Lost Souls (James Quinn Book 2), page 27
Nancy and Kayleigh looked at each other in silent, wide-eyed terror.
Just then, the cellar light bulb blew, plunging their claustrophobic, subterranean world into total darkness.
FORTY-SIX
At Hillcroft House, James hung back at reception while Molly checked out.
‘I shall be writing an honest review on TripAdvisor,’ she said, taking great pleasure in telling Mrs. Elliott and obviously trying to provoke a reaction. When that didn’t work, she tried again. ‘I’m a journalist, I’ll have you know. Investigative. My pen is mightier than the sword!’
Mrs. Elliott smiled primly. ‘And there was me thinking people used computers these days. Would you like a handwritten receipt, Miss Tindall?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs. Elliott. I’d like to be home before the sun sets.’
James shook his head. Why did she always have to make such a scene?
He checked his watch. Should really check out himself, he supposed. Nothing to keep him in Yarmouth now. But, as his third night was free, he figured he might as well try and make something of it. Perhaps he could go back to the caravan park and speak to the residents. Find out what they knew about “Rosa”. How long she’d been there. Where she worked. Any friends they knew of. He needed to be doing something to distract him from the feeling of helplessness.
‘I do hope to see you again soon,’ Mrs. Elliott said, disingenuously.
‘I think that’s very unlikely, don’t you?’ Molly glanced down at her travel case, then at James. ‘Carry that to the car for me, will you?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Disobedience.’
The case weighed a ton. Christ only knows what she had in it. By the time he’d hefted it to the car, he was out of breath and sweating buckets. Molly was waiting for him, hands on hips, her face like thunder. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing at her car.
Her white Evoque was completely hemmed in by the wall on one side, a BMW X1 on the other and a garishly pink Fiat 500 to the front.
She threw her arms over her head in exasperation. ‘It’s Miss Havisham and her gang of geriatric floozies, isn’t it? Inconsiderate slags!’ She kicked the Fiat’s front tyre. ‘I’ll get them to move this monstrosity, for starters. If they’ve so much as scratched my paintwork, there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘Leave it,’ James said as Molly turned on her heel. ‘I can take you to the house. We can come back for your car later.’
Molly’s anger dissipated. ‘Aw, you sure, Jimbo? Would you do that for me? That’s so sweet.’
James zapped the central locking on the Audi and hoisted the case into the boot. ‘Let’s cut the soppy crap. Come on.’
Molly was uncharacteristically quiet on the five-minute drive to Nancy Patterson’s house. She simply kept staring out of the window, away with the fairies.
He contemplated breaking the news about Urtė but thought better of it. Right now, Molly needed to focus on herself, rather than helping him.
James pulled up out front and switched off the engine. The house was tall and narrow, crooked in places, deeply set back from the road and clad in decaying weatherboards. ‘Jesus! Looks like something out of a horror movie.’
‘Doesn’t it just,’ Molly said, unbuckling herself with a trembling hand.
‘Can’t believe you’re so nervous. What’s the worst that can happen?’
Molly smiled uneasily, then opened her door and stepped out onto the road.
James was just about to unbuckle himself when his phone started buzzing. Surely it had to be news about Urtė? But it wasn’t Lawson’s number. The lazy bastard had probably delegated the task of relaying any messages to his drippy sidekick, Smithy.
‘Let me just take this,’ he called out to Molly. ‘You go in. I’ll follow in a minute.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘No, this is confidential. It’s my doctor. Only be five minutes or so. Go.’
‘Right, okay. Deep breath, Molly.’ She smoothed down her coat, adjusted her glasses, then closed the door.
James waited until she had started down the path. She glanced back at him, and he waved at her impatiently. ‘Go on!’ he shouted. ‘And take those bloody sunglasses off! You’ll frighten the old dear to death!’ But, of course, she didn’t hear him.
The phone continued to buzz, and he took the call. ‘Hello?’
‘That James Quinn, the detective?’
A man’s voice. Gruff and impatient.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘I’ve seen one of your flyers. The missing woman.’
James was momentarily poleaxed. ‘Right. And …?’
‘Have you found her yet?’
‘First, you need to tell me who you are and why you’re calling.’
‘I know her.’
‘Okay. How?’
‘I don’t want to talk on the phone. Are you in town? Can we meet somewhere? I’ll explain everything.’
‘Well, yes, sure. Like when? Can you meet later today?’
‘How about right now?’
‘Well I’m tied up where I am at the moment, but … Can you come to me? I’m on Sycamore Road, in a silver Audi A4, and I’m parked in front of a big, old, ramshackle house. Don’t know the number, but it looks like something out of the Addams Family.’
The caller chuckled. ‘That’ll be Nancy Patterson’s place.’
‘Yes, how do you know?’
‘Everyone in this town knows Nancy, mate. She’s a legend. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Right. Okay.’
The man hung up.
Well, well, a turn-up for the books. Probably too late, but you never know. Might have some useful information to impart.
James sighed and looked across to Nancy’s house. Molly was still there, at the front door, hopping from one foot to another, smoking a crafty fag and looking in his direction.
He hastily clamped the phone back to his ear and pretended to still be in discussion. He made a “knock knock” gesture with his hand, and she pettishly stubbed out her cigarette underfoot and turned on her heel to rap at the door.
James noticed something from the corner of his eye: curtains twitching at the front window. The old woman was in, then. There was no excuse for Molly to pretend she wasn’t. He watched Molly for what seemed like an eternity, mentally hurrying the old woman along so he could remove the damn phone from his ear. Eventually, the door opened. He couldn’t see the woman because Molly blocked the view, but it seemed they were engaged in a conversation that lasted for ages. Come on, please! Eventually, Molly stole one more glance over her shoulder before disappearing into the house.
Feeling slightly guilty, but mostly relieved, James threw the iPhone onto the passenger seat.
Knackered from the lack of sleep and the mental and physical exertion of the previous night, he rubbed his eyes. The sun was streaming through the windscreen, threatening another headache. Now the air-con was off, the car’s interior was getting stuffy, so he pulled down the visor and wound down the window an inch or two. Despite the welcome influx of cool, fresh air, his heavy eyelids drooped.
Lacking the energy to fight his own body, he reclined his seat, folded his arms and permitted himself a restorative power nap.
He woke with a jolt.
A little bit of drool was snaking its way down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his hand.
Completely disorientated, he checked his watch. How long had he been out for the count? Thankfully, no more than ten minutes.
A sudden sound startled him, a noise like screaming. He looked about him, trying to identify the source, but now there was nothing. Probably just kids. Chill, James.
He yawned and looked over at his phone on the passenger seat. He picked it up. No further calls or messages. He knew he really should join Molly, to give her his support. He had promised, after all.
Maybe he should just give Lawson a quick call first? He’d started to dial the sergeant’s number when he heard another scream. More alert now, he could tell that it was not the scream of child’s play.
It was a woman, her voice shrill and haunting.
And it was coming from Nancy Patterson’s house.
James pocketed the phone and leapt out of the car. After hotfooting it down the garden path, he hammered on the opaque stained glass door insert. ‘Molly? Nancy?’ he hollered. ‘You okay?’
He sank to a squat, pushed his fingers through the brass letterbox plate and peered inside. The stench of gas struck him, making him recoil.
‘Molly?’
‘James!’ Molly shouted from deep inside the house. ‘Help me!’
He tried the door, but it was locked.
Retreating a few steps, he scanned the exterior of the house for an alternative means of entry. There was no route to the back, and all the windows were shut.
He went over to the large ground floor window, which, bizarrely, was crisscrossed on the inside with masking tape. There was a small gap in the curtains, and he pressed his face to the glass. Scanning the gloomy interior, he saw Molly seated on the floor, her back to the wall. No sign of her aunt.
He knocked on the window to get her attention. She thrashed about, yelling something unintelligible at him. What the hell had happened?
Back at the front door, James did a quick mental countdown, steeled himself, then hurled his shoulder at the frame. After half a dozen attempts, panting like a dog and with his arm dead, he realised he was getting nowhere. Plan B, then.
He needed a heavy object. Scanning the ground around him, he soon found the perfect candidate: a piece of edging stone that had come loose from the path.
James hurled the stone through the glass insert, then teased out the jagged shards that remained in place. After reaching inside to turn the lock, he was in.
The stench of gas was overpowering, so he covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm.
There was an ancient pram in the cold hallway, against one wall. James stole a look inside: a sequinned unicorn toy, tucked under a blanket. Perfect sense.
‘James!’ Molly screeched.
He advanced through the capacious hall, putting his head around the first open door on the left, into the living room. Molly was on the floor, next to a radiator, surrounded by smashed fragments of something. Crockery?
‘What the hell are you doing down there?’
She yanked her hand, making a jangling noise, revealing that she was cuffed to the radiator. ‘Is it not obvious? I’m recreating the Terry Waite experience, dummy! Just for the sheer thrill of it.’ She shook her fist. ‘Get me out of these bloody things!’
James scratched his head. ‘What is it with you and cuffs?’
‘That’s below the belt, Jimbo.’
‘Who did it to you? And why?’
Molly hesitated, then shook her head. Her hair was limp, her forehead glistening with sweat. ‘Turn the bloody radiator off, will you? I’m boiling alive here.’
As James turned down the valve, Molly continued. ‘I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but it was her.’
‘Nancy?’
‘Yes, Nancy. The woman’s off her bleedin’ rocker!’
‘I don’t understand. Where is she?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘And what’s with the gas?’
‘I don’t know; just get these off me! I knew I should have just let sleeping dogs lie. Should have just trusted my instincts; not let you convince me—’
James pressed his forefinger to her lips. ‘Just wait there. I’ll be right back.’
She jangled the cuffs again. ‘Not going anywhere, Jimbo.’
He retreated to the hall, then, advancing through the house, he peeked into each room: a dining room and another small room, laid out as a bedroom. It contained a chest of drawers, on the top of which were laid out various pill bottles. Old photographs lined the walls. Books and papers were scattered everywhere.
‘Nancy?’ he called out, not too loudly, wary of frightening her. ‘Miss Patterson?’
No reply.
The kitchen was at the back of the house. In here, the smell of gas was strongest, and he soon realised that the source was an old upright cooker. There was a pan on one of the burners and its control dial was turned to the maximum setting, but the gas hadn’t been ignited. After turning off the ring, he peered into the pan. It was filled almost to the brim with water. He dipped his finger in to check it was cold, then performed a quick inventory of the contents. Three hen’s eggs. A large door key. A pair of sunglasses. A mobile phone.
He fished out the key, the glasses and the phone and dried them on the tea towel that hung on the oven door. He put the key in his pocket and left the phone and glasses on the side.
Surveying the dishevelled state of the room, his thoughts raced to his mother and his memories of the first signs of her dementia. He’d noticed she kept repeating things; kept getting anxious over trivia. She’d tell him that she couldn’t remember things that had only happened moments before. At first, they’d adapted; found ways for her to live an independent life despite her deficits. It was a life of post-it notes and memory aids. Labelled pill dispensers. Batch-cooked meals delivered weekly.
Mary Quinn had plateaued for so many years, retaining her autonomy, that when the decline finally came, it hit James hard. She had become so increasingly impaired that it was no longer safe for her to live at home. She’d forgotten how to use the shower. Didn’t know how to use the oven. Forgotten she had to eat.
James took a moment to take in Nancy Patterson’s kitchen. It was a museum piece. Skirted cabinets. Formica worktops. Open shelving. Vintage weighing scales. An old oak table dominated the room, cluttered with pots, pans, bottles, recipe books, piles of mail and old newspapers. The newspapers fluttered in a cold draught, which James realised came from the partially open window. He opened it to its full extent to help the gas dissipate.
The window offered a view of a long, narrow, overgrown garden. His eyes followed a meandering path through tall grass and weeds to the far end where, amongst a small orchard, he could just about make out a ramshackle wooden building; a shed of some kind. He wondered if that was where the old woman had disappeared to. Better check, he supposed.
He stopped himself. Don’t scare her.
‘James?’ Molly’s voice startled him. ‘Where are you?’
He went back to the living room, and she looked at him with hopeful eyes. ‘Well, did you find the key?’
‘Well, I found a key,’ he said, smiling, and reached into his pocket.
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake!’ Molly said when she saw it.
‘It was in a pan of water on the stove, with some eggs. There was a mobile phone in there, too. Some sunglasses. Yours, I presume?’
Molly shook her head in dismay. ‘My day keeps on getting better!’ She looked down at the cuffs. ‘Can’t you just cut through the chain?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. How could I be so stupid?’ He patted his pockets. ‘Damn, sorry—it seems I’ve left my bolt croppers at home.’
Molly rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
James knelt down and examined the cuffs. They were heavy duty backstop Darby style handcuffs. Military issue from the war, he wagered. Built to last. No way would the old bent-paperclip trick work with these bad boys.
Molly wiped her forehead with the back of her free hand. ‘Wake me up from this nightmare, will you?’
‘How did she manage to do this to you? At her age?’
Molly sighed heavily. ‘She disarmed me with her “sweet old lady” act. Brought me in here; told me to make myself comfy while she went to make the tea. While I waited, I had a little nosy around the place. I got absorbed in all the little knick-knacks; the books; the pictures. Next thing I know, she’s shuffling in with a rattling tea tray and I turn around to help her, only the bloody thing falls from her hands. Crashes to the ground. Everything smashed to pieces. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it,” I said and dropped to my knees. Started picking up all the pieces and returning them to the tray. Somehow she managed to squat down, too, and joined in. “That’s a nice watch, dear,” she says. “Why, thank you,” I say. “It’s a Cartier Tank Francaise.”’
James rolled his eyes.
Molly continued. ‘Anyway, Nancy starts pointing to a spot under the radiator. “Couldn’t just pick up that piece, dear?” she says. “No problem, Nancy,” I say. Next minute, she’s snapping these bloody things round my wrists and fixing me a steely glare. Removes my glasses and tells me she knows exactly who I really am.’
‘And who’s that, then?’
‘Why, a Nazi collaborator, of course.’
‘Obviously. Stupid of me to ask, really. So, after she cuffed you, what did she do?’
‘She rummaged through my bag, confiscated the phone, then left the room. Haven’t heard a peep since.’
‘She gave no hint of where she was going? What she was intending to do?’
‘Perhaps she’s out looking for Captain sodding Mainwaring of the Home Guard?’
‘It’s not funny, Moll. It’s sounds like she has advanced dementia. She shouldn’t be living alone in a big house like this.’
‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’
James took out his phone. ‘I’m ringing social services.’
A sudden crashing noise broke beneath the floorboards. He looked down at the floor, then back at Molly. ‘Oh, God, there’s a cellar … What’s she doing down there? She might have hurt herself.’
Molly, speechless, just offered him a puzzled look.
James set about looking for the cellar entrance.
In the hall, there was a door under the stairs. Locked. But why? Had she turned the key from the inside? James imagined his mother faced with the same scenario and shuddered at the thought of her cowering down there, frightened out of her wits. He rapped lightly on the door. ‘Are you down there, sweetheart?’
There was no reply.
Wait. The key!
