Cherringham--Killing Time Read online

  Locked? But there was no key hole.

  “Not wood,” she said. “Feels like steel.”

  Luke joined her. “No lock on this side.”

  “So — locked from the other side?”

  She pressed her ear to the door, trying to hear if there was any movement on the other side, then stepped back.

  Nothing.

  “Okay. When we’re done, we’ll check outside. Maybe there’s a door, a window.”

  She turned and then they walked back up the corridor, took another turning, finally reaching a pair of double doors. As Megan tracked her light around she saw they were in some kind of central hallway with a double staircase curving up to the next floor.

  A grandfather clock stood between the two staircases; its great brass pendulum hanging still, lifeless.

  “I don’t think there are ghosts in this place,” she said. “Because, well, no such thing as ghosts. But, you know, it does feel—”

  “Scary?”

  “Yeah. Human scary. Like bad things have happened here.”

  She turned to Luke, her head lamp lighting his face — and she could see that he felt the same.

  So silent for a moment.

  From upstairs — a loud crash as if something had fallen.

  “What the hell was that?” she said.

  “Megan,” said Luke. “I don’t like this.”

  “Me neither,” she said, her pulse racing. “But, look. We’re here. We gotta do it.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  She reached out, put her hand on his arm. She saw him force a smile.

  “Come on,” she said. “Keep your lights up, if there’s anyone else in here, maybe we’ll scare them off.”

  And slowly, carefully, Megan still in front, they crept up the wide, carpeted staircase.

  *

  Megan reached the top of the stairs, and peeked round to see down a long corridor.

  On one side — gloomy windows with heavy stone frames. On the other, a series of doors. Bedroom doors, she guessed.

  And at the far end of the corridor — one single door. From behind which, she now could hear a noise. A kind of …

  Scratching sound.

  Rhythmic. Grating. Unpleasant. Like nails on a chalkboard.

  Yeah, maybe we should just … leave, she thought

  “Megan, man — I can’t do this,” whispered Luke behind her. She turned to him, pressed her finger against her lips.

  Last thing I need now is Luke wimping out on me, she thought.

  “Just stick with me, okay?” she said, with as much confidence as she could.

  Though she felt anything but confident.

  She headed slowly down the corridor, flicking her light from side to side.

  Up here she could see real evidence of the house being abandoned. A couple of the windows had been smashed — maybe kids throwing stones from the woods. Shattered glass lay on the carpet.

  Great chunks of ceiling littered the corridor — probably from leaks in the roof — and wallpaper peeled off in great mournful handfuls.

  The floor buckled and groaned as they stepped over the wreckage.

  “Watch out,” she said. “This floor feels rotten. It could give way. Stay on the edges.”

  One by one, as she went down the corridor, she pushed open bedroom doors. Each room was filled with garish gold and silver fittings, more white leather chairs, massive beds, once sparkling tiled bathrooms covered with a hoarfrost of dust.

  And each bedroom now smelt of damp and mould. Or even … decay. In some rooms, dingy bedding lay pulled back, exposing yellowed bedsheets entwined like a carcass.

  Again — another sign of people leaving fast as if the mysterious occupants had been roughly dragged away from their sleep.

  In a couple of the rooms, she could see carpets had been pulled up, furniture moved. In others, it seemed random holes had been dug into the walls, the brickwork pulled loose.

  In all the rooms, the drawers were open or scattered on the ground, cupboards bare, doors wide or even pulled off their hinges.

  “Someone’s been up here,” she said, her voice low. “Just ripping into stuff.” Luke was close at her side as she moved.

  “Kids, maybe?” said Luke. “Nothing to steal, so they trash the place.”

  And as if in answer …

  Another loud crash from behind the door, just yards away now at the end of the corridor.

  “God!” said Luke, clutching her arm. “Megan, we really got to—”

  Megan felt terrified too — but she couldn’t show it.

  Not if Zach needed her to be strong.

  Because what if Zach was behind that door? Trapped. Injured. Desperate for rescue?

  Barely able to strike his hand on the wooden floor to attract attention.

  “Come on,” she said again. She took the final steps to the end of the corridor, with Luke not quite as tightly behind her, and stood in front of the door.

  Her breathing hurried. Her heart beating so fast.

  She wet her lips with her tongue. This was it. Now or never.

  She glanced quickly back at Luke, then reached out for the door handle, started to turn it …

  Unlike the door downstairs — this one wasn’t locked.

  She took a deep breath, then turned the handle fully, and slowly pushed the door open, her light sweeping the space as she stepped forward.

  And then everything seemed to happen so quickly.

  She saw — a room. Empty. Ahead — windows shattered, open, glass jagged all around the frame. A tree branch smashing into the gutted frame.

  Light somehow from above, through a hole in the ceiling.

  A hole in the roof too?

  A shutter swinging back and forth, smashing erratically against the wall …

  Megan took a breath. Relief.

  “It’s only—” she said, stepping forward …

  Into nothingness! Just a great torn hole where the floor should be.

  And then Luke’s arm was around her, stopping her from falling, plunging down to the dark room below.

  But not so dark that she couldn’t see a shape, a human shape, the shape of …

  Had to be.

  Zach. Her beautiful Zach.

  Lying on his back, twenty feet below, on a mound of rubble, his yellow helmet tipped back, his eyes open and staring at her. But those eyes did not see anything because Zach was dead.

  Megan screamed.

  3. A New Case

  Jack untied the mooring rope, pushed off from the riverbank, and made sure the oars were steady in the rowlocks.

  Then, checking that his dog Riley was settled in the stern of the little dinghy, he dipped the oars in the water and rowed steadily downstream, away from The Grey Goose.

  It was the most perfect summer evening — the Thames mirror-flat but flowing deeply, the water meadows lush green from so much early summer rain, and the sun still an hour or so away from setting.

  He pulled steadily, passing the other residential boats and barges that lined the quarter mile to Cherringham Bridge, waving to the occasional neighbour he saw out on their decks enjoying an al fresco dinner or that first gin and tonic of the evening.

  Until he glided under the medieval bridge, disturbing a family of ducks, their squawking echoing from the ancient stone arches, the water gently slapping the buttresses as he passed through.

  He looked up to his left, where Cherringham stood at the top of the gentle hill, the sun warming the stone of the houses and cottages, the colours almost Italian, as if on a Tuscan hilltop.

  Round the long slow bend of the river — nice easy strokes — and he watched a two-man scull silently and seriously slice past him heading upriver. The waters here wide enough, so no need to give way.

  Ahead he saw the little jetty that marked the end of Sarah’s garden.

  Already, even though there seemed to be not a jot of breeze, he could smell she had the barbecue lit.

  Riley stretched and stood up, peer
ing ahead to see what potential for excitement the evening might hold.

  Perhaps a leftover bone from the evening’s steaks?

  A quick glance over his shoulder, to check he was lining up nicely, then Jack shipped the oars and let the current take him to the jetty, where he now saw Sarah appear, barbecue fork in hand, her dog Digby by her feet.

  “I put some sweetcorn on for starters,” she said, taking the rope from Jack and expertly tying up. “Couldn’t wait.”

  “Perfect,” said Jack, stepping onto dry land and giving her a quick kiss on each cheek. Then he held up the little canvas shopping bag. “I got the steaks. Gotta tell you — they look gorgeous.”

  “And I’ve made the salad,” she said. “Martini stuff’s over there ready for you. I’ve already hit the prosecco.”

  “Ah — one of those days?” he said.

  “Lately, every day’s one of those days,” said Sarah laughing. “Chloe and I are so busy. I thought, end of summer … things should quiet down …”

  Jack laughed as Riley jumped ashore and raced off up the lawn with Digby. Then he walked to the table with all the accoutrements for preparing a perfect martini.

  “You ready?”

  But Sarah tilted her flute. “When I’m done with this. I’m good now.”

  So Jack mixed himself a vodka martini: three jiggers of Kettle One, splash of Dolin’s extra-dry vermouth, and a drop or two of Regan’s orange bitters.

  Then shaken, the sound alone wonderful as the ice chilled it all.

  And as he did, Jack took in the new layout at the bottom of Sarah’s garden.

  Gone was the rangy old line of shrubs and the rotting deck that had been there since his good friend had moved in a few years ago.

  Instead, a raised terrace of quarry stones, a built-in barbecue, a slate slab to prep food, and even a small fridge and a sink.

  To one side, a built-in bench stacked with cushions, curved around a permanent stone table, with lights dotted along a raised bed.

  He poured the martini, a lemon curl hanging onto the side of the glass for dear life.

  “Cheers,” said Sarah.

  “Cheers,” said Jack, clinking her glass.

  “What do you think?” she said, gesturing to the new layout.

  “I think it’s amazing. You could live down here.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing the last few weeks. Every minute I can get away from work.”

  He looked at her, apron on, hair up, barbecue fork in one hand and glass of prosecco in the other.

  These are the moments in life you just have to seize and hold deep in your memory, because it doesn’t get any better, he thought.

  “Jack!” came a familiar voice from the garden.

  He turned and looked up the lawn to see Sarah’s daughter Chloe, approaching. Early twenties now, she looked startlingly like her mother, with the same easy confidence and smile.

  Where did that shy ten-year-old go? he thought.

  “You joining us?” he said, giving her a hug. “Do hope so. You can give me the low down what it’s really like working for your mom here.”

  “She loves every minute,” said Sarah. “Isn’t that right, love?”

  “Ha! Jack — you want the truth?” said Chloe.

  “Hit me.”

  “I do love every minute. Seriously. I do.”

  “Not only that,” said Sarah, checking the corn on the barbecue, then turning back to them both, “she’s amazingly good. Bringing us no end of new clients.”

  “That a fact?” said Jack. “Good for you. I’m sure Grace’s footsteps are tough ones to step into.”

  “Grace was awesome, and I don’t think I can ever replace her,” said Chloe, “but I think maybe I’ve just got different contacts round here.”

  “Younger contacts, that’s what she means, Jack” said Sarah. “Makes me feel old.”

  “You are old, Mum, but the amazing thing is you don’t look it.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment — I think,” said Sarah, laughing.

  Jack stepped back as Sarah loaded the sweetcorn onto a plate and brought it over to the table. Then he saw there were only two plates laid.

  “So you’re not joining us?”

  “Love to, but I’m going over to Hooky, meet some friends in the pub,” said Chloe.

  “Shame,” said Jack. “Be good to catch up.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’re going to meet up tomorrow,” said Chloe, reaching across to Sarah and kissing her goodbye. “Aren’t we, Mum?”

  “We are?” said Jack, taking a mouthful of sweetcorn. “Sounds mysterious.”

  “Mum’ll explain,” said Chloe, heading up the garden towards the house, then calling over her shoulder, “Night, night all!”

  Jack turned to Sarah.

  “Care to enlighten me?” he said. “Sounds like something serious.”

  “It is — I think,” said Sarah. “But let’s eat first. Then I’ll tell you what’s up.”

  Jack could sense Sarah’s mood shift.

  “Okay,” he said. He grinned. “Ready for those steaks?”

  “You bet,” she said, and he could see whatever dark thought had emerged had been banished, if only temporarily. “Just what I need!”

  He stood up and walked over to the barbecue.

  “Why don’t you look after the drinks and I’ll get cooking?”

  *

  “Kid’s name was Zach Woodcote,” said Sarah, leaning back against the big cushions. “I say ‘kid’, but really, near Chloe’s age. Early twenties.”

  She flicked open the page on her tablet that showed the news item, handed it across the table to Jack, and watched him begin to scroll through.

  Plates all stacked to one side, they were still in her little garden retreat by the river, the lights all on low, some jazz playing softly, a second cafetière of coffee already in play, and a bottle of Cointreau open.

  The two dogs tired out, and snoozing at their feet.

  She waited while he read the report.

  “Sad,” he said, lowering the tablet and shaking his head. “So very sad. Guess a house like that’s a death trap.”

  “Check the other tabs — couple of different angles on the story. Some stuff about urban exploring.”

  “I’ve come across this kinda thing before,” he said, after reading more. “One or two famous incidents back in NY. More than a few abandoned properties just north of the city, in Westchester. Though not many ending this badly.”

  After a minute, he put the tablet back on the table, and she watched as he poured another coffee for both of them and slid hers across.

  “So what’s the deal?” he said.

  “Zach’s girlfriend, Megan—”

  “Girl who found the body?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “She and Chloe were friends back at Cherringham High. She got in touch with Chloe out of the blue. Said she thinks Zach’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “That right?” said Jack. “She got a good reason for thinking that?”

  “I haven’t talked to her. But Chloe spent a couple of hours with her yesterday, and says she does.”

  “And what do you think?” said Jack.

  “I think if Chloe passed it on to me, I should take it seriously.” Sarah smiled. “Think she has her mother’s instincts.”

  “Good instincts indeed,” said Jack. “And Chloe’s been around the both of us long enough to ask the right questions, I’m sure.”

  Sarah nodded, pleased and also suddenly proud that Jack, too, had a high opinion of her daughter.

  “Says in here that Zach was quite the online star,” said Jack, glancing at the tablet. “I mean, should I have heard of him?”

  “Well, he does have millions of followers on his YouTube channel, but, well, let’s just say, they’re not quite our demographic.”

  “Ha, I’m not even sure I’m in your demographic,” said Jack. “You got access to his channel on this?”

  Sarah took the tabl
et back, opened YouTube and went to Zach’s channel. Then she handed it back to Jack.

  “I took a quick look this morning,” she said. “Need to go through it in more detail. But, in essence, Zach’s been urban exploring since he left uni a couple of years ago. See the videos. You can sort by location, anywhere in the world, or by type — residential, office, military, secret and so on.”

  She saw Jack click on a video and start to watch.

  “Ah. So the basic idea,” he said, “is to break in somewhere—?”

  “No, not exactly ‘break in’,” said Sarah. “There’s a kind of code of honour about this: get in without damaging anything, film, explore, talk about it, share the knowledge, get out without damaging anything.”

  “Expensive hobby,” said Jack.

  “Hence the channel,” said Sarah. “From the views and followers, I’d say Zach’s on a few million a year.”

  “What? You’re kidding me? I’m in the wrong business.”

  “Jack — you’re in no business. You’re retired, remember?”

  “Yeah, but even so. Think I can make millions shooting films of me on the barge?”

  Sarah smiled. “Well …”

  “Ha, maybe you’re right,” said Jack.

  She watched him click on some more videos, then he put the tablet down.

  “Let me see if I got this,” he said. “Just going from the media reports, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. So — the kid disappears for a week, his girlfriend gets worried, she and a pal check out a big ruined house he’d talked about, and lo and behold, there’s Zach, having fallen to his death a week earlier.”

  “That’s about it,” said Sarah.

  She watched him considering this.

  “Okay. So normally, I’d think — yes, this does sound completely like an accident.”

  “Me too.”

  “But there’s two things kinda tickle my curiosity buds.”

  “Let me guess,” said Sarah. “One, the fact that he’s loaded?”

  “Correct, detective. Money — always a motive. And the other?”

  “The fact his pals knew where to find him?”

  “Correct again! And the lady with the hair in a bunch wins the cigar!”

  “I see no cigar.”

  “Yep, sadly those days are long gone,” Jack said, grinning. “Doctor’s orders, unfortunately. Time for one of your herbal teas instead?”