Wish You Were Dead

13

Ignoring the staring cats, Roy let himself back out of the front door and instantly gagged at the awful stink of a dog poo at the bottom of the steps. Using his torch sparingly, the battery steadily ticking down — 17 per cent now — he made his way around the circular driveway, until he found the tree-lined avenue he’d driven up some five hours earlier. The air felt fresher, clearer, with the heady smell of wet grass and leaves.

He stopped, turned off Bluetooth and Wi-Fi on his phone and switched it to low-power mode.

A crackle of feathers right above him startled him, as something flew off into the night. An owl?

He walked fast, occasionally switching on the torch and using the moonlight for guidance, checking for a signal every few minutes. It took a full twenty minutes before he reached the deserted road at the bottom of the drive.

Still no signal.

Then he froze. The sound of something trampling through the undergrowth in the woods to his left. A grunting noise. A snort. Another, closer. He swung the light at it and saw a pair of small, yellow eyes. Staring at him from a huge, hairy head.

A wild boar. Stationary, watching him. He had read, somewhere, about these creatures. How dangerous they were, that they could charge and kill you. He stood his ground, holding the beam steady on its beady eyes. More boldly than he felt, he shouted at it, ‘Make my day, punk!’ and took a step towards it. Followed by another. ‘COME ON, BIG BOY, MAKE MY BLOODY DAY!’

With a wheezy snort it turned and trotted off into the forest.

When he was sure he was out of danger, Roy rebooted the phone, in case it had a glitch. But after it finally came back to life, it still showed no signal. He set off along the road, turning right, retracing the way they had come earlier today, all the time listening out for any more of these creatures.

The darkness of the forest on either side pressed in on him, eerily. But he put it out of his mind, comforting himself with the words he’d always loved and had used as a mantra whenever he was in a scary situation: Yea, though I may walk alone through the shadow of the Valley of Death, I will fear no evil... for I am the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the valley.

After another twenty minutes he stopped and again checked his phone.

Two bars!

Finally, a proper signal.

First, he checked his messages. There was only one new one, from his mate Glenn Branson, wishing him a happy holiday and telling him not to worry about work.

Nothing from Jack. No phone message or email.

Why not?

He called Jack’s number. It rang. Once, twice, three times.

Come on, buddy, answer!

Ten rings and then, ‘Hi, this is Detective Sergeant Jack Alexander. If your call is urgent, please call the Incident Room number at the end of this message. Otherwise please leave me a voicemail.’

‘Jack, this is Roy. Where are you? We’re at the chateau and we’re all concerned as we haven’t heard from you. Call me as soon as you can.’

He ended the call and waited for several minutes in the hope Jack would pick this up. Then another five minutes. He saw lights in the distance. Heard the sound of an engine. Getting closer, the lights brighter. He stepped into the edge of the woods and moments later a small car, travelling recklessly fast, music blaring from a boom box, shot past. Then silence and darkness again.

Now he was even more worried about Jack. Why no message? No word? This was just not like him. He decided to call Glenn to see if he had heard anything from him.

The DI answered almost immediately and good-humouredly. ‘You’re meant to be on holiday, boss. Hope this isn’t about work?’

‘Well, not exactly.’

‘Which means it is about work. We’re missing you but not missing you, so relax — chillax!’

‘Haha! I’m calling about Jack.’

‘Yeah? Isn’t he on holiday with you?’

‘That’s the point, matey. He’s meant to be, but he’s gone AWOL — you haven’t heard from him, have you?’

‘AWOL? Missing? What do you mean? He was going to Paris to meet with detectives there and then coming on to join you, I thought. I’m not expecting to hear from him.’

‘He should have been here at midday and he hasn’t showed up.’

‘Roy, you know what Jack’s like, he’s a rottweiler. If he gets the bit between his teeth, he’s on it. He’s like all of us — it’s why our marriages fall apart — we get caught up in the chase and forget everything else. We put locking up the bad guys ahead of looking after our loved ones.’

For a moment, Roy didn’t respond. Glenn had a point. Roy’s own first marriage, to Sandy, had gone south because of his dedication to his work. And so had Glenn’s marriage to his wife, Ari. Being a good homicide detective could easily consume your life.

Which was why Roy had been so set on making this a proper holiday, quality time with his family — and the chateau, with its remoteness and privacy and no other guests, had seemed the ideal place for this. Perhaps in the morning, with the sun shining, it would turn out to be the paradise that he and Cleo had so much hoped for. Certainly, from the messages he had read from the celebrities and other guests who had visited over the years, it seemed the place had much to offer — even if it hadn’t been immediately apparent.

But something nagged at him. A speck of worry that was growing larger with every passing moment. Gnawing at him. The same worry that he had when he sensed something wrong on a case he was trying to solve. When things didn’t quite add up.

Like now.

The chateau not being what it had seemed from its online pictures. The mystery of Jack’s absence. The vanished car.

And he was still puzzling over the photograph, on the drawing-room wall, of the stocky man with the wild woman on his arm. Where did he know him from?

And why did he have the feeling he recognized Madame?

Ending the call, he checked the time. It was now 10.45 p.m. He retraced his steps slowly, again checking his phone every few minutes. Still two bars of the signal, 15 per cent battery. Then one bar. And 14 per cent battery.

As he entered the gates, and traipsed back up the drive towards the chateau, the final bar disappeared. No signal now. And just a meagre 13 per cent left on the battery. Above him, the sky was clearing, the clouds thinning out and the moon giving him enough light to walk without needing the torch. It looked like tomorrow really would be a fine day.

Suddenly he froze.

A faint, distant, piercing scream cut through the silence of the night.

A fox taking a rabbit?

That was a sound he heard frequently, in the early hours, back at their country cottage in Sussex. The terrible, pitiful, wailing sound of a dying rabbit that went on and on for several seconds. But this was different.

This had sounded human.

He quickened his pace, breaking into a run, feeling sudden, deep fear. Cleo, Kaitlynn, Bruno and Noah were all alone, with just their two weird hosts. Had he imagined the sound?

No.

He heard it again. Longer. A cry for help. Then silence.

Jesus, what was happening?

He was now sprinting, perspiring, and wishing he hadn’t drunk any wine at all. As he reached the circular driveway in front of the chateau, he stopped and stood still. Listening again, his heart thudding. Utter silence. The house was in pitch darkness. Not a light on anywhere. He looked up towards the tower, which was just a silhouette. No light on there at all, either.

Had Cleo gone to bed? It was unlike her. She would normally leave a light on — but the lights in that room were so feeble, maybe he couldn’t see anything from here?

Then he heard a sound that chilled every cell in his body.

BLOOOP.

It came from the lake in the middle of the drive. Moments later, he heard it again.

BLOOOP.

He shone his torch on the surface, just in time to see several large bubbles burst on the surface.

BLOOOP.

And he saw dark, shimmering, disturbed water.

BLOOOP.

As if something had been submerged.

Something large.

He ran to the lake’s edge and shone his torch directly on the water, just as a huge fish rose, breaking the surface, taking something. He saw an ugly, shiny, almost prehistoric head. A massive pike.

The thing seemed to be staring straight at him.

BLOOOP. It vanished, leaving a huge ripple.

Just behind him, from the chateau, he heard another scream.

And this time, he recognized Cleo’s voice.

For sure.