went in.

  For several minutes he stood still, gratefully feeling the powerful, cleansing needles of water on his skin before stepping back. As the water tumbled in front of him, he rubbed shampoo into his hair and soaped, scrupulously, every part of his body. He stepped back under the water, rinsed it all off, then repeated the process.

  All the time thinking.

  No one from the police had called him back.

  I need to phone them again.

  It can wait until tomorrow.

  Can it?

  It had to.

  Phoning them now would change nothing. But if he didn’t deliver the sketch in time for Christmas, that would be a catastrophe, letting someone down and almost certainly losing himself an important client.

  No disrespect, Mr Skiver.

  Then he shuddered at the image he could not get out of his mind.

  The torso dangling from the jaws of the grab bucket. The man’s legs twitching.

  The hard hat falling. Bouncing.

  The severed head tipping out of it.

  Shampoo went into his eyes, stinging them. He closed them tightly and turned his face upwards until it was all washed away. Tentatively, he moved out of the jet and opened his eyes. To his relief, the stinging had lessened. Again, he applied more shower gel and repeated the careful soaping, before going back under the jet.

  A second later the water suddenly, without warning, turned glacial. He stepped sharply back, in shock, half opening his eyes, which were hurting like crazy again. He reached forward and pressed the red button on the control panel, holding his hand until he felt the water warming up, then stepped back under the powerful stream of water, raising his face again.

  It started getting colder. The temperature plunging. So cold it was hurting.

  Shit! He stepped back, rapidly. Opened his eyes.

  And saw a woman’s face pressed against the steamed-up door.

  The woman in the black suit.

  42

  Monday 17 December

  Startled, Jason stepped back in shock, slipped and fell, bashing the rear of his head against the far wall of the shower.

  Numbingly cold water stung his skin as he lay, dazed, for some moments, before crying out in pain and rolling sideways on the slippery shower tray, out of the water jet. He lay there, still very dazed, staring up at the door.

  No one was there.

  But he’d seen a face.

  The woman.

  Clambering to his feet, carefully, his head hurting, he pressed the red button for hot water, waiting until the temperature was OK again. As soon as it was, he rinsed the shampoo and soap and quickly switched the shower off, stepped out and grabbed a towel, shaking.

  Had he imagined it?

  Again?

  Five minutes later, he was dressed and downstairs. The integral door to the garage was open – Emily was in there sorting out her catering equipment. Feeling a little shaky, he walked across the kitchen, opened the fridge door and removed a block of Cheddar to make himself a sandwich.

  Then he turned back to the fridge and looked around inside it for a jar of Branston pickle. Behind him, he heard Emily’s alarmed voice.r />
  ‘Darling, what’s happened to you?’

  He turned. ‘What do you mean? I’m fine, just hungry, making a quick sandwich.’

  She was staring, alarmed. ‘You’re bleeding. The back of your head’s covered in blood. It’s dripping on the floor.’

  ‘What?’ He spun round and saw bright red droplets of blood on the tiles.

  She ran over to him. ‘Turn your head,’ she commanded.

  He obeyed.

  Pressing her hands against the wound and gently probing with her fingers, she said, ‘You’ve gashed it open. God – really deeply. My poor darling, what happened?’

  Hesitantly, he said, ‘I slipped in the shower. Fell over.’

  She grabbed a tea towel, ran it under the cold tap and pressed it against the back of his head. It stung.

  ‘You need to go to hospital to get it stitched!’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘You do!’

  ‘Em, if we go to hospital I’ll be there for ten hours waiting to be seen. No way!’

  ‘You’ve cut it right open.’

  ‘I am not going to hospital. I’m not sitting in A & E with twenty people sneezing and coughing germs all around me. We’ve both managed to avoid the flu that’s everywhere this winter, touch wood. A & E would be a bloody incubator for it.’

  ‘We’ll keep a close an eye on it. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Keep holding the towel, OK?’

  He put an arm behind his head and held the wet cloth as she dashed out of the room, returning with the kit.

  ‘This may sting,’ she said.

  ‘It’s already stinging.’

  ‘I’m not surprised!’

  ‘Owwwwww!’ he yelled as she squeezed some antiseptic cream onto the wound.

  ‘I’ll try a pad – let’s see if that works. Otherwise I’m taking you to A & E whether you like it or not.’

  ‘I have to get the sketch finished tonight, hell or high water.’

  ‘And die from blood poisoning trying?’

  ‘I was in the shower – the wound’s clean.’

  ‘How did you fall over?’ she asked. ‘Old men fall over in showers, not you.’