‘An intriguing suggestion,’ replies Mr Mallow. ‘Do you have the title deeds to the property?’
‘Somewhere, yes, but I’ve never looked at them.’
Five minutes later, Graham returns with the papers, all of which are dog-eared, faded and crumpled. They stand side by side in silence while he flips through the pages until he finds the design layout of the cottage. There it is, in black and white. An extra window with a room that Graham has never stepped foot in before.
‘This makes no sense,’ says Graham, flipping back a few pages in case he’s missed something. ‘Someone has blocked a whole room off.’
Graham watches, transfixed, as Mr Mallow bends to investigate the fuse box, which appears to be dead. Graham has never used it before as a brand new one has been installed downstairs underneath the stairs. Mr Mallow manages to get the small door open, revealing a bunch of twisted wires covered in dust, along with an array of switches.
Mr Mallow slowly moves his fingers around the area, pulls at a few wires, which come loose in his hand. He then knocks on the wall. A hollow thud sounds.
‘I believe this is plasterboard,’ says Mr Mallow. ‘Might you fetch me a sledgehammer?’
Graham doesn’t own a sledgehammer, but he does have a crowbar, which he keeps stashed under his bed in case of emergencies; a habit he’s had from his time in the police force. Mr Mallow takes it from him, then wedges the pointededge into the nearest corner of the wall. He yanks it out, pulling with it a chunk of plasterboard.
Graham steps forwards and peers through the hole in the wall. ‘Mr Mallow, I do believe you are acertified genius.’
Chapter 36
STEPHEN
He can’t quite believe his eyes, but the detective is clearly seeing it too. This time, he’s definitely not hallucinating.
There’s a secret room behind a fake wall. He uses the crowbar, prying off the rest of the plasterboard, enough to form a hole big enough to fit through.
The light from the hallway isn’t enough to pierce the darkness beyond, so Stephen uses the torch function on his phone, holding it aloft as the detective steps forwards and attempts to squeeze himself between the wooden joists.
After several failed attempts, it’s clear that Detective Williams is a little too large to fit between the joists and beams. It isn’t merely a blocked doorframe, but a room hidden behind a structure built into the wall.
‘Allow me, Detective,’ says Stephen.
‘Are you sure you’re feeling up for an exploration?’
Stephen’s touched by the detective’s warmth and concern. ‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’
‘Because if you pass out in there, I’m not going to be able to come in after you.’
Stephen nods. ‘Noted.’
The detective moves aside. Stephen takes a breath and holds it for a moment as his mind drifts back to his fear ofthe dark. The fear still lingers in the background, like an old friend, reminding him that it’s okay to be afraid from time to time. It’s what makes him stronger, more determined to succeed and fight those demons.
In he goes.
The dust particles attack his lungs and throat straight away, and the old cobwebs cling to his jacket and hair as he squeezes his slender body in-between the first joists. He ducks under the lowest beam until he reaches a wider space. It’s a room; the third mysterious bedroom.
The barricaded window is at the back of the space, blackened by dust and grime. Along one side is an old bed and a pillow, a large pile of books that had probably once been stacked neatly, and a cardboard box that looks rotten enough to collapse if he picks it up. Every surface holds a thick layer of dust, enough to tell him that it’s been several decades since the place was last cleaned.
He moves closer to the box and pulls back the lid, peering inside. Several books, along with various newspapers and photographs are nestled inside. He pulls the box closer, but the sides fall apart at the seams, unable to hold together against the pressure. The books and newspapers spill across the floor at his feet.
‘Damn it.’
‘Have you found something, Mr Mallow?’
‘Yes, I believe I have.’ Stephen bends and picks up the nearest book on top of the pile that has scattered. It isn’t a book after all, but a diary. Its pages are filled with writing, diagrams, charts and drawings. Not a single page is clear.
The first page bears a name: John Hammel.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ whispers Stephen. He grabs another, and another, flicking briefly through each one, finding more of the same. Drawings. Writings. Charts. All in black ink. Swirly writing. A lot of the penmanship is smudged, having suffered from the damp over the years it’s been in here.
