When I reached the house, I hopped off the bike, standing on the pavement and looked the place over. All the windows were dark, but I couldn’t imagine what anyone would be doing here at this time of day, anyway. Apart from myself, apparently. I locked my bike onto the park railing across the street and took the umbrella with me, fishing my keys from my pocket.
Letting myself into the house, I pulled my hood down and turned off the alarm, letting the cameras see me. I’d seen that box somewhere; I knew I had. I just had to prove it. I went to the back of the house, glancing sadly at the hallway where Viviane was found and went downstairs, through to the kitchen. It was dark down here, so I pulled my phone out and put the torch on, jumping as it bounced off the copper pans and reflected in the window.
Along from the kitchen, there was another, narrow set of stairs that went down into what would have been a wine cellar under a trapdoor, hidden by a rug. It was storage now, but none of us ever really went in. Occasionally Josephine did, and she sometimes returned with some beautiful painting or vase or clock that had been forgotten, something to put on a display and make an event from. Something that earned the praise of the invisible Mr Cuthbert, as he had been then. Not anymore. He was that same handsome man I’d seen Viviane with at the restaurant. I wondered what they’d been doing. I shook my head, one thing at a time, Rita.
I shoved the rug aside, reached for the trap door, and found it locked. Of course. Well, there're the benefits of having hairpins in almost every pocket of every piece of clothing and a big brother who went through a magic phase when he was twelve. He always needed help to get out of the handcuffs he got himself stuck in. I pulled the pins from my pocket and squatted down to the door, hoping this would actually work. It was an old lock for a small door, one that hadn’t been changed for centuries. I heard a click, and it gave in. I lifted it back, revealing the black square below. I picked my phone back up and fumbled against the cold stone wall in front of me for the light switch. There was a ticking sound, but they slowly flickered on, lighting the ominous staircase. I grit my teeth, thinking of Viviane, and climbed down, propping the door open with the hook on the floor.
It was musty down here. Smelt like an old church with dusty pews and mildew in the beams. The cellar was lined with boxes, most of them tied up with rope, others covered with dust sheets. There were old beaten-up leather suitcases with faded stickers and stamps peeling off them. I’d love to stay down here one day, take a good long look through them all, see what history had been left down here. It could be nothing, though. For all I knew, they were filled with Harry Cuthbert’s baby clothes. A few rugs were rolled up, leaning against one wall, a few frames stacked together, and a tall mirror in the sheet stood about the size of a man in one corner, making me jump as I spotted it.
I walked to one box, the dust sheet cleaner than all the others and pushed it back, unsure of what I was doing but thinking this was as good a place to start as any other. The lid wasn’t secured down, and I easily lifted it up, propping it down on the floor beside me. Standing on my toes, I leant over the box, rifling through gently. My hand knocked against something hard, and I frowned, reaching in deeper, trying to get a hold of it. It was solid, and square. A box. I heaved it out, finding it heavy and pulled the covering off.
The music box! I held it up to the light, turning it every which way. It was the same, the exact same. The same detail in the gold, the same painting on the panels. I reached for my phone and snapped a picture of it, quickly finding Inspector Thatcher’s number that I had kept a note of and sent it to him. This was heavy, I noted. I wondered if the other one was too. Though since it had apparently been in my bag, I’d guess not.
I wrapped it back up in the sheet, hearing something scuff above me. I froze, looking up towards the stairs. Something clicked, and the lights went out, plunging me into darkness. I yelped, almost dropping the box, and successfully dropping my phone. I scrambled for it, turning the torch back on and heading for the stairs as something else creaked at the trap door slammed shut. I charged up the stairs and pushed, but it didn’t budge. I hammered against it, shouting out, listening with my ear pressed against it. There was no sound.
“Damn it!” I screamed, pounding my fist against the door again.
Nothing happened, and panic surged up in me.
I reached for my phone, the screen cracked, and it flashed at me, low battery. Perfect, just perfect. Something thudded above me, something like footsteps and my blood cooled. I hurried down the stairs again, trying to find something to wrench the door open and slipped down the last step which shattered under me, digging into my arm. I swore, loudly, a word that Freddie would tut at me for and clutched my arm, feeling warm blood seeping through my coat. I grit my teeth at the tears that mingled with the dust and stung my eyes, jumping again when my phone rang. DI Thatcher. I scrambled for it.
“Hello?”
“Rita?” He was walking somewhere, sounding breathless. “What is that? Where are you?”
“I’m in the house,” I told him quickly. “I’m the basement, I’m locked in.”
“Locked in?” He sounded worried.
“I think someone else is in here,” I whispered, my eyes turned to the ceiling, to the thudding. Thatcher swore, and I heard him call for his sergeant.
“We’re on our way, Rita,” he said, cut off by my phone beeping.
“My battery’s dying,” I told him, panicking. I didn’t want to be down here, bleeding and in the dark with a sodding murdered potentially scurrying about upstairs.
“Stay on the phone as long as you can,” he ordered, his breath speeding up as he moved. “Where is the basement, Rita? Where can we find you?”
“It’s downstairs, past the kitchen. Under a—” The light shot out, my phone a useless blank brick in my hand. I could just about see my hands in the dark. Shaking, I crawled forward blindly to where I knew the boxes were and felt my way around them, nestling behind them, cradling my throbbing arm, eyes squeezed shut.
Nineteen
I stood outside the police station, sheltered beneath the jutting roof of a building across the street. I was there long enough for my feet to ache, but eventually, they came out.
Rita Jones, looking paler than usual, her black hair a scruffy mess. She was leaning against a tall boy who bore an uncanny resemblance to her. He led her down the street to a car and helped her in, wasting no time in pulling away and driving off.
I debated following, but that would be a risk I wasn’t sure was worth taking. It was bad enough that they were letting her go; bad enough that they didn’t just take the music box and shut the case up. Now they needed evidence, hard, proper evidence, the kind that would likely lead back to me. And that, I could not allow. I’d done too much, suffered enough.
As I stood there, planning, stewing, considering what came next, Inspector Thatcher walked out the door. I ducked to the side, hiding behind a car, watching as he and the sergeant strolled out. Where were they going? I thought about the house, panic brewing in my guts. Rita was naïve, but she wasn’t stupid. She might have told them something about that place, something that drove them back. But they had no key, no way in and certainly no warrant.
I watched as they got into a car, driving off in the opposite direction to Rita and her brother. My own car was parked a few streets away, so I jogged down it, pulling myself round onto the main road, trying to catch up with them. I spotted them at a traffic light and made my way over, staying a few cars behind to keep them from glancing back and seeing my face, even pushing a pair of sunglasses from the glove box up my nose. We weren’t driving for long, and eventually, they indicated and pulled into the car park by a theatre.
I carried on, finding a place to park on the street and stopped. The theatre? What on Earth were they doing at the theatre? What had Rita told them?
I climbed out of my car and drifted down the street, the rain picking up once more. It was a bloody soggy spring, that was for sure. I hoped my rose beds wouldn’
t suffer too badly for it. The last thing I needed was my garden flooding and losing all those beautiful blooms. I stood outside the theatre, not far from a group of tourists taking pictures of the unique building. They huddled in their puffy coats and under umbrellas, and I bitterly wished I’d bought one along myself. This sort of weather played havoc with my hair. I leant against a wall behind me, pulling my phone out and made it look like I was texting or checking emails, glancing up periodically to see if they came out.
It was about half an hour later when they emerged, looking concerned. They stood on the pavement for a while, talking, the Inspector glaring up at the sky. A few times, he glanced surreptitiously around the street, and I ducked my head each time, trying to avoid attracting his attention. As the rain got heavier, they went back into the car park, and I happily returned to my own vehicle, following them once more. They went back to the station, and I carried on, driving home to peel off my damp clothes.
The place was a mess. I’d had more important things to deal with recently than hoovering. I moved a few things about, dropping some dirty plates in the sink and tidied up the stacks of magazines on the kitchen table. Then I went upstairs, took off the damp clothes and dug out a pair of black trousers and a black jumper, pulling both of them on. I needed to get to the house and make sure everything was safe, make sure they didn’t get their hands on the music box and figure it all out.
I wondered if they actually could, given how confused they all seemed to be about the entire thing. They should have just arrested Rita, save all of this nonsense. Wouldn’t have been this way if they hadn’t learnt about that stupid music box. Typical Viviane, keeping such detailed records. I couldn’t believe I’d missed that picture. Even if they had found Rita guilty, it still scuppered everything I had planned, anyway. I angrily yanked a comb through my hair, pulled on some dry socks and shoes, a waterproof coat and a pair of gloves, and went back outside to the car. No loose ends, that was the whole point. Even dead Viviane was a thorn in my side.
The house was dark when I arrived, pulling up down the street and walking the rest of the way. A bicycle was locked to the railing across the street, one with a familiar basket on the front. Rita. She wouldn’t come here, would she? Why? She didn’t know what to find, what was down there, how could she? And even if she did, as if they would believe her now.
Maybe I ought to let her call them in, let them find her knee-deep in evidence, that would make them see she was guilty. But that Inspector… no. I wasn’t risking it, not anymore.
I crossed the street, cutting down the alley that ran along the side of the house. An iron gate kept out trespassers, but I had a key cut, and opened it wide enough to creep through without it creaking too much. The gardens at the back of the house would have been resplendent. They were lovely now, thankfully, but it wasn’t why people visited.
I crept round to the back of the house, peeking through the window of the parlour. It was dark inside, the doors still closed, but I couldn’t see the flashing light of the alarm. Rita must have turned it off, so she was in there alright. I inched further along the house to where the Morning Room was. The windows were long and thin, opening outwards like little doors, that had been a happy discovery. Using the small key, I opened the end one, stepping gingerly into the room, trying not to get tangled in the curtains or break the glass as I walked in. I pushed it gently closed, keeping the rain from coming in and slunk over to the door, cracking it open.
The hall was dark, but the stairs to the kitchen were open, the orange light shining up. Stupid, clever girl. I trod across, mindful of my shoes on the wooden floors and crept down the stairs, lowering myself to see if she was in there. But the kitchen was empty. I clambered down the rest of the stairs and looked around. The cellar.
I headed over, and sure enough, the rug had been kicked aside, and the lights were on down in the dark tunnel of the cellar. I bent down, trying to get the right angle to see down. Something moved down there. It must be her. I listened to the sound of a lid being pried from a box and dropped on the floor, a faint rustling and rummaging, and then a gasp. A quiet, almost unintelligible gasp. She found it. She’d take it.
I panicked, sitting back up on my haunches. I couldn’t let her do that, couldn’t let that happen. I had to stop her, had to stop her the way I had Viviane, had to keep her here. I inched forward, reaching for the light switch above me, my shoes scuffing the stone floor. I hit the switch and watched as the lights spat out. Something thudded below, and I could hear footsteps and quickly reached around the trap door to the hook on the floor, swinging over and down and securing the lock. How had she gotten in there? I spotted two hairpins on the floor and kicked them aside. I jumped as she hammered on the trapdoor.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Hello?”
I got up and dragged a crate from the kitchen over the top. The hammering stopped, and I stepped closer, listing as a muffled crash rang up through the door. I couldn’t let her out. Couldn’t let her tell them.
I wondered, briefly, how to do it. There were knives in the kitchen, heavy candlesticks, the place was a Cluedo board of murder. But they were too close, too personal. I didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see her face, meet her eyes.
I ran back up the stairs through the kitchen and into the rooms, searching for something to use. I took my time, thinking, trying to plan. I could do what I did last time, but I still had to get down there. If I could do it from up here, that would be ideal.
I made my slow way into the library, laughing brilliantly as I came to a halt, looking at the fireplace. A hunting rifle secured to the wall. Still loaded, as it had been by some old man several hundred years ago. A health and safety nightmare when all was considered, but for me, for tonight, it was perfect. But how to get it down?
I dragged a chair over the fireplace, hoisting myself up to get a hold of the gun. I was trying to lever it up over the anchors, when I paused. Froze, more like, as the sound of something in the street caught my attention. Sirens. Growing louder and louder each second.
How? How the hell did they know? I jumped down from the chair and ran over to the window, inching the curtain aside as an unmarked police car, the same one I had been following just before rolled into the streets, the lights bouncing off the walls and Inspector Thatcher and his sergeant spilt out, followed by Harry Cuthbert of all people. Of course, they needed a key.
I swore under my breath and left the library just as the front doors rattled, charging into the Morning Room and pushed the window open. My hands shook as I worked, and, in my haste to get out, I shut the window harshly, the glass cracking all the way up, small pieces tumbling from the frame and onto the ground. Shit. I turned away from the window, looking towards the hall as light suddenly flared up in the house, and two of the men ran towards the stairs. Where was Sergeant Mills?
I made my way back down the alley, trying to be even quiet now that I knew he wasn’t with them, inching through the gate and leaving it open, refusing to spend too long fumbling with the old lock in the growing dark and spitting rain. I crept along the wall, ducking beneath the parlour windows. When I reached the corner of the house, I leant slowly around the corner, checking the street. No sign of him, thankfully.
I stepped out slowly, aware of the growing shadows in the alcoves and the places where he could be standing, but there was no sign of the young sergeant. I walked past the house, as normally as I could and then sprinted to my car, unlocking it as I ran and throwing myself in, swinging my legs down and starting the engine, peeling off as casually as I could manage.
My heart thumped unpleasantly. I could hear it in my head, feel it in my throat. I took a hand off the wheel in turn, wiping my sweaty palms on my trousers, trying to make it home without crashing into anything. Panic was an unsavoury thing to feel. Now what? Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring my vision, and I pulled over onto the side of the road, heaving down breaths. None of this was supposed to have happened. I pulled my phone out and stared at the sc
reen, wondering if I should call him, wondering what he might say. Probably tell me to pull it together, knowing him. This was my side of the deal, after all, and now that there wasn’t much of a deal here, he wouldn’t be happy with me in any case. Especially now that the sodding Inspector had the other music box. We were screwed, and I knew it.
I pulled myself together and called.
“What is it?” he answered quickly, irritably. “You know I like to do Pilates at this time of night.” A strange hobby for a man such as himself to have, I’d always thought.
“They know about the music box,” I told him, determined not to let my voice waver. “They’ll be onto us fairly quickly.”
He muttered something under his breath that I could just about make out, but not anything I wished for him to repeat for me.
“Do they suspect you?”
“I don’t think so. They haven’t treated me like a suspect.”
“Then either they’re idiots, or you missed your true calling on the stage.”
“One or the other,” I said with a faint laugh, “but they have other suspects, I’m sure of it. And Rita will still be one of them.”
“Why shouldn’t she be?” he asked, sounding uneasy. “What happened?”
“She was in the house,” I told him in a low voice, even though there was nobody around to hear. “I think she must have found it, so I trapped her in there and was about to deal with her when the police arrived.”
This time when he swore, I could hear every word perfectly. “Did they see you?” he finally asked, practically snarling down the phone.
“No, and I have my gloves on,” I said, proud of the fact. “So, they can’t link it back to me.”
“But the girl is alive?” he asked.
“Annoyingly. But there’s the chance they’ll think she was lying, trying to draw the scent off of herself. Wondering why she even knew to go down there.” It was wishful thinking, but it was all I had to offer right now. He was quiet for a moment, considering.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 66