The Secret of Cold Hill

by Peter James

  ‘Em, we’ll get through this.’

  They carried on down the hill in silence, passing the large words of the sign – COLD HILL – PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY THROUGH OUR VILLAGE – and suddenly Jason exclaimed, joyfully, ‘Yayyyyyy!’

  They could see lights ahead. Street lights. House lights.

  ‘Does that mean our power might be back on?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘This might be on a separate circuit or something.’

  ‘True.’

  He turned. Lights were now back on in the houses further up the hill, behind them. ‘Look!’ he said.

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Want to go back?’

  ‘No. Let’s get to the pub, call a taxi, then we can pick up our bags and go to my parents.’

  ‘Sure.’

  A few minutes later they reached the first of the village street lights, right across the road from the village store.

  But it was no longer a village store.

  There was a whole new plate-glass shopfront. The name had changed. The sign above now read, in smart, modern lettering, COLD HILL GALLERY.

  Lights were blazing inside, and it was rammed. A party was in progress. Smartly dressed people, holding champagne flutes, nodding, chatting, some smiling, mostly serious, intense.

  Jason and Emily looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘What the hell?’ he said. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘The village store.’ Emily shook her head in disbelief. ‘The village store’s gone.’

  ‘But –’ he was trying to think clearly – ‘we had our newspapers delivered this morning.’

  ‘They must have moved.’

  ‘Must have. But where? How could they? I only drove past a few days ago.’

  They crossed over. As they drew nearer, Jason could see paintings hung around the walls, some with a red dot on them.

  His paintings.

  Then the small, discreet sign on the door.

  PRIVATE VIEWING. 6.30 p.m. – 9 p.m.

  BY INVITATION ONLY

  He looked again at Emily. The door opened and a couple emerged. Jason and Emily slipped through and entered the mêlée. There was a heady smell of dense perfume and cologne, mingled with a fainter tinge of paints and a quiet, subdued murmur of voices. People stood, admiring the paintings, some deep in discussion, pointing out details approvingly. A waitress with a tray laden with glasses filled to the brim moved through the room. As she headed in their direction, Jason reached out for two glasses, but she glided past, as if he and Emily were invisible and the tray in her hands was just an illusion.

  Someone will recognize me in a minute, he thought.

  An elegantly dressed woman, with a sweep of finely coiffured fair hair, clearly the gallery owner, or director, who reminded him of the owner of the Northcote Gallery, was addressing a small group of men and women.

  ‘We are so lucky to have secured these quite exceptional pieces from the estate – his last works and, in my view, his very best.’

  She pointed at his painting of The Skiver. Then at the one – he was certain he had not yet even done – of the miserable old couple in the pub. Next to it was another painting he had planned but not yet started, of a mechanical digger operator on the construction site.

  ‘Jason Danes,’ she proclaimed, ‘was the natural successor to Lowry. Had he lived, I think he would have become one of our truly great artists. There’s no question that all twenty-two of his works here will rise in value over the coming years. I see these as a must for anyone interested in twenty-first-century British art. It is so tragic he was taken from us at such a relatively early stage in his career.’

  Jason stepped forward towards her. ‘Actually, I’m Jason Danes and I’m very much still here.’

  Seemingly not hearing him, she went on. ‘The Skiver has such a sense of character. Danes caught this fellow quite exquisitely. Just by his very posture, you can sense the man’s lazy personality.’

  ‘Hello!’ Jason said.

  No one took any notice of him as they all turned to look at the painting.

  ‘Jason, I want to go,’ Emily said.

  ‘This is my private view!’ he said. ‘We need to be here.’

  ‘They don’t want us. We’re irrelevant.’

  ‘Em! Babes! I’m – this – these are my pictures! We have to be—’

  But she was already out in the street.

  He followed her. ‘Em! We can’t just leave!’

  ‘They didn’t invite us,’ she replied.

  Now he knew for sure he was dreaming. Had to be. ‘We don’t need an invite for my own private view, Em!’

  ‘We do for this one.’

  They walked on a short distance, then he stopped again, staring, puzzled, at the cottage which, last time he had passed, had a sign outside saying, BED & BREAKFAST – VACANCIES.

  The sign was gone.

  The white-picket fence at the end of its cute front garden had gone, too, and so had the garden. It had all been paved over, and parked on it were two cars, squeezed together: a Porsche and a Mini Countryman.

  ‘What’s happened there?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re going to wake up.’

  ‘I am awake.’

  ‘No, this is all too weird,’ he said. ‘Two big changes to the high street in the past week.’ He pointed. ‘That was a B&B when we arrived here. How could it have changed so quickly? There was a garden out front. How can they have paved over the entire front garden so quickly – and over Christmas?’

  As they walked on, he felt increasingly disoriented and light-headed. As if he was drunk or stoned. ‘Maybe whoever’s bought it is a builder,’ he suggested, ‘and perhaps they did do it during the Christmas break, Em? Perhaps the owners of the village store owned the B&B too, and sold both of them together?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – I just don’t think anything around here can surprise me any more,’ Emily replied. Then, an instant later, she stopped in her tracks and exclaimed, loudly, ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That does.’

  She pointed ahead, on the other side of the road. ‘Look! Look!’

  He looked. At the pub. The Crown.

  But it wasn’t the Crown now.

  A large, chic, grey sign with black lettering said, prominently, BISTROT TARQUIN.

  Several flash cars were parked outside.

  Jason looked at Emily, bewildered.

  ‘We were here a week and a half ago,’ she said, dumbfounded. ‘We had Sunday lunch here. And then you had a sandwich here a couple of days later.’

  ‘Maybe the landlord—? Maybe he decided to spruce it up?’

  ‘Also in the past week? Is the whole of Cold Hill having a makeover?’

  They went in through the front door. And stopped.

  Stared.

  The whole place had completely changed. The old wooden bar had been replaced with a steel and glass one, behind which was a wide, open hatch through to the busy kitchen. The manky old carpet was gone, and the floor was now limed wooden planks. The walls were freshly painted a soft grey, lit with modern, stainless steel fittings. The interior was filled with round glass tables and grey suede-covered chairs, with a candle burning on each table. Smart-looking diners were dotted around, eating designer food, drinking from fine crystal, while tall, impossibly chic waiting staff, all dressed in black, moved around as if they had been choreographed. Just inside the entrance, an elegant woman with sculpted hair stood behind a Perspex lectern with a built-in lamp, ready to greet diners.

  She did not look up as they approached her.

  ‘Wow!’ Jason said. ‘This is some change!’

  She still did not look up.

  Jason felt the door open. A couple walked in behind them. Two very classy-looking women, one with long dark hair, the other blonde, razor-cut.

  ‘We’re a bit late,’ the dark-haired one said. ‘We reserved in the name of Saltmarsh.’

  ‘Demetra?’ th
e greeter looked up at her, full of smiles.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Follow me, please.’

  Jason and Emily watched the two women being seated. Within moments, a waiter glided to their table with menus.

  The greeter returned to her lectern and made a mark on her tablet; presumably, Jason thought, ticking off the reservation.

  ‘Is – er – is Lester Beeson around?’ Jason asked her.

  She did not look up.

  He turned to Emily.

  She wasn’t there.

  82

  Thursday 27 December

  Jason looked behind him, then across the restaurant. There was no sign of Emily. Had she gone to the loo?

  Where was that now? Everything had changed in here. The door he remembered from before, which used to lead to the toilets, was now an alcove with a curved banquette.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the greeter. ‘Which way are the loos?’

  Busy checking what looked like a seating plan of the room, she did not react.

  ‘Erm – the loos?’ he repeated. ‘Could you tell me where they are?’

  This time she did look up, but not in response to his question. It was to smile at another couple who had just entered. An instant later they were in front of him, blocking his view of her.

  How rude of them barging past him – and of her to ignore him, he thought, indignantly.

  ‘Name of Nick Godfrey,’ the man said.

  ‘Party of four?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Your guests are already here, Mr Godfrey.’

  She took their coats and led them off.

  Jason turned around, utterly bewildered. He went back outside into what seemed to be turning into a hurricane. There was no sign of Emily. He returned to the restaurant. ‘My wife – she came in with me,’ he said to the greeter. ‘Is it possible you could check the Ladies for me? I think she must be unwell.’

  Yet again the woman did not appear to notice him. She tapped busily on her tablet, then looked up and right through him, with a blank expression.

  ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘I think she might be unwell – is it possible that—’

  Now four people suddenly stood in front of him, blocking his view of her again. He heard her check the reservation name, then gather their coats and lead them to a table. Jason followed them in, feeling very weird, as if both conspicuous and inconspicuous at the same time. He was walking strangely, his feet unable to feel the ground, almost as if he was floating. None of the diners took any notice of him.

  I’m freaking out. Having a panic attack. Need to get home and wash my hands. Get in the shower.

  He saw a sign for the toilets, in a completely different location from before, and went through into a unisex cloakroom. A woman came out of a door with a female gender symbol on it. ‘Is there another lady in there, by chance?’ he asked her.

  She walked straight past, without answering.

  Was everyone in here this rude? he wondered.

  He went over to the door, not daring to go in. ‘Emily?’ he called out. Then, louder, ‘Em? Are you in there? Are you OK?’

  No response.

  Sod it. He decided to go in and see for himself. ‘Em?’ he called out, cautiously. ‘I’m coming in!’

  The toilet was empty.

  83

  Thursday 27 December

  Stepping back out into the restaurant, Jason was finding it hard to focus. All the faces of the diners were blurry, as if he was looking at them through misted-up glass, and the room seemed to have become two-dimensional, so he could not tell how far he was from any of it.

  He felt panic rising.

  Where was she?

  His phone pinged, suddenly.

  15

  Fifteen what?

  He crashed into a table, but the four occupants did not appear to notice, and miraculously no glasses fell over. They ignored his profuse apology. He weaved towards the door, as if he was completely drunk, still unable to feel his feet on the ground. Was there another room where Emily could be? Had she gone outside?

  ‘She’s vanished,’ he said to the greeter.

  No reaction.

  ‘You didn’t see a lady – my wife – go outside?’ He was aware of the desperation in his voice.

  His phoned pinged a second time. Was it a text from Emily? He looked down.

  14

  The countdown again? It seemed to be going more slowly now. Why?

  He went out into the street, into the howling gale. There were white flecks, like sleet, in the air.

  ‘EMILY!’ he shouted, looking around, frantically. ‘EMILY? EM!’

  Had she panicked and gone back home to check on the fridges? She must have done – but why on earth had she just gone off without saying anything? And on her own, back to the place that was scaring her so much?

  13

  In the distance, a figure was moving away. Hurrying. As it passed beneath a street light, he could see it was Emily. Her coat, her headscarf.

  ‘EM!’ he raced after her, still unable to feel his feet.

  His phone pinged again.

  12

  He increased his pace, but Emily was increasing hers, too. As he passed under another street light it went out, as did the one ahead, and she disappeared from view in the darkness. He carried on, flat out, but didn’t feel any sense of exertion. She appeared beneath another street light, then that went out, too. The rest of the hill ahead was pitch black.

  ‘EMILY!’ he yelled.

  11

  He carried on in the darkness, impervious to the wind and the sleet. Darkness that was getting heavier and denser with every step.

  Ping.

  10

  The beam of his phone torch was weakening; as if the dark was absorbing it like blotting paper.

  9

  ‘Em, wait, wait for me, I’m coming with you, I’ll help you with the fridges, the van – we’ll get the van started, somehow.’

  8

  He arrived at the entrance to Cold Hill Park, rushed in and turned left into Lakeview Drive. Ahead he saw a blaze of lights, far brighter than the street lights, which were now all back on.

  7

  Text her?

  6

  He tried to find their message thread.

  5

  His fingers wouldn’t move properly. He couldn’t make the keys work.

  4

  Rounding the curve, he heard the rattle of a generator. A female police officer with a clipboard stood in front of police tape stretched across the street. Beyond it, resting on its roof, was Emily’s van, just visible through a team of fire and rescue workers in their bulky outfits. A battery of floodlights on stands shone down on the scene. The tractor was a short distance further on. Jason saw the same cluster of emergency vehicles that had been there earlier. To the right was an ambulance, its interior lights on. Another ambulance was parked just in front of it, as well as a paramedic’s car.

  A young man in a sharp suit was standing by the officer, with a notepad.

  Ping.

  3

  Jason’s throat tightened. He broke into a run and reached the police officer. ‘My wife, you have to let me through. That’s my wife’s van!’

  There was no reaction from her.

  ‘Joel Barber from the Argus,’ the man in the sharp suit said to the officer. ‘I just need a quick statement on what’s happened here.’

  ‘We have a multiple fatality accident,’ she answered, matter-of-factly. ‘Two confirmed dead – one male and one female. Another male is trapped, and a female is in that ambulance and critical.’ She nodded at the vehicle. ‘I don’t have any further information.’

  ‘Can you give me any names?’ the reporter persisted.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir, no, not until next of kin have been informed. Now I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘Can you just confirm that one of the victims is the Sussex artist, Jason Danes?’

  ‘I cannot confirm any identities at thi
s stage.’

  Jason ducked under the tape, the officer making no attempt to stop him, and ran to the badly mangled van, its front crumpled almost to the windscreen. Hundreds of prawns lay scattered around on the road.

  Fire and rescue officers, using hydraulic cutting gear, were sawing through a door frame, while two paramedics were working on a trapped, motionless male figure in the passenger seat. The top of his scalp had been sheared off, exposing his brain. His torso was split open, his intestines uncoiled and hanging grotesquely down.

  Ping.

  2

  Jason stared, numbly, in disbelief. He was that trapped figure in the van.

  ‘We’re losing him,’ one of the paramedics said to his colleague. ‘No pulse.’

  Jason continued staring. No. It could not be. No.

  Ping.

  1

  That was it, Jason thought, his brain racing frantically. It’s an alarm. It was going to wake him. It was going to ring any second.

  A message appeared on the screen.

  J D E A D 0 0

  And now, in that fleeting moment, he understood the significance.

  The message disappeared and was replaced with just a single number:

  0

  Silence.

  The display went dark and his torch went out.

  84

  Sunday 19 April 2020

  ‘Excuse me, what are you doing in our house?’ Jason Danes asked, as the well-dressed couple, the man in a suit, the woman in jeans and a leather jacket, followed Paul Jordan up the spiral staircase and walked straight past him and Emily, into his studio.

  All the furniture and his easel were gone. The room was bare.

  ‘This is a fabulous room, Mr and Mrs Middle – I’m sure you’ll agree,’ the estate agent said.

  ‘Fabulous!’ the man echoed, looking around.

  ‘It is!’ his wife said, enthusiastically. ‘Stunning!’ She went over to each of the windows in turn, looking out. ‘It has a real wow factor!’

  ‘I’m sorry, what are you doing here?’ Jason asked.

  No one heard him.

  ‘The wow factor indeed, Mrs Middle!’ Jordan said. ‘It could be an office or an amazing bedroom! This is such a wonderful house. It’s the best house on the entire development, I can assure you of that, no question. To be honest, the build quality of a Forest Mills home is second to none. They don’t scrimp on anything; all the fittings are the best that money can buy. It is a rare opportunity to find this house back on the market so soon after the completion of the development, I can tell you.’