The Hidden Girl (11 page)

He couldn’t ignore her. It would be rude.

‘Hi,’ he said, opening the bedroom door.

‘Hey! You came – excellent.’

‘Yeah, I thought the hotels might be closed. So, thanks.’ He tried not to slur. It felt like trying to control a skidding car.

‘Oh, you’re really welcome.’ Her nose was pink again, and ice dripped off her hat. Perhaps because he was pissed, she reminded him – with her silvery eyes – of the penny arcades in Great Yarmouth that Nan took him and Laurie to on summer nights.

He touched the sofa, trying to stay steady.

‘So you got in OK?’ she asked, removing her coat. He averted his eyes from her dress.

‘Yeah,’ he said, not knowing where to put himself in the tiny sitting room. It felt awkward. She seemed different, here, among her own things. More confident. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun. She picked up a tartan blanket and threw it over her shoulders, and gave a big comedy shiver.

‘Sorry – it’s freezing in here.’

‘No. It’s good,’ he said, wondering whether he should sit down.

‘So was that your wife you were speaking to?’ She motioned towards Jamie’s room.

The word ‘wife’ still sounded strange to him. Another thing he’d done for Hannah, because she thought it would improve their chances with Barbara – even though previously she’d been no more bothered about marriage than him.

‘Yes.’

‘How’s she managing in the snow?’ Clare sat on a sofa that was covered in lace and cushions. She motioned to an old leather chair, and he sat unsteadily. ‘Matt said your new house is in the middle of nowhere?’

‘Yeah, um . . .’

Jesus. Talk, man. If he didn’t start acting normal soon, she’d worry about having him in the flat. ‘Hannah’s not . . . She’s doesn’t spook easily.’

Clare tucked her long legs under her denim dress. ‘Matt said she used to have an amazing job – travelling to war zones, or something?’

Used to have.

‘No, not quite; she travelled to some dangerous places, but she is – well, she was – a press officer for a human-rights charity that campaigns for educators, so she used to take journalists to countries where people were jailed by governments for writing the wrong textbook or teaching the “wrong” thing – organizing a union, that kind of thing. Yeah, so . . .’

‘Wow.’ She watched him carefully. ‘But not any more?’

‘No.’

‘So, do you, um . . .’ she tried.

He saw concern in her eyes.

‘Clare,’ he said. ‘Look. I’m sorry, but I’m wasted. I stayed in the pub.’

Her expression immediately relaxed. ‘I knew it! You bunch of piss-heads.’

He grinned, relieved.

‘Right, you’ve got no excuse then,’ she said, unwrapping herself. ‘You have to keep me company. They only drink tea and sherry at my sewing group – it’s all very vintage, you know.’

She went to fetch whisky, two glasses and a packet of biscuits.

‘Jamie’s – don’t tell him. Do you want to put some music on?’

‘Yeah.’

He was so pissed he grabbed the first thing – a Mazzy Star CD – and Clare lit candles and poured out the whisky. Slow, dream-like music filled the room. Will sat back, starting to feel relaxed, which was weird, because he hardly knew Clare.

He lifted his glass. ‘Well, cheers. Thanks very much.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Clare said, winking. ‘I’m going to spinning class in the morning, so I reckon I’m allowed.’

‘Spinning class?’

She made a face. ‘Only since I split up with Dave. Got to get back out there.’

‘Oh, right, yeah – sorry.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. It was coming for a while,’ she said, biting a biscuit. ‘Between you and me, Jamie was an accident actually, and then we stuck it out for about – ooh – ten years longer than we should have.’

‘How old is Jamie?’

‘Ten.’

They both laughed. Will eased back in his chair. This was OK. She was nice, the flat was nice. The whisky took the edge off thinking about Hannah. For once there was no schedule, no painting, no long, serious discussions. And he could go to bed without watching Hannah turn her back on him.

‘But no, it’s fine,’ Clare said. ‘I’ve been wanting to get the business moving for ages, and now I can. Dave always wanted to live in Brighton, and he’s met someone, so . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Jamie loves it there, too, so it’s OK.’

Clare casually pulled the tie from her bun. Her hair tumbled onto her chest and Will examined the bottom of his glass.

‘So I meant to ask you: why the move to Suffolk?’

He sighed inwardly. It was a subject too close to home tonight.

‘Uh . . . it’s a long story, but we went there when my gran died, for the funeral. And I was showing Hannah where I used to hang out in the summer, and we got lost.’

Clare’s eyes widened. ‘No!’

‘Yeah, in a place called Tornley, down a dead-end. We did a U-turn outside this old house with a “For sale” sign, and Hannah wanted to see inside.’

‘Seriously, just like that?’

‘Yeah. We rang the estate agent and he showed us round the next day. It had been empty for years, so we put in a stupid offer, thinking there was no way they’d take it.’

‘And they did?’

‘Yup. Then it all just happened.’

Clare sipped her whisky. ‘Wow. But you like it, right?’

Will chose his words carefully. ‘Well, it’s got an acre of land and a place to build a studio, so . . .’

‘Oh. So you’ll stop renting at Smart Yak?’

For a second he thought he sensed disappointment in her voice, and put it down to the drink. ‘Well, I spend part of my fee on studio rent, so I might as well invest it in my own place. And Hannah’s idea is to section off a guest area in the house, where clients can stay.’

‘Sounds great. Big life-change, huh?’

‘Yup.’

Her felt her sparkly eyes on him. ‘So . . .’

‘So . . .’

‘So . . . Sorry!’ she smiled. ‘Why don’t you sound convinced?’

It was strange. His head was clearing despite the whisky. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if your wife loves the house, and you want a studio – well, you didn’t exactly seem upset about not going back yesterday.’

He swirled the drink in his glass.

In this cosy flat, with whisky on his tongue, he nearly told Clare. Then he reminded himself he was drunk, and it was late, and they were here alone.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew how these things could go.

‘Yeah, well, that’s house-moves for you. You know yourself.’ He gestured at her flat. ‘Takes a while.’

‘Tell me about it.’

He put down his glass, and saw her glancing at his faded Celtic-band tattoo again. This time she didn’t look away.

‘I was eighteen,’ he offered. ‘We all got one. I can’t even remember why.’

‘You and your mates?’

He nodded. Clare flung back her blanket and unbuttoned the top of her denim dress. She pulled away one side, and a tangle of blonde hair, to reveal a small blue dolphin diving under a lacy bra-strap. ‘Me too! First year at art college.’

An unexpected sexual volt charged through Will. He shook himself.
Grow up
.

‘Nice,’ he said politely. ‘Anyway, listen.’ He stood up, holding the arm of the chair. ‘Thanks for the whisky. And for the bed. I’m going to leave you in peace now.’

She twisted a lock of hair. ‘No, I’m glad you took me up on staying. There’s a towel under the sink.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Night. Sleep well.’

‘Night.’

As he headed for the bedroom, an image came back to him of Hannah meeting him at the door of her Holloway flat with a soft kiss, bare feet, cheeks flushed with cooking, smelling of spice and garlic.

Then he knew what was different about Clare recently.

She seemed happy in her own skin, like Hannah used to be.

Will shut the door, and sat down on Jamie’s bed. He realized he wasn’t just unhappy that Hannah had forced him to move out of London.

He was just unhappy.

That night Hannah put out the sitting-room fire in Tornley Hall, thinking about her conversation with Will. Was it the phone signal, or was he drunk? Without her around, Matt and the studio boys had probably talked him into four or five pints.

Well, good for them. Matt had only ever known Grown-up Will. Grown-up Will, who was responsible for other people’s careers and mortgages. He’d never met Childish Will. He’d be out of a job in a month, if he did.

It didn’t matter. Will would be home tomorrow.

As Hannah stood up, she spotted the vagrant’s red blanket, still lying in the corner by the window. Wrinkling her nose, she picked it up with the poker to throw it out the back door.

The corner of a green leather-bound book appeared underneath it.

What was that?

Hannah dropped the blanket and knelt down. The rest of the book was stuck in a narrow gap under the lowest bookshelf.

She pulled it out. ‘Photographs,’ it said on the front in gold letters.

This was interesting.

Behind it, she saw the edge of another green album. She dragged it out. There was a third behind that one.

Intrigued, Hannah kept pulling. Four, five . . . She continued until there were seven photograph albums lying on the wooden floor. This was exciting. Three of the covers were more battered than the others and had a faint white coating, as if they’d been stored somewhere damp. Lots of pages were stuck together. She opened the first clean album. The spine was stiff and came apart with a creak. Black-and-white photos appeared on the page. They were inserted into little cardboard frames, with soft, off-white tissue nestled between each page.

Hannah flicked, fascinated. This page showed Tornley Hall!

What were these: the Horseborrow family photographs?

She found more photographs of people in the garden and around the house, at the beach and on the lanes. This was amazing. If Brian was right, and the Horseborrows had been the only residents of Tornley Hall since it was built in 1902, these photographs would provide an invaluable history of the house.

With the fire now dead, the temperature plummeted. Hannah grabbed three of the better albums, locked up the inner doors and ran to her freezing bedroom.

When she’d warmed up under the duvet, she examined them in more detail. The first collection appeared to be from the 1920s. Tornley Hall looked much grander than it did today. The front lawn was manicured, with elegant paths and rosebeds, and a posh car in the driveway. There were two Irish wolfhounds in a few of the photos. One image was taken at the front of the house. In it, a nipped-mouth elderly woman in a hat and muffler sat in a bath chair. Behind her was a girl with the vacant look of a bored servant. Could the woman be Olive and Peter’s mother, Mrs Horseborrow, the original owner of the house? Hannah peered closer. The front door was ajar.

Was that . . . was that . . . ?

It
was
. In the shadows was the Oriental tapestry that had hung here till last week.

She sat back. This was incredible. Will had to see this.

In the second album the photos were from a little later, perhaps the 1940s, and appeared to have been taken inside the original walled garden. One set was of a party. Cheerful young men wore slicked-back hair and baggy wool trousers; the women were dressed in tea-dresses, their hair set in waves. Some played croquet. All were smiling for the camera. The same two faces appeared on every page: a woman with a pleasant, round face and brown plaits, tied Austrian-style on top of her head; and a man with jolly apple-cheeks, round glasses and a tubby tummy, encased in a suit – like Santa Claus without the beard.

Olive and Peter?

Hannah laid the album on her chest. Fresh snow drifted against the window. How strange for a brother and sister to live in one house their whole lives, even if they had travelled the world in between. She thought of the other photo albums downstairs. It would be fascinating to see photos of those travels, especially if they’d been to countries that she’d visited for work.

She yawned. She’d look at more tomorrow. Right now, she needed sleep. It had been a very long, strange day.

Hannah shut the albums and turned off the light, wondering where the vagrant was sleeping tonight. He’d completely terrified her, but for his sake she hoped it was somewhere warm.

One minute Hannah was lulling herself to sleep with her plans for tomorrow, the next she was examining the stained-glass window again.

Yet now the peacock wasn’t a peacock. It was a tall bird, brown and plain, with flat feathers. Its legs were twitching as if they were trapped, and the stain was there again on its belly, wriggling, but not moving away.

Then Hannah’s face was being pushed towards the glass and she couldn’t stop it. To her horror she realized the stain was, in fact, a mass of maggots, dripping onto the windowsill. Her face touched it, and it was warm and sticky, and she was screaming, knowing the glass was going to break.

Hannah sat up in bed, clutching her stomach.

A wave of nausea hit her.

Throwing back the duvet, she ran to the ice-cold bathroom, knelt on the cold tiles and vomited.

How could this be happening? Every single thing was going wrong.

She retched again, then leant her head miserably on the toilet bowl. In the freezing cold of the night, she couldn’t help wondering if this was someone telling her it was just not meant to be.

The nausea passed around 2 a.m.

Clutching a blanket around her, Hannah struggled downstairs to find water. As she reached the middle step, she stopped.

There was a faint light on in the kitchen. Befuddled by lack of sleep and disorientated by the sickness, she tried to remember if she had left it on.

Suddenly she heard a thump, then a click, from below.

Her stomach jolted.

She touched the wall, then eased herself downstairs quietly, her legs starting to shake, to grab her phone from the hall table, checking that the windows and doors behind her were still shut. Praying, she checked that she had a signal and found Dax’s number. Would he come in the middle of the night? He’d be here quicker than the police. She checked the time: 2.04 a.m. She’d better be sure, before she rang him.