Wish You Were Dead

7

‘Don’t eat too much, everyone,’ Roy Grace warned. ‘Dinner is in just a couple of hours’ time!’

Bruno, ignoring him, was wolfing down slices of bread heaped with salami and cheese, and slurping a large glass of Coke. Cleo, who had Noah on her lap, was hungrily tucking into the salad and bread. Roy was trying to hold back, but the cheeses and fruit were so good and the bread so fresh, and the red wine was very drinkable.

Once Jack joined them, maybe this place would be all right after all, he thought.

Kaitlynn had picked at the fruit but eaten little. She sat at the table with her phone, dialling and redialling, shaking her head each time. ‘I asked Madame if I could use her landline, but she said — I think — a lightning storm knocked their phone and internet out. Can you believe it, no Wi-Fi or mobile signal?’

‘Which might be why we had such problems getting through to them from the car,’ Cleo suggested.

‘This room is so creepy. And how am I supposed to join in any games?’ Bruno mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘No internet is just shit.’

Roy was about to tick him off for his language but caught Cleo’s warning eye and stopped. Bruno was right, it was damned creepy. This huge, gloomy, windowless room in the centre of the house was panelled in dark wood, with a high, vaulted ceiling. It felt like they were in a chapel.

There were silver candlesticks on the table, with unlit church-like candles. At the far end was an alcove in which stood a life-size marble statue of a naked man on a plinth, looking down on them. He had one arm raised and folds of what looked like fabric draped over the other arm. Was he a Greek god, Roy wondered? He’d never been good on mythology.

‘Something must have happened to Jack,’ Kaitlynn said, sounding really worried and upset. ‘This is so not like him.’

‘Perhaps he’s been abducted by aliens?’ Bruno suggested. ‘You know, French ones?’

‘That’s really not very helpful, Bruno,’ Cleo said.

‘They happen,’ he said, defiantly. ‘Alien abductions. I read it in a magazine. People driving along one moment, and the next, whoosh — they’re gone, sucked up into a spaceship! The next time anyone sees them they’re all totally weird.’

‘Yeah, and I read about small boys being eaten by a tribe of monsters in the woods,’ Kaitlynn retorted. ‘How come they missed you?’

‘Hey!’ Roy said. ‘Cool it. Bruno, we’re all concerned about Jack, OK? It’s not funny.’

‘Really?’ Bruno answered. ‘Is that why we’re all sitting here stuffing our faces, if we’re all so concerned?’

Roy stood up, holding his phone. ‘I’ll see if I can get a signal outside.’

‘Darling, finish your food first,’ Cleo said. ‘You’ve not eaten anything for hours.’

‘I’m just going to the front door to see if I can get a better signal. I’ll be right back.’

He walked out into the hall. Stepping into the porch, he saw in front of him a wall of pelting rain, and then a streak of lightning. Checking his phone, there was still no signal. All the same, he tried calling Jack. But nothing happened. He tapped out a text and tried sending it.

It would not go.

He went back into the hall, looking warily at all the suits of armour. He felt like each of them had someone inside, watching him through the eye slits, as he walked back towards the dining room. But just before he reached the entrance, he saw a door off to the right and, curious, went over to it.

It led into a huge drawing room, furnished with antique sofas, tables and display cabinets full of silverware and ornaments. Three of the walls were hung with oil paintings in gilded frames. Some looked like portraits of ancestors, others were landscapes, hunting scenes and beautifully painted pictures of horses and dogs.

On the fourth wall, above an ornate marble fireplace, were dozens and dozens of framed photographs, all signed. Among them were a number of celebrities he recognized — rock stars and actors, some living, some long dead — and some faces he did not recognize. It looked like a Hall of Fame of past guests.

Each photo had a brief, scrawled message. One picture was of the late, great actor Humphrey Bogart, with his trademark cigarette in his mouth. He was standing in the hallway of this chateau, his arm around a suit of armour. ‘Great stay in this amazing place! Got a new buddy!’ Next to him was a black-and-white photograph of the late Vivien Leigh. ‘Such a great time here. Such history!’ A short distance away was a photo of Peter Sellers. ‘Much preferred it here to Balham!’

As Roy continued admiring the photographs, he noticed a face he recognized but could not immediately place. It was a man in his fifties, with close-cropped hair, standing with his arm around a wild-looking woman. ‘What a gem we’ve discovered!’

Roy looked at the signature but couldn’t read who it was. He looked at the face again, puzzled. He had an almost photographic memory, particularly for faces, which had always helped him in his career with the police. But, however hard he tried, he could not think who the man was.

Maybe he was tired from the long drive, or it was the booze — probably both, he decided. He went back into the dining room and sat back down next to Cleo. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘I just took a look in the amazing drawing room. You have to go in there — there are photographs of dozens of major celebrities who’ve stayed here!’

‘Well, I hope they got a better greeting than we did!’ she retorted.