‘Roy, you know what Jack’s like, he’s a rottweiler. If he gets the bit between his teeth, he’s on it. He’s like all of us — it’s why our marriages fall apart — we get caught up in the chase and forget everything else. We put locking up the bad guys ahead of looking after our loved ones.’
For a moment, Roy didn’t respond. Glenn had a point. Roy’s own first marriage, to Sandy, had gone south because of his dedication to his work. And so had Glenn’s marriage to his wife, Ari. Being a good homicide detective could easily consume your life.
Which was why Roy had been so set on making this a proper holiday, quality time with his family — and the chateau, with its remoteness and privacy and no other guests, had seemed the ideal place for this. Perhaps in the morning, with the sun shining, it would turn out to be the paradise that he and Cleo had so much hoped for. Certainly, from the messages he had read from the celebrities and other guests who had visited over the years, it seemed the place had much to offer — even if it hadn’t been immediately apparent.
But something nagged at him. A speck of worry that was growing larger with every passing moment. Gnawing at him. The same worry that he had when he sensed something wrong on a case he was trying to solve. When things didn’t quite add up.
Like now.
The chateau not being what it had seemed from its online pictures. The mystery of Jack’s absence. The vanished car.
And he was still puzzling over the photograph, on the drawing-room wall, of the stocky man with the wild woman on his arm. Where did he know him from?
And why did he have the feeling he recognized Madame?
Ending the call, he checked the time. It was now 10.45 p.m. He retraced his steps slowly, again checking his phone every few minutes. Still two bars of the signal, 15 per cent battery. Then one bar. And 14 per cent battery.
As he entered the gates, and traipsed back up the drive towards the chateau, the final bar disappeared. No signal now. And just a meagre 13 per cent left on the battery. Above him, the sky was clearing, the clouds thinning out and the moon giving him enough light to walk without needing the torch. It looked like tomorrow really would be a fine day.
Suddenly he froze.
A faint, distant, piercing scream cut through the silence of the night.
A fox taking a rabbit?
That was a sound he heard frequently, in the early hours, back at their country cottage in Sussex. The terrible, pitiful, wailing sound of a dying rabbit that went on and on for several seconds. But this was different.
This had sounded human.
He quickened his pace, breaking into a run, feeling sudden, deep fear. Cleo, Kaitlynn, Bruno and Noah were all alone, with just their two weird hosts. Had he imagined the sound?
No.
He heard it again. Longer. A cry for help. Then silence.
Jesus, what was happening?
He was now sprinting, perspiring, and wishing he hadn’t drunk any wine at all. As he reached the circular driveway in front of the chateau, he stopped and stood still. Listening again, his heart thudding. Utter silence. The house was in pitch darkness. Not a light on anywhere. He looked up towards the tower, which was just a silhouette. No light on there at all, either.
Had Cleo gone to bed? It was unlike her. She would normally leave a light on — but the lights in that room were so feeble, maybe he couldn’t see anything from here?
Then he heard a sound that chilled every cell in his body.
BLOOOP.
It came from the lake in the middle of the drive. Moments later, he heard it again.
BLOOOP.
He shone his torch on the surface, just in time to see several large bubbles burst on the surface.
BLOOOP.
And he saw dark, shimmering, disturbed water.
BLOOOP.
As if something had been submerged.
Something large.
He ran to the lake’s edge and shone his torch directly on the water, just as a huge fish rose, breaking the surface, taking something. He saw an ugly, shiny, almost prehistoric head. A massive pike.
The thing seemed to be staring straight at him.
BLOOOP. It vanished, leaving a huge ripple.
Just behind him, from the chateau, he heard another scream.
And this time, he recognized Cleo’s voice.
For sure.
14
Roy raced over to the porch, panic-stricken, and up the steps. He turned the brass handle and pushed the heavy front door open, the hall still in darkness.
‘Cleo?’ he bellowed. ‘CLEO?’
He switched on the phone torch and hurried towards the staircase. Shadows jumped out at him. As if every suit of armour was moving, closing in on him. He stopped halfway and bellowed again, ‘CLEOOOOOO?’
A split second later something slammed, painfully hard, into the back of his head, sending him crashing forward onto the flagstone floor. For some moments, instead of the beam of his torch, he saw shooting stars. It felt as his skull had been cracked open.
As he lay there, dazed, his brain muzzy, his phone was several feet in front of him, the torch still lit. A heavy door slammed somewhere behind him. Then he heard the clank of a key turning in a lock. The front door?
He stayed where he was, his head pounding with pain, his ears pounding with the drumbeat of his heart and the roaring of his blood.
Motionless.
Waiting.
Waiting for his attacker to make the next move.
And wondering, terrified, why Cleo had screamed.
He heard nothing. No movement. Who had hit him? Was the person standing behind him, waiting to see if he was dead or not? Ready to strike again?
Thinking more clearly with every second, he took several deep breaths, as silently as he could. Bracing himself, he lunged forward, grabbing the phone as he did so. Lurching to his feet, he swung the beam around, crouching, ready for anything that came at him.
Only shadows moved. All he could see were suits of armour, and the front door, closed. For an instant, he again imagined rows of faces behind the visors, all staring at him.
His heart was hammering like it was a crazed wild animal trying to punch its way out of his chest. His ears were popping. He flashed the beam all around. At the walls, the door, back at the suits of armour.
Who — what — had hit him?
He spun round again, shining the beam through a full 360 degrees. Nothing. No one. He touched the back of his skull and felt something wet. Blood? He had not imagined it.
Someone had very definitely hit him.
Who? Where was his attacker?
His brain raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. And why the darkness? Had lightning caused a power outage?
Then the beam caught a shape on the floor — a large object. Walking closer, warily, Roy saw what it was. A huge, stuffed wild boar head, mounted on a plinth, and lying at a drunken angle. He shone the light high up, and saw a gap between all the mounted animal heads; just a bare hook on the wall.
It had fallen off the wall. But how the hell could it have fallen?
Had someone pulled it down and thrown it at him?
Or had it simply fallen by chance and struck him?
His confused mind wondered whether it was one of the suits of armour.
Oh yeah, sure, an empty suit of armour reaches up, pulls a boar’s head off the wall and throws it at me. Really?
Maybe the thunder that had shaken the house earlier somehow loosened the head and it had tumbled off the wall?
Still crouched, still turning round and round every few seconds, in case someone was creeping up behind him, he switched off his torch and moved to the bottom of the staircase. Peered up into the darkness. No sign of movement. He spun and looked behind him. Nothing. He switched the beam on for a few seconds then off again.