The House on Cold Hill (17 page)

‘No, darling, they can’t,’ he said, trying to sound convincing.

A few minutes later he watched her head off towards the school, with her little multi-coloured rucksack on her back, and her guitar in its maroon case in her hand, hurrying to catch up with a group of girls – her new friends, he wondered?

He sat there for several minutes, long after she had safely disappeared, chatting away happily to a couple of girls in the group. No doubt full of street cred because she had talked to a ghost last night and none of the others had.

Then he drove off, heading home.

Hoping some of the workmen would be there today.

Just what the hell had really happened during the night?

He was nervous, he realized. Nervous right now about being in the house alone.

30

Thursday, 17 September

The events of the morning made Caro late arriving in the office. One client was already waiting in reception, and a problem had presented itself for another, the Benson family, a couple with two young children, who were meant to be moving house today. The solicitor for the other side – the purchaser of their bungalow in Peacehaven – had just left a message that his client was having issues with his bank and the money wouldn’t come through today. Which meant no completion.

Shit
, she thought. That meant she was going to have to call the Bensons, who were in a property chain, and break the bad news. Mrs Benson was placid but her husband, Ron, was a thoroughly neurotic and bad-tempered man and she was certain to get grief from him.

She went up to her office and told her secretary to give her five minutes before sending up the client who was downstairs, and to hold all calls. Then she sat at her desk, looked up the phone number of her strange new client, the medium Kingsley Parkin, and dialled it. To her dismay, after six rings it went to voicemail and she heard his precious-sounding voice.

‘You’ve reached Kingsley Parkin. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone at the moment, due to unforeseen circumstances. Ha, just my little joke! Please leave a message, and your number if I don’t know you, and my people will call your people back!’

Caro looked at her diary and saw that the morning was rammed with clients. There were over a hundred emails in her inbox, and she knew on top of this she had the day’s physical mountain of post yet to arrive. She called through to her secretary and instructed her that if Kingsley Parkin returned her call while she was tied up with a client, to tell him she needed to see him extremely urgently, and to ask him if by any chance he’d have time for a quick bite of lunch, locally, today. Otherwise, was there a time she could call him? She also told her secretary that if Parkin could make lunch, to cancel the one she had booked in with her best friend, Helen Hodge.

Her luck was in. Shortly after 10.30 a.m., as her third client of the morning – a sweet elderly widow in the process of buying a bungalow–was settling into the chair opposite her, her secretary buzzed her to say that Kingsley Parkin was suggesting meeting in LoveFit cafe, where it was quiet enough to talk.

Perfect, Caro told her. She knew where LoveFit was, although she’d not been there – it was just a five-minute walk away.

Caro arrived, full of apologies, at almost a quarter past one.

Kingsley Parkin, in bright red trousers, a cerise shirt with a collar so high it enveloped his ears, a white jacket and Cuban-heeled Chelsea boots, jumped to his feet from a brown leather sofa, close to the entrance. He was even shorter than she remembered.

‘Never worry about punctuality, love. As an Irish mate of mine says, when God made time he made plenty of the stuff
.
’

She grinned then rather awkwardly accepted his embrace and his kiss on both cheeks. She tried to keep relations with clients strictly formal, but this was a different circumstance. He reeked, as before, of tobacco.

‘Nice place,’ she said approvingly, looking at a wall of surfing pictures and another plain orange wall on which four stripy surfboards hung on display like a piece of modern art, with a palm tree in the middle. ‘Do you surf?’

‘Only the internet, love! Not much of a one for all that exercise stuff.’

‘I really appreciate you seeing me at such short notice,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you called. I’ve been really worried about you.’

‘You have?’

‘I’ve got us that far table,’ he said. And then added, lowering his voice, ‘I’ve asked them to make sure they don’t put no one next to us so we can’t be overheard – as I think I know what this is about!’

They sat down, tucked away in the far corner, and ordered. While they waited for their food Caro kept to business, updating him on the searches on the property he was considering bidding for. Then they made small talk for a few minutes.

Her chicken salad and coffee arrived. A protein shake, a glass of iced water and a large plate of pitta bread stuffed with falafel were placed in front of the old rocker.

When their bearded waiter had retreated, Parkin said, ‘I did try to warn you on Monday, love.’ He picked up the pitta with his hands but chunks of falafel tumbled out. So he put it back on the plate and attacked it instead with his knife and fork.

Caro stared down at her mountainous salad. She had no appetite. ‘I’ve not – I – I’ve never believed in the occult – paranormal – spirits. My mother always has, but she’s a little bit – sort of – eccentric.’

‘And now something’s happened to change your mind, hasn’t it, which is why you wanted to see me so urgently?’ As he chewed, a tiny sprig of salad bobbed between his gleaming teeth. Just like his jet-black hair, the whiteness of his teeth only served to accentuate the tired, aged skin of his face.

For an instant, Kingsley Parkin reminded her of one of the Mexican Day of the Dead skulls she’d seen on sale at Cancún airport, a few years ago when they’d holidayed there. Some of those skulls wore wigs and had great teeth, too.

She hesitated, as if still reluctant to open up to this man. Then she said, ‘We’ve only just moved into this house – less than two weeks ago. But there’s a lot of strange things been happening.’

He watched her face and nodded. ‘I know.’

‘How?’

‘Like I said – your aunt Marjie told me. You’ve smelled her perfume in your bedroom, haven’t you?’

Caro felt her face redden. ‘Yes – how . . . ?’ Her voice tailed away.

‘And you found a silk scarf she’d given you, years ago, on your bed, didn’t you?’

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

‘She’s trying to let you know that she’s around and wants to help you.’ He closed his eyes. ‘She says you, your husband and your daughter are in terrible danger. Your aunt is really very agitated. She wants you to leave. All of you. She’s telling me you must leave the house. You must. Just as soon as you can.’

He closed his eyes and balled his knuckles against his forehead in concentration. After some moments he murmured, ‘What is it, dear? What is it? I can’t hear you very clearly, there’s a lot of interference, what is it, what is it?’

Caro stared at him. He nodded several times, then opened his eyes, looked warily at her and placed his bony hands on the table. ‘She says that if you don’t want to stay there for ever, now is your only chance to leave.’

‘We can’t just leave,’ Caro said, then shrugged. ‘We’ve sunk everything we have into that house. It’s – it’s our future.’

Closing his eyes again, he began to pound his ears with his knuckles. ‘There’s something in the house, someone, something, it’s very indistinct, there’s someone, she’s saying, someone who doesn’t like to let people leave.’

There was a sharp crack that made them both jump. Caro froze for an instant, in shock and confusion. Then she heard gurgling water.

Parkin leaped to his feet, yelping, looking highly agitated and flapping his napkin. Other diners were looking at them. The bearded waiter was hurrying over with a cloth in his hand.

The medium’s glass had shattered. Water, ice cubes and jagged shards of glass poured over the edge of the shiny wooden tabletop.

A couple of minutes later, with order restored, and a fresh glass of water placed in front of Parkin, which Caro eyed nervously, the medium continued.

‘See?’ he said, staring at her knowingly with gleaming eyes.

‘See what?’

‘Come on, Mrs Harcourt – Caro – may I call you Caro?’

‘Of course,’ she said flatly.

‘That was a sign from your aunt. She’s not happy with your attitude.’

‘Oh, come on, it was just a faulty glass. Probably got cracked in the dishwasher and the ice caused it to contract.’ She said it without conviction.

‘Is that how you want to explain away everything else that’s happened in the house? Do you want to be in denial?’

‘What else has happened that you know?’

He stared at her again, hard. ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve seen a woman standing behind me in my mirror, yes. Ollie – my husband – has seen her too.’

‘Can you describe her?’

‘She’s not that distinct – an old woman – in her seventies or eighties. Sort of like a translucent shadow.’

He shook his head. ‘That’s got to be the woman your aunt is telling me about. If you’ve seen her then you really do have to leave.’

Caro shivered. The events of the night, the presence of this woman in her mirror, and now this medium all went against the grain of what she believed – and what she wanted to believe. And yet he was right, she couldn’t be in denial. ‘I told you – on Monday – I just don’t believe in – I’ve never believed in, you know – inspirits. Not in the past. I always thought it was rubbish.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I’m not so sure. Something’s happening, isn’t it?’

‘There’s a really bad energy in your house.’

‘There must be ways of dealing with bad energy. Shit, you are really spooking me!’

He closed his eyes, and again pressed his knuckles to his forehead. ‘She’s showing me a bed. She’s showing me something very wrong with a bed. Does that mean anything to you?’

Caro stared back at him. ‘Yes, yes it does. Can you help us?’

‘I am trying to help you. I’m telling you that you have to leave this house.’

‘And I’m telling you that we’ve sunk every penny we have into it. Surely there has to be a way of making it OK? Aren’t there people who can deal with – whatever you want to call it – hauntings – ghosts – poltergeists? Aren’t there specialists who know how to clear a house of these things?’

‘You mean exorcists?’

‘Yes. Do you know any?’

‘That doesn’t always work. Did you see that old film
The Exorcist
?’

‘Yes, a long time ago. I thought it was scary, but stupid.’

He looked down at his plate then up at her again. ‘In my view, Caro, the only thing that would be stupid would be to ignore what’s happening.’

Caro felt the vibration of her phone, which was on silent, signalling an incoming text. She pulled it out of her handbag and glanced at it.

The message said:

YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE MY HOUSE.

Then, moments later, it vanished.

31

Thursday, 17 September

Ollie had a hectic morning, dealing first with amendments to the Cholmondley website, followed by a lengthy Skype conversation with his new client, Anup Bhattacharya, on the content of his website. He was also pleased to see three new enquiries come in, following his visit to all the stands at the Goodwood Revival last weekend. In someway she was glad of the distractions of work, but he badly needed time to think.

At least with a blue sky and sunshine outside, the house felt more welcoming and normal than it had during the early hours of this morning. He’d called Caro a couple of times to see how she was, but only got her voicemail. He’d also called the previous vicar of Cold Hill, the Reverend Bob Manthorpe, and had left a message on his voicemail. Now, at 1.45 p.m., having just got off the incredibly long-winded conference call, he was hungry and went downstairs to grab himself some lunch.

The house was a hive of activity, which he was glad about. As he entered the kitchen he saw the head of the building firm, Bryan Barker, in discussion with his foreman, Chris.

Barker, in a lumberjack shirt, jeans and heavy-duty boots, was an affable, energetic man with a dense crop of silver hair and youthful good looks that belied his sixty-seven years.

‘Ah, Ollie,’ he said. ‘I was about to come up and see you. Chris is very worried about the cellar. There are two structural walls down there in extremely bad shape.’ He gestured to his foreman, a lean, pensive and pleasant-natured man in his thirties, to continue.

‘We’re going to have to hire a structural engineer, Mr Harcourt,’ the foreman said. ‘I think we need some Acrow props urgently. I’ll show you where I mean.’

Ollie followed them both down the brick steps into the cellar. Bryan Barker pointed to a large space which led through to the disused kitchen. There had clearly been a wall here at some point. ‘This is what we’re worried about.’

The foreman pointed up. ‘It looks to me as if the developers who were working here before they went bust, as I understand, had taken down a wall to open this space up. But the problem is, this is a main load-bearing wall.’ He then pointed at several large cracks in the ceiling. ‘I’m not at all happy about these,’ he said. ‘We’ve only discovered them since removing the plaster here. I don’t want to alarm you, and I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure these have widened in the last few days.’

‘If any of them went,’ Barker chipped in, ‘it could have a domino effect on all the floors above. It could literally bring down the entire house – this part of it, anyway. I think we should get an engineer out here quickly.’

‘How much would he cost?’ Ollie asked, gloomily, knowing that underpinning was unlikely to come cheap.

‘I think he’d come out for a site visit without charge. Then it would depend on how much work he has to do. I really don’t think you have any option.’

‘Why the hell didn’t the surveyor mention this in his report?’