The House on Cold Hill

37

Caro blanched. Her eyes half closed and Ollie thought for a moment she was going to faint.

Both detectives were staring at her, uncertainly.

‘Is he all right?’ Caro’s eyes darted to each of them in turn, almost feral with desperation.

The detectives shot each other a glance. ‘The Reverend Manthorpe’s neighbour was disturbed by his dog barking all through the night,’ Robinson said, his tone less hostile now. ‘When it didn’t stop this morning, the gentleman became concerned, as his neighbour always walked it first thing, and he called the police. The Reverend Manthorpe was subsequently found dead in his house, and we’re trying to establish who the last person was to see him alive.’

Caro grabbed Ollie’s arm to steady herself. ‘God. Dead? Not another. I don’t think there’s much more I can take.’

Both police officers looked at her, curiously.

‘My wife’s very upset,’ Ollie explained. ‘Someone she knows dropped dead yesterday — and now this.’

‘The Reverend Manthorpe’s neighbour is the local Neighbourhood Watch coordinator,’ DC Ryman said, also more pleasantly now. ‘And he had made a note of a Range Rover car that was parked outside the house the previous afternoon, which we established was registered in your name, sir, although at an address in Carlisle Road, Hove. We understand from the occupants that you’ve recently moved?’

‘Yes, I meant to update the DVLA — sorry.’

‘That is technically an offence, sir, but we’ll ignore that. I’m sure that’s in process?’

‘Yes, I’ll get on to it, thank you. Can you tell me anything about how he died?’

‘I’m afraid not at this stage, no,’ DC Robinson said. ‘How did the Reverend Manthorpe seem when you saw him?’

‘Fine. Elderly and a bit frail, and he told me his memory wasn’t too good, although it seemed pin-sharp to me. I was asking him about his time here in Cold Hill as vicar. He was a very nice old boy. The dog sat on the sofa with me for most of the time. Jasper.’

Robinson made some further notes, then he said, ‘We won’t keep you any more tonight. If we need you to make a statement, could you come into Lewes police station sometime?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Ollie answered. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really very shaken by this. We both are. Please let me know what you find out about — how he died.’

He saw the two detectives to the door and watched them hurry through the rain, climb into a small grey Ford, and drive off. When he returned to the kitchen Caro was still sitting at the table, her face drained of colour, shaking her head.

‘What the hell’s happening, Ollie?’

He stood behind her, put his arms round her, bent over and kissed her on the forehead, smelling the fragrant scent of her shampoo. ‘Just a horrible coincidence. Horrible.’

He kissed her again, went over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and opened it. Then he took two clean glasses out of the dishwasher, poured wine into them and carried one over to Caro. ‘Want me to bring my stuff down here and be with you?’

She shook her head and sniffed. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Did you find any curry menus?’

‘No — if I give you their names, could you have a look and order for me? I’ve got to get this document done and off.’

‘Sure.’

She scrawled the names down on the corner of a sheet of paper, tore it off and handed it to Ollie.

He climbed the stairs up to the first floor, heavy-hearted, carrying his glass of wine. It was just a coincidence, as he’d said. Just a bloody awful coincidence and shit timing. And those bloody detectives, did they need to be so officious?

He heard music pounding from Jade’s room at the far end of the landing. Wasn’t she supposed to be getting on with her homework? He shrugged. It was Friday night, she had the weekend ahead, but she wasn’t likely to get much done with Phoebe staying over. Let it be. He carried on up to his office.

As he went in, he stared at all the boxes he had still to unpack. He would make that his weekend project, he decided. To get the whole sodding room straight, ready for the week ahead. A week of working on The Chattri House and of hard-selling. He stared out of the windows, at the pelting rain and rapidly failing light — 7.30 p.m. and it would soon be dark. Winter was approaching. He looked forward to clear frosty days, and perhaps some snow. To blazing logs in the huge inglenook fireplace in the drawing room. They would put all this shit behind them, they really would.

He sat down at his desk, put the glass down beside him, tapped his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life and entered his password. Moments later all his files appeared, against the plain sky-blue background he had chosen years ago.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped.

He sensed someone standing behind him.

The temperature seemed to drop even further.

He spun round in his chair. But there was no one behind him; no one in the room. The door was closed.

He turned back to the screen, and as he looked at it, all the files once again suddenly disappeared. They were replaced by a message in large black letters.

An instant later the words vanished. Then his normal icons came back into view.

His skin crawled. It felt as if someone was very definitely in this room with him.

Someone.

Or something.

He could feel he was being stared at. By unseen eyes.

He leaped out of his chair, looking wildly all around him. Up at the ceiling. At the closed door. Around at the walls.

Shivering, he stared back at the screen.

All the file names were there. At the top right was the Macintosh HD icon. Below it, Charles Cholmondley Classics. Below that, Chattri House.

Normality.

He had not imagined it.

‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he called out. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

Shiver after shiver ripped through him. Then he felt perspiration running down his face. From being freezing, he was suddenly too hot. He went over to a window and opened it. Felt the cool, damp air on his face. Breathed in the sweet smell of wet grass. His heart was pounding.

There was something in here.

He stared up again at the ceiling. At the two bare light bulbs hanging from their cords. He broke out in goose pimples.

He shook his head. Get a fucking grip! he said, silently, to himself, thinking back on his conversation with Bruce Kaplan. Energy. Was there some energy thing going on?

Go with it and accept it, the professor had said.

Yeah, right, easier said than done.

There was a click. The room darkened and the computer screen went blank. He stared up. Both bulbs had gone out.

Another sodding fuse, he thought.

Hoped.

The goose pimples were spreading and hardening.

He grabbed his wine glass and left the room, slamming the door behind him, and hurried down the stairs to the first-floor landing. When he reached it, he looked back up. The lights elsewhere in the house were on, fine.

He was letting it get to him, and he mustn’t, he knew. He had to be strong. The last thing Caro needed was for him to start freaking out.

His mind playing tricks on him. That’s all it was.

That’s all it was.

He carried on downstairs. Totally unconvinced.