Peter James - The House on Cold Hill

‘You only rang him half an hour ago. Maybe he’s with a client. Or out.’

She sat back at the table and began looking at a document. ‘Yes, maybe.’ She picked up her phone and dialled the vendor’s solicitor’s home number.

Later, lounging back on a sofa in the drawing room, after their supper of stir-fried prawns, they watched another episode of Breaking Bad . Caro was more relaxed now.

She looked, for the moment at least, Ollie thought, as if she had put her immediate worries behind her. She was enjoying the programme — as well as the second bottle of wine they were now well into.

But Ollie couldn’t concentrate on the television. One moment his eyes were darting warily around, looking at every shadow. The next he was far away. Thinking. Thinking.

Thinking.

The message on his computer screen that had faded within seconds.

Had he imagined it?

Was it possible for a message to appear like that, randomly, and then vanish, given the sophisticated firewall Chris Webb had installed on his computer?

Any more possible than for a photograph of a bearded old man to appear then disappear?

He felt deeply gloomy and his nerves were on edge. This dream home, which they had moved into barely a fortnight ago, had turned into a nightmare beyond anything he could have imagined.

They had to sort it out. They would. They bloody well would. Once the modernization of the plumbing and wiring was complete, maybe it would all settle down. Somehow he had to convince Caro of that.

Somehow he had to convince himself.

Then Caro’s phone rang.

She snatched it up off the old wooden trunk that was serving as a makeshift coffee table and looked at the display. ‘It’s Parkin!’ she said. ‘My client, the medium.’

Ollie grabbed the remote and froze the screen.

‘Hello, Kingsley,’ she answered, with relief.

Ollie watched her as she said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I wondered if I could speak with your partner, Kingsley. My name’s Caro Harcourt — we had lunch today — he—’

She fell silent for some moments, listening. Ollie watched her face tighten, then go pale.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Oh my God. No.’

She turned and stared at Ollie, looking shocked, shaking her head, then she folded her body over, pressing the phone even closer to her face. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I–I can’t believe it. I mean — he seemed so well. Like — this is such a shock. I’m so sorry — I’m so sorry for you — I don’t know what to say. Look — thank you for calling and telling me. I’m just so sorry. So sorry. Yes, yes, of course. It’s very good of you to have called me. Can you — can you let me know what the arrangements are, in due course. I’d like — I’d like — yes, thank you. Thank you. I’m so sorry.’

She ended the call and sat, gripping her phone in her hand and staring, white-faced, at Ollie. ‘That was Kingsley Parkin’s partner — girlfriend — whatever. She said —’ her voice was choked — ‘she said Kingsley collapsed in the street this afternoon, near the Clock Tower. That must have been just after our lunch. He was rushed to hospital — the Sussex County — but the paramedics couldn’t save him. She doesn’t know for sure yet, but it seems he had a massive heart attack.’

‘He’s dead?’ Ollie said, shocked too, and aware how feeble that sounded.

‘Dead.’ She pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, dabbing away tears. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit. I can’t believe it. He was so — so...’ She raised her arms in despair. ‘What the hell are we going to do now?’

Ollie looked at his watch. It was 10.15 p.m. Too late to call now. ‘I’ll call the retired vicar, Bob Manthorpe, first thing in the morning.’

‘It’s just so bloody freaky.’

‘How old was he?’

‘Not that old. I don’t know — I think he might have had a bit of work done. Around seventy, I’d guess. But he seemed so full of life.’

‘It happens,’ Ollie said. ‘I’m sure it’s a shock, but — that’s a fair age. Those old sixties rockers did their bodies in with drugs. Besides, things can happen.’

‘Sure. Straight after I had lunch with him. Things can happen all right. Don’t we bloody know it?’

‘That box of documents from your office, darling, about the house — do you remember how far back they go?’

‘They date right back to the early sixteenth century when there was a small monastic commune here, established by a group of Cistercian monks. But they then moved away up to Scotland around the early 1750s, which was when this house was built, using mostly the ruins as foundations. Why do you want to know?’

‘It was something the old chap I saw this afternoon suggested.’ He shrugged. ‘I want to go through them all, but some of them are pretty fragile, I’m worried about damaging them. Could you get some copies made at the office tomorrow?’

‘Yes — assuming we make it through the night,’ she said. Only very slightly in jest.

‘Great serve! Wow, Ollie, you’re playing like a man possessed!’ his opponent at the far end of the indoor tennis court, Bruce Kaplan, called out in grudging admiration.

Kaplan rarely gave compliments. Turning forty this year, like Ollie, with a tangle of curly hair, round, wire-framed spectacles and shorts that were far too long, Kaplan looked every inch the technology boffin he was. But he played a ferocious game, moving around the court like lightning, and hating ever to lose a single point, let alone a game. They were reasonably evenly matched, although Kaplan won most of the time — just — because he was the better player, as he liked to remind Ollie. Modesty was not one of Kaplan’s handicaps.

It felt good being back on the court after a two-week absence, Ollie thought. Good to be running around, getting the physical exertion that these needle games with the American professor always became, taking every ounce of energy and concentration out of him. And good to have his mind clear, for this hour and a half on court, of absolutely everything except about where to place the ball, getting to it and firing it back, trying to outwit that arrogant whirling dervish at the far end.

But as the game progressed, he found himself drawn more and more into all the problems going around his mind, despite himself. And he kept wondering if Bob Manthorpe had called him back yet. He’d phoned him first thing this morning and left a message.

As Kaplan and he changed ends, Ollie stopped by his bag to have a swig of water and glance at his phone, on silent. No messages. It was now 1.15 p.m. and the retired vicar had not called him back. Hopefully he would sometime this afternoon.

He kept his concentration focused enough to win the first set, narrowly, on a tie-break. He lost the second 4–6, got whopped 0–6 on the third and was 0–3 down in the fourth when their time was finally up.

Before showering and changing, they went to the bar. Ollie ordered pints of lime and lemonade and some sandwiches for them. Then they carried them over to a table, sat and caught up on each other’s news.

‘You were doing really well in the first set,’ Kaplan said. ‘Then you kind of lost the plot. I guess it was superior play that made you realize you really didn’t have a chance, heh-heh.’

Ollie glanced at his phone and saw there was still no returned call from Manthorpe. He grinned, downed a large gulp of his drink, then wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. ‘I’ve just got a shitload of stuff on my mind at the moment,’ he said. ‘Sorry if my game was rubbish.’

‘It’s always rubbish.’

‘Sod you!’

Kaplan grinned. ‘So what’s on your mind?’