Can the past ever be forgotten?

As soon as nurse Maura Lyle sets foot inside the foreboding Essen Grange, she feels shivers ripple down her spine. And the sense of unease only increases when she meets her new patient, Gordon Henderson.

Drawn into the Henderson family’s tangled web of secrets and betrayals, Maura can ignore the danger lurking behind every door no longer. Even the door she has been forbidden from opening…

Essen Grange is a house with dark and cruel intentions. But now that darkness has turned on her, can Maura escape before it’s too late?

The chilling new novel from the bestselling author of The Lost Child and The Silent Girls. Perfect for fans of Erin Kelly, Claire Mackintosh and Tracy Buchanan.

The Forgotten Room

Ann Troup

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

ANN TROUP

The Forgotten Room is Ann’s third book, following on from The Lost Child and The Silent Girls. She lives in Devon near the sea and spends her time either writing or dabbling with art. To see what she’s getting up to next, follow her on Twitter – @TroupAnn – or Facebook – @anntroupauthor.

This book has taken its time coming into the world because sometimes life has other, less pleasant, plans. It wouldn’t have got here at all if it wasn’t for the kind support of my fellow HQ’ers, so a special shout-out to them for keeping me going.

As always, a huge thank you to the tireless bloggers for spreading the word, and of course the readers – you make it all worthwhile.

Finally, a massive thank you to Charlotte Mursell for stepping in and helping me to see it through to publication.

For Mum and my boy – never forgotten

Prologue

A clutch of people had gathered to see the breaking of the earth, their breath mingling in the cool morning air where it lingered and collected as a cloud of light mist. They watched as giant metal teeth bit into the ground, tearing it asunder in the name of progress. Some clapped, others thrust their hands deep into their pockets and huffed out stale air in small wet puffs as that thing called progress made its mark on dead land.

A single watcher stood firm and still, refusing to show reaction and wondering how long it would be before old, long-extinguished life would be revealed. Her bones had been planted long ago. Her flesh had nourished the earth and made gluttons of the worms while maggots had grown fat on the meat and the memory of her. The watcher wondered if any human remembered her now. If they didn’t, they would soon. The metal teeth were chewing the earth a mere fifty feet from where she lay; it was just a matter of time. When she saw the light of day again she would be greeted with an urgency she had never known in life. They would want to know all about her then. The watcher was sure of it.

A glance towards the proud developer, who oozed abundance in his expensive coat, who rubbed his hands in anticipation at what he believed would come. Wealth, recognition, kudos. The watcher smiled with a wry twist of the mouth. The man might as well build his houses out of glass and pray that no one would cast the first stone. It was all as fragile as that. They were standing on a teetering precipice between past and present, on earth as crumbling and friable as that which fell in crumbs and clods from the bucket of the JCB.

The watcher turned away and began to walk. All things must come to an end and the peace of Essen Grange would come to an end too. The watcher could feel it and hear it in the grind of the machinery. Everything that was familiar and safe was breathing its last in the screech of metal and gears.

The watcher was as broken as the ground that was succumbing to change. Everything had to alter eventually and the bones would mark the beginning.

Chapter One

In the moment that Maura turned into the drive and caught her first glimpse of Essen Grange, she knew she had made a mistake in accepting this job. A dire mistake.

She’d had her first sneaking suspicion of it fifteen minutes before when she’d stopped at the village shop. The man behind the counter had shown an interest at seeing a stranger in the area and had asked her where she was heading. The mention of Essen Grange had caused him to raise his eyebrows and look at her as if she was at least one sandwich short of a picnic. The woman waiting behind her had said, ‘Want to be careful up there, love. There’s them as go in that never come out.’

The woman’s words had resulted in a protracted nod of agreement from the man and a hesitant, defensive smile from Maura. What was it with villagers and local “colour”? She had taken her pack of mints and her change and walked from the shop shaking her head in amused disbelief.

It was only when she caught her first glimpse of the house that was to be her temporary home that she began to wonder if their casual gossip had been a warning. She might have made more of it at the time if it hadn’t been for the distraction of a little girl outside the shop. The girl was wearing a nurse’s outfit and bandaging a doll while she waited with her mother on a bench at the bus stop. It had made Maura smile. She’d been that girl years ago, all dressed up and ready to tend to the world and its ills. She still was, but it wasn’t so thrilling when you were all grown up and the patients were real and had a habit of bleeding or puking on the uniform and communicating with a vocabulary consisting mostly of base profanity. That too made her smile and it was a good sign. It had been a long time since she’d felt the urge to smile.

Swathed in ribbons of winter mist, the Grange loomed, a monolith of ugliness unredeemed by any sense of heritage. It was like a rotten tooth rising proud in a diseased gum and stood in stark contrast to the bright new housing development she had just driven through. Essen Grange had a brooding menace that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise and prickle.

‘The house that Frankenstein built,’ she muttered, suppressing a shudder as she looked at it through her windscreen. It had been stitched together over centuries by the looks of it, but with no plan – just the fads of the day tacked on without thought or design. The only thing that softened it was the ivy, though even that hung in drab, heavy swags that added more atmosphere than charm. There had never been any roses around the Grange’s door, she was certain of that. It made her own modest home look like a haven of comfort in comparison, and that had been a lonely enough place of late.

It was too late to turn back. The deal was done; she had agreed to take the job. Not that she had taken much persuading. Like a desperate idiot, she had jumped at it – had even been flattered to hear that she had been personally requested, though she hadn’t had the foresight to ask who had made the request. Besides, there was nothing to go back to. Just an empty house with nothing to do but sit there night after night, the ghosts of the past competing with her rage and grief to see which of them could defeat her first. One of them had been ringing Maura incessantly throughout the journey. Not a ghost, but someone who might as well have been: a sister who had a committed a cardinal sin and now wanted forgiveness. Maura could neither forgive nor forget – not yet – and had almost thrown the phone out of the window in sheer frustration. Instead she had switched it off and thrown it into the foot well of the car. She might be angry; she might even be running away – but she wasn’t stupid. No one travelled into unknown territory and threw away their phone. Not even women who took jobs without asking sensible questions.

Maura’s head told her that, for all its sinister countenance, the Grange had to be a better bet than home and constant harassment by her sister. Her gut did not agree. It lurched like a drunk on a boat as she looked up at the house. Her instinct insisted that something was off, something wasn’t right, and it would not agree with what her head was telling her: that she should pull herself together, stop being an idiot and get on with it. She should have run then. She should have climbed back in the car, turned around and driven away in a cloud of dust and skidding gravel. But Maura had decided to be guided by her head, not her feelings. Feelings had proven most unreliable in the past and had led her into places she never wanted to revisit.

Swallowing the uneasy feelings down, she walked up to the porch, approached the door and gave the bell a tentative push, expecting to hear an echoing ring. She heard nothing, not even the hint of a distant chime. She waited for a long moment, wondering if the bell had sounded in some back recess of the house. Still nothing.

Hanging from the door was a knocker, a rusting iron ring gripped in the snarling teeth of a lion’s mouth. It looked as if it would take two hands to lift it, and as if the sound it might make could wake the dead – or something worse. Maura had no idea what ‘worse’ might be and cursed her overactive imagination, yet she couldn’t quite convince herself not to feel a sense of dread. Just because instincts could be ignored, it didn’t mean they disappeared. ‘Get a grip woman,’ she told herself. ‘It’s just a house, and it must have a back door.’

She found the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the house, nestled in the corner of a brick-paved courtyard amidst a sea of other doors that, in the low-lying mist, could have been portals to anywhere. It was the only door that showed signs of regular use; the rest looked like unused sheds, their paint peeling and flaking from neglect. A pair of wellington boots stood to the side of the door that she assumed must lead into the kitchen. A steamed-up window prevented her from looking in, but as she approached she heard the whine of a gas kettle ramping up to screaming point and knew she had found the right place. As she was about to knock the kettle ceased its whine. With her hand poised she paused. To her astonishment, she heard a muffled yet familiar voice filtering through the open window – it stopped her in her tracks and her hand fell to her side.

What on earth was Philip Moss doing in there?

‘You worry too much. Besides, no one’s going to say anything. No one will believe him. I’ve made sure of that. Anyway, they’re all in it as much as we are and you know I had no choice. Someone’s got to look after him, the rest will take care of itself,’ he said in the imperious tone Maura knew of old. So, it was him who’d asked for her by name, although God knew why, as they had never done more than tolerate each other. Maura viewed him as a pompous git and he’d never given the impression that she featured in his world at all, other than to act as a pain in his backside when they’d been forced to work together. Maura was the zealous nurse, full of fire and compassion for her patients; Philip Moss was the jaded doctor, too quick with the prescription pad and the chemical cosh of medication.

She stepped back from the door, afraid of being seen, so couldn’t make out exactly what he said next, but she could have sworn she heard her own name and some assertion that she wasn’t “that bright” and that, in her circumstances, she’d be grateful for the job. It was a low blow and proved the point that eavesdroppers would never hear well of themselves. Dr Philip Moss had always been a bit of an arsehole in Maura’s opinion, and he had done nothing to redeem himself by asserting such an opinion to a stranger.

There was no way she could knock on the back door now. He would know she’d overheard, or at least suspect it. Her already fragile pride forced her to trudge back to the front of the house, where, with two hands, she picked up the gurning iron ring and slammed it onto the rusting iron plate beneath, announcing her presence with a gunshot of noise that ricocheted through the house like a starting pistol. The sound caused the crows to rise and fly from the trees in a flurry of black feather and screeching. It made her blood run cold. ‘Bloody hell! Welcome to the house of fun…’ she muttered as the birds wheeled in the sky above her head. There was only one bird left in the trees, a single magpie. Clinging to its branch, it stared at her in what felt like defiance.

One for sorrow.

A bad omen.

She should have got back in her car and driven away.

She should have done a great many things – like ask more questions when the agency had called to offer the job; like think it through and use reason instead of reacting impulsively. Like not view the opportunity to get away with such desperate need that it had felt like a blessed relief instead of an abject act of foolhardiness on the part of a frenzied mind. Did she have a frenzied mind? Her doctor had thought so when he’d signed her off work all those months ago with a diagnosis of agitated depression. What a charming contradiction of terms that was – all the energy, none of the motivation. It might have made her laugh if it wasn’t actual depression, the Black Dog. Only Maura could end up with the version where the dog wanted to play fetch! But that was in the past; she was getting better, returning to work, moving on. She had smiled that day without someone telling her to with the inevitable “Cheer up, it might never happen”. “It” had happened and she was still standing. And now she was going back to do what she loved: her job. Despite the blood and the puke and the swearing, there was still something about nursing that made her feel like the little girl with the bandaged doll and the little outfit. It meant she still cared. It meant she still had hope. And it meant she still believed that things and people could be healed.

As she waited for the door to open, she realised that hers was the only car, other than the beaten-up old heap masquerading as a Ford Fiesta. Where on earth had Dr Moss parked? Perhaps there was a back way into the Grange and his posh wheels were parked out of sight behind the brick storage sheds and high wall. He sure as hell hadn’t ridden there on the bike that was leaning against the bushes. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to park out front. After all, she wasn’t a guest. She was staff. The thought made her feel even smaller than the vast, ugly house had already. It was becoming a familiar feeling. So many things in recent times had made her feel small – it was as if the effects of betrayal had come in a stoppered bottle complete with a label that demanded “Drink Me”, and she had, draining the bloody thing dry in one gulp.

Shaking the anxiety off, she stood firm. Someone was coming; there were footsteps approaching the door. A woman with a pinched-looking face and a bad perm opened the door, her hair looking almost as frazzled as her demeanour. ‘You the nurse?’ she asked, treating Maura to the sweeping gaze of one who wholeheartedly objected to her presence.

Maura nodded. ‘I’m Maura Lyle, the RMN.’

‘Best get in then – I haven’t got all day and you’re a bit later than they said.’

Maura felt a flush of guilt creep into her cheeks as she stepped into the hallway at the woman’s behest. ‘I’m so sorry. I got a bit lost coming through the new estate.’ It was true. Her satnav hadn’t recognised the new-build houses and crazy street layout, and she’d found herself at several muddy dead ends before finding the end of the drive that led to the Grange.

The woman looked her up and down, appraising her and apparently finding her wanting. ‘It’s easy done, it’s like a bloody rat maze now. Best come through to the kitchen, it’s warmer in there.’

Maura left her bag in the hall and followed the woman to a baize door hidden discreetly under the stairs. It was a long time since she’d seen a symbol that so succinctly announced the divide between us and them. It both amused and irritated her in equal measure; she had thought that kind of thing long gone and just a feature of nostalgic Sunday-night TV dramas. Not so with the Grange. She smiled behind the woman’s back as the strains of “Let’s do the time warp again” filtered through her mind. If she had to curtsey to anyone she’d be buggered; neither her knees nor her tight jeans would stand up to such nonsense.

The promise of warmth was welcome, though; just those few moments in the dark-panelled hall had created a distinct chill in her bones. The air inside felt colder than the damp winter mist outside, and her first impression was that the whole place would gleefully thwart any attempts at heat and light – it had cloaked itself in gloom and rendered itself impenetrable. The building seemed to have been constructed to defy comfort with its small windows, narrow passages and dark wood. It was a house built for secrets and seclusion. A house that silently screamed privacy. The Grange had no need of Keep Out signs; trespassers would willingly avoid it on instinct.

The kitchen came as a relief, clean and bright, yet not modern in any sense of the word. Last decorated in the early seventies by the look of it, but it did have the promised warmth. Dr Moss was nowhere to be seen and Maura guessed he had slipped out when she hammered on the door. God knew why – it wasn’t as if they didn’t know each other.

‘Sit yourself down. I’ve just made tea, then we can go through everything. I’m Cheryl, by the way – I do the cleaning and whatnot. Though it’s been more “whatnot” than anything else lately!’ Cheryl said with a thin, strained laugh. ‘Can’t say I’m not glad to see you in some ways, though I don’t know why they thought you were needed. I don’t mind seeing to his food and stuff or cleaning up after him, but I can’t be coping with his moods, the vicious old bugger. You’ll have to watch him, he likes to scratch.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her cardigan to show Maura the evidence of her claim. It looked as though she’d been savaged by a large and angry cat.

Maura assumed that Cheryl meant Gordon Henderson, the man she had been employed to look after. ‘I expect that Miss Hall falling and needing her own care has disrupted him.’

Cheryl rolled her eyes and flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘That’s an understatement! Mind you, he’s an ornery old sod at the best of times, doesn’t like change. He’s been like a cat on a hot tin roof ever since the building work started. Can’t get his head around it and it upsets him no end. Mind you, I’d feel the same if I was him – seeing your land sold off like that must be hard. Still, it’s her what has the purse strings, not him. You’ll have your work cut out, mark my words – he don’t take to strangers. None of us do.’ She said it as if it was a matter of intractable fact.

Maura gave her a wry smile in appreciation of her message of doom. In her ten years as a psychiatric nurse she had been spat on, sworn at, hit and generally abused on a daily basis. She felt confident that a stroppy old man wouldn’t prove difficult. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ It was what she did and why she’d chosen to work in mental health: she had the ability to tame people and absorb their distress. It was what she was good at, even if she struggled to tame her own. When it came to other people, she cared, even when nobody else did. Sometimes even when she shouldn’t.

Cheryl heaved a large teapot onto the table. ‘Going to have to, aren’t you? Don’t suppose any of us has any choice but to make the best of a bad do. As long as you don’t interfere with me we won’t fall out. I have my jobs, you stick to yours. Just do as you’re told and we’ll all be fine.’ As she spoke, her eyes flickered towards the ceiling and a slight frown settled on her forehead.

Maura followed her gaze and saw nothing but cracked and flaking plaster. She had no intention of poking around where she wasn’t wanted – the woman could clean the depressing house to her heart’s content for all Maura cared. The way she was feeling, she wouldn’t be staying long anyway. The prospect of her own, lonely, memory-filled house was becoming more appealing by the second. But she’d been paid in advance – it made it awkward. And there was the old man with no one to care for him other than Cheryl, a woman who made Maura look positively cheerful in comparison.

As Cheryl poured the tea in weak, steaming streams, Maura said, ‘You do know I won’t be here on Mondays and Tuesdays? Well, during the day anyway. I’ll also be out on Thursday afternoons.’

Cheryl slopped milk into the cups ‘They said, but it’s mainly nights you’re needed anyway. I’m here every day so I can see to him then as long as you get him up. I’ve been coming in more since she had the fall, someone had to, but I’ve got me own mother to see to so I can’t be here all the time. Just stick to your duties. We’ve managed fine without till now, so I’m sure we’ll manage when you’re not here.’

Maura took her tea and didn’t wonder at why the woman seemed so frazzled. It must have been hard work dividing her loyalties. ‘Is your mother ill?’ she asked, imagining what it must be like to be in this house day after day, having its atmosphere soak into your skin and mess with your temperament. No wonder Cheryl was so gritty.

‘Nope, just old and lonely. Mind you, aren’t we all?’

Maura wasn’t sure how to take that. She knew that what she saw in the mirror, when she deigned to look, wasn’t what she wanted to see – a face made gaunt by loss and shame. She hadn’t thought she wore her unhappiness so blatantly so she chose to take Cheryl’s words as a general observation on life rather than a direct assessment of her personally, and any similarities to the harried housekeeper and her burdened state. ‘I was told you’d run me through his routines and show me where everything is.’

Cheryl laughed and pulled a sheaf of papers towards her. ‘Her ladyship made me write it all down ages ago, as if I don’t know all their foibles already. He’s a very particular man, likes things just so – as does she, so you’d be wise to remember it. No one in this house likes change.’ She said it with a hard stare, which did nothing to reassure Maura. ‘They are people who demand perfection, so make sure you get things right first time.’

The list went on and on: how he liked his bread cut (in quarters with the crusts cut off, butter – not margarine – thinly spread right to the edges), the precise consistency of his hot drinks (tea, weak, a splash of ice-cold milk and a quarter of a level teaspoon of sugar. At night, cocoa, not drinking chocolate, made in a pan with full-cream milk, to be served at precisely 9.30 p.m.), his medication (pills to be given in precise colour order beginning with the small blues ones and ending with the white). By the end of it, Maura was heartily relieved that Cheryl had written it down; the whole thing might have been a disaster if she hadn’t. ‘I think I’d better make a copy of that and carry it around with me!’ she quipped as Cheryl explained exactly how many loops Gordon preferred in the Windsor knot of his tie, before adding that he rarely got dressed at all these days so not to worry too much about that.

Cheryl didn’t catch the joke and frowned. ‘Might not be a bad idea. Anyway, I’ll show you around and then take you to meet him.’

Maura drained the last of her piss-weak tea and followed Cheryl out into the chill grasp of the house. She was about to ask where Dr Moss had gone, but realised this would reveal she’d been listening outside doors. Cheryl was abrasive enough, without Maura rubbing her any further up the wrong way. The woman’s hostility already came off her in sharp spikes, like static electricity that snapped and bit whenever anyone got too close. Cheryl’s welcome had been as bitter and cold as the house itself. For Maura, it didn’t bode well, but she had to admit she felt sorry for the woman.

Chapter Two

‘Got to watch yourself. It’s not such a big place, but there’s nooks and crannies and it’s not hard to lose your bearings. Sometimes I think they just tacked this place together without rhyme or reason. Just stick to where I show you, and don’t wander off. There’s nothing to see anywhere else anyway and some bits are dangerous so you’d be wise to not stray,’ Cheryl said as she led the way past an array of rooms, few of which seemed to be in regular use. They were too tidy, too quiet and seemed to be holding their breath as if waiting for someone else to breathe first. The creeping sensation of waiting for that breath to linger on the back of your neck was a haunting thought, forcing Maura to view the rest of the building with a fair degree of caution. She wasn’t easily spooked, but the atmosphere was solemn, giving the place a sepulchral feel that settled into her bones like a deep-seated and ice-cold itch that had burrowed into the marrow and would not be shifted. She was being dramatic and she knew it, but Cheryl had an air about her that was echoed in the feel of the house, as if they shared a twin, hollow soul.

Maura’s bedroom was a pink-chintz nightmare that looked as if it had last been decorated somewhere circa 1935. Faded, overblown roses scrambled across the wallpaper in a busy tangle, while the ditsy curtains looked as if they were succumbing to a slow death from the constant onslaught of sunlight and moth. She couldn’t anticipate trying to close them without the thought that they would disintegrate at her touch. The room might have been quaint and charming in any other house but here it made Maura long for her ten-tog duvet and central heating. As she looked around she felt a pang of homesickness and a hunger for the comfort of familiar things.

It seemed that Cheryl had read her thoughts. ‘Don’t mess with the curtains, will you? They’re a bit delicate, ever so old they are, but her ladyship calls them vintage. You can use the bed curtains if you want to shut out the light.’

Maura eyed the four-poster with its swags and tails and thought that the last thing she’d want to do in a house like this was shut out the light. ‘Do you have to address her as your ladyship?’

‘Good Lord, no, that’s what I call her behind her back. She’s got a few too many airs and graces for my liking. No, I call her Miss Hall. Her ladyship indeed…’ Cheryl scoffed, shaking her head.

‘Fair enough,’ Maura said, feeling slightly embarrassed at her assumption. Cheryl was a strange woman, prickly and intense one minute, warm and friendly the next. It was an intriguing yet repellent mix and reminded her of why she’d wanted to become a nurse. People were fascinating in all their shades of light and dark.

Back on the landing Cheryl pointed down the hall. ‘They don’t use that part of the house, it’s not safe, so don’t be going wandering. There’s nothing for you down there. His room is there, opposite yours, but he sleeps downstairs most of the time. We just use it to store his clothes – he can’t be trusted with them downstairs. Hers is two doors down from you.’ She led the way, their footsteps inducing creaks of protest from the old stair treads as they descended. Cheryl pointed to the one room she hadn’t already shown to Maura. To her dismay the door had a security chain attached to the outside. ‘Make sure to put that on at night – he likes to wander,’ Cheryl said.

Maura couldn’t help herself. ‘I’m not sure I’m keen on the idea of locking him in his room!’ The idea was abhorrent to her. She hadn’t come to the Grange to look after the man by shutting him away and denying him his freedom. She’d hoped to bring him care and comfort. She wanted to give the best of herself, not be a jailer.

Cheryl’s eyes widened, as if she was surprised to be dealing with someone who could be so naïve. ‘It’s either that or chase him around the bloody estate in the dead of night. If you know what’s good for you and him, you’ll put the chain on. Besides, we don’t want him taking a tumble too, do we? You mustn’t let him near the stairs. Like I said, the old part of the house is dangerous.’ She said this as if Maura might not have heard her the first time.

Maura saw the wisdom in keeping her mouth shut at this, but she remained unhappy about the use of the chain. She forced a smile. ‘I suppose I’d better meet him, hadn’t I?’

Cheryl chuckled. There was no warmth to her laugh and it sounded as mean and thin as her tea. ‘Suppose you better had. Brace yourself.’

Gordon Henderson was on the floor, sitting in a puddle of his own urine and looking up at the two women with the innocence of an untrained puppy when they entered the room. ‘Don’t be fooled, this is all for your benefit,’ Cheryl whispered.

Maura was too busy trying not to gag on the stench of ammonia that stung her eyes and burned her nose to pay much attention to Cheryl. This wasn’t the first time the old man had peed himself by the smell of it. She glanced at Cheryl, who seemed to be immune to the fumes.

‘Best get you up, Mr Henderson, eh?’ Cheryl said, speaking to the man as if he was a deaf five-year-old.

He raised a thin hand and pointed a wavering skinny finger at Maura. ‘She can do it, not you.’

Cheryl sighed. ‘Whatever. I’ll get you some clean clothes.’

Maura knew instinctively that she was being tested, perhaps by both of them. ‘OK, but introductions first. I’m Maura. I’m going to be staying with you until Miss Hall is recovered. I’m a nurse, I’ve come to take care of you, and Miss Hall when she comes home. I’ll be here until she gets better.’ She added what she hoped was a reassuring and confident smile. ‘Right, I’m going to crouch in front of you and I want you to put your arms around my neck. Then I’m going to lift you into a standing position. Do you think we can do that?’

The old man nodded, but there was a cold sparkle in his eye that invited caution. Maura was not unfamiliar with the wiles of awkward patients, and the likes of Gordon Henderson were ten a penny, nasty old men with a touch of the vicious. Not all of them could be changed by good nursing and a dose of compassion but she was prepared to give it her best shot. She crouched down in front of him and placed her arms around his back under his arms – he had the thin frame of a waif, but looked tall. She hunkered in, ready to lift from her knees to save her back. It wasn’t ideal, but he couldn’t stay on the floor, so she had no choice but to lift him badly. He slipped his arms around her neck and leaned in. His breath was sour and smelled of pear drops – ketones, which told Maura he wasn’t eating well, so no wonder he was so thin. She tightened her hold and began to lift, hauling him to his feet in one deft move. Once upright, he turned his lips to her cheek and, for a fraction of a second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he opened his mouth and took the flesh of her cheek between his teeth and bit down, holding her skin at a point where damage might be done if he felt the urge for it.

She didn’t flinch. It was an old trick. ‘Mr Henderson, if you continue, and you bite me, I will drop you straight back on your backside, call the police, tell them I’ve been assaulted, and they will come here and take one look at you, and you’ll be in a psychiatric unit quicker than either of us can reconsider our decisions. Do you understand me?’ They were harsh words, but she needed to set some boundaries if they were to come to terms with each other. She’d never be able to nurse him if he thought she was afraid. She was, but he didn’t need to know that.

He didn’t move. His teeth remained on her skin and she could feel his thin body quivering with malice. ‘I’m here to care for you, not to put up with abuse. I don’t care how ill you are, I will not put up with abuse – do we understand each other?’ She had come full of good intentions, hung on to them despite her instincts, but they were waning fast. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this after all. The sight of the little girl and all the reminders of why Maura had become a nurse had fuelled her enthusiasm and conviction and made her remember her compassion. She’d wanted to be kind, to show she was still a decent person and could still care, but this man was sucking it all away by the second.

It took a moment, but eventually he relaxed both his grip around her shoulders and his hold on her cheek, but it bothered her that he’d had to think about it for so long. There seemed to be a streak of cruelty in Gordon Henderson that had the potential to send shivers crawling down the spine. He stank, not only of piss, but of evil, and the combination made Maura’s gut churn again. The feeling did not abate when he whispered in her ear, ‘There’s bad in this house, mind you be careful of it. It gets us all eventually. Ask the nurse, she’ll tell you.’

‘I am the nurse, Mr Henderson,’ she said. Her instinct was to shove him away from her, but she couldn’t. He was old, frail and demented if the agency was to be believed. No wonder they were paying so well; no one in their right mind would have taken this job on. But Maura wasn’t in her right mind – the pack of Prozac that lay in her bag unopened was proof of her own GP’s belief in that. Maura was desperate and lonely and full of self-pity. The depression was telling her she wanted to foist that pity onto someone else so she didn’t have to feel it herself any more. Coming to the Grange hadn’t been an act of altruism, it had been an escape route. She had hoped this elderly man would an eager recipient of her willingness to care, no matter how poor the reason, but it seemed she had made a mistake there too. She wasn’t ready, and no matter how mean and vile Gordon Henderson appeared to be, he deserved better. Everyone deserved better.

Instead of pushing Gordon away she held firm, resolving to call the agency the next day and ask to be replaced by someone who was up to the job. They could have the money; she didn’t want it. She just wanted to feel useful again and keep hold of a good mood when it came along.

Cheryl came back into the room carrying clean underwear, trousers and a pack of baby wipes.

‘Soap and water would be better,’ Maura said, which got her an impatient scowl from Cheryl and a smug smile from Gordon Henderson.

‘You can always go and fetch some if you’re so keen,’ Cheryl said impatiently. ‘I’ll hold him, you clean him up.’

For the sake of cordiality, Maura caved in and took the baby wipes. No wonder the salary for this job had been so generous. She assumed it was Dr Moss who had wanted private nursing care; he must have known that whoever he hired would have their work cut out. If the bastard had asked for her by name, she would make him pay. They had never seen eye to eye and his presence in the house earlier had felt like much more than a coincidence. She didn’t know who she was most angry with, herself or Dr Moss.

Gordon stood patiently and compliantly while Maura stripped him of his trousers and underpants, a smile of victory playing around his mouth. She asked him to step out of his wet clothes and he did so without complaint, holding on to Cheryl’s shoulders while she looked away in disgust. The only frisson of trouble occurred when Maura pulled a few baby wipes from the packet and asked him to clean himself up. He hesitated, looked confused, then angry. ‘I do not do these things for myself,’ he said with more coherence and pomposity than she’d expected from a man who was supposedly terminally demented.

‘And I don’t get paid to do things for people who are perfectly capable of doing them for themselves, Mr Henderson.’ She held the wipes out. He stared at them for a moment, glowered at her, then took them and did as he was asked.

It was a dance, a setting out of the rules of engagement, and it happened with everyone. Maura was used to it, wise to it, and, nine times out of ten, could outstep the opposition in three moves flat. With Gordon Henderson it just took the two, but there was a good chance he would muster and try it on again. She wasn’t being cruel, far from it. Despite her feelings about the Grange and its owner, she’d be a poor carer if she did too much for him. The goal was independence and her job was to help him maintain it.

She helped him into his clothes while Cheryl fetched tea and he was as docile as a lamb the whole time. Once she’d got him settled in his chair she sat down opposite him. ‘So, Mr Henderson, is there any particular reason you couldn’t make it to the toilet?’

He looked away from her and mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out. ‘I didn’t quite hear you.’

‘I said I find you very rude.’

‘And I find you very difficult, Mr Henderson, so we can either battle it out while we both have a really horrible time or we can call a truce and try and work with each other – what’s it to be?’

‘If either of us lasts that long,’ he said, avoiding her gaze. She was in no mood for amateur dramatics and chose to ignore him, busying herself tidying the dirty clothes. Feeding into it would do neither of them any good.

By the time Cheryl had come back with his tea – weak, splash of milk and precisely a quarter level teaspoon of sugar – he seemed to have got the measure of Maura and decided to play ball. For now.

According to Cheryl’s crib sheet, Gordon normally took a nap after his afternoon cuppa, so they left him to doze in his armchair.

As they walked back to the kitchen, Maura asked Cheryl what had happened to Miss Hall. ‘Daft old bat took a tumble down the stairs, broke her hip, bashed her face into the newel post and bust her jaw, according to Dr Moss,’ Cheryl said, painting the picture for Maura. ‘Nasty do, I reckon. Mind you, it isn’t half quiet round here without her – quite demanding is our Miss Hall.’

Maura seized her chance. ‘I don’t know of any local GPs of that name. The only Dr Moss I know is a consultant in psychiatry.’

‘Yes, that’s him. He’s their doctor, has been for years. They go private, see?’

It seemed an odd set-up to Maura. OK, all psychiatrists had to have basic medical training before they specialised, but it was the first time she’d heard of one dealing with general medicine privately. ‘They don’t have contact with a local GP?’

Cheryl paused by the door and turned to Maura, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Why would they? There’s no need. Dr Moss takes care of everything for them.’

Maura could bet he did, and no doubt he billed them handsomely for it. He was notoriously flash, which was why she’d been surprised not to see his sleek Lexus parked outside.

They made for the kitchen via the bloody baize door and all it represented. Maura knew she was about to be abandoned and the thought filled her with the kind of anxiety she hadn’t felt since she was a child.

‘Right, that’s me done for the day. I’ll be back in the morning at nine so all you have to do is make his porridge like I told you, and don’t forget he likes his toast with the crusts cut off. Don’t forget his cocoa at nine-thirty, and his hot water bottle, and I need to give you the key for the medicine cupboard,’ she said, slipping her arms into a faded blue mac. ‘His pills come in one of those reminder thingies, so all you have to do is dole them out in the right colour order – don’t get them mixed up or he’ll refuse to take them. And make sure the old sod doesn’t palm them or hide them under his tongue – he’s a bugger for that and a nightmare if he doesn’t take them.’

Maura nodded and held her hand out for the small key that Cheryl had taken from the bunch in her pocket. Abrasive though the woman had been at times, Maura felt a ripple of trepidation at the thought of her departure and the prospect of being left alone in the house. None of it had turned out as she had expected: the house was a maze, the patient was a nightmare and, despite the new housing estate being less than a quarter of a mile away in any direction, she felt as though she might as well have been abandoned in some remote castle in the middle of nowhere. ‘Who do I contact if anything goes wrong or there’s a problem?’

Cheryl looked heavenwards in a gesture that smacked of sheer despair and judgement. ‘There’s a list of phone numbers stuck on the side of the fridge. Don’t call me because I won’t come out at night. If anything goes wrong with him just call the doctor. If it’s anything else you can call Bob, the gardener and odd-job man – lives in a bungalow at the bottom of the orchard. He’ll come out if you need him. Just stick to what you’ve been told, don’t go poking around, and nothing will go wrong.’

Maura glanced at the list and wondered whose name had been scribbled out and why they were no longer a contact. The paper itself was old, yellowed and curling at the edges, yet the name and number had been obliterated recently judging by the bright colour of the pen marks. It seemed someone had fallen out of favour. She contemplated ringing Bob to see if he wanted to come and keep her company, which was an utterly ridiculous idea and more pathetic than she wanted to admit. The sound of his name, its ordinariness, had implied something comforting, something normal, something she instinctively felt was rare in the Grange. ‘Thanks, Cheryl, I appreciate your help.’

Cheryl gave her a brief nod and a “huh” then left unceremoniously. Leaving Maura standing in the brightly lit kitchen, hugging herself and wondering what on earth she was going to do until Gordon needed something and she had a purpose again.

Without Cheryl’s shrill voice to dominate her attention, the house was far from silent. In fact, now she was listening, it seemed to be cracking its knuckles and flexing its muscles through a series of creaks and groans, as if it was getting ready to tussle with her. The Grange struck her as a place where it would be easy to lose your sense of self and your grip on real time. It was old and grudging, full of dogged antiquity in the form of ancient furniture, faded formality and pointless knick-knacks. Maura hadn’t paid detailed attention to them but she knew they were there, oozing claustrophobia and gloom. The place felt as though it was stuffed to the gills with the collected kitsch of generations and all those long-dead Hendersons still making their presence felt, lurking in the shadows and breathing down her neck.

Maura took a breath – she had lived with worse shadows than the phantoms of dead gentry. It was going to take more than an ugly house and an overwrought imagination to faze her. Her logic agreed, her instinct did not – it was still grumbling away and sulking in her gut.

Though Cheryl had shown her around, it had hardly been a detailed tour, just a quick glimpse into too many rooms, most of which had seemed to be swathed in dustsheets. It seemed sensible to make a more exacting trip around the place, familiarising herself with the layout and the lifestyle. If she was going to look after Gordon in any meaningful way, it might help to get to know how they’d lived before he’d been confined to a single, stinking room and old age had got the better of him. Even if she was going to abandon ship, she would have to do something about that room, and not just the smell. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Gordon was a hoarder and had crammed his room with all manner of detritus. Given the ordered clutter of the rest of the house, it was clear to Maura that interfering with his living space was likely to upset him. As abrasive as Cheryl had been, she didn’t seem the type to leave a room unclean if she could help it, and from the little Maura knew of Estelle Hall, she didn’t come across as the type of woman who would tolerate disorder unless it had been foisted upon her. Gordon seemed to have entrenched himself in his pit and surrounded himself with things that brought him security, things that would distress him if they were interfered with, just as altering his routine, his food and his medication were likely to disturb him. Though it wasn’t Maura’s role to diagnose, it was certainly her job to assess, and in her opinion Gordon was suffering from obsessions and compulsions just as much as he might be from dementia. He also seemed to suffer from terminal unpleasantness, something that wasn’t entirely unexpected but that might prove to be a stumbling block to even the shortest therapeutic relationship.

She pondered this a while as she re-explored the house, taking her time on this occasion, not prying where she’d been told not to but soaking the whole place up and making peace with it in her mind. Weeks of being afraid of a building were not an item on her agenda and she refused to allow the atmosphere of the place to get any further under her skin. She had suffered enough cowed defeat lately; there was no way she was going to let a pile of bricks and mortar rattle her, no way on earth. If she and the house were going to engage in a battle of wills over whose personality was going to win, Maura was going in all guns blazing. Its shadows were just shadows, its creaks and moans just its twisted old bones settling, its air of impending menace just her imagination running away with her. Its residents? Just an elderly, frail man in need of her help and a slightly bonkers housekeeper who seemed to have learned her people skills from the Mrs Danvers school of charm. Despite that, Maura had quite taken to Cheryl, even if it was with the utmost caution.

‘Get a grip, Maura,’ she said to the empty kitchen. ‘You’re getting far too cynical and curmudgeonly. Make yourself a cup of decent tea and crack on with it, kid. You’re moving on, remember?’

The statement was as hollow as the echo in the empty room and, despite her bravado, Maura couldn’t stand it. There was a radio standing on the kitchen counter – old and grubby, but functional. She switched it on and cranked up the volume a couple of notches, smiling at the irony of the song that was playing. “I Put a Spell on You…”

And now you’re mine…

Chapter Three

Maura lay in her bed clutching the camphor- and lavender-scented sheets to her chin and listened – it was a beautifully clichéd dark and stormy night, one that rattled the windows in their frames and caused draughts to lick across the skin in unseen malevolent caresses. For fear he’d go on a midnight wander, get outside and blow away like some pyjama-wearing woebegone Mary Poppins, she had even resorted to putting the chain on Gordon’s door. She’d hated doing it – she was supposed to be his nurse, not his keeper.

The only thing in the house that hadn’t felt it necessary to make its presence felt that night by rattling, creaking, clanking (or bizarrely pinging) was the chain on Gordon’s door. He seemed to be sleeping soundly, which wasn’t surprising given the heap of pills she’d been obliged to pile into him. In fact, he’d been unexpectedly compliant when she’d taken in his cocoa, sat with him and helped him to prepare for bed. He hadn’t even flinched when she’d cleaned the rug with white vinegar to neutralise the smell of pee, or batted an eyelid when she’d found the major source of the stench – the several vases that had been used as impromptu receptacles for Gordon’s urinary urges. Maura was sure that Moorcroft, Crown Derby and Minton had not intended their delicate and beautiful wares to be used for such purposes. Had they not been worth a small fortune she might have thrown them in the bin, but instead she’d borrowed Cheryl’s rubber gloves and had scoured them clean while praying she wouldn’t ruin them.

Sleep proved elusive and all she had done was toss and turn on the lumpy mattress, trying to find the sweet spot. The camphor was intrusive too, a particularly vile smell reminiscent of frugal old ladies and the bad old days. It reminded her of staying with her grandmother when she was little, of secondhand shoes and hand-me-down clothes, of having her face washed with carbolic soap and being expected to clear her plate because people were starving in Africa. It reminded her of the instruction to make do and mend, a philosophy she felt she was being forced to live by. How did you make do with nothing and mend a broken spirit? More to the point, how did you begin in a house that was so depressing it seemed to suck the joy out of everything?

Cheryl had said that parts of the place were dangerous, and Maura had assumed rotten boards and woodworm-savaged beams, but as she lay beneath the pungent sheets she began to wonder if the danger wasn’t from something else entirely – the bad that Gordon had been so eager to tell her about. The look of the place made it feel as if no Henderson, in the history of Hendersons, had brought a good intention to the place. It seemed to have been pieced together with menace and meanness – no one period predominated, no one style. Just a building stitched together by time, passing fashions and a family who had been custodians out of habit and grudging obligation rather than pride and heritage. All speculation on Maura’s part, of course, but Gordon was hemmed in a single room full of filth and clutter, and she had to contend with a mothball-sodden bed and a ceiling that was so creaky it seemed as if it would cave in at any moment. It was as if the house was trying to corner them both.

Why on earth hadn’t they sold up and left? Why stay in a place that exuded such misery?

They were good questions, ones she could apply to herself – why had she stayed with Richard when it had been patently clear he was a self-serving, booze-dependent dickhead? Why hadn’t she thrown him out the moment she’d caught him in bed with her sister? Why, after she finally had thrown him out, had she pitied him, looked after him and cried when he finally drank himself to death?

Sometimes there were no answers, or none she wanted to face. Maybe it was the same for Gordon Henderson and Estelle Hall; there were just things they didn’t want to deal with.

Annoyed with herself for being maudlin, she threw off the sheets and moved towards the window to watch the storm play out. The lights of the estate surrounded the Grange, but at a distance, like the lit torches of an angry mob encamped and holding the house under siege. It felt so lonely and she wondered if that was another reason Gordon had taken to his clutter and his room, like children did when they built pillow forts to keep the adult world at bay. Would she wake him if she crept downstairs and made herself a drink? It seemed unlikely. She had given him a hefty dose of Zopiclone, enough to fell an elephant for the night, let alone a frail old man. Too much in her opinion, but she’d always found Dr Moss a bit heavy-handed with the meds. They had butted heads many times over his prescribing at the hospital, and bitter experience had shown her he didn’t like to be questioned – especially by nurses. Nurses were a lowly sort in Philip Moss’s eyes.

Despite Gordon’s drug-fuelled repose, she felt the need to creep through the house, pausing once to glance out at the storm as it crackled across the sky and howled around the house.

The essence of a figure glimpsed through the landing window caught her eye. A dark, human shape standing under the trees, a shape that made her freeze, made her breath catch in her throat and caused her to clutch her dressing gown to her throat as if a handful of fleece could protect her.

Her instinct argued that only a madman would be out in the storm.

A madman in the middle of nowhere, staring at a house containing only a feeble old man and a lone female.

A madman lurking in the dead of night with no innocent reason to be there.

The builders had gone home, the houses near to the Grange were far from finished, and it was hard to believe anyone would be lost around here when the house was the only thing they could be looking for. If it had been Bob, the handyman, surely he would have called, or at least come to the back of the house? If it was Cheryl, or even Dr Moss, they would have just come in or knocked – they’d have no reason to lurk outside.

The clock in the hallway below chimed midnight, scaring the bejesus out of her and diverting her attention from the window. When she looked again, the figure was gone, and she had to question whether it had ever been there at all – though her heart still pounded with a violence that argued it had. She peered out, trying to pick up movement, but there was nothing. Just the storm and the wind forcing the trees into a frenzied ballet of whipping branches and whirling leaves. Whatever. Whoever had been there was gone, leaving no trace other than the mild panic of a woman who was to all intents and purposes alone in a house that appeared to be straight from the pages of some Gothic horror novel.

Pulling herself away, she made her way down the stairs, trying to recall if she had locked the house as per Cheryl’s instructions. Her memory was playing tricks on her. She knew for a fact that she had locked up properly, but a midnight maggot of irrational fear wriggled and writhed, making her doubt her recall. She stamped on the little bugger and forced herself to snap out of it and think like a functional adult. There had been no figure under the tree – just a shadow or an illusion conjured by lack of sleep and unfamiliar surroundings. The house was creeping her out and hooking shadows from the dark corners of her imagination. She had come to the Grange to escape all that, not to bring it with her and have it enhanced by noisy floorboards and a high wind. Coffee and a flick through one of Cheryl’s magazines would banish such thoughts and entrench some good sense. There was nothing like perusing pictures of airbrushed women wearing clothes you could never afford (or get away with wearing in public) to slam a person back into the realms of insignificance. To Maura it was the mental equivalent of a strong black coffee after a drinking binge – it might make you sick and keep you awake, but it did you good. With resignation and as much composure as she could muster, she defied the house and its air of doom and strode through the passage into the kitchen, where she filled the room with light, filled the battered old kettle and settled down with a magazine.

When the rock hurtled through the window it didn’t just shatter the glass, it shattered every shred of equilibrium that Maura had managed to cling on to.

Breath froze in her throat as the glass exploded inwards, shards of it hurtling towards her like a thousand shining knife blades, the rock landing on the table like an unexploded bomb of dread.

Instinct took over and she dropped to the floor, covering her head as glass glittered her hair and clung to the fleece of her dressing gown. Tiny slivers found their way inside her sleeves and down the back of her neck, nicking her skin, biting deeper and drawing small beads of blood.

The boom was fading, but the shock hadn’t – adrenaline had coursed through her, making her heart lurch and her limbs shake. She knew she had to move, yet she couldn’t. She knew she had screamed – it had emerged as a deep bellow, and now that she tried to call out, it felt as if her entire voice had been emitted with it and was rattling around the room, unable to find its way back.

There had been a figure, and it had meant her harm. It had done her harm and there was a good chance it wanted more.

The kitchen phone was attached to the wall, too close to the door and window to be safe to run to. The only other she had seen was in another room, back beyond the passage and the door and located in the heart of the house.

She ran through the route in her mind, begging her limbs to comply and help her to move. Her own phone was locked in her car where she had thrown it in disgust, so as not to have to see her sister’s name flashing up and demanding her attention every five minutes. But what did that matter now? She had to get out of the kitchen and away from the broken window, and the rock that had damned near taken her head off.

Pressing her shaking hands to the floor, knowing they would be cut on the fallen glass but having no choice, she pushed backwards, scooting towards the door that led to the corridor beyond the kitchen. She dared not try and stand – not only did she doubt her legs would take it, but while she was on the floor, with the table in front of her, she felt she had some kind of shield from what might be coming after the rock. With her senses ratcheting up and beyond red alert she shuffled through the door, ignoring the glass that grazed her hands. Once into the shade of the passageway she shuffled onto her knees and slammed the door shut, groping with bloodied and shaking fingers for the bolt she knew must be there and ramming it home before she dared to take a breath.

In a film she might have leaned against the door, caught that breath and thought she was safe. But Maura had watched dramas where that kind of stupidity had cost people dearly – she was no fool and immediately launched herself towards the morning room where she had spied a phone earlier on. Panic still engulfed her and, as she lurched, dripping blood, shedding glass and looking half drunk and half crazed, she became convinced that the assailant would have cut the phone lines and that she’d be trapped in the house with a maniac who could burst through locked doors, or worse still – axe their way through them yelling “Here’s Johnny!”.

Once at the morning room door she dropped to her knees again and crawled towards the low table that held the phone, not even daring to look towards the long windows, not daring to imagine a face pressed against the panes and the hot breath of the intruder blooming on the glass…

There was a dial tone.

The buttons didn’t stick, even though they always did in her nightmares.

She bashed 999 into the keypad.

Someone answered and Maura finally found her voice, though it was greatly diminished by the experience and wobbled as if it had no legs. ‘Police, please. Someone just threw a rock through my window and I think they’re still outside,’ she babbled to the dispatcher.

Then she hid behind the sofa, keeping low and staying quiet until the police pounded on the door twenty minutes later. Each one of those minutes in horrified silence, waiting and listening for every creak, every groan and every shift in the building, and convinced she could hear the steps of the intruder – convinced Gordon would be murdered in his bed and that she would be the coward who let it happen.

I could see her through the kitchen window. Sipping her coffee, flipping through the pages of a glossy magazine, dreaming about how life could be if only she were thinner, or taller, or had bigger breasts, more money and less stress. That’s what those magazines did – taught you how to be dissatisfied with your lot. I know all about that, about settling for what life gives you – and hating it.

For a moment, when the upstairs light had flicked on, I thought the nurse might have spotted something, but if she had she didn’t seem to care. She hadn’t seen me, hadn’t noticed. She was warm in there with her hot drink and cosy dressing gown, while I was weathering the storm just to get a glimpse of her through the window. Like some poor relation swallowing my pride and begging for scraps at the back door.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be – I shouldn’t be some midnight stalker skulking in the shadows and seething with anger. I deserve better, after all I’ve done for them, I deserve better.

Anger and resentment moved my hand to a chunk of stone that had fallen from the rockery, forced my hand to pick it up, made my hand hurl it at the glass of the kitchen window. I paused for a second as the glass shattered in a beautiful shower of wanton destruction – a shock to wake the dead but not enough to kill the living.

Not yet.

Shocks take time to kill.

It was inherent cowardice that made me run and I hate my weakness more than I hate them. And I hate that I made my move too soon, I have a treat in store for the nurse. I shouldn’t drive her out just yet.

And they forget.

I have a key.

Chapter Four

A grizzled Bob picked up the stone, stared at it and shook his head again. He’d done it at least ten times and Maura was using the rhythm of his bemusement like a metronome; it was the only way she could get her heart rate to slow down. Despite the police checking the grounds, despite the presence of Bob, and even though Gordon hadn’t heard a thing, Maura’s senses were still on high alert and she was jumping at shadows. In a house that was riddled with them, it was doing little to calm her down.

Every time she thought she’d cleared the last of the glass, another tiny shard would glisten like a minute jewel and drag her attention towards it. ‘I keep trying to believe that the wind blew it through the window, but that’s bollocks, isn’t it? It would have to be a tornado to do that, and somehow I think we’re still very much in bloody Kansas, Toto.’

Bob switched his bemusement to her and placed the rock back on the table, into the neat dent it had made when it landed. ‘Wind didn’t do that, love. No way it could, is there? So, this man you said you saw?’

‘I don’t even know if I did see someone – it might have been a shadow. There was so much blowing about out there it might even have been my mind playing tricks on me – but I suppose someone lobbed that through the window. The question is, who and why?’

Bob picked the rock up again, as if it would tell him who’d thrown it by some form of psychometry. It hadn’t told the police much; fingerprints didn’t stick to wet, mossy stone. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. That copper asked you if you’d upset anyone lately. You said no – that true?’

‘I’ve probably upset a great many people lately, but none of them know I’m here, so I don’t think it has anything to do with me personally. What about the Hendersons, have they upset anyone?’ Either way, she was ringing the agency the minute they opened and giving them a piece of her mind for not vetting the job properly. No amount of money or desire to escape a dismal home life could compensate for being scared shitless in the dead of night by a rock-wielding maniac and being forced to stay in Essen’s answer to the House of Usher.

Bob shrugged. ‘No more than usual, I don’t suppose. They’ve never been well-liked, but no one’s ever thrown rocks at them before. They’re a funny bunch and keep themselves to themselves. They like their privacy, see?’

Maura sighed. ‘That copper, as you call him, wasn’t very helpful, was he? I guess they’re not that interested in petty vandals having a pop at the people in the big house, eh?’ she said with a weak smile, thinking that if she minimized it verbally, the incident would become smaller in reality.

‘Prob’ly not, no. Anyway, this won’t get that hole mended. Stick the kettle on and I’ll get that boarded up. I’ll get a bit of glass tomorrow and do a proper job.’

It was 4 a.m. and Maura had plied Bob with more cups of tea than a man with apparently hollow legs could possibly want to consume. She was on her fourth herself, hot and sweet and entirely useless for managing shock, but a good alternative to sitting and dwelling on who might want to launch rocks at her. Sarah had sprung to mind, but it couldn’t be – and, given the circumstances, it should be Maura casting the first stone at her. Richard was long gone; besides, he’d already done her as much harm as it was possible to do and even he couldn’t rise from the dead. Whatever this was, it didn’t have anything to do with her. As she faffed with the tea things, she hoped it was a one-off, a chancy kid letting off steam or a stroppy drunk who’d taken a wrong turn on the way home and decided to have a pop at the posh folk. Thank God for Bob and his willingness to turn out in the dead of night and come to the rescue. He was hardly a knight in shining armour, more a dishevelled old codger with a five o’clock shadow, a missing ear that she was dying to ask about but didn’t feel she should, and a distinct lack of wit, but he was there and Maura was glad of him. ‘Tea’s on the table. I’d better go and check on Himself.’

Gordon Henderson had slept through it all, or so it appeared. He didn’t even stir when she let herself into the room and allowed the light from the hallway to stray onto his face. Not that she wanted to wake him; she just needed to check he was still breathing. Any man who could sleep through windows breaking, nurses screaming, police banging on the door and Bob hammering was either drugged or dead. Maura was relieved to see that it was the former – Mr Henderson had been well and truly smacked with the chemical cosh. Under the circumstances it was probably a good thing, but Maura couldn’t help thinking she’d given an awful lot of drugs to a very frail man. It occurred to her that she’d have to talk to Dr Moss about what had been prescribed for Gordon; there were enough pills in his medicine reminder to restock a branch of Boots and it was only a week’s supply. Moss wasn’t going to like being questioned, but his ego came second to her duty of care.

Satisfied the old man was still in the land of the living (and that she wouldn’t have to report she’d not only allowed an assault on the house, but had also allowed her charge to die on her first evening), she gently closed the door and replaced the chain. The adrenaline rush that had fuelled the aftermath of the incident had long worn off and she was exhausted. There would be little chance of sleep with Bob hammering away in the kitchen, and she didn’t relish the thought of him going back to his own cosy bed and leaving her on her own either. Sleep deprivation and Bob’s noisy presence were preferable to even a few hours alone in a house that was giving her the distinct impression it didn’t like her.

Tiredness was making her irrational and making her doubt her decision to take the job, let alone whether she was willing to stay. It was just a house – a big, old, ugly house that made horrible noises, but just a house – and it had a resident incapable of caring for himself. Maybe if Bob was willing to stay she could get a few hours’ sleep and wake up with her sensible head on?

Bob did stay, on a sofa in one of the downstairs rooms, his snores punching their way through the early morning and drowning out the birdsong to the point where Maura gave up on any thought of sleep and made her way back downstairs. She was battling Gordon over the state of his porridge when Cheryl’s less than dulcet tones broke the uneasy peace.

‘What in hell’s name happened to my kitchen?’ Cheryl demanded. ‘And why is Bob Silver asleep on the morning-room sofa?’

Maura had anticipated Cheryl’s anger, but not the thread of panic that wound through her voice, tightening the shrill voice to a screech.

At that moment Gordon decided to tip the contents of his breakfast bowl onto the tray. ‘Porridge should be a solid thing, not this slop. Look at it!’

Maura did look, staring with exhaustion and exasperation at the mess he was prodding with a bony finger. ‘I’ll make some more, Mr Henderson.’

‘Too late, too late. I eat at the right time, no later. I cannot eat past my time.’

Maura was operating on nerves as taut as catgut and a level of sleep deprivation that a KGB torturer would have been proud of. ‘I’m very sorry, I’ll take it away,’ she said, aware that Cheryl stood behind her bristling with impatience. This whole scenario was turning into something surreal and faintly ridiculous. Maura felt herself about to snap, pack her bags and leave.

In the hallway Cheryl gave the tray a snide look. ‘Well?’

‘Someone threw a rock through the kitchen window last night. Bob came here to fix it, but we had to wait for the police, so by the time they’d come and he’d boarded it up, it was getting pretty late. I asked him to stay because, to be quite frank with you, Cheryl, I was cacking myself. It was my first night, someone lobbed a rock at me, and I didn’t want to be here on my own. As for the porridge, I’ve never made it from scratch in my life. I’m a nurse, not a cook, so forgive me if it’s not up to anyone’s cordon bleu standards.’

Cheryl’s untidy eyebrows rose, almost meeting her frizzy fringe. ‘All right, keep your hair on! There’s bigger things to worry about than bloody porridge.’

Maura gave her the filthiest look she could muster and stalked towards the baize door. What the hell was she doing in a house that had a bloody baize door for Christ’s sake? As she strode towards the kitchen she felt as though she’d been badly cast in the Mark Gatiss version of Upstairs Downstairs. Life in the Grange was like being an unwilling participant in some demonic episode of a B-grade dystopian time slip farce. Any minute now, some weirdo in a blue police box would turn up and rescue them all if she was lucky.

Cheryl took her time joining her and, by the time she arrived, Maura was scrubbing the last of the congealed porridge from the pan, wincing as the cuts on her hands sang with soreness inside the rubber gloves.

‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? I think we got off on the wrong foot. My mouth runs away with me and I speak before I think sometimes. I don’t mean to be nasty, it’s just my way. I’ve seen to his nibs and had a chat with Bob, so, why don’t you go and lie down for a bit, get some sleep, eh?’ She nodded at the washing-up. ‘I’ll see to that.’

Maura hadn’t been expecting that, and to her shame tears started to prickle at the corners of her eyes – her anger was so easily replaced by upset these days. What she wanted to do was hurl the dirty pan across the kitchen, pack her bag and leave, but she was dropping with tiredness and it wasn’t an option at that moment. Instead she set the pan on the draining board and turned to Cheryl, finding that the woman’s face looked more menacing with its mask of empathy than it did with the more familiar scowl.

‘Thank you. I’ll take a couple of hours if you don’t mind,’ Maura said before walking from the room with limbs that were stiff with self-consciousness. The prospect of festering at home, alone with her brooding bitterness, was increasingly feeling like a more appealing alternative to being stuck with Gordon and his porridge issues, or Cheryl and her mercurial temperament.

Sleeping on the decision and letting it ferment seemed the wise thing to do. If the current occupants and outside assailants would allow her to sleep – what with Cheryl clomping along the landing outside her door and more doors banging in the bowels of the house.

Finally, she heard Bob and Cheryl in the courtyard below, Cheryl telling Bob she was off to get some fresh air, him saying he was going to the sheds to find a glazier’s hammer. Maura was beyond caring what either of them did.

A squirt of deodorant on the sheets had masked the smell of camphor and sheer exhaustion created the illusion of a comfortable mattress. With bones as weary as her spirit Maura finally drifted into a dreamless, heavy sleep.

Chapter Five

It took fifteen minutes for everyone who was working on phase three of Essen Fields to down tools and join the throng. They gathered around the JCB, which had been moving earth from one part of the plot to another, close to the border of Essen Grange. Very little time passed before they all agreed in a series of horrified mutters that, yes, that was human skull caught on one of the metal teeth, and yes, someone ought to call the police.

The foreman was observed to grit his jaw and reach for his phone somewhat reluctantly. The consensus was that Eric Perlman, CEO of the development consortium, would not be pleased. A few even muttered that the grabbing bastard would have had them cover up the body and cover it with concrete rather than bring proceedings to a halt like this. A small number hesitantly agreed with that, a mixture of survival instinct and morality hedging their opinions. They were contractors, and no work meant no pay.

The insalubrious opinions of some were masked by mentions of “poor bugger”, “I wonder who it was?” and “I’ll bet it’s ancient, there’s that burial ground around here somewhere…”, together with one “It’s a wonder the archaeology survey didn’t find it, would have been a mercy if they had.” The foreman listened to it all with a look on his face that suggested he’d like to kick the arse of the person who hadn’t done the due diligence on this. He was sure they were digging closer to the boundary than they should have been.

The foreman punched Eric Perlman’s number into his phone and muttered caustically ‘Heads are going to roll over this’ before making the call to his boss.

At that moment a clod of earth shifted in the bucket of the JCB and dislodged the skull, which, as if on cue, fell to the floor and rolled, landing a few inches in front of the foreman’s feet.

They were men, they found it funny and they laughed. Even the foreman allowed a smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth. And then the smirk was swiftly replaced by a grim, unsmiling line of lip when his boss answered his call.

While the workmen looked and laughed, I watched them. I saw nothing funny, no joke to be had. All I saw were thin, time-yellowed bones protruding from her grave and her head lying in the dirt, the grin on her face still as innocent as it had ever been. I had to turn away before memories added too much flesh to the dead girl’s bones. I had to turn away before I was seen and the ache in my heart made me scream.

Maura wasn’t entirely sure what had woken her. The strange hush that had fallen over the house, which it took her a few moments to recognise as the absence of noise from the building works, or the sound of the iron knocker being bashed against the front door. Either way, it was the noise of the knocking that forced her out of bed. It sounded like the iron ring had been lifted and slammed with a sense of determined urgency.

Her first instinct was to rush downstairs and check on Gordon. A man with his fixations would not react well to an unexpected intrusion. She should know – he’d spent most of the time since her arrival looking at her as if she were the spawn of the Devil, sent to try him. Well, when he was conscious anyway. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time sleeping, and was still dozing in his chair when she went to check on him. She had to speak to someone about his medication.

The snoozing Gordon was blithely oblivious to the voices that were coming from the drawing room. The room was a faded palace that had long ago lost its sheen, despite Cheryl’s best efforts with the beeswax polish, and it probably hadn’t seen company for years. The first surprise for Maura when she went in was the glimpse of a blue uniform through the window; the second and much more gut-wrenching one was that she recognised the detective who was perched on the edge of the ancient sofa. The last time she’d set eyes on Detective Sergeant Mike Poole she’d slapped him across the face and the memory of it made her feel sick with shame. It had been at Richard’s funeral, the last occasion on earth where she’d wanted to show herself up so badly.

Cheryl turned her head. ‘Oh, I was just going to come and fetch you. The police want to talk to us. This is Detective Sergeant Poole and this is Detective Constable Gallan.’ Cheryl pointed at the two officers with a hand that shook with nerves that were out of proportion to the casual introduction.

Maura was already aware that the colour had drained from her face when DS Poole spoke. ‘Hello, Miss Lyle. Take a seat – you’re looking a bit pale.’

Cheryl didn’t notice that he already knew Maura’s name and carried on regardless. ‘There’s been an awful discovery on the building site. They’ve dug up human remains!’

Maura looked at Poole. ‘I didn’t imagine for one minute that you’d come about the broken window.’ This place just got worse and worse, rocks through windows, dead bodies – the bloody place was a cornucopia of crap. At the realisation that her words were a mite callous, Maura had the grace to blush. Had she become that hard?

Poole frowned at her. ‘Indeed, though we do take all such incidents seriously, I don’t feel there’s a connection with our current enquiry.’

‘I don’t see that I can be of much help then. I only arrived yesterday and know absolutely nothing about anything to do with Essen Grange.’

Poole’s frown didn’t alter. ‘I don’t expect you do. However, I do need to talk to Mr Gordon Henderson and I’m led to believe he’s in a somewhat vulnerable state. Consequently, we will need you to be present.’

‘I said I’d do it, but they said I had to be interviewed too, so I can’t be the responsible adult for Mr Henderson,’ Cheryl said by way of explanation, as if not wanting anyone to think she might have been overlooked for the role. There was a thin sheen of sweat slicked across her brow. She looked profoundly nervous about the police presence and seemed to be silently pleading for something. Maura didn’t have a clue what, so turned her attention to Poole.

She could feel Poole’s gaze boring into her, going past her crumpled clothes and her tousled hair. It was as if he was trying to find out what made her tick just by staring and it made her feel brutally exposed. ‘Fair enough, but he’s asleep – I just checked so it might be better to talk to Cheryl first. I’ll try and wake him, though he might be a bit reluctant to talk to you if his routine has been disturbed.’

Poole nodded. ‘I understand he suffers from dementia.’

‘So I’m led to believe, yes.’

Maura noticed the slight rise of Poole’s eyebrows at that.

‘I’ll need to speak to the odd-job man too, and anyone else connected to the house and the land. I understand that Miss Estelle Hall is currently in hospital having suffered a serious fall, is that correct?’ He addressed his question to Cheryl, much to Maura’s relief. Just being in the same room as him was making her feel nauseous, and to think she had come here to escape reminders of the past.

‘Yes, she fell down the stairs and broke her hip. She also broke her jaw, like I said, so she won’t be able to talk to you.’ Cheryl’s voice was high and thin, a reedy note of panic wheezing through her words.

‘What happened? Which hospital?’ Poole was jotting things down.

Cheryl gave him an impatient look and spoke clearly, as if she was talking to someone who had a hard time understanding plain English. ‘She fell, down the stairs. I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t here. You’ll have to talk to Dr Moss. I don’t know which hospital; the General, I assume.’

Poole peered at the woman, a quizzical look on his face. ‘Surely you know which hospital your employer was admitted to?’

Glad that the attention was momentarily off her, Maura fought to hide a smirk as Cheryl treated Poole to a dose of her customary charm. ‘Hardly. I’m their cleaner, not their confidante. You’d best speak to her doctor. I’m just here to keep my nose and the house clean and cook for the old man – what they get up to is none of my business. It’s an old house, they’re old people, shit happens.’

Poole’s eyebrows rose sharply this time, then he frowned and scribbled something further in his notebook. Maura would have loved to know what it said.

He snapped the book shut, a move that made his colleague start a little. Maura had suspected that Detective Constable Gallan wasn’t giving the meeting his full attention.

‘Ladies, human remains have been discovered on land that until very recently belonged to Mr Gordon Henderson. We need to know what happened and why the remains were placed there. I need to speak to people who know the area and the people, and I need to speak to the owner of this house, and anyone else who has long-standing connections with it. I would very much appreciate your help in giving me the name of anyone who fits that category.’

That he’d need to know that was patently obvious to anyone in the room with half a brain, or who had ever watched a police drama on TV. Although Maura felt that, after the previous night and just a few hours of snatched sleep, she might be functioning on less than a quarter of her own brain. ‘Isn’t it likely that the remains are old? I mean, this area is well-known as an ancient burial site. Surely the most likely explanation is that they’ve dug up some dead Roman or Anglo-Saxon or whatever.’

Poole sighed and shifted on the edge of the couch to turn towards her. ‘As an officer of the law, I assume nothing, but like you I would have preferred to think the remains were ancient. However, unless the likes of Boudicca were serving cans of coke with their spit-roast boar, I think what we can assume is that these particular remains are very modern indeed.’

Cheryl look entirely confounded. ‘Boudicca? Coke? You’ve lost me, Sergeant.’

‘It’s Detective Sergeant. A preliminary examination of the site revealed the pull-ring of a soft-drink can and a partially degraded crisp packet in a layer of soil beneath the body. It’s fair indicator that these particular remains have not been there for any significant length of time.’

Maura’s breath caught in her throat just as Cheryl allowed a horrified “Oh” to escape her thin lips.

Gordon was not happy and utterly refused to play ball with Poole. His only concern was that his lunch was due at one o’clock, it was Friday, and that it would therefore be tinned tomato soup and white bread with the crusts cut off and served in equally divided triangles. Poole shot a despairing glance at Maura, who shrugged and said, ‘Mr Henderson, would it be all right if we talked to you about this after your lunch? It is extremely important.’

‘I shall be taking my afternoon nap and will require my pills. You’ll have to come another time,’ he said, setting his mouth in a determined line while eyeing the clock. It was five to one and he was eager for his meal.

‘I’m not sure that’s going to be possible, Gordon. Is it OK if I call you Gordon?’ Maura said in a desperate effort to get the old man to comply. She wanted Poole out of the house and with no cause to return.

‘Young lady, you may not. You are expected to know your place.’ He pointed to the clock where the hands were creeping towards one.

‘Cheryl will bring it right on time, just as she always does. Mr Henderson, do you understand the seriousness of the situation? A body has been found on land that used to belong to you,’ Maura pleaded.

He looked away and a petulant, whining ring entered his voice. ‘I don’t deal with the estate. I don’t know anything about it. Talk to Estelle.’ At that point Cheryl backed through the door carrying a tray precisely as the clock struck one. There was no distracting him from it after that. Maura had seen people fixated like this before, but they hadn’t been suffering from dementia. Once Poole and his silent partner had gone, she was determined to ring Dr Moss and have a long conversation with him.

She turned to Poole. ‘I really don’t think you’re going to be able to get much from him.’

Poole frowned. ‘We’re going to have to talk to him at some point. I’ll leave it for now and maybe send a liaison officer in. It seems he might be more used to females, so maybe he’ll be more comfortable with that. In the meantime, I’ll need to see Estelle Hall, even if she’s unable to talk to me.’

Maura nodded. At least he was indicating that he wouldn’t be back. She was not a fan of the police and their tactics, but she’d rather deal with pretty much anyone than have to spend more time than was necessary with Mike Poole. ‘I’ll show you out.’ He was going to get nowhere with a woman who’d broken her jaw and more than likely listing in and out of a morphine fog.

Gallan went out first but Poole paused on the wide stone step and turned to Maura. ‘By the way, it’s nice to see you again. For what it’s worth, I really am sorry about what happened.’

It was Maura’s turn to pause, but only for a second while her better judgement vied with her more basic instincts. Instinct won. ‘What for? The fact that Richard died in a pool of his own vomit in one of your cells? Fuck you, Poole.’ She didn’t slam the door but shut it firmly in his face. Then she leaned against it, hoping he was walking away and wondering if he’d noticed how much she’d been shaking since clapping eyes on him that day. She hoped he hadn’t. It would be one humiliation too far if he had.

Gordon was already dozing in his chair, a dribble of tomato soup drying on his whiskered chin. According to the list, shaving day was Saturday and there was nothing Maura detested more than having to shave a man because he couldn’t do it for himself. Blood would be shed, albeit unintentionally. The soup sat there glistening like a little red portent, warning her of things to come.

With a stoical sigh she picked up the tray and made her way to the kitchen. Once in the passage she could hear Cheryl’s voice, high and angry.

‘As if I haven’t got enough on my plate without that filthy mutt undoing all my good work! No, Bob, I won’t have it. I don’t want that animal putting his nose around this house.’

‘Aww come on, Cheryl love, he’ll be company for her. He’s a good guard dog and after everything that’s happened you can’t expect the poor lass to sit here on her own at night, it wouldn’t be fair.’ Bob’s tone was wheedling.

‘Don’t you “love” me, Bob Silver. It won’t wash! And there’s no way her ladyship will tolerate him in the house.’

Maura was tempted to loiter in the passage until Cheryl had calmed down; the woman seemed to have a quicksilver temperament that was terrifyingly difficult to predict. The attempt at discreet avoidance was foiled by the sound of claws tapping on lino and the arrival of a wet nose followed by a furry body and a wagging tail. A dog – Maura didn’t “do” dogs but this one seemed friendly enough. At least he didn’t jump up at her like most did, but quietly followed her into the kitchen. Cheryl was on her before she could even put the tray down.

‘He,’ Cheryl said, pointing at Bob with her arm and index finger fully extended, ‘thinks you might want some protection, so he’s brought that filthy animal here. As if that fleabag could protect anyone.’ She eyed the dog with abject disdain.

Maura had to admit that the poor animal (some Heinz variety mongrel by the look of him) didn’t appear to possess the capacity to ravage anything more menacing than a tennis ball. However, if his presence would annoy Cheryl, a woman who was displaying controlling tendencies that would shame a Waffen SS officer, as far as Maura was concerned the dog could move in and sleep on the best bed. ‘Aww Bob, that’s so kind of you! What’s his name?’

‘Buster, but he’ll answer to most things, won’t you, boy?’ Bob said fondly, pointedly ignoring Cheryl’s look of utter disgust. At the sound of his name the dog began to wag his tail in a frenzy of ecstasy, a movement that set his whole body in motion and caused a large gobbet of drool to fall from his mouth onto Cheryl’s immaculate floor.

Maura could hardly contain the snigger that threatened to unleash Cheryl’s further wrath. ‘You’ll be good company, won’t you, boy?’ she said to the dog, ignoring the puce colour that had started to creep into Cheryl’s face.

The woman’s temper dissipated as quickly as it had boiled. ‘Well, yes, I suppose he can stay – but I won’t have him on the furniture and I don’t want him upstairs. She won’t tolerate it if you let him upstairs.’

A moment later it was as if it had never happened. Buster lay on a blanket under the table while Cheryl poured her trademark weak tea and Bob speculated on the identity of the body.

‘Eh, what if it’s her? What if the old boy did her in and stashed her in the woods?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. Drink your tea.’ Cheryl was having none of it. She turned to Maura. ‘Don’t you go listening to any of his nonsense. There’s enough going on without any of it getting furled by gossip.’

Maura gave Cheryl a weak smile and wished she would bugger off so she could ask Bob what he meant. He seemed somewhat excited, as if something had rattled him and made him overanimated. She got her wish a few minutes later when, noticing that Bob was making moves to leave, Cheryl seemed to decide it was safe for her to get on with her work. Once she was out of the kitchen, Maura was free to ask. Bob’s response was not what she’d been expecting.

‘His missus – Gordon’s. She disappeared, oh, I dunno, twenty, thirty-odd years ago? Perhaps longer. Maybe it’s her. Maybe she didn’t leave him. Maybe he bumped her off and buried her down the way. There’s plenty of gossip about it in the village, I can tell you.’

She was completely taken aback by this, not least because she couldn’t imagine Gordon ever having been married. Despite his mental health issues, he displayed an eccentric streak of obvious long duration and, in Maura’s opinion, seemed to operate from a place fuelled by a deep-seated self-obsession. Not that these things precluded marriage, but they made it less likely in her experience. ‘Did you know his wife?’

‘Me? Nah, know of her, though. It’s Connie you want to talk to. She knew her. Have a chat with her, she’ll tell you all about the Hendersons. You don’t want to listen to them in the village – I only said that to wind Cheryl up.’ He said it with a conspiratorial wink, as if it was Maura’s one desire to go digging into the family’s past and irritate Cheryl. ‘Look after the old boy, won’t you? Me and him been pals for a long time, haven’t we, Buster?’ The dog thumped his tail against the floor at this. ‘Gonna stay with the nice lady and keep her company, aren’t you, boy? Your old man’s got things to do.’ Buster ambled over and allowed his master to fuss him, revelling in the attention and slobbering to prove it.

‘I’ve never had a dog, Bob. What do I do with him? And who’s Connie?’

Her question made Bob chuckle and shake his head from side to side in a motion that smacked of bemusement. ‘Keep him off the furniture when Cheryl’s about if you can and for God’s sake don’t let him upstairs or she’ll do her nut. Other than that, not much – he’ll potter around after you. I brought some food for him. He’ll have that in the morning and evening, but other than that, not too heavy on the treats – don’t want you getting fat, do we, boy?’ He petted Buster again, who responded with the kind of adoration only a dog can display. ‘I’ll pop in to take him on his W.A.L.K in the mornings. If he’s whining by the door it means he want a pee, or the other… I’ve left you some poop bags too. He won’t stray far from the house, he’s a good old boy.’ He bent to stroke the dog’s head. ‘Connie is Cheryl’s mum. You should go and have a chat with her – she loves a natter – only don’t let on to Cheryl. They don’t see eye to eye most of the time. Funny set-up that, never could fathom it.’

Maura nodded. She didn’t relish having to pick up the poop – it was bad enough having to deal with Gordon’s toilette. ‘Thanks, Bob, you’ve been really kind.’ He had been, and she did appreciate it despite her reservations about caring for Buster, who was the least aggressive creature she’d ever come across – as a child she’d owned more terrifying guinea pigs. As for Cheryl’s mother… well, that might be something she’d willingly avoid if talking to her would irritate Cheryl. Besides, she wasn’t sure she did want to know anything more about the Hendersons. There were some stones it was better not to turn over.

Bob shrugged and put his hand on the door handle. ‘Don’t take much, does it, love? Not enough of it about in my opinion and it’s a rare thing around here. The Hendersons don’t deal much in kindness.’

Maura watched him leave and admitted he was right: there wasn’t enough kindness in the world. She should know; she’d been one of the worst culprits in its demise. She had been kind to no one in recent times, least of all herself. She had spent far too long hating the world and thinking it hated her too. But that’s what happened when the people you loved dumped on you and then died on you. You got depressed and you got mean. It was time for that to stop.

She glanced down at the dog and smiled at him ‘Time to ring the agency, I think, mate, and find out what the flipping heck is going on here.’

Having retrieved her phone, she sat in her car for a long time while Buster snuffled around in the undergrowth. She hadn’t called the agency; instead she had picked up a message from her older sister, Denise. Well, less of a message, more of a lecture. Denise had demanded that she let bygones be bygones. She demanded that Maura forgive Sarah, who was truly sorry, and insisted that Maura had to tell her where she was immediately. Finally, she had stated that she expected Maura to pull herself together after all this time and move on with her life.

Maura had listened to it twice, just to get the full nuance of her sister’s righteousness. Denise had always been bossy, had always defended Sarah and had always assumed some weird form of older-sibling dominion over Maura’s life. At thirty-eight, Maura had had enough. She sent a text saying it was none of Denise’s business where she was, that she was moving on, and that Sarah was Denise’s problem, not hers. She pressed send with grim satisfaction.

Once the text was sent she scrolled through to the number for the agency and hesitated. Breaking her contract would mean going back home, having to sit in that house, waiting for Denise to ring or visit with a list of demands and instructions that suited everyone but Maura. It would mean having to sit with the black bags that contained Richard’s belongings, wondering whether she should burn them or take them to a charity shop. It would mean going back to being unable to make the decision to do either. It would mean crawling back into the rut she’d been trying to escape for months.

It would mean leaving the Grange just when things had started to get interesting.

Chapter Six

Little heaps of pills stood like small cairns on the kitchen table; Maura had been trying to make sense of Gordon’s medication. He was asleep again and, apart from the one peeing incident shortly after she’d arrived, was proving to be the model patient. Too model. So model she was beginning to question why she had been engaged at all. Gordon didn’t appear to need a nurse, just someone who could prepare his food to his exacting standards and who could also dish out his pills in the order he preferred. And what a variety of pills there were. So far she had identified two major tranquilisers, an old-fashioned antipsychotic, two different benzodiazepines, a statin, a low-dose aspirin, what appeared to be a proton pump inhibitor, three possible sleeping tablets and a load of herbal nonsense she couldn’t identify at all. There were no packets or bottles to help, and neither was there any prescription or list – just a blue box with different compartments for various times of day, all of which were stuffed to the gunnels with pills. There wasn’t even a sticker on the box to tell her which pharmacy had dispensed the medication. All she did know was that the man she was caring for was being doped to buggery and beyond. He was barely able to maintain a simple conversation and it struck her that this had less to do with his mental state than it did with the fact that he was perpetually drug-addled.

After Cheryl had gone off to the supermarket that afternoon, Maura had rung and asked to speak to Dr Moss, only to be unhelpfully told he’d gone on leave. Her call to the local GP and request to speak to an NHS doctor had been met with a casual and patronising “I’ll see what I can do”. It had angered her, not only because she wanted to discuss Gordon’s medication, but also because she knew the receptionist hadn’t taken her seriously. No one did any longer, or so it felt. She was known at the surgery, previously as a professional, but more recently as a patient. Her rather spectacular “breakdown” had set the grapevine on fire. Now, rather than indulging in the usual banter, the staff at the surgery tended to frown at her sympathetically, speak quietly and pat her on the head (in a metaphorical sense) until she went away and stopped bothering them. It seemed to Maura that, if the mental-health nurse went mental, a point of no return had been reached. She doubted, even if a court of law had declared her sane and issued an edict, that Barb and co., guardians of the reception desk, keepers of notes and makers of appointments, would have believed it. In their eyes Maura was irreversibly flawed and permanently delicate – not to be trusted and to be treated with kid gloves for evermore.

With a sigh she piled the pills back into their little plastic reservoirs and closed the box. Without the say-so of a doctor, she could take no decisions regarding which ones she should cut out. It was an ethical dilemma she had no choice but to tolerate for the time being. Just as she’d had to tolerate Poole that day. What kind of twisted bastard was fate to put him in her path again, for crying out loud? The same kind of twisted bastard that allowed human remains to be uncovered at her place of work, she supposed. Her grandmother had often been known to use the phrase “there’s no peace for the wicked”; though Maura knew it to be prophetic in meaning, she often wondered if it was also retrospective. She felt she must have been abominably wicked in some former life to be experiencing so little peace now. Perhaps this was purgatory after all.

Now she’d had time to absorb the fact, knowledge of an unexplained death and the presence of the bones weighed heavy. Someone had lost their life near the Grange and had been buried on its land, and in the not-too-distant past. The thought brushed her spine with icy fingers and fluffed the hairs on the back of her neck, making her shudder. A movement that engaged the attention of the drooling Buster, who nudged at her elbow and whined for her to get up and follow. His pawing at the back door made her realise he needed to go out.

Not entirely confident that Buster wouldn’t go haring off into the back of beyond, and that she would have to face Bob and explain the loss of his dog, she quickly checked that Gordon was still asleep and that no one had left the gas on before following the dog outside.

The air was crisp and quiet, the low hum of the building site no longer intruding on the peace. Even the birds seemed to have sensed that something had shifted in the fabric of the landscape, and though she could see them flitting through the trees, she couldn’t hear their chatter. All she could hear was Buster, sniffing and snuffling in clumps of weeds and occasionally raising his leg to pee on them. She guessed at foxes, that they had left their scent in the yard and that Buster was establishing his territory in a vain attempt to obliterate their smell. She hoped to God he didn’t find any fox poo; her last experience of dog-sitting had involved a shit-covered dog, an extensive, all-pervading stench, and scrubbing the house for an hour while a soggy, freshly shampooed dog ran riot around her. She definitely didn’t “do” dogs.

Bored of the yard, Buster began clawing at the gate. Not having explored the outside, Maura was curious as to what lay beyond it too. Once through the gate, Buster bounded down the path, ears bouncing and flapping as he cantered ahead. It was obvious to Maura that he knew exactly where he was going and she followed dutifully, wondering if their roles hadn’t been reversed. Wasn’t she supposed to lead the way?

It didn’t take long for her to realise that Buster was going home. They were in the orchard, a scrubby, neglected place full of gnarled fruit trees with more canker than leaves. Bob’s bungalow wasn’t difficult to spot, though the word bungalow suggested far more glamour than the ramshackle structure she was confronted with. The building was essentially a badly rendered cinder-block box with a pent roof and some mismatched windows. In fact, it looked more like a large garage than a home.

Outside the door, Buster began to sniff the ground, showing that somewhere in his mongrel mix there might be a bit of ancient bloodhound. It took him a moment or two to find the scent of his quarry, but once he had he was locked on and running. Maura quickened her pace and followed, fervently hoping that he hadn’t scented rats or rabbits or something else likely to lead them both an un-merry dance. Fortunately, the object of his focus was Bob, who was leaning on a fence post, puffing on a shoddily rolled cigarette and obscuring the view with pungent clouds of smoke.

‘I think he wanted to come home,’ Maura said as Bob turned.

‘Did he now?’ Bob said as he bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, his face pinched as he squinted against the smoke leaching from the drooping cigarette that clung to his lip. ‘I been watching the goings on down there,’ he added, pointing at the building site where Maura could see that a large area had been cordoned off. ‘Not much going on at the moment. They’ve put a tent up over the bones by the look and there’s a load of bods in white overalls milling about.’

‘SOCOs I expect,’ Maura said.

‘Eh, whatto’s?’

Maura laughed. ‘You need to watch more telly, Bob. Scene of Crime Officers. They make sure any evidence is handled properly and that the scene is preserved while investigations take place.’

‘Ah, right. I don’t watch much telly – bit of snooker when it’s on. Don’t mind a bit of that Attenborough feller sometimes, though. Mind you, they’re going to be dealing with another body soon by the looks of him.’ He pointed to a heavy-set man in a long coat. Maura could see by his stance that he was riddled with tension, and his face was red with barely contained frustration. He looked like a football manager who’d just seen his team relegated by a series of own goals in the last match of the season.

‘Who is he?’

‘Perlman, the landowner. Not happy that proceedings have come to a halt by the look of him, not happy at all.’

Maura had to concede that the man looked like he might explode at any moment. ‘Definitely not happy. It looks like the press have started to turn up,’ she said, as an inappropriately dressed woman, followed by a cameraman, picked her way across the mud towards the cordon. ‘We’ll be famous in a few hours.’

Bob chuckled. ‘Hope she don’t try to interview Perlman. By the look on his face, they’ll have three bodies to deal with, not one!’

Maura smiled, but felt a pang of guilt at the gesture. Someone was dead and she and Bob were observing the scene with amusement, not even having the grace to show detached curiosity. ‘I suppose we ought to be a bit more dignified about this. Perhaps we should go before that reporter spots us and thinks a bit of local colour might enhance the story.’

Bob nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Don’t feel real, though – to think I’ve been living in spitting distance from that body all this time and never had a clue.’

‘Why would you?’ Maura was puzzled. There was a strain in Bob’s voice that didn’t fit his casual and detached words.

Bob shrugged, ‘Dunno. But I must have walked across the top of it a million times. When the land belonged to the Grange, that is. I’d be trespassing now. I’m surprised old Buster never caught a sniff of it – he likes a bone. Poor sod’s got a lousy sense of smell, though; just goes through the motions these days, bit like me.’ He laughed, but the humour was thin and taut, like an elastic band at the point before it snaps.

They had reached the “bungalow” by then and Maura had to suppress a shudder at the thought of Buster dragging a muddy femur up the path with drooling relish.

‘Coming in for a cuppa?’ Bob asked.

‘Better not. Cheryl will be back soon and she’ll have a ten-ton hissy fit if I’m not there too. Besides, his lordship will be awake soon, demanding his fish-paste sandwiches for tea. I think it’s fish paste today anyway.’

Bob rolled his eyes and gave her a weak grin. ‘A woman’s work is never done, love.’ He reached inside a small lean-to that seemed to serve as a porch and produced a lead, which had a sobering effect on Buster, who hung his head as if in defeat. ‘He don’t like the lead but it’s the only way you’ll get him back with you. Best have him there tonight. I’ve fixed the window but the putty’s still wet, so it isn’t secure. Not that it stopped that rock before.’

He bent and clipped the lead to Buster’s collar and handed it to Maura, who thanked him and towed the reluctant dog back towards the house. All the way back her mind was on Bob. He seemed haunted and she couldn’t help but feel for the man.

If it hadn’t been for the dog suddenly perking up and showing interest, she might have missed it. A sudden flash of movement in the trees near the gate that induced a low, menacing growl from the dog and caused him to strain on the lead. The vegetation was dense near the house. The remains of a garden had sprawled in the absence of tender, loving care, creating an abundance of leggy shrubs and greenery that anything could lurk in unseen. After the previous night’s fright, Maura was wary and called out ‘Who’s there?’ but there was no reply, despite Buster’s continued growling insistence that something of interest was in the bushes. Maura rationally decided to assume it was a squirrel or a cat that he’d sensed, though her instinct told her it had been much bigger. She could hardly claim to have seen anything as such – but the flash of perception had settled in her brain as more than just a stray cat on the prowl. Eager as Buster seemed, she dared not let him off the lead. There wasn’t time to go haring after him again, and whatever it was seemed to have gone. She could sense no further movement and doubted anything other than an animal could have remained so still. With some effort she dragged Buster through the gate and bolted it behind her, on principal more than anything else. One bolted gate could not secure an area that was open to the world on the other side.

Buster seemed to settle once beyond the gate, but she didn’t let him go until they were inside the kitchen and were being greeted by a surprisingly benign and cheerful Cheryl.

‘Hello there, been for a walk, have you? I’ve checked on Mr Henderson; he’s still dozing but I expect he’ll be awake soon. He seems quite taken with you, Maura. Well, I say that – he hasn’t tried to bite you yet!’ Cheryl followed this with a tinkling laugh that Maura supposed was meant to denote some level of camaraderie, but which was in fact somewhat startling. She could have joined in and said Gordon had tried and been given short shrift, but Cheryl’s quixotic temperament was becoming profoundly unnerving.

Instead she began to unload some of the carrier bags that littered the table in a bid to be helpful. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll do it. I got you some nice ready meals to keep you going, by the way. Can’t expect you to survive on fish paste and soup too, can we?’ There was that laugh again, edging Cheryl’s words with a tinge of something hard to pin down but which gave Maura the sense of a pill being sugared.

The reason for Cheryl’s unnatural buoyancy was soon revealed: she had a date, with a man (not that Maura would have assumed differently, but it was said pointedly, as if to imply that the said date was a living, breathing, gender-specific being), and she needed a favour. Up until this point Cheryl had been coy about the proposed assignation, cupping her frizzy curls as though they were perfectly coiffed coils of gold, rather than the mousy results of a failed home perm. But business was business and Cheryl, even under the influence of perceived flattery, couldn’t sustain the bonhomie for long. ‘The thing is, it’s mother. She doesn’t like being on her own at night – so I was wondering if I could bring her here for the evening. I mean, she’s no trouble. She’ll sit and chat for hours, so it might be company for you too, only she’ll show off rotten if I leave her on her own to go out. I could drop her off and pick her up later?’

Maura looked at the plaintive expression on Cheryl’s face and at the pale grey eyes that twinkled with hope. Judgemental though it was, Maura doubted the housekeeper of Essen Grange received many offers of romance. She wasn’t an easy woman to like and her changeable moods seemed to drain any vestiges of attractiveness from her being. They had left wrinkles and furrows on her skin and a perceived spikiness in her manner that was hardly compelling. It would be cruel to turn down her request and ruin this opportunity. ‘Of course, no problem.’

It seemed as though Cheryl had already prepared an appeal in anticipation of being turned down. She looked as if she was about to argue her case further until Maura’s words registered. Maura almost smirked when the woman’s face didn’t know what to do with itself and went through a range of expressions before settling on one Cheryl clearly believed was gratitude, but which, to Maura, looked more like an unconfident look of surprise. ‘Oh, OK. Thank you.’ The words fell from Cheryl’s tongue as if she was wholly unfamiliar with them, and as if they consisted of the amalgam in a loose filling that she’d felt compelled to discreetly spit out.

Maura stifled a smile of amusement. ‘You’re welcome.’ With anyone else she would have probed, found out about the man who had asked her out on a date, discussed appropriate dress for the occasion and generally had a girl-to-girl chat. Where Cheryl was concerned, however, it felt as though it might be a form of mild torture to indulge in such a thing. Besides, the topic had changed to fish-paste sandwiches and the importance of cutting the crusts off and making the triangles equal to appease Gordon’s sense of order.

‘I wanted to ask you about his medication. He seems to be on a hell of a lot and unfortunately the doctor isn’t available to ask,’ Maura said after the sandwich lecture had dwindled and all subjects of the heart had been carefully skirted.

Cheryl was arranging the dainty triangles of bread on a plate. ‘I don’t know much about it, I just give him what’s in the pill box at the right times. Her ladyship always deals with all that.’

‘Do you know which pharmacy she uses?’ With Dr Moss away, at least she might be able to discuss the doses with the pharmacist.

Cheryl shrugged. ‘No idea. There isn’t one nearby so it would have to be one in town. Boots maybe, though to be honest I always had the impression the doctor brought them with him when he came.’

Maura raised her eyebrows – if that was the case it was extremely unusual. ‘Oh, OK. Perhaps it’s because they’re private patients.’

‘Probably’ Cheryl mumbled, distracted by the tray she was laying for Gordon’s tea. ‘But I wouldn’t go prying too much if I was you. Dr Moss doesn’t like questions from the likes of us. He’ll be wanting this in a minute. You going to take it?’

‘Sure.’ It felt like the most useful thing she’d done all day. Gordon was indeed waiting, staring pensively at the clock as if timing her. He seemed happy enough that his meagre tea had arrived a few minutes before time, but didn’t start to eat until the clock struck the hour. Despite his quirks and desire for routine, there didn’t seem to be that much wrong with him. The peeing thing had clearly been done to test her mettle, and now she’d proved herself he seemed quite content with her presence and in little need of nursing. Basic assistance was all he required. Maura had to wonder why Dr Moss had suggested her when an unqualified carer would have been much cheaper and just as capable. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for her and recommended her out of pity. The thought was of no comfort. Instead, it made her feel pathetic.

Back in the kitchen, Cheryl was making moves to go. ‘Right, I’ll see you tomorrow – make sure you lock everything up tight tonight, won’t you? Mind you, I don’t think you’ll have much trouble – there’s still police crawling all over.’

It was a fair point. The police presence was a distinct comfort now she’d decided to stay, but Maura locked the door behind her anyway, and drew the bolts just in case. Then she went to every downstairs room in the house, except Gordon’s, and locked the internal doors with the heavy black keys that nestled in their locks. Before she went to bed she would lock the kitchen-passage door too; at least that way no one would be able to get far into the house before she, or Buster, could raise the alarm. It was nice to know the police were still around, but they were a quarter of a mile away, through the orchard and guarding bones, not looking for intruders.

With Gordon settled, medicated and in his pyjamas watching TV, she was at a loss what to do with herself. Locking all the doors had given her a sense of claustrophobia, as if the house was closing in around her like an unpleasant old lady enfolding her into an unwanted embrace. In the cold quiet of the hall she felt as though the house was holding its breath in anticipation. Of what she didn’t know, but there was an unpleasantness about the feeling she didn’t want to dwell on.

It was fanciful thinking, born of feeling purposeless and the bad habit of mental filtering. She didn’t know why she’d come other than to escape an equal loneliness at home. At least here there were no reminders of Richard or Sarah – until Poole had shown his face, of course. God knew what she’d done to piss karma off to the extent that it had put him in her path again. It was as if all the fates wanted her tied to the past whatever her own choices were. Life wasn’t fair, and didn’t she know it.

There she is, making herself at home, getting to know people – making friends. Bloody dog lapping at her heels. Pathetic. There are no friends here, no one trustworthy, no one she can rely on. I should know. She’s in the middle of a nest of vipers and that fucking dog is nothing but a liability.

As if locking the doors will keep me out. I know this place better than any of them. I know all its secrets. I know all of theirs too.

I wonder if she knows that all the evil is inside with her? All she’s done is lock out the good.

Chapter Seven

There seemed nothing left to do but kill time. As she climbed the stairs with Buster at her heels, thoughts about killing things led to thoughts about the bones and what the fates had determined for the person they had once been. Whoever it was couldn’t have anticipated a secret burial and subsequently being laid bare by a bulldozer for all to see. She paused on the landing and suppressed a shudder. It didn’t bear thinking about, but neither could she avoid it. The lights of the crime scene were all too visible in the distance as she peered through the landing window. Bob’s dwelling was visible too, light twinkling through the orchard’s gnarly trees. It was a comfort knowing he was there.

A bath was the order of the day, something to wash away the sense of oppression and feelings of despair. The thought of it was comforting, though the reality was a disappointment. The plumbing was old, the bath made of steel and the tank inadequate. Six inches of tepid water wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind and a rapid whip round with a soapy sponge to compensate didn’t induce the sense of relaxation she’d hoped for. Her own towel was still in her bag and she was forced to use one of the thin, rigid things that Cheryl had hung in the “guest bathroom”. Maura could only hope that the house’s other resident fared better with her ablutions. Gordon had to make do with strip washes and a downstairs toilet, she’d had to endure a Baltic bathroom, unsoftened by comfort or frills, and it made her curious to know how Estelle managed in this cumbersome, unpleasant house.

Maura was not nosy by nature, but it was hard to resist poking around at least a little bit – if only to find out more about the mysterious Estelle Hall. Her lack of curiosity had probably contributed to some of the naiveté that had led her into trouble before; she should learn to ask more questions instead of charging into things full of bravado. However, if she was going to spend weeks in this house, she wasn’t prepared to put up with prison-issue bathroom facilities. In pyjamas and dressing gown, her hair still damp and Buster trailing behind her in a benign, hangdog fashion, she decided to enter forbidden territory and explore Estelle Hall’s rooms. Cheryl had made it perfectly clear they were off limits, but Cheryl didn’t have to bathe in a bathroom that should have been in a museum, or entertain herself in a house that raised more questions than answers.

God knew why she was creeping about and trying to be quiet; it wasn’t as if Gordon would hear her, or care what she was up to. He only cared about his own few square feet of the house and acted as if anything outside of his room didn’t exist – which to him it probably didn’t. Neither was it likely that Cheryl, with thunderous face, would suddenly materialise to wreak revenge for her instructions having been ignored. Even Buster didn’t care and was just curious, sniffing at the door in anticipation of a new room to explore.

It was a disappointing powder-puff-and-cut-crystal boudoir, décor circa 1950, and much like Maura’s room, except this one was pale blue. The most surprising thing was the lack of personal items; the room was almost as generic as the other bedrooms with only the addition of a few nondescript old photographs and a silver-backed hairbrush to say it belonged to anyone. She had the impression that perhaps Estelle had felt like a guest too and had never felt she belonged enough to stamp her personality on the room. Either way, it wasn’t any of Maura’s business really, yet it felt sad and lonely and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the woman. The lack of stuff was odd, though.

The en-suite was small, ran off the same water supply, and was no better than the bathroom she was already using – another disappointment. For a woman who didn’t stint on wages or private medical care, it seemed that Miss Estelle Hall was very frugal in every other area of life. She had spent no money on the house. Perhaps because it was Gordon’s money and she felt an overweening sense of responsibility for it? Or perhaps she was just plain stingy. It wouldn’t have killed them to install modern plumbing, or deal with the creaking floorboards that seemed to constantly heave with discomfort above her head. It was the kind of sound that might make someone of a nervous disposition fret they were not alone in the house, but Maura’s nerves were lying dormant, dulled by depression. She ignored the sounds and gritted her teeth against any further thought of them.

With a sigh she walked from the room, calling a reluctant Buster to come with her. Something in the wardrobe had caught his attention and he was sniffing around the door with stubborn focus. ‘Come on, dog!’ Maura urged, but he was having none of it and she was forced to drag him away by the collar and shut the door to keep him out. God knew what was in there that had fascinated him so much. She was tempted to go back and look but felt she had intruded enough.

He followed her down the stairs with a detachment only dogs seemed able to manifest; once away from the object of his curiosity he was quite happy to move on. Maura envied him and wished she had the same ability. Moving on appeared not to be her strong point despite her best efforts and belief in mind over matter.

Gordon had fallen asleep in front of the TV and was slack-jawed and slumped in his chair. Even though there was a narrow single bed in the room, he refused to use it for anything other than an extra shelf for the magazines and newspapers he loved to hoard. Maura shook her head, switched the TV off and covered him with a blanket. She might not be able to persuade him to use the bed, but she could prevent him from freezing. He wasn’t fabulously stable on his feet, but he was mobile, so at least she didn’t have to worry about pressure sores – just falling.

The chain on the outside of the door still bothered her, and the story about his night wandering seemed to be a myth. With the sleeping tablets and plethora of other sedative medication, it was unlikely he’d wake until the next morning, or be able to move if he did. Sod it. She made an executive decision and left it off. With all the other downstairs doors locked he wouldn’t get far, even if he did surprise her and have a midnight mooch.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock, too early to go to bed, and she wanted a cup of coffee. Politeness had forced her to drink Cheryl’s feeble tea, but now she’d been left to her own devices, she needed a cup of the hard stuff. The problem was she’d have to go to the kitchen to get it, and the previous night’s assault was nowhere near the back of her mind yet. Even though Bob had replaced the window with thick glass he’d assured her wouldn’t break and she had Buster, she was still reticent about going in there alone at night.

Like the coward she was, she urged Buster through the door first and sent him trotting down the passageway with promises of biscuits – not that he understood her, but the encouraging and enthusiastic tone of her voice must have held some hope for him because he launched himself into the kitchen with no qualms at all. Relieved and thankful, Maura followed him in and switched on the light, which flickered and fizzed, plunging the whole downstairs into darkness as the bulb exploded and showered the table in glass. A bullet of terror ricocheted through her body as she clenched every muscle, ready to flee or vomit or pass out…

The passageway behind her was thick with a darkness that seemed as if it might have texture if she reached out to touch it. But she dared not – it was closing in on her thick and fast. As if to prove it, the air caught in her throat like something meaty and viscous. It tasted of fear and, as Buster wasn’t barking, she knew it was her own.

The pocket of time since the bulb had blown seemed inordinate. It was as though she had fallen into a dark rabbit hole and was still falling. The dog was too quiet. Everything was too quiet for senses that were notching up to high alert with every slow, extended heartbeat. The part of her brain that had somehow remained free of terror tried to tell her it had been seconds, not minutes, and that she could speak and move if she wanted to.

The other part, the big, weak, human part, just wanted to stand there for ever while she metaphorically shat herself.

Buster was having none of it, however. He’d been on the promise of something tasty in that kitchen and so far nothing had been forthcoming. With a needy whine he nudged at her hand with his cold nose, jolting her out of her panic by increasing it, and making her lurch to the side with shock while she emitted a guttural grunt of terror.

It dawned on her that Buster wasn’t scared. He wasn’t growling or barking or trying to raise the alarm in any way. It was just a bulb that had tripped the circuit. She tried laughing at herself. It was just a blown bulb and if it hadn’t shattered she would be fine. ‘Get a grip, Maura,’ she said out loud, projecting her voice into the darkness and willing it to drive the shadows away. It was just a blown bulb. No one was inside – they couldn’t be. The house was secure even if Maura’s equilibrium wasn’t.

The only response from the darkness was the sound of Buster panting. She could have sworn the house was having a laugh at her expense. She felt as though the whole place was smirking at her, revelling in the little surprises it was throwing her way. ‘It’s a house, it does not possess sentience,’ she said to Buster, who wagged his tail. ‘So, my little fur buddy, what do we do? Call your master or tackle this ourselves and prove we’re not wimps?’

Though the passage was pitch-black, the kitchen was not. Watery moonlight was washing the room with thin light and shadows. Maura knew Cheryl kept a torch underneath the sink, and she also knew the electricity consumer unit was situated at the bottom of the stairs in the cellar. Although she hadn’t been down there, Cheryl had thrown the door open on her tour and had mentioned they sometimes had problems with the electrics and that the “fuses” were down there… Fuses. Maura hadn’t seen an old-fashioned fuse box in years but was pretty confident she could change one if someone had had the foresight to leave the right materials.

Wandering about the cellars of this creepy, half-arsed house in the dead of night was not her idea of fun. The simple solution would have been to phone Bob, but she had already disturbed him the previous night and, besides, she wanted to show the house it couldn’t beat her, ridiculous though the thought was. With Buster at her heels, she took a breath, went for the torch and followed its beam to the cellar door.

Cheryl kept the cellar locked, just in case Gordon went for a wander. The key was on a hook near the top of the architrave. It was a heavy old key and the lock was stiff but it gave in to Maura’s efforts and allowed her to open the door. The cellar greeted her with a waft of stale air that held the tang of mould; it was clear that damp and decay had taken hold down in the bowels of the house. It wasn’t surprising – everything about the place seemed to be on its last legs. The place was like a spiteful old man, glorying in self-neglect and festering with discontent. Much like its owner now she came to think about it.

Buster was not perturbed by this new adventure at all and bolted down the stairs full of enthusiasm for this new space and its new sensations. ‘Buster!’ Maura hissed, wondering why she was being quiet when she knew damned well it would take a full-frontal attack by mortar shell to rouse Gordon from his drugged slumber. The dog was gone. He had gleefully disappeared into the rambling tunnels and rooms of the cellar, exploring nooks and crannies the torch beam only hinted at.

‘Shit!’ Maura said as she reached the bottom and searched for him with her ribbon of light. Scanning up she could see that the cellar was lit, but only when the circuit was working. Buster would either come back of his own accord, or she could search for him with the lights on. Either way she needed to fix the fuse first.

Though she had recovered from the fright of the bulb blowing, her heart was still trying to find its normal rhythm and her imagination was still trying to hamper her confidence. Too many teenage years watching horror films had fuelled it with unknown horrors, and her subconscious held threats her rational mind could only shake its head at.

‘Get a bloody grip, woman!’ she said, training the torch beam on the fuse box and wondering why the thing wasn’t in a museum. It seemed Bob had done his best to make sense of the beast, or more like several beasts – there were four separate boxes and two meters, all looking as if they had been tacked on as afterthoughts. Fortunately, someone had labelled all the chunky Bakelite fuses so that it wasn’t too difficult to locate the one that had blown. In his wisdom Bob had also left a card of fuse wire and a pair of snips resting on top of the first meter. Maura blew a kiss into the dank air and said ‘Bless you, Bob’.

It was a fiddly job by torchlight and she had no idea which thickness of wire to use. Too thin and it might blow again, too thick and she might overload it and burn the house down. Deciding to take the centre ground, she plumped for the one in the middle and silently cursed Estelle Hall for her frugality. It was 2015 (for goodness’ sake) but Essen Grange seemed to be clinging on to the Dark Ages and still marvelling at Edison’s ingenuity. With her repair complete and the fuse reinserted into its slot, she climbed the stairs and flipped the light switch, breathing a huge sigh of relief when the lights came back on. Bob would be proud, but she’d need him to check she’d used the right amperage wire, and she’d also need to find his dog. ‘Buster, come on boy, biscuits…’

The mention of biscuits, a word that clearly had a resonance associated with pleasure for the dog, seemed to do the trick and he bounded out of the shadows and ran up the steps, straight past her and towards the kitchen. ‘Attaboy,’ she said with a smile. After locking the cellar door and replacing the key, she turned into the hall and stood in the centre, sticking one finger up at the house and poking her tongue out in a gesture of childish contempt at its efforts to thwart her.

The light from the kitchen passageway helped but it still took the torch to show her why the bulb had exploded. Water had dripped down from the light fitting. It occurred to her that the guest bathroom she’d used was situated above the kitchen and that something had leaked. Bugger! She dare not try and replace the bulb until she knew whether it was her own carelessness that had caused it, or whether it was a genuine leak that would need to be fixed. It wasn’t dripping any more, but a puddle of water had mingled with the broken glass on the table. She couldn’t see where the rest of the glass might have landed, and Buster was mooching about the room and snuffling. All she needed now was a dog with glass stuck in his paws.

The biscuit jar was near the door and she managed to lure him into the passageway with a hobnob, relieved to see he wasn’t limping or trailing blood. But he did have something in his mouth, which he gladly gave up in exchange for the treat.

Maura picked up the mouldering teddy bear, damp from the dog’s saliva, and wondered why on earth she hadn’t noticed it when he’d run past her up the cellar steps. She’d been too busy feeling relieved that she’d fixed the lights to notice much. The bear was a sorry-looking thing, bald in places and with a single loose eye that dangled above a much-darned woollen nose. It also stank of mould and was a little green around the gills. Buster seemed to have taken quite a shine to it, but for all Maura knew it was a much-loved family heirloom, so giving it to the dog to be enthusiastically disembowelled was probably not a good idea. Buster was easily fobbed off with another biscuit and allowed his newfound friend to be taken to the downstairs cloakroom where Maura sponged him down with a damp flannel, squirted him with a bit of air freshener and set him to dry on the radiator.

With that she locked the kitchen-passage door and made her way up to bed, Buster padding behind her – she was way beyond wanting coffee. Cheryl might have made warning about where the dog could sleep, but as far as Maura was concerned, what Cheryl didn’t know couldn’t worry her. Anyway, the smell of dog on her bed had to be marginally preferable to the smell of camphor, and one warm body was as good as another when you were alone in a house that was doing its damnedest to freak you out.

She’s left the upstairs lights on this time, and she’s kept the dog with her. Clever girl, but not clever enough. There have been interesting developments today. I’ve been quietly flitting between the house and building site to see what was going on. Predictable that the police made the Grange their first port of call, and interesting that the detective lingered outside looking so tense while he smoked his cigarette. Something had puzzled him about the house, and it wasn’t just the body in the orchard. I wonder if he spotted it, the inconsistency? Most don’t. They just know the house is all wrong, but they can’t say why. The nurse shut the door in his face. Interesting indeed. Those two have a history they can’t hide, even from each other, and certainly not from me. Not that I care. I see everything.

A few more days and it will be time to put the wheels in motion – but this time not with a rock thrown in temper but with something much more intrusive. Something deadly. Something put in motion not by me, but by them, by their sins.

Chapter Eight

The morning had gone well: no more water had leaked onto the table, she’d found all the glass, the porridge had been Goldilocks-perfect, and so far the house hadn’t sabotaged her. Bob was coming to check her dodgy fuse repair, Cheryl was due any minute, and Buster was happily sniffing around the garden finding a choice spot for his ablutions. Maura was about to smile when the screaming began.

It was Gordon’s habit to retire to the cloakroom for a precise half hour after his breakfast before he required help with washing and dressing. He’d been in there barely a minute when he started to holler. ‘Get it out. Get it away from me!’

The sight of an elderly, thin and distressed man sitting on a toilet with his pyjama bottoms around his ankles was more than Maura could stand after the day had started so well. ‘What’s the matter? Mr Henderson, Gordon, calm down, tell me what’s wrong,’ she said as calmly as she could while the half-naked man twisted and flailed his arms at her. Tempting as it was to grab his wrists to stop the assault in the small space, she daren’t. His wrists were as thin as a bundle of breadsticks and his skin was like fine vellum; she was scared she might injure him if she was too hasty. Gordon didn’t seem to have the same concerns and clawed at her in panic, scraping his long yellow nails down her arm and swiping her across the face. The instinctive reaction to pain is to lash out, but she couldn’t; instead she wedged herself alongside the toilet, got behind him as best she could and wrapped him in a bear hug.

‘Let’s calm down and find out what’s wrong. What’s upset you?’ she said firmly into his bristly ear. It was an undignified situation for both of them and she needed to resolve it as quickly as possible.

Gordon was sobbing, his breath coming in thick gasps and gulps. He struggled against her hold. ‘Take it away, take it away, get it away from me,’ he cried.

‘Take what away?’ She could think of nothing in the room that hadn’t been there before until she remembered the bear. ‘Is it the bear? Is that what’s bothering you?’

Gordon wailed and nodded. ‘Get it away, please,’ he gasped miserably.

‘If I let you go, are you going to sit still while I take it away? I don’t want you to fall because I can’t pick you up in here if you do.’ It was true. The tiny cloakroom barely had room for two of them standing, let alone wedged as they were. If he fell now, she’d have to pull him out by his feet.

Gordon nodded. ‘Just get it away from me and never let me see it again. They promised me I’d never have to see it again.’

Maura had no idea what it was about the toy that had upset him so much. When she’d taken it from Buster the night before, she’d thought it might be Gordon’s childhood companion and that he’d be happy to get reacquainted. She’d hoped she might be able to use it to have a conversation with him, enjoy some nostalgia and break him out of his reclusive, obsessive ways. ‘OK, I’ll let you go and I’ll take it away.’ She loosened her grip and sidled away from him, moving herself in front of the bear so he couldn’t see it.

Gordon was muttering and shaking, wringing his hands together then rubbing them down his thin legs. ‘Told her to burn it, burn it all. Told her to get rid of it,’ he muttered.

Maura reached behind her and groped for the bear. She didn’t want him to see it at all in case it set him off again. Once she had the thing in her grasp she backed towards the open door and dropped it, kicking it out of sight of the cloakroom. ‘There, it’s gone.’

Gordon looked up, his eyes still wet with tears. ‘Take it away, take it out of this house and burn it. Burn all of it.’

Maura hesitated – he seemed in no fit state to be left alone.

‘LEAVE ME BE!’ he shouted.

Reluctantly she shut the door, but loitered there listening as he continued to mutter to himself. She couldn’t hear the words but he seemed to be calming himself. The bear lay forlorn and innocent on the hall floor and Maura couldn’t imagine what memories it had conjured to provoke such a reaction in the old man, but it clearly symbolised something that was abhorrent to him. She bent and picked it up, turning it in her hands as if something telling would reveal itself. It was just an old, worn-out bear. He wanted it out of the house and the simplest thing to do would be to throw it in the dustbin.

Halfway there she changed her mind and, without dwelling on the decision, walked to her car, unlocked it and threw the bear onto the back seat. When she got back to the house, Gordon was standing in the hall. ‘Is it gone?’

She nodded. ‘Are you all right? Can I get you anything?’

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