The Lost

Chapter 21

The room didn’t seem big enough to conceal anything. There weren’t any obvious hiding places except for a few kitchen cupboards and the wardrobe. But Dylan had rushed over there in a panic when he’d thought there was a chance the bedsit might be broken into as well. And whatever he’d wanted to check, it was more important than his stash of dope.

So what was it?

Jonah knew he was entering dangerous territory. The bedsit was part of a murder enquiry, and he was still a police officer. The sensible thing would be to lock up, go back to his car and phone Fletcher.

Yet once he did that he’d be cut out of the loop, told only what the DI felt he needed to know. Gavin had to have had a reason for keeping the bedsit’s existence a secret, and this was Jonah’s only chance to find out what it was. Stokes had been looking for something when he’d broken into Marie’s, and from the kick marks on the door someone had tried to break in here as well.

If there was even a small chance Gavin had hidden something in here that concerned Theo, then Jonah had to know what it was.

Wishing he’d brought gloves, he used the cuffs of his jacket to avoid handling anything and began to search. It didn’t take long. Whatever Gavin had used this place for, he hadn’t bothered with many home comforts. The shelves inside the wardrobe held only a few pairs of socks and underwear, and all he found on top of it was a broken button and a thick layer of dust. The bedside cabinet yielded a spare set of keys but nothing else, while there was nothing inside the grease-clogged oven or under the sink but a collection of crusted pans. The small bathroom cubicle was equally disappointing, with nothing inside the toilet cistern except limescale and water. Next Jonah looked under the mattress before lowering himself awkwardly to the floor to see under the bed. After that he checked outside the roof window, standing on a chair to make sure there was nothing on the slates or in the gutter.

There wasn’t. Climbing down, he considered what to do next. Dylan had hidden something before he’d let opened the door, and he hadn’t had long to do it. So where was it?

Jonah looked at the keys Dylan had left. There were five of them on a simple ring. One for the external door downstairs, one for the central lock on the bedsit door, and one for each of the two additional locks.

So what was the fifth one for?

The extra key was smaller than the others, more like one that fitted a padlock. Maybe it fitted a garage somewhere, Jonah thought. It couldn’t be for anything in the room or he’d have –

He stopped, looking at the bed. He’d checked underneath, but now he noticed how the headboard was pushed up against the wall, covering the area immediately behind it. He didn’t have to move the bed far before he could see there was something behind it.

A rectangular hatch set in the wall.

There were hinges on one side, while the other was held in place by a padlock hooked through a steel hasp. But although the padlock had been looped into place, it hadn’t been locked. In his hurry, Dylan hadn’t fastened it when he’d pushed the bed back.

Gotcha.

Unhooking the padlock from the hasp, he opened the hatch cover. Cold air wafted from the black hole cut in the plasterboard wall. Easing himself to the floor, Jonah peered inside. The hatch opened into the loft space under the eaves. It was dark and the smell of dust and damp brickwork tickled his nose. There were little chinks of light in the darkness where daylight leaked through cracks between the roof slates, though not enough to see by. Taking out his phone, Jonah switched on the flashlight and aimed it inside.

A white skull stared back at him.

‘Fuck!’

He recoiled, dropping his phone as he banged the back of his head against the hatch. The phone had fallen onto the rafters below the hatch, but its flashlight had stayed on. A blizzard of dust motes whirled in its beam, which was canted to shine almost directly onto the pale oval shape that had startled him. It was wedged in the angle of a sloping timber roof beam, and Jonah gave a sour laugh as he saw what it was.

A wasp’s nest.

It was the size and shape of a misshapen rugby ball, with hollows and concavities in its papery surface that gave the vague appearance of a face. The striped husks of dead wasps were littered all around it, and Jonah couldn’t hear any buzzing coming from inside. It looked old, and even if it wasn’t, he didn’t think wasps would be active so late in the year. Even so, he still waited to make sure there was no sign of life before leaning through the hatch to retrieve his phone. The flashlight’s beam dazzled him. It had landed just out of reach, forcing him to lean in further as he groped for it at full stretch.

His hand touched something that crinkled.

He snatched it back. OK, so there’s something down there... Squinting against the brightness, he tried to see what it was. But the torch beam rendered everything else pitch-black. Blinking away the blotches of light in his vision, Jonah reached down again. This time he was careful not to touch anything except the phone’s hard case as he picked it up. Making sure he had a firm hold, he turned it to aim the beam downwards.

The light gleamed dully on a black vinyl holdall. It sat against the wall directly under the hatch. It was open, exposing the neck of a black plastic bin liner. An effort had been made to bundle it up, but it had been half-hearted. Inside Jonah could see stacks of twenty-pound notes, some bound with rubber bands, others loose and peeping from the open mouths of envelopes.

Jesus Christ, he thought, stunned. Chrissie had been right. In spite of everything, he hadn’t wanted to believe Gavin was crooked. Jonah had convinced himself he’d acted as he did because of something he’d discovered about Theo and Owen Stokes, that he’d been trying to right a ten-year-old injustice.

But the holdall in the roof space told a different story. Maybe this was what he’d meant in the letter by ‘putting things right’, Jonah thought bitterly. By the time Gavin had died he’d fallen so far he thought he could make up for his sins by leaving his family a bagful of dirty money.

No wonder Dylan hadn’t wanted to give up the keys.

Disappointment was an acid taste in Jonah’s mouth. There was no point him staying there any longer. He considered leaving the hatch open: he’d disturbed the scene enough as it was. But even though the bedsit’s door seemed secure, that would be making it too easy if anyone managed to get in.

Replacing the hatch cover, he fastened it with the padlock and then picked up the keys. Dylan’s half-smoked joint was still on the coffee table with the cigarette papers and twist of foil. If that was found there it would mean more trouble for Dylan and Marie, and they had enough to contend with already. And stroppy or not, Dylan was still only a kid. Not much older than Theo would have been, and that thought was enough to make up Jonah’s mind.

Going to the coffee table, he made sure the joint was out before putting it in his jacket pocket along with the foil and papers. Then, with one last look around, he turned to leave.

A floorboard creaked on the landing outside.

His first thought was that it was Dylan, but he immediately discounted it. If the teenager had intended to sneak back in, he’d have waited until he’d seen Jonah leave.

This was someone else.

As quietly as he could, Jonah edged closer to the door. No other noise came from outside, but he was certain whoever was on the landing hadn’t gone. He could feel them out there, just on the other side of the door. Listening, just as he was.

Carefully, he reached for the handle. But it began to move before he could take hold of it, slowly revolving as though of its own accord. There was the faintest of creaks as pressure was applied, but Jonah had locked the door after Dylan left. As the handle swung back to its original position, he readied himself with the keys. Crutches or not, he had to see who it was. Taking hold of the handle in one hand, he gently fitted the key into the lock.

Click.

It was as though a bubble had burst, releasing the tension that had been building. Jonah heard a floorboard creak again on the landing, then another. Shit! Abandoning any attempt at silence, he unlocked the door as heavy footsteps began pounding down the stairs. Flinging it open, he rushed to the stairwell and started down. Too fast: his crutches skidded off a stair edge and suddenly he was falling. He grabbed for the banister, jarring his knee and hurting his arm and ribs, but managed to keep from tumbling down the stairs. Breathless, he hauled himself upright and listened.

The stairwell was quiet. Whoever it was had gone.

Jonah banged the side of his fist against the wall in frustration. Jesus Christ, was that him? Was that Stokes? The anti-climax was crushing. Snatching out his phone, he started to call Fletcher. If they could get people around there straight away, they might have a chance of catching the bastard before he got too far.

But he stopped. What was he going to say? Fletcher wasn’t going to believe it was Owen Stokes just on his say-so, and Jonah was beginning to have doubts himself. When it came down to it, he hadn’t actually seen who it was on the landing. It could have been anyone. He’d already been jumping at shadows the day before, when he thought he’d seen the young woman from the warehouse again at Slaughter Quay. What if this was more of the same?

None of the other residents had come out to see what the commotion was, so at least Jonah was saved from having to explain. Feeling tired and flat, he went back to the bedsit to lock up before making his way downstairs. More carefully, this time. It was harder than climbing up, and he almost fell again when one of his crutches caught on the worn carpet, pulling the rubber ferrule off the end. He had to tamp it back into place, jaw set against the pain from his protesting knee, before continuing.

He saw no one on the way down, although on the third floor the hushed creak and click of one of the doors being closed announced the presence of the same silent watcher as before. Maybe that was who he’d heard creeping around outside the bedsit, he thought wearily. Some neighbour wanting to see what was going on.

Right then, that seemed more likely than Owen Stokes.

By the time Jonah reached the ground floor, he was exhausted. His arms ached from the crutches and his knee was throbbing constantly. The prospect of having to phone Fletcher when he got back to his car depressed his spirits even further. Opening the front door, he started lowering himself down the steps before he realised there was someone on the path.

‘Going somewhere?’ Bennet asked.