The House on Cold Hill

40

Ollie was surprised to find Jade already up and dressed so early on a Saturday, as he went downstairs, deep in troubled thought, to organize breakfast. The round metal clock, designed to look like it had once adorned the wall of a nineteenth-century Paris café, read 10.07. He noticed it was at a slightly wonky angle.

Looking a little chastened, his daughter asked, ‘Which pod would you like today, Dad?’ She spun the Nespresso capsule dispenser, which she had racked out with a wide variety. Not only was she in charge of making the coffee, she had long taken charge of keeping the dispenser topped up as well.

‘The strongest,’ he replied. He went to the front door, collected the newspapers, carried them through into the kitchen and laid them neatly on the refectory table. Then he lugged a chair over to the wall, climbed on to it, and reached to straighten the clock.

Jade held up a black pod. ‘Kazaar?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Long or short?’

‘Short, and could you make it a double?’

‘You’ll be flying, Dad!’

He climbed down from the chair, stood back and studied the clock. It was still not completely straight. He climbed back on to the chair again. ‘Yep, well I need a major shot of something — I didn’t sleep too well last night. Nor did your mum. We had this strange little ghost that came in the room and freaked us out.’

Jade giggled. ‘I did fool you, did I? Was my costume quite realistic?’

‘It was very realistic. And not funny, OK.’

‘I thought it was a screeeeaaaaam!!!’

He shook his head, her impish grin making it hard for him to be angry with her. ‘And how did you sleep?’

Jade nodded, inserting the pod in the coffee machine, then flipping down the lid. ‘OK. You haven’t forgotten about Phoebe coming for a sleepover, have you, Dad?’

‘And your boyfriend coming tomorrow, too. How is Ruari?’

She shrugged. ‘Yep. Fine.’

‘Are you still sweet on him?’

She blushed and looked away. ‘It’s sort of not really like that, Dad.’

‘Sort of not really like what?’

‘You know — romantic stuff.’

Ollie grinned; his daughter was lifting his gloom, however momentarily. ‘So you don’t kiss him?’

‘Yuk, snog? Yechhhh!’

He adjusted the clock again then stepped back down. The Nespresso machine was rumbling and he smelled the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. Caro came into the kitchen in her dressing gown, yawned, then went over to Jade, glaring at her.

‘That was seriously not funny, last night, OK?’

For a moment Jade looked like she was going to answer back. Then, seeing the anger in her mother’s face, she bowed her head and said, meekly, ‘Sorry.’

‘Scrambled eggs, anyone?’ Ollie asked. It was one of two things he could cook well. French toast, which Jade loved, was the other.

‘Meeeee!’ Jade raised her arm in the air. ‘Or French toast? Could I have French toast? And will you make that tomorrow, too, for Phebes and me?’

Ollie looked at Caro.

‘Just scrambled eggs. A tiny amount.’ Then she said, ‘Is everything OK? What was that phone call earlier?’

‘It was just Charles Cholmondley — he wanted me to add some things urgently to his website.’

‘Has something gone wrong?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘He owes you a lot of money, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, I’m invoicing him for it.’

She gave him a dubious look. ‘You told me you thought he was dodgy — is he trying anything on you?’

‘No, he’s fine.’

Ollie cooked the eggs, but his mind was all over the place. He burned them. Then he burned the French toast, too.

As soon as breakfast was over he hurried back up to his office, then sat down at his computer and logged on apprehensively, ready to screenshot any message that might appear. An instant later everything vanished from his screen, then the words appeared:

His door slammed shut behind him, as if someone had stormed into the room.

He spun round.

There was no one.

All the windows were shut, but in any case, there was no wind. He shivered. He could feel a presence in the room with him. Something above him, staring down.

Then he turned back to the screen. The letters had vanished and all his files were back. He had missed his chance to take a screenshot.

He felt a swirl of cold air around his neck. He looked up, then around. Then he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands for some moments, thinking. Was he losing his bloody mind?

He opened his eyes and stared at the deeds laid out on his desk, and the list of names that he had written down, going right back into the eighteenth century. But he was too distracted by worry to concentrate on them. The more pressing thought was how the hell he was going to recover the situation with Cholmondley and Bhattacharya. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and laid it on his desk. Through the window he saw two rabbits playing on the lawn. What a simple life those creatures had, he thought.

What a bloody mess his own was right now. God, what a mess. Then he looked up at the ceiling, another ripple of shivers going down his back. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’ he said aloud.

Then he googled The Reverend Roland Fortinbrass, Vicar of Cold Hill.

Moments later he saw the man’s name and the address and phone number of the vicarage. He dialled it.

The vicar answered promptly. ‘Ah, Oliver! How nice to hear from you. You were on my mind — I was thinking of popping up to see you — would this morning be convenient?’

‘Please,’ Ollie said. ‘It would be very convenient. I need to speak to you. I need to ask you something. How soon could you come?’

‘Well, in about an hour? Eleven thirty?’

‘Perfect, thank you,’ Ollie said.

Then the vicar sounded hesitant. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes — thank you — well — the truth is — no, no, it’s not. Everything’s not all right.’