Peter James: The House on Cold Hill

Leaving Maida Vale shortly after 1.00 p.m., having been offered neither tea, coffee nor water, Ollie was parched and starving. He’d barely eaten a thing yesterday, and he’d only managed to swallow a couple of mouthfuls of cereal for breakfast today. His nerves were jangling, his stomach felt like it was full of writhing snakes, and he was feeling light-headed from lack of sugar.

He pulled onto a garage forecourt, filled up with diesel, then bought himself a ham sandwich, a KitKat, and a Coke. He returned to his car and sat, listening to the news on the radio, while he ate.

The traffic was better than earlier but still heavy, the rain not helping, and it would be touch and go whether he made it to Jade’s school in time to pick her up. He decided to ignore the route the satnav was suggesting, which would put him outside the school ten minutes late, and short-cut his way down through Little Venice, White City and then Hammersmith, and cross the Thames there.

Suddenly his phone rang. He saw it was Bryan Barker. ‘Hi, Ollie, sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday, we’d gone over to my sister in Kent and I left my phone behind. How was your weekend?’

‘I’ve had better.’

‘Wish I could give you some good news now to cheer you up, but I’m afraid every time we look behind anything at the house, we find another problem.’

‘So what’s the latest doom and gloom?’

‘There are some nasty-looking cracks around the base of the tower, below your office — we’ve only found them since chipping away some of the rendering.’

‘What’s causing them?’

‘Well, it could just be slight movements of the earth — changes in the water table, the soil beneath drying out. Or it could be subsidence.’

‘Subsidence?’ Ollie said, knowing full well what that would entail. Cripplingly expensive underpinning. ‘Why didn’t this show up on the survey?’

‘Well, I’m looking at the relevant section of the survey now. It warned of possible movement but inspection wasn’t possible without removing some of the rendering. It says they brought this to your attention and you told them to leave it.’

‘Great!’ Ollie said, gloomily. ‘Just one thing after another after another.’

‘Should have bought yourselves a nice little brand-new bungalow if you wanted an easy life!’ Barker said.

‘Yeah, great.’ Ollie concentrated on the road for a second. He used to know this part of London well — his first job was for a small IT company down the skanky end of Ladbroke Grove, on the fringe of Notting Hill — and he cycled everywhere then. He drove along with the canal on his right.

‘Oh, and another thing,’ Barker said. ‘That window you asked us to take a look through — there’s a bit of a problem.’

‘What?’

‘I climbed up this morning — we put two ladders together — but I couldn’t see in — there are metal bars blocking out the light.’

‘Metal bars? Like a prison cell?’

‘Exactly.’

‘So is it a room?’

‘I don’t know — we’d either have to cut away the bars or go in through a wall.’

‘How long are you going to be there today, Bryan?’

‘I’ve got to leave early today — I’ve got a site visit to make, and it’s Jasmin’s birthday — I’ll be in big trouble if I’m late!’

‘I’ve asked the plumber, but if you have time could you also take a look in our bedroom? I think we may have a serious damp problem there.’

‘OK — and you’ll be at the house in the morning?’

‘Yes, I’ll be working from home all day.’

Ollie ended the call and drove on, immersed in his thoughts. At least he had a resolution, of a kind, with Cholmondley. He was going to have to accept the bastard’s deal, he knew, because it was still a gateway to other classic car dealers. And he had a lot of damage limitation ahead with the other dealers who’d been copied in on the vile email that had gone to Cholmondley. With luck, Bhattacharya could be salvaged. And tonight the vicar and Benedict Cutler were coming.

He had a good feeling about that.

Fortinbrass seemed a very human man, concerned and interested. He and Benedict Cutler would help them clear whatever malevolence was in the house. It was 2015, for God’s sake. Ghosts might have terrified people in past centuries, but not any more. This evening was high noon for any spectral guests at Cold Hill House.

The thought made him smile. He was nearing Gatwick airport on the M23, in heavy rain, and was only about twenty-five minutes now from Jade’s school. He would get there with a good ten minutes or more to spare. He leaned forward and switched channels to Radio Sussex. He liked listening to the Alison Ferns afternoon show.

The three o’clock news came on and he turned the volume up a little. The announcer, in his sombre, clear, unemotional BBC voice, stated there was more controversy over the wildcat French industrial action in Calais causing further Eurostar cancellations. There were fresh airstrikes against an ISIS stronghold. A family doctor was questioning the effectiveness of flu vaccinations. Then, suddenly, Ollie stiffened as he heard:

‘Two people who died today when their Volkswagen Golf was in a head-on collision with a lorry, on the B2112 Haywards Heath to Ardingly road, were named as Brighton solicitor Caroline Harcourt and her daughter Jade.’

Ollie swerved off onto the hard shoulder and slammed on his brakes, switching on the hazard lights, the wipers clouting away the raindrops. He sat for a moment, drenched in perspiration, his entire body pounding. The Range Rover rocked in the slipstream of a lorry that thundered past, too close, inches away from his wing mirror, as he stabbed Caro’s direct line on his speed-dial button.

It rang once, twice, three times.

‘Answer, please answer, please, please, please, darling.’

Then, with an immense surge of relief, he heard her voice, the professional tone she always adopted when at work. ‘Hi, Ols, I’m with a client at the moment — can I call you back in a while?’

‘You’re OK?’ he gasped.

‘Yes, thank you very much. I’ll be about half an hour.’

‘Jade’s not with you?’

‘I thought you were picking her up from school?’

‘Yes — yes — yes, I am. Call me when you can.’

Another lorry rocked the car.

Had he imagined it?

He must have. Unless, he thought with growing terror, it was another time-slip. Something he had seen that had not yet happened? More evidence that he was going insane?

But he wouldn’t let Caro drive the Golf, nor take Jade anywhere, not for a few days, not until he was absolutely certain he’d just imagined this.

He checked his mirror, accelerated and pulled out onto the inside lane. He was still shaking uncontrollably, perspiration running down the back of his neck.

He didn’t calm down until he saw Jade trotting out of the school gates, rucksack on her back, cheerily chatting with a group of friends. She headed over towards him and climbed up into the car.

‘How was your day, lovely?’

She shrugged, pulling on her seat belt. ‘Mr Simpson was really annoying.’

‘Your music teacher? I thought you liked him.’

She shrugged again. ‘I do, but he can be sooooooo annoying!’

He smiled. But, inside him, a storm was still raging.

When they arrived home shortly before 4.00 p.m., the rain had eased to a light drizzle. The only trade vehicle parked outside the house was the plumber’s black van. As Jade went up to her room, Michael Maguire came out of the kitchen, his face grimy.

‘Ah, Lord Harcourt!’ he greeted him.

‘What did you discover about the bedroom walls, Mike?’