‘I thought it was a screeeeaaaaam!!!’
He shook his head, her impish grin making it hard for him to be angry with her. ‘And how did you sleep?’
Jade nodded, inserting the pod in the coffee machine, then flipping down the lid. ‘OK. You haven’t forgotten about Phoebe coming for a sleepover, have you, Dad?’
‘And your boyfriend coming tomorrow, too. How is Ruari?’
She shrugged. ‘Yep. Fine.’
‘Are you still sweet on him?’
She blushed and looked away. ‘It’s sort of not really like that, Dad.’
‘Sort of not really like what?’
‘You know – romantic stuff.’
Ollie grinned; his daughter was lifting his gloom, however momentarily. ‘So you don’t kiss him?’
‘Yuk, snog? Yechhhh!’
He adjusted the clock again then stepped back down. The Nespresso machine was rumbling and he smelled the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. Caro came into the kitchen in her dressing gown, yawned, then went over to Jade, glaring at her.
‘That was seriously not funny, last night, OK?’
For a moment Jade looked like she was going to answer back. Then, seeing the anger in her mother’s face, she bowed her head and said, meekly, ‘Sorry.’
‘Scrambled eggs, anyone?’ Ollie asked. It was one of two things he could cook well. French toast, which Jade loved, was the other.
‘Meeeee!’ Jade raised her arm in the air. ‘Or French toast? Could I have French toast? And will you make that tomorrow, too, for Phebes and me?’
Ollie looked at Caro.
‘Just scrambled eggs. A tiny amount.’ Then she said, ‘Is everything OK? What was that phone call earlier?’
‘It was just Charles Cholmondley – he wanted me to add some things urgently to his website.’
‘Has something gone wrong?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘He owes you a lot of money, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, I’m invoicing him for it.’
She gave him a dubious look. ‘You told me you thought he was dodgy – is he trying anything on you?’
‘No, he’s fine.’
Ollie cooked the eggs, but his mind was all over the place. He burned them. Then he burned the French toast, too.
As soon as breakfast was over he hurried back up to his office, then sat down at his computer and logged on apprehensively, ready to screenshot any message that might appear. An instant later everything vanished from his screen, then the words appeared:
BURNT EGGS. BURNT TOAST.
WE’RE IN A BAD WAY, AREN’T WE, OLLIE?
His door slammed shut behind him, as if someone had stormed into the room.
He spun round.
There was no one.
All the windows were shut, but in any case, there was no wind. He shivered. He could feel a presence in the room with him. Something above him, staring down.
Then he turned back to the screen. The letters had vanished and all his files were back. He had missed his chance to take a screenshot.
He felt a swirl of cold air around his neck. He looked up, then around. Then he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands for some moments, thinking. Was he losing his bloody mind?
He opened his eyes and stared at the deeds laid out on his desk, and the list of names that he had written down, going right back into the eighteenth century. But he was too distracted by worry to concentrate on them. The more pressing thought was how the hell he was going to recover the situation with Cholmondley and Bhattacharya. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and laid it on his desk. Through the window he saw two rabbits playing on the lawn. What a simple life those creatures had, he thought.
What a bloody mess his own was right now. God, what a mess. Then he looked up at the ceiling, another ripple of shivers going down his back. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’ he said aloud.
Then he googled The Reverend Roland Fortinbrass, Vicar of Cold Hill.
Moments later he saw the man’s name and the address and phone number of the vicarage. He dialled it.
The vicar answered promptly. ‘Ah, Oliver! How nice to hear from you. You were on my mind – I was thinking of popping up to see you – would this morning be convenient?’
‘Please,’ Ollie said. ‘It would be very convenient. I need to speak to you. I need to ask you something. How soon could you come?’
‘Well, in about an hour? Eleven thirty?’
‘Perfect, thank you,’ Ollie said.
Then the vicar sounded hesitant. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes – thank you – well – the truth is – no, no, it’s not. Everything’s not all right.’
41
Saturday, 19 September
After he ended the call, Ollie returned to the deeds, trying to decipher the increasingly illegible handwriting as they went back in time, steadily adding more names to the list of past owners of Cold Hill House. But all the time his mind was focusing on what he could say to his two major clients to recover the situation. He would have just one shot with each of them. It was going to need to be good. And so far he was still at a loss about what to say.
If he blamed being hacked he knew, in his current mood, that Cholmondley would blame him for having insufficient firewalls. So would Bhattacharya.
Suddenly he heard the click of the door and spun round. He was becoming scared of his own shadow, he realized. Caro came in, dressed in jeans, cardigan, sleeveless puffa and designer trainers. ‘I’m going off to Waitrose in Burgess Hill. Anything you can think of that we need?’
He wondered whether to tell her to wait for the vicar. But then decided it might be better, initially, for him to chat to the man on his own. ‘I’ll have a think – I’ll text you.’
‘And anything you fancy for supper tonight?’
He pointed his finger at her. ‘You!’
It had been a sign of affection between them, in answer to that question, ever since they had been together. But instead of her usual grin in response, she gave him a wan smile.
‘We’ve got Phoebe with us tonight, and all day tomorrow, too, as well as Ruari for lunch.’
‘Avocado and prawns for sups, and some grilled fish if you see something nice and not crazy money in the wet fish department? What about the kids?’
‘Jade’s said she wants pizza. I’ll pick some up. And I have a very specific chocolate ice cream order from her, too. For lunch tomorrow I thought I’d do a roast. Jade says she doesn’t want lamb – she’s been looking at the sheep on the hill. Beef or pork or chicken?’
‘Maybe pork?’
She nodded. Then she walked over and put her arms round his neck. ‘What was that conversation with Cholmondley about, darling? If there’s a problem it’s better if you share it with me.’
Maybe he should tell her, he thought. But she looked so strung out as it was. The vicar was coming shortly and she would be out. He’d seemed a wise man. Perhaps he could talk everything through with him, quietly, on their own. Man to man.
‘Everything’s OK, darling. We need more eggs, and we’re getting low on milk.’
She nodded. ‘They’re on my list.’
Five minutes later he saw her Golf head off down the drive, and was feeling bad for not telling her the truth. He read again the two emails that had gone to Cholmondley and Bhattacharya.
What the hell could he say to them?
Was something in here, looking down at him, having a laugh?
He returned to the deeds, and twenty minutes later had completed his search through them. Eighteen people had owned Cold Hill House since it was built, in the 1750s. Next he googled death registry websites, and signed up to one, for a fourteen-day free trial, called DeadArchives.com/uk.
Then he began the laborious task of entering each name in turn, from the bottom up. The information he got back was scant. It gave him the name, address and date of birth and death of each person, though little else. But it was sufficient.