by Peter James
She gestured with her arms. ‘About two hundred boxes to sort through.’
‘Want a hand?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s more important you get some rest, and that you knuckle down to your work. It’s not that long to your show. How many paintings do you have completed?’
‘Not many that I’m happy with. But I’m inspired here, brimming with ideas – I just want to get on.’ He pulled out his phone and showed her the picture he’d taken earlier of the miserable looking couple in their bright cagoules. ‘I’ve got the title for it! Romantic Dinner à Deux.’
She peered at it. ‘Oh my God!’ She turned to him. ‘Promise me – just promise me, solemnly – that we will never get like that!’
‘I promise. Orange never was your colour, anyway.’
She punched him playfully.
‘Do you like the title?’
‘I love it. Go! Go paint it!’
He walked to the door and made his way upstairs to his studio. As he entered, his phone pinged with a text.
A row of letters followed by a number appeared on the screen.
Simultaneously, he saw the same on his computer monitor.
J D E A D 0 9
He took a fast screenshot. An instant later they vanished.
51
Tuesday 18 December
Matt Johns had told him to take a screenshot the next time something appeared. Jason emailed him the one he had just taken, then picked up a new gesso board and placed it on his easel. He donned his apron and gloves, then assembled his painting tools, with difficulty, having to concentrate hard, his thoughts all over the place.
He walked over to the window. Watched a small group of people in white oversuits for a few moments: two of them on their hands and knees, around the area where the worker died. Did they need to be this thorough, he wondered? But at least the site was silent.
Then he picked up a pencil, returned to his easel, opened his photos on his phone and looked for the photographs he had taken in the pub, of the elderly couple in their bright cagoules.
They weren’t there.
They had to be! He’d shown one to Emily just ten minutes ago.
He searched again. Again.
His phone rang.
‘Jason, hi.’
It was Matt Johns.
‘You just sent me a blank email – did you forget the attachment?’
‘I’m sorry – it was a screenshot, as you asked for. I had more digits appear, another sequence, this time on my phone and laptop. I’ll check and send them again.’
‘No problem,’ Johns said.
Jason checked the sent folder on his phone email. There was one to Matt. He opened it. It was blank.
He checked his online album. Any screenshot he took should automatically be saved to this. But just like the vanished old couple in their cagoules, there was nothing.
‘I can’t see them,’ he said lamely.
‘Do you have the details?’ Johns asked. ‘I can do my own search.’
‘I’m pretty sure it said JDEAD and the numbers zero and nine.’
He ended the call, then focused on his blank gesso board. Sod the photographs; he could remember the couple so clearly. It was their stance he needed to get right. The woman prim and upright, the man – her husband most likely – brow-beaten, defeated by life, sitting all hunched in front of her. Worshipping at his own sad temple. The wife with her iron-grey hair who wiped the floor with him.
He set to work, sketching out their positions. The sanctimonious look on the woman’s face, doubtless a regular at the parish church. Defeat written all over her husband. Someone miserable as sin, who had left it too late to change anything in his life. Stuck, until death did them part, with a woman he clearly disliked and who clearly disliked him back, every bit as much.
Mr and Mrs Angry.
Yes!
He began to sketch with sudden, furious energy.
52
Wednesday 19 December
Jason was woken with a start by a cold draught on his face. Something clattered down below. He heard the wind gusting. Lying still in the darkness, he was momentarily confused, unsure where he was. He felt anxious; something was wrong. He heard a man’s voice, talking, close by. It was a low, coarse, creepy, leering voice.
Jason heard his own heart pounding.
Eyes wide open, he peered at the clock radio beside him. The green digits were flashing ‘00.00’ repeatedly.
There’d been a power cut.
The voice continued. Monotonous. Intoning.
‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry . . .’
A voice he didn’t recognize. In their house or out on the street?
Shit.
It continued. ‘Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’
Did they have burglars? What could he use as a weapon?’
His brain raced.
Was something moving in the room? A man’s shape? There was another blast of cold air.
The voice droned on, repeating, ‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry, Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’
Right beside him.
He held his breath, scared.
Then he realized. It was Emily, talking in her sleep. Except it wasn’t her voice.
She said the names over again, in a continuous loop.
He reached out his left arm, found the bedside table and, careful not to knock over his glass of water, felt for his watch resting in the charger. He picked it up and looked at it: 2.33 a.m.
‘PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!’ Emily suddenly shouted out, sounding very frightened.
‘Darling!’ he said quietly.
‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry, Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’ she intoned again.
‘Em,’ he whispered, not wanting to wake her, but needing to stop her.
She had often talked in her sleep in the past, and never believed him when he told her in the morning. He had an idea. Picking up his phone, he recorded a video of her.
‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry, Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’ she intoned yet again.
And again.
Then, in the glow of green light from the clock and from his watch face, he saw a figure moving across the room.
It felt as if electricity was crackling through him. He fumbled for the bedside lamp switch and snapped it on. The room filled with light and he blinked for some moments, with the realization the power was now back on.
‘Yrrrr?’ Emily said.
There was no one in the room.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, softly.
‘Whasser?’ she asked.
‘It’s OK, you were talking in your sleep.’
He heard a rasping snore. She was still asleep.
Jesus, her voice had scared him.
He turned the light off and lay still, his whole body pounding. Outside, apart from the wind, was total silence. Before, in Brighton, where they had lived on a busy street, the night was never completely silent. Traffic noise, the occasional wail of a police siren or of cats fighting, or urban foxes foraging through bins. Nor was it ever completely dark the way it was here.
He lay still for a long time. Emily stopped snoring and began breathing, rhythmically. He closed his eyes, tried to go back to sleep, but his mind was in turmoil. Images came in one after the other. Digits and letters on his screens. Roland Fortinbrass. The face of the woman.
Fretting, suddenly, about oversleeping and not getting to the framer in time, he sat up and reset the clock and the alarm. Then checked his phone alarm, too. David was shutting up shop at lunchtime and flying off to Inverness. If he didn’t get there in time that would be it. The two pictures of the dogs would not be delivered for Christmas. He was really pleased with both and was sure his clients would be happy.
He checked the clock and his phone alarm again. Then he closed his eyes, lay back against the pillow and slowly drifted towards sle
ep. A stern, female voice whispered into his ear.
‘You didn’t get my eyes right. They’re blue, not brown.’
He sat up with a start, wide awake again and in a cold sweat. Snapped on the light.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
Emily stirred in her sleep and rolled over.
He went back to bed, turned off the light and closed his eyes.
It seemed only seconds later that Emily was shaking him. Whispering urgently in a terrified voice. ‘Darling, darling, there’s someone upstairs.’
Above them he heard a loud, steady noise of footsteps.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The sound of someone in heavy shoes pacing angrily across his studio floor.
53
Wednesday 19 December
Jason snapped his bedside lamp back on. Emily was staring at the ceiling, bug-eyed with fear. ‘That is not floorboards settling,’ she said, in a low, shaking whisper.
He got out of bed.
‘Don’t go up. There’s someone there. Call the police.’
They heard it again.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Then a massive crash.
Emily screamed in terror. ‘Jason!’
Another crash.
She switched on her lamp, grabbed her phone.
‘Don’t!’ he urged. ‘I’ll go up.’
‘Are you fucking crazy or what?’ She stabbed out 999.
He heard a faint voice through the receiver. ‘Emergency, which service please?’
‘Police,’ she whispered.
‘Darling! No!’
‘There’s someone up there, for God’s sake!’
‘I’ll go.’
‘No!’
They heard the sound again.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Then a different, female voice through the phone speaker. ‘Sussex Police, how can I help you?’
‘We have an intruder upstairs, in our house,’ Emily said, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘Can you give me your name and address please, caller?’
‘Emily Danes. Our address is 47 Lakeview Drive, Cold Hill Park, Cold Hill, East Sussex. There’s someone upstairs.’
‘I’m dispatching a car to you. Stay on the line.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The sound was even louder now. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Emily held the phone up, briefly. ‘Can you hear them?’ she said.
‘That noise?’
‘Footsteps.’
‘Where are you, Emily?’ the call handler asked.
‘I’m in our bedroom, with my husband. He wants to go up – the sound is coming from his studio above us.’
‘The car will be with you in less than ten minutes, I’m tracking it. Tell your husband not to confront them, wait for the officers to arrive.’
‘Thank you,’ Emily said, and burst into tears. ‘Oh God, please hurry.’
They heard the sound again.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
‘Oh Jesus,’ she said. ‘Please ask them to hurry.’
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. The ceiling was shaking.
Jason jumped out of bed, went to the door and pulled on his dressing gown.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. The ceiling was shaking even more.
‘Don’t go up there!’ she implored.
‘Four minutes away,’ the call handler said. ‘Do you have any dogs in the house that the officers need to know about?’
‘No,’ she replied.
‘I’m going down to let them in,’ Jason said.
‘Be careful.’
Jason ran out of the room and downstairs to the front door. He flung it open and went out into the front garden into a howling gale. Blue flashing lights were approaching. He went out into the street, holding the front of his dressing gown shut with one hand, waving with the other.
The car pulled up in front of him and almost before its wheels had stopped turning two officers, one male and one female, jumped out and hurried over to him, tugging on their caps, each flashing a torch.
‘Is the intruder still on the premises, sir?’ the female one, petite and fair-haired and in her twenties, asked. Her colleague was short and burly, and a few years older. Both were bulked-out with stab vests and all their equipment.
‘Yes, I think so. Thanks for coming so quickly. Upstairs on the top floor, in my studio.’
Jason led them in, then allowed them to run up the stairs ahead of him, their reflections bouncing off the mirrored walls. ‘Next floor up,’ he shouted as they reached the landing.
As they hurried on up the spiral staircase to his studio, Emily came out of the bedroom in her dressing gown. ‘Thank God,’ she said, and followed Jason up.
On the top floor landing, he followed the officers into his studio, putting out a cautioning hand for Emily. The two officers stood in the centre of the room, looking around, puzzled.
There was no one there. Nothing looked disturbed. The easel was in the centre of the floor, as he had left it, with a fresh gesso board in place on it.
‘I – I just – just don’t believe it,’ he said.
‘All the windows are securely shut,’ the male officer said. ‘You say you heard someone up here, walking around?’
‘We did,’ Emily said. ‘We could hear them, loudly.’
‘May we take a look around?’ the male officer asked.
‘Please – anywhere.’
The police went downstairs. Jason and Emily followed them as they checked each of the first floor rooms, and all the cupboards and wardrobes in turn, both officers noting their partially open bedroom window. Then they searched the ground floor rooms, as well as the garage. Finally, they went out into the rear garden, separated and searched down each side of the house.
When they had finished, the four of them sat at the kitchen table, the male officer pulling out his electronic tablet and laying it on the table.
‘Would either of you like any tea or coffee?’ Emily asked.
‘We’re fine, thank you.’
‘There are no signs of a break-in,’ the woman PC said. ‘The only window open is in your bedroom.’
‘I – I – I’m sure the window was shut when we went to bed,’ Jason said. ‘I was woken by the sound of the wind and noticed it was open, earlier, so I closed it again.’ He shot a glance at Emily. ‘I thought I saw someone in the room.’
The male officer went back outside, with his torch, and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘There’s nothing anyone could have used to climb up to your bedroom, sir,’ he said. ‘And no footprints in the flower bed beneath the window.’
‘There was definitely someone walking around upstairs,’ Emily said. ‘We both heard it.’
‘This is a very new development, isn’t it?’ the male officer asked. ‘How long have you been living here?’
‘We only moved in last Friday,’ Jason replied.
‘We were here on Monday, there was a fatal accident,’ he said.
‘I witnessed it,’ Jason replied. ‘I left a message with the police on 101, but I haven’t heard anything more, yet.’
‘I’m sure someone will be in touch,’ the young woman said. Then she smiled. ‘I’ve just realized who you are – Jason Danes, the artist, famous for your dog paintings?’
‘Yup.’
‘Have you noticed anything missing, either of you?’ the male officer asked.
Both shook their heads. ‘Not so far, anyway,’ Emily replied.
‘Do either of you have any enemies? Anyone you might have upset?’
Emily shook her head.
‘None that I’m aware of,’ Jason said.
‘No rivals?’ the male officer asked. ‘You’re a very successful local artist. Could there be someone jealous of you?’
Jason shrugged. ‘Possibly.’
‘There’s no sign of a break-in at all,’ his colleague said. ‘This is what’s strange. Did you h
ave the front door locked, and the safety chain on?’ she asked.
‘Yes, always.’
The male officer pulled out a card and wrote a number on it. ‘I’ve put on my mobile number – if you think of anything that might be relevant, call me, any time. I’m PC Neil Lang. My colleague, PC Christina Davies, and I will be on until six thirty a.m. If you’re worried, call either 999 or my number and we’ll get someone straight back here.’
Both Jason and Emily thanked them, and escorted them to the front door.
Neil Lang nodded at the blazing Christmas lights of the Penze-Weedells. ‘They’ve got the Christmas spirit, all right.’
‘If they keep those going, you’ll end up with coach parties trundling by to see them!’ PC Davies said.
‘Just what we need,’ Jason said. ‘Like Christmas, do you?’
‘I’ve drawn the short straw this year – we both have,’ she said. ‘Lates, four till midnight. The busiest evening of the year for domestic disputes. Relatives who’ve not seen each other all year, getting pissed and then realizing why they’ve not seen each other.’
Jason and Emily waited until they had driven off, then secured the front door and went, very shaken, back up to the bedroom. He shut and locked that window, too.
Finally, he reset the alarm for an hour later than he had planned, to 7.30 a.m.
But neither of them slept much for the rest of the night.
54
Wednesday 19 December
Sometime around dawn, Jason lapsed into a fitful doze, only to be woken by the alarm after what seemed like a few seconds. Instantly, his mind went into overdrive. Thinking back over the events of the night.
All of the windows, except for their bedroom, had been securely shut, with locks in place.
Yet, somehow, someone had got in.
In order to walk up and down his studio floor?
Emily was awake beside him. He could hear the soft crushing of her eyelashes as she lay, blinking. He rolled towards her and kissed her. ‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Not really, no. You?’
‘I don’t think it was creaking floorboards.’
‘What did you see here, in our room?’ she asked.