You Are Dead

53

Sunday 14 December

Freya Northrop felt stuffed to bursting as she turned the MX5 into the driveway of their house, shortly after 10.30 p.m. She stifled a yawn, totally exhausted. Zak, in the passenger seat beside her, had slept most of the way back from their last stop of the day, an evening meal at The Cat in West Hoathley, a pub restaurant he’d heard great things about and which had not disappointed. He had photographed and written down details about his starter of hazelnut-crumbed goat’s cheese with honey-roasted figs and Parma ham, and the coffee parfait served in a cappuccino cup complete with froth and sugar cubes of chocolate jelly, both of which he planned to try out with a view to putting them on his menu.

She never ceased to be astonished at the amount of food Zak could pack away. They’d had two lunches at different restaurants in Whitstable — starters, mains and puds, because he’d wanted to try a range of dishes — and whilst she had pecked at hers, he’d wolfed down all of his and finished hers. And now they’d had a three-course dinner at The Cat, and again he had scoffed the lot. Yet he was, she thought enviously, ridiculously thin.

Her dad had once told her never to eat in a restaurant where there was a thin chef, it wasn’t a good sign. Yet Zak was a brilliant cook. He’d been born with supersonic metabolism, he joked. But it was true. Honest to God, where did he put all those carbs? She patted his sleepy, brush-cut head affectionately. ‘We’re home, my sweet.’

He woke with a start and stifled a yawn. Then he took her hand and kissed it. ‘Thanks for driving.’ He yawned again.

‘Want to sleep in the car?’ she said with a grin, opening her door.

He unclipped his seat belt, opened his door and climbed slowly out into the cold, damp night air. ‘I’ve eaten too much,’ he said and patted his stomach.

‘Coming from you, that’s quite something!’

‘I might just make myself a little snack before we go to bed.’

Freya laughed. ‘Want me to see if there’s a suckling pig in the freezer we can chuck on the barbie?’

She stepped up to the front door, unlocked it and went inside, fumbling for the light switch. The smell of fresh paint and new carpet and recently sawn timber greeted her.

Zak followed her in and closed the door behind him. They walked through to the ultra-modern kitchen — the first room to have been completed — with today’s Observer lying on a huge butcher’s block that served as the table.

‘As I haven’t had a drink all day, I think I deserve a glass of wine before bed,’ she said, opening the fridge, removing a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and tugging out the cork. ‘Want one?’

He shook his head. ‘Thanks but I’ve drunk far too much already.’

‘No comment!’ she said with a grin, lifting a glass and an ashtray out of the dishwasher, and setting them down on the table. She poured some wine, then rummaged in her handbag for her tobacco, filters and liquorice roll-up papers.

As she began placing strands of tobacco in the opened-out paper, she noticed Zak frowning at something.

‘What?’ she said.

‘There’s a draught. Can you feel it?’

She nodded, she could. A steady, cold draught.

He continued frowning. ‘Where’s it coming from?’

‘I’ve never noticed it before,’ Freya said. ‘It’s always been so snug in here.’ The kitchen was usually cosy, thanks to the underfloor heating Zak had put in. But she could feel the cold air, definitely.

Zak suddenly stood up and walked across to the back door. ‘Freya, darling,’ he said, his voice sounding strange. ‘We locked the back door, surely — we locked up carefully before we left this morning, didn’t we?’

‘I locked it myself,’ she said. ‘I remember doing it — why?’

He pointed at the top and bottom bolts, which were open. Then he pointed at the key in the lock. ‘I just tried the key, and it’s open, unlocked. Are you sure you locked up?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent, yes.’

‘Oh shit,’ he said, suddenly, staring down at the floor.

‘What?’

He pointed at the leaded light window next to the back door. One small square pane of glass, six inches by six inches, was missing. Then he jabbed a finger down at the floor. ‘Look.’

She stood up and walked over, and saw the pane of glass lying close to the mat.

‘How — how — how did that happen?’ She was quivering, staring wildly all around her now.

‘Panes of glass don’t detach themselves,’ Zak said. ‘And if they do, they don’t fall onto a tiled floor without shattering. And locks don’t unlock themselves.’ He strode over to a drawer, pulled it open and grabbed a carving knife. He walked through into the hall, brandishing the blade.

‘We should call the police,’ she said, nervously.

‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Dial 999.’ He stepped forward.

‘Don’t go out there, Zak. If there’s someone...’

She grabbed the phone and almost dropped it, she was shaking so much. Then, panic-stricken, she stabbed out the numbers.