The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. ‘Look, babes, I’m sorry, we’re both rattled; let’s cool it. This house is not falling down. We have a problem with subsidence and there’s been a tiny bit of movement, that’s all. There’re some hairline cracks in the ceilings and some cracked windows.’

  ‘Some? Every ceiling, window and mirror in the house. Why are you in denial about it?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s dangerous,’ he said, flatly. ‘And I don’t think a ghost did it. Ghosts might be damned spooky, but I doubt they have the power to cause subsidence!’

  ‘So everything is fine, is it?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, I know it’s creepy, but there has to be an explanation – this is an architect-designed house and the build quality is very high.’

  ‘Oh, really, that’s why it’s falling down, is it?’

  ‘It’s not falling down. New buildings often move from subsidence – or settlement – which has put everything out of alignment, causing the walls to twist a fraction. That’s all it would need to do to create the cracks; just the tiniest movement. They all twisted a little and that caused the windows – and the fixed mirrors – to crack. That doesn’t mean the place is falling down.’

  ‘Is that what you’re going to tell me when we wake up, crushed and trapped inside fallen masonry? If we wake up?’

  69

  Thursday 27 December

  Despite her anxiety, within minutes of going to bed Emily fell into a deep sleep. Jason lay awake for a long time, reading a Linwood Barclay thriller she had given him for Christmas, but unable to concentrate. He kept staring up at the thin, jagged crack all the way across the ceiling, watching to see if it worsened.

  Finally, shortly after 1 a.m., he put the book down and switched off the light. He woke with a start a while later. The clock showed 2.24 a.m. Emily was still sound asleep, breathing deeply. Not wanting to wake her, he reached across, lifted his phone off his bedside table, switched on the torch app and shone it upwards. So far as he could judge, the crack was still no larger – if anything it actually looked less bad, but that was probably because of the weak beam of light.

  He slipped out of bed, went up to his studio and checked the ceiling there. It was definitely no worse than earlier, either. He went on to check all the rest of the rooms in the house. Finally, satisfied there had been no further movement, and no cause for alarm, he went back to bed, relieved, closed his eyes and fell asleep a short while later.

  When he woke again, his clock showed 7.42 a.m.

  The bedroom was bathed in a weak glow. Emily was still asleep. He switched on his bedside lamp and looked at the ceiling.

  And frowned.

  The jagged crack had gone.

  The ceiling looked fine.

  He again climbed out of bed, slowly, pulled on his dressing gown and walked out of the room onto the landing. The mirrored walls either side of the staircase below were also no longer cracked.

  Hurrying up the spiral stairs, he went into his studio. There was no longer a crack in the ceiling, nor in any of the windows.

  Am I dreaming, he wondered? He went down and checked each of the spare rooms on the first floor and found that the cracks had gone from their ceilings and windows, also. It was the same downstairs.

  Nothing.

  He stood in the kitchen, staring up at the ceiling and then at the windows. Nothing. Nothing. He looked at the refectory table where, last night, flakes of plaster had fallen. There were none there now.

  How could that be?

  He switched on the Nespresso machine, waited for the green lights to stop blinking, then popped a capsule into it.

  Am I going mad? he wondered, looking up at the ceiling again, and then at the windows. Everything looked completely normal. As the coffee machine rattled away, he walked over to the window, where there had been a massive, jagged crack last night. There was no trace of it.

  ‘Hi, darling!’

  He turned, as Emily walked in sleepily, barefoot, swathed in a white towelling dressing gown.

  He went over and kissed her. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Like a lamb! Wow, I was just out for the count. Just as well, I’ve got a lot to do today. How did you sleep?’

  He pointed at the window. ‘Notice anything odd?’

  She walked to the sink and peered out. ‘There’s a whole bunch of ducks on the lake – have you seen? They must have flown in! We must buy a milk churn or some other container for feed. There’s Wishing Wells Farm at Hickstead, which sells all that stuff. We should go there when we’re not too busy.’

  ‘Sure. But what I mean is, the window.’

  ‘The window?’

  He pointed upwards. ‘And the ceiling.’

  She gave him a strange look. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘The cracks!’ he said. ‘They’ve gone!’

  ‘Cracks?’ She looked genuinely puzzled.

  He waved a hand in front of her face. ‘The subsidence – we were discussing evacuating the house last night because of all the cracks. They – they’ve gone.’

  Emily stared at him. ‘Darling, I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Last night . . .’ He fell silent for a moment. She was looking at him extremely strangely. ‘Last night, the house was cracked all over, right?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The mirrors up the stairs. All the windows, ceilings?’

  Again, the strange look. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’

  He glanced up again at the ceiling. At the white paint and the down-lighters. There was absolutely no sign there had ever been a crack. Like the glass in the windows.

  ‘We – we discussed moving out and going to stay with your parents,’ he said.

  ‘You must have had a weird dream.’

  ‘You don’t remember any of that?’

  ‘I have a slight headache. All I remember is that horrid stuff the P-Ws kept pouring down our throats. I’m not surprised it gave you nightmares!’

  Puzzled, he walked over to the coffee machine and poured the hot froth into his cup. ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘I’m going to have one of my teas.’

  ‘I’ll boil the kettle for you.’

  He emptied the kettle, refilled it and switched it on. ‘I . . .’ He began, then fell silent.

  ‘You what?’

  He sat down at the table with his coffee. ‘Last night we came back here after tunnelling out of the Penze-Weedells, and we heard a loud crack, right?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘How pissed were you?’

  ‘About the same as you!’

  ‘First the mirrors either side of the staircase, then the windows, then each ceiling. You wanted us to go to your parents because you thought the house was falling down, and we had a bit of a row. You must remember.’

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘we came back here from the Peenies and you were totally pissed, and zonked. That’s what I remember.’

  He stared at her, feeling very strange. Was that the explanation? He sipped some coffee, trying to reflect back, to think clearly.

  Had he dreamed it all?

  Everything in the house was as pristine as the day they’d moved in.

  That had to be the explanation. There wasn’t any other that made any sense.

  ‘You don’t have a hangover?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You sure deserve one!’

  Relief was flooding through every vein in his body. He must have dreamed it . . . and yet. He was certain he hadn’t. Was there something wrong with Emily? he suddenly wondered, very concerned. She had no recollection of the Reverend Fortinbrass turning up last week. Now she had no recollection of all the cracks last night.

  He tried to think it all through. Emily’s partner, Louise, had no recollection of Fortinbrass, either.

  Emily put her arms around him. ‘You’re under a lot of stress with your exhibition looming, my love. Maybe yo
u should go and see Dr Dixon again and get him to help you calm down?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he agreed, hesitantly. Perhaps she was right. Something was not making sense at the moment. He looked up at the ceiling again. Not any sign of a crack.

  He kissed her, feeling troubled. ‘What’s your plan for today?’

  ‘Full on, prepping for the anniversary dinner tomorrow, and I’ve just had a call from Louise; she’s down with flu. She’s going to stay in bed today and try to shake it off, so she can be with me tomorrow, come hell or high water. Great, eh?’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You need to get on with some more paintings for your exhibition. I’ll manage. Got the glorious task of peeling seven hundred prawns, to make eighty prawn cocktails. I took them out of the freezer and put them in the fridges overnight.’

  ‘I don’t remember you doing that.’

  With a teasing grin, she said, ‘I don’t think you remember very much at all after leaving our sweet neighbours. Do you remember the porcelain donkey?’

  ‘Twenty thousand quid, on Antiques Roadshow.’

  ‘I’m impressed. So, you weren’t totally smashed.’

  ‘I’ll be working in my studio. Shout if you need anything.’

  ‘I’ll be OK.’

  ‘Adore you.’

  She kissed him.

  70

  Thursday 27 December

  Jason finished his coffee, then went for an hour-long bike ride, in bright, frosty sunshine. When he returned, he chopped up some fruit and mixed it into a bowl of cereal, fetched the papers from the hall mat, and thumbed through the Argus and the Guardian while he ate his breakfast.

  Afterwards he had a thirty-minute shower. It was the longest he’d had for many days, and it surprised him, with all the stress of recent events, that he hadn’t had a relapse. He soaped and rinsed himself repeatedly, before getting dressed in jeans and a sweater and going up to his studio, looking all around for any sign of the woman before closing the door behind him.

  He was finding it hard to dismiss all that had happened last night as a dream. And yet, what other possible explanation was there?

  He sat at his desk and logged on, in turn, to his email and social media. All seemed normal. He replied to a few posts and then logged off again, aware that he had to knuckle down.

  He placed a fresh gesso board on the easel, put on his apron and gloves and began to mix his paints. But he was too distracted, his mind somewhere else.

  I did not imagine last night. I did not dream it.

  He looked out of the window at the building site and scene of the accident, and realized the police hadn’t called him back yet. Wondering whether to call the PC directly rather than go through the tedium of the long wait on the 101 number, he peered closely at the box on the desk, which was where he put the business cards of everyone he had ever met, and started working through it. Looking for a name. PC Neil Lang. The officer had written his direct phone number on the card he’d left.

  He couldn’t find it.

  Had he left it in the kitchen somewhere?

  He hurried downstairs. The integral door to the garage – commandeered by Emily and Louise as their catering kitchen – was open. He checked the refectory table and a couple of kitchen drawers, but the card wasn’t there. He hurried across and leaned through the open door to the garage.

  Emily, dressed in an apron and protective gloves, her hair up inside a sterile hair-net, stood at a long trestle table covered in a white cloth, laying out rows and rows of glass bowls.

  ‘Em,’ he said, ‘where did you put the business card from that police officer, Neil Lang?’

  ‘Police officer?’

  ‘One of the two who came here last week – Wednesday night.’

  She replied without looking up, ‘I don’t remember any police officers coming here last Wednesday night. What police officers?’

  He stepped back, feeling giddy, suddenly. Had he imagined them, too?

  Humorously, she added, ‘Were they the ones that came with the vicar I couldn’t see?’

  He looked at her, feeling very strange, as if he was in some kind of altered reality. ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘I think I would have remembered police officers coming here.’ She continued with her work.

  ‘We had a conversation about them.’

  ‘We did?’ She gave him a strange, blank look and shook her head.

  He hurried back up to his study, sat at his desk, and dialled the non-emergency number for Sussex Police, 101.

  To his amazement, it was answered after a couple of rings. ‘Sussex Police, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to PC Neil Lang, please.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  Out of the window to his right he saw the Penze-Weedells coming out their front door. Claudette held up something in her hand, and stabbed it with a gloved finger. The key fob. Seconds later, as he still waited on the line, he saw the garage door open and their little, box-shaped, purple electric car reverse out and stop, obediently, in front of them. They got in, Claudette in the driver’s seat, and a few seconds later they shot off and out of sight.

  ‘Hello, caller, we don’t have any record of a PC Neil Lang, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You don’t?’ He spelled out the name.

  The operator sounded friendly. ‘Not in Sussex Police. I’ve checked the records.’

  ‘But he came to our house – last Wednesday, December nineteenth. He was with a colleague, PC Christina Davies.’

  ‘I’ll check her for you, if you can hold? May I take your name, please?

  ‘Sure, it’s Jason Danes.’

  ‘Danes.’

  He spelled it out for her, phonetically. ‘Juliet Alpha Sierra Oscar November, then Delta Alpha November Echo Sierra.’

  ‘Mr Jason Danes?’ she replied, with no hint of recognition of his name.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  A car coming along Lakeview Drive, going slowly as if looking for an address, caught his attention. He blinked. It was the huge red and white 1960s Cadillac he had seen before. The driver, sitting on the left, had a large cigar in his mouth; a woman sat beside him, and there were two excited-looking children in the back.

  Just as he had seen before.

  As they disappeared from view the operator came back. ‘I’m really sorry, we don’t have any record of a PC Christina Davies. Are you sure they are with Sussex Police, sir?’

  ‘I thought they were.’

  Suspicious, she asked, ‘Do you want to report this as possible fraud, sir? There have been instances of fraudsters, locally, posing as bogus police officers.’

  ‘No – er – no, I don’t think they were after any money. Look – could you help me with something else, please? We live in the Cold Hill Park estate. Last Monday, December seventeenth, I witnessed a fatal accident on the construction site. I phoned this number and spoke to the gentleman who answered, saying I had seen the whole thing happen.’

  ‘What exactly was that, sir?’

  ‘It was the construction worker who was killed by a bulldozer. I said I’d seen the whole accident happen, but I’m a little surprised no one’s been in touch to take a statement from me.’

  ‘Well, yes, that does sound a bit odd, sir. A construction site worker killed. You don’t remember the name of the call handler by any chance?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. But I gave him my name and phone number.’

  ‘Your number is showing here, sir. Let me check this out – are you all right to keep holding.’

  ‘Fine.’

  This time it was several minutes before she came back to him, sounding apologetic but a tad less patient than before. ‘Mr Danes, you say you reported a fatal construction site accident you witnessed, on Monday, December seventeenth?’

  ‘Correct, yes.’

  ‘Look, I’m very sorry, sir, but I’ve checked very carefully; there is no record of any accident at Cold Hill Park
on that date.’

  Jason could not believe what he was hearing. ‘I saw it! I saw the whole thing happen from my studio window. The poor guy was beheaded by the bulldozer jaws. There were police officers at the scene for several days after, for God’s sake!’

  The tone of her voice changed, as if she was now talking to an infant. ‘Mr Danes, I am very sorry to tell you this, but there was no reported death at Cold Hill Park. I’ve had a colleague check the local newspapers and there is no mention of it, either. You’ve just asked me to put you through to two police officers who do not exist, and you are now claiming to have witnessed an accident that did not happen. I’m very sorry, Mr Danes, but I really cannot help you any further, unless you would like to report possible fraud?’

  ‘No, well – thank you,’ he said, lamely.

  As he ended the call, his mind in turmoil, he heard Emily screaming.

  ‘Jason! JASON! Help me! OH MY GOD, HELP ME!’

  71

  Thursday 27 December

  He sprinted down the two flights, into the kitchen and through the door to the garage. And stopped, horrified, in his tracks.

  It was the sour reek of the creatures that struck him first, before the full horror of what he was seeing.

  Cockroaches.

  Everywhere.

  Two tall, commercial fridge doors were open, filled with the crawling brown creatures. The air in the garage was thick with them flying around. The floor was a sea of them.

  Emily stood, utterly petrified, in their midst, crying hysterically. They were crawling over her hair and one was on her cheek. He flapped one away from his face, took a step forward and heard a crunch underfoot. He batted another away from his face, then another, turned back and slammed the door shut to stop them going into the house.

  ‘Help me, for God’s sake, Jason, help me!’ she screamed.

  The creatures were everywhere he looked. On the walls. The floor. The ceiling. In the air.

  He lunged towards her, his shoes crunch, crunch, crunching on the moving carpet. Two landed on her face and she smote them away.

  ‘Help me!’