“Jess’s phone signal, from when she first called that number? Could they track it somehow?”
He shakes his head. “Only the police can do that. Or the security services. The place was empty for a while before you moved in, right?”
“A month or so,” I say. “The previous owner moved into a home and his son cleared it out for him.”
“But… if there’s something in the house they want, this antique watch, or whatever, surely it would have been a lot easier to break in and get it during that month, while the property was vacant?”
I sip my tea. It’s strong and bitter, with an aftertaste of hot plastic.
“Which suggests,” I say, “they didn’t know about the hidden room. Not untilafterI got in touch.”
“Exactly,” he says, grimacing as he swallows a mouthful of coffee. “You know, if they can find you, maybe you can do the same to them. You can give them what they want—or what theythinkthey want—and find out where they are into the bargain. Find outwhothey are.”
50
We have a lot of time to kill. It’s lunchtime before I’m examined and sent in for a scan, and two hours after that before the wound is cleaned again, stitched up, and I’m sent on my way with a prescription for strong painkillers and a thin cotton sling for my wrist. On the way back, we make a detour to B&Q, where I buy two new deadbolts for the kitchen door and the front door. Tomorrow, I’ll call a locksmith in to change the locks as well, and get a couple of security companies to quote on replacing the alarm. I’ll figure out how we’ll afford it later. For now, the credit card will have to do.
Another detour takes us into the city, where I pay a quick visit to Silverjoy Jewellers. The owner insists she has passed on my number to the person who bought the Rolex—but beyond that, she has nothing more to tell me.
After Dom has dropped me home, I stand for a moment on my drive, looking at our big bay windows, back at the street, up at the tree where the camera had been hidden. The house seems suddenly very exposed, veryopen, very welcoming in a way that I no longer like. Too many trees and hedges, too many ways to be tucked away and private, too many old doors and big windows and semi-deserted streets all around us.
All the things that had attracted us here in the first place. The things that had made us fall in love with the idea of living in The Park.
There are still no curtains in our lounge windows and a stack of cardboard boxes with the black and yellow logo of Robinson Removals are clearly visible from the pavement. The “Sold” sign was long gone but we had not hidden the fact that we’d recently moved in. If someone had figured out we’d moved to The Park, how long would it take to cruise every street and look for telltale signs of a new arrival? It was a relatively small enclave of the city, fewer than a thousand houses in a specific, defined area next to the castle. You could cover every street in a few hours. Maybe less.
The kids are watchingThe Greatest Showmanin the lounge while Jess is in the kitchen, sorting through a washing basket full of school uniforms ready for ironing. She makes us both a cup of tea and I tell her about the hospital, the scan, what the doctor had said about rest, and painkillers, and possible concussion.
She has her glasses on, hair tied back, old jeans and a soft faded sweatshirt, but looks surprisingly fresh considering how tired I know she must be. All seems to have been quiet at the house while I’ve been away. No visitors. She’s been researching hotels, she says, but can’t find a decent one at a price we can afford on a single salary, alongside the mortgage.
I measure up the new deadbolts and fit one each to the front door and the kitchen door. They feel solid and substantial, the steel sliding smoothly across to keep both doors securely shut even if someone outside had a key.
“The police didn’t come back?” I say as I’m putting the tools away. “To take a statement about last night?”
“Nope.” She sips her tea, studying the bandage on my head. “The whole thing is starting to feel like a dream now, like ithappened to someone else. Or maybe it’s just because I’m so zonked on lack of sleep.”
“Are you OK?” I say. “Sorry it took so long; A & E was crazy. Too many patients, staff absolutely run off their feet.”
“I’m fine. We’re all fine. Lots of questions from the kids, but they seem all right.”
Her phone pings on the counter; she glances at it, touches the screen, smiles briefly before it goes dark again.
Something from a conversation with her brother returns to me, a question he’d asked while we both scrolled mindlessly through Twitter and Facebook as the hours waiting at QMC took their toll.
“I was talking to Dom at the hospital,” I say. “Random question, but—is your Facebook profile public?”
She shrugs. “How do you mean?”
“Is it just friends that can see your profile and your posts, or can anyone see them?”
“Just friends. I think.” She picks up the phone and taps the screen, her face darkening. “Oh. No, it’s… I opened it up for a school thing, that Easter fete Callum’s year group did, so we could sell tickets and promote to parents. I was on the fund-raising committee, remember?”
“So it’s public?”
“Itwas.” She taps the screen again, selecting and swiping until she finds what she wants. “Not anymore. Why?”
I take a sip of my tea, keeping my voice neutral. “When you left the message using the number from that old phone, Daisy and Callum were in the room. They were arguing and I told them to stop, pretty sure I mentioned both their names while you were leaving the message.”
“So?”
