There’s definitely someone upstairs. My heart lurches. Could it be … could it be Sarah-Jane? I have to check. I can’t leave here if someone is being held against their will.
The stairs creak under my feet as I reach the top floor. There’s a funny smell up here. Musty, unused. Dust motes sparkle in the slant of moonlight coming through the Velux above and I cough. For a newly refurbished house, this area feels unfinished. There is a single door on this floor. This must be the attic conversion. I approach slowly, my heart rate spiking as I reach for the door handle. This is it. Finally. The moment of truth.
The door doesn’t budge. Of course it would be locked. It looks quite flimsy: maybe I could kick it in. I slam my shoulder against it and it bursts open.
I lurch into the room and gasp.
It’s small and badly lit, but I can make out a single iron-framed bed under a sloped ceiling and freshly plastered walls. Apart from that, the attic is empty. Completely and utterly empty. It hasn’t been converted into a bedroom, like I’d been expecting. I move further into the room, notquite able to believe what I’m seeing, as though I’ve stumbled through a door into an alternate universe. Cobwebs hang in the corners and a spider scuttles past, disappearing into a crack in the floorboards. It smells of damp plaster and rotting wood.
There’s nobody here. No kidnapped woman. No Sarah-Jane Mayhew. No signs of life at all.
I move towards the bed, noting the stained, stripy mattress and the layer of dust on the top of the iron frame.
But I heard a crash and a thump. Where had it come from?
I can’t hang around to find out. I need to go. Now.
With one last glance around the room, I leave, closing the door behind me. I note again how bare the walls are as I descend the stairs: no photos or personal effects, but they haven’t long moved in. I can’t stop thinking about the empty attic. As I move across the landing I notice the door to the master bedroom is open and, as I pass, I take in a double bed adorned with satin pillows in complementary shades of coffee and caramel, and a walnut dressing-table.
As I make my way down the three steps onto the half-landing I pause outside Henry’s study. The door is closed. Is that where the noise was coming from? I slowly turn the handle, my heart in my mouth, and the door creaks open. I’m just about to step into the room when I’m knocked back by a sudden force. Something hard pushes against my chest and I fall flat against the wall, my heart racing. A streak of caramel and white flees past me and down the stairs. I put a trembling hand to my breastbone. It’s just a cat. It must have been shut into Henry’s study by mistake.I can see it’s knocked over a lamp. I swear under my breath, my legs wobbly.
I’m making my way down the remaining stairs when another sound makes me freeze.
A key in the lock.
29
I sprint back up the stairs, my chest hurting, and flatten myself against the wall on the landing. Oh God, oh God. What are they doing back? I thought they’d gone away for the weekend. Why did I think coming here tonight was a good idea?
I’m expecting the hall light to come on but when it doesn’t I creep towards the banister and glance down. There’s someone in the hallway. But it’s not either of the Morgans. It looks like a man in dark clothes, a hoody pulled over his head. Is this a burglar? They aren’t using a torch but are feeling their way in the dark towards the kitchen. I remember Marielle was concerned that someone had been going into their garden: the smashed shed window and things being moved about.
Then another thought pops into my head. Is this Drew looking for clues about his sister? Has he had the same idea as me? My mouth goes dry, and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. I have no choice but to stay here, cowering in the shadows. Five minutes pass. Ten. My body aches with the effort of keeping stock still. I’m only shallow-breathing, worried the sound of an exhalation will cause the man to find me. I hear him below me, rustling through drawers and paperwork. And then I see him go into the little room at the bottom of the stairs. The room with thewall of newspaper clippings. He spends quite a bit of time in there and my mind races, trying to figure out possible exit routes if he decides to come upstairs. Perhaps I could hide in the attic. I find myself hoping the man is Drew. Yet if it is, how did he get in? Did he pick the lock?
The man reappears in the hallway. He doesn’t look as tall as Drew, although it’s hard to be certain in this light. I hold my breath. Just as I expect him to turn towards the stairs, he reaches for the front door and slips out, closing it softly behind him.
I exhale in relief, my legs giving way, and I crumple onto the floor. I don’t move for a few more seconds, just in case the man comes back, but when I realize he’s definitely gone I creep down the stairs. As I pass the room at the bottom, I look to see if he’s taken any of the newspaper clippings from the wall. I notice a gap, but I can’t tell which he’s taken. I flee out of the sliding doors, scurrying through the gap in the hedge.
It’s not until I’m in my own garden that I allow myself to relax, and my whole body starts trembling in delayed shock. That was so close.So close.
There is a light on in my kitchen and, from my vantage point, I can see right through to the front door. I think of the man I heard on the tape.I forgot about the fucking dog.How often has someone been in my back garden? I’d be totally unaware from inside the house. For the first time I wonder if I should get kitchen blinds. Thank goodness Paul is coming over tomorrow to install the camera at last.
I let myself in through my patio doors and lock them behind me, bending down to bury my head in Phoenix’s fur, my heart still jumping about in my chest.
That’s it. I’m done. I’m never sneaking into their house again. My nerves can’t take it.
I go to the fridge, pour myself a glass of wine and down it in two gulps. Jo’s right. She always is in that big-sisterly way of hers.
I pour more wine and go into the living room. I’ll watch some comfort telly for a bit to calm my mind, I decide, as I sink into the sofa and turn on Netflix. Phoenix curls up next to me. I’m just about to scroll down toEmily in Pariswhen my phone buzzes. It’s a text message. From Drew.
I know it’s really late, so not sure if you’re still awake. But if you are please call me. I have news about my sister.
I immediately call him. He answers on the first ring.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to call you back earlier.’ He sounds breathless. Excited. ‘I’ve just driven back from St Albans.’
So it couldn’t have been him in the neighbours’ house. ‘And Sarah-Jane?’
‘It all happened so quickly when the police got involved. They located her in St Albans. It’s all okay, Lena. She’s fine. She didn’t even realize we were looking for her and is embarrassed to have caused a fuss. She just went off radar for a bit, to clear her head, she said, after a bad break-up.’
