Peter James

Short Shockers: Collection Two

When Your Number’s Up

For as long as Gail had known Ricky Walters, he had dreamed of winning the lottery — the National Lottery, with its promise of £50 million, if not more. Much more.

Loadsamoney!

Moolah!

And he would win it, he knew; it was just a matter of time. He had a winning system, and besides, he had always been lucky. ‘You make your own luck in life. I was lucky meeting you,’ he told Gail. ‘Marrying you was like winning all the lotteries in the world at the same time!’

That was then. Now was ten years later. Five years ago, a clairvoyant in a tent at a charity garden party told Ricky she could see he was going to have a big lottery win. Gail had scoffed, but Madame Zuzu, in her little tent, had simply reinforced what Ricky already knew. He had absolute confidence. Absolute belief in his system.

It consumed him.

Yes, he was going to win the lottery. It was a fact. An absolute racing certainty. He was so damned confident that he was going to win that often, over a few drinks at his favoured corner table in The Dog and Pheasant, which he visited most weekday nights on his way home from work, he would spend time going over the list of all the things he was going to buy and the investments he would make with the money.

He subscribed to a range of lifestyle magazines, which he always read cover to cover, tearing out and filing away pages featuring items he was considering buying when ‘L-Day’, as he called it, finally came. A yacht — probably a custom-built Sunseeker; cars — well, it would have to be an Aston Martin Vanquish for himself, and a convertible Mercedes SL AMG for madam; a private jet, of course — he rather fancied a Lear; a Hublot watch.

There’d be a new house too. Gail told him she thought it was strange that he had a new house so far down his list of priorities — considering they weren’t exactly living in a palace right now. Yep, right… well, that was another story.

Ricky was a systems manager, with responsibility for the computers in the Brighton head office of a national web design and development company. Algebra and maths were his thing, always had been, and it was through playing around with the six numbers of the lottery that one day, eight years back, he had his light-bulb moment. He saw something in the randomness of those figures that, so far as he could see, no one else had — and certainly not anyone at Camelot who ran the lottery.

A year ago the firm had gone into liquidation and he had so far not found another job. He’d done a few bits and pieces of IT work for friends and acquaintances, and they were kept afloat — just — by Gail’s job as a bookkeeper for a small firm of estate agents. Gail was worried as hell about their financial future, but he was happy and confident. He was going to win the lottery. Oh yes. His system rocked!

You make your own luck in life.

Whenever he talked about it to Gail, her eyes glazed over. He’d told her, on their first date, that one day they were going to be richer than Croesus. But when, after that light-bulb moment, he had begun to explain how, expounding enthusiastically his applications of elements of calculus, Pythagoras, Noether’s Theorem and the Callan-Symanzik Equation, her eyes would always begin to glaze over. In fact, throughout the years of their marriage, her eyes had begun to glaze over faster and faster. Recently, the moment he began to talk mathematics, he could almost hear them glazing over. It was as if the cords holding up shutters had been severed, and they’d fallen with a resounding crash.

But Ricky barely noticed. He wasn’t talking to her anyway; he was really addressing himself, reassuring himself, reconfirming all that he knew. He was going to win one day for sure. The big one — the National Lottery. And, for a whole number of reasons, it would be really convenient for him if it happened quite soon. Ideally within the next few weeks, please! His fortieth birthday was looming, and it was not a milestone he was happy about. He’d read somewhere that if you haven’t made it by the time you are forty, you are not going to make it.

And, as Gail had only too accurately pointed out, in eight years of spending twenty pounds a week on tickets for his system, to date he had had just one small win of fifty pounds to show for his efforts.

She’d calculated that if he had banked twenty pounds a week over this same period of time, they’d have over eight thousand pounds saved — and more, with interest.

‘Just how far would that amount get you today?’ he would retort.

‘It would get us a new dishwasher, which we can’t afford,’ Gail reminded him. ‘It would enable us to pay for a holiday — which we haven’t had for two years because you say we can’t afford one. It could replace my car, which is a basket case.’

Most importantly of all, in her mind, it would pay for IVF treatments, since all their attempts to conceive so far had failed.

‘Ah, but just wait!’ he would reply.

‘I’ve been waiting — when do I stop waiting?’

‘Soon, very soon. I know — I just know — that we are on the verge; it’s going to happen. All the numbers are meshing closer and closer. It could be any week now!’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘dream on.’

‘Oh, I will!’

Ricky had always had a lot of dreams. But he needed the money to make the most important one of all come true.

They decided they could not afford to throw a party for Ricky’s fortieth birthday, so instead they invited a dozen friends to join them for a dinner celebration at their favourite Italian restaurant in Hove, Topolino’s. On the strict understanding everyone would pay for themselves. Ricky, who was by nature a generous man, hadn’t been happy about that idea, but his latest bank statement was the gloomiest to date, and had forced him to accept the plan, albeit still reluctantly.

That damned win was just around the corner, he told Gail. He could feel it in his bones!

But after an hour of gulping down Prosecco at Topolino’s, listening to jokes about ageing and questions about whether he was looking forward to his free bus pass, he was enjoying the company of good friends, and all he could feel was a deep sense of bonhomie growing inside him, the more alcohol he drank. They were a rowdy table, sensibly placed in a far corner of the restaurant so they could stand up and make their toasts and tell their speeches without ruining the evening for the rest of the diners there.

Suddenly, part way through eating his starter of ravioli florentine, he glanced at his watch. It was just past 9 p.m. Shit! He waved over a waiter, a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking Italian with a voice that was far more cheerful than his face.

‘Si, signor?’

Ricky tried to speak to him without attracting the attention of the rest of his guests. ‘Could shew do me a favour,’ he slurred. ‘I shleft my phone at home. Could shew let me know this week’s lottery numbers?’

The waiter frowned. ‘I go ask.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Ricky shoved a twenty-pound note into his hand.

‘For God’s sake!’ Gail admonished quietly into his ear. ‘Can’t you leave it alone for just one evening, darling, and enjoy yourself?’

‘What if tonight’s the night?’ he hissed back.

She shook her head, and drank a large gulp of her red wine.

‘Hey, Ricky,’ his oldest friend, Bob Templeton, the overweight owner of a heating engineering business, said. ‘Did you hear the one about the forty-year-old IT man who goes into a pub with a frog on his head? The barman asks, “What’s that you’ve got there?” And the frog replies, “I don’t know. It started off as a wart on my arse.”’

The whole table erupted into peals of laughter. Ricky stifled a wry smile. Then the owner of the restaurant — a wiry, cheery man in his late fifties — bounded over. In a broad Italian accent he said, ‘OK, who wanta know tonight’s lottery numbers?’

Ricky raised a hand.

The owner read them out. ‘1, 23, 34, 40, 41, 48.’

Ricky frowned. ‘Could you repeat those?’

‘Si, signor. 1, 23, 34, 40, 41, 48.’

‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’

‘I sure. I go check, if you like? Make absolutely sure?’

‘Please.’

Gail stared at him, and Ricky avoided looking at her. Inside, he was trembling. He downed the remainder of his glass of wine, reached for the bottle with a shaking hand and refilled it.

‘It’s a rip-off, the lottery,’ Hilary Wickens, the wife of his best man, said. ‘I think it’s a mug’s game.’

Ricky remained silent. Totally silent. Only Gail, staring at him intently, noticed all the colour had drained from his face. But she said nothing.

Suddenly the owner was standing over Ricky’s shoulder, leaning down, handing him a tiny sheet of paper, torn from a pad, with the six numbers written on it. ‘Si, Signor Walters, I have checked. Called the phone line to make-a-sure for you!’

Ricky said nothing. He nodded silent thanks, read the numbers carefully, folded the sheet and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He was aware of Gail’s intense gaze and avoided her eyes. He downed his newly filled glass in one gulp. He was shaking, almost uncontrollably, and did not want to be at the restaurant any more. But he had to go through with the rest of the evening.

He picked at his main course, a thick, broiled veal chop on the bone, normally one of his favourite foods, but right now he had no appetite at all. And why the hell did Gail keep looking at him so strangely? Annoyed that he wasn’t in the party spirit? Well, hey, big surprise, it didn’t take much to annoy her these days.

A massive cake arrived, with forty candles and a big firework thing in the middle. Everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’, with most of the rest of the people in the restaurant joining in. Then he had to blow out the candles. Of course, they were those stupid jokey ones that kept relighting themselves.

Then he was called on to make a speech. He bumbled through the words he had prepared on a scrap of paper he produced from his pocket — although he was much more interested in the scrap of paper in a different pocket.

He finished his short speech by quoting George Carlin. ‘Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, “Holy shit, what a ride!”’

Everyone laughed and applauded, except for Gail, who sat staring at him in stony silence.

She leaned over to him when he sat back down, as Bob Templeton was rising to his feet to begin his speech. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Never better!’ Ricky said.

And he meant it.

And at the end of the evening, he insisted, absolutely insisted, on paying for everyone on his credit card. Despite almost coming to blows with Gail, who kept telling everyone he was drunk and to ignore him.

The cab dropped them home just after midnight. Ricky, well lit up with three Sambucas inside him on top of everything else he had drunk, slumbered for the entire short journey. He went straight into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, then pulled out the crumpled piece of paper the owner of Topolino’s had given him, on which were written the winning National Lottery numbers.

His numbers!

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

He focused hard on them, to make absolutely sure he was not mistaken. He knew them by heart. They were one of the group of numbers his computer algorithm had calculated was bound to come up from the combination of six balls dropping. And now they had.

He was not mistaken.

As he stepped back out of the bathroom, Gail gave him a quizzical smile. ‘So, what’s going on?’

‘What do you mean, what’s going on?’

‘You’ve been very quiet most of the evening. Didn’t you enjoy your party?’

‘I’d have enjoyed it more if you hadn’t tried to make me look so small over the bill.’

‘You were drunk, darling. Everyone had already agreed to contribute — you didn’t need to do that.’

‘No? Well, let me tell you something. I’ve won the lottery! My numbers have come up — and you never believed me when I said I would win. Well, I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time — a long, long time. You see, I don’t want to be with you any more. I’m in love with someone else and have been for a long time. Now, finally, I can afford to divorce you. You don’t have to worry, I’m not going to dump you in the shit. I’ve thought about it very carefully and done the maths. I’ll make sure you’re well provided for.’

‘Very thoughtful of you,’ she said, acidly.

He gave her a drunken leer. ‘Yeah, well, I’m all heart. Too bad you never recognized that.’

‘Silly old me.’

‘I’ll be gone in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’m going to start packing now. I can’t stand the sight of you for another day.’

‘You know how to make someone feel good,’ she said, ‘that’s for sure.’ She stepped past him, up to the washbasin, and began to remove her make-up.

‘You’ve always ridiculed my system. You told me I would never win. So, just how wrong are you?’

‘Not wrong at all,’ she said, dabbing away her mascara. ‘I thought it might make a fun evening if you thought you’d won the lottery. So I asked the waiter to give you those numbers, which I wrote down for him. Oh, and just in case you are wondering, I have tonight’s actual winning numbers. I suggest you tweak your system — you didn’t get a single one of them.’

Like You

She liked him on Facebook. He liked her back. Actually, he liked her a lot.

He liked her smile. He liked her photograph. She was the right age for him — late twenties, he guessed. An age when people started to mature and know what they wanted. She had a serene air about her, and a friendly smile that suggested she could be fun, a bit of a sport, maybe very sexy. But at the same time he could sense a slight hunger in her eyes. As if she was looking for something she had not yet found. He liked her name too. Teresa Saunders.

He wanted to be her friend. Very badly. Oh yes. You are one stunning girl. We could definitely hit it off. Me, I could be that guy you are looking for. Really I could!

He clicked to see more photographs, but all he got was the message: No photos to show.

Damn, he thought, she had her privacy settings high. He sent a request to be Teresa Saunders’ friend. Then he waited. Twenty minutes later, it was past midnight and there was no response. He had to be up early for an important client presentation: the launch of a new food brand, a vitamin-packed, cholesterol-busting super-porridge that would be all the breakfast you ever needed. So he logged off and went to bed.

Teresa came to him during the night in a dream. Her long, wavy hair, the colour of winter wheat, floated in slow motion around her face. Her blue eyes smiled at him. She kissed him lightly on his forehead, on his cheeks, then on his lips. He woke with a start, convinced, for a fleeting instant, that she was in the room with him. And feeling horny as hell.

Of course, it was just a dream. But what a dream! He could feel some kind of strange, magical and deeply erotic connection with her across the ether. It was so powerful he had to switch on the light just to make sure she was not really in the room with him. But he was alone, of course. Alone in his big, loft-style bedroom, with its bare wooden floors strewn with rugs, and the curtainless picture window overlooking the inky waters of the Thames, half a mile upstream from Tower Bridge.

Lights glided by, accompanied by the throb of an engine: a Port of London police boat. He slipped out of bed and padded through to his den, sat at his desk, which looked out over the river; then he flipped open the lid of his laptop and logged back on to Facebook. There was a notification: Your friend request has been accepted. Teresa Saunders is now your friend. And there was a message: Thanks for the friend request!

Yayyyyyy!

But he held off replying. Did not want to seem too keen. She might think him a bit of a saddo messaging her at 3.20 a.m.

He went back to bed and closed his eyes and wondered if she would come to him again. But all that came were images of MaximusBrek, the porridge of gladiators!

His slogan and he was proud of it.

He awoke at 6.15 a.m., a few minutes before his alarm was due to go off. Dawn had long broken and it was almost full light. He liked this time of year, early April. Spring was in the air. The nights were getting shorter. Maybe this spring he would fall in love. Perhaps with Teresa Saunders?

He sat in his black silk dressing gown in front of Daybreak on television, and ate his microwaved MaximusBrek. It tasted like molten plaster of Paris but, hey, he wasn’t going to tell the clients that. He would stride into the meeting bursting with energy, like an unleashed gladiator, and tell them how terrific this new food was. Especially for the below-the-line profits of the ad agency that paid his wages.

As he ate, angry Palestinians were shouting on the screen and holding up placards. He should have been thinking about his pitch at the meeting, but he couldn’t focus on that. All he could think about was the message he was going to send Teresa Saunders. Something original that would make her smile, that would make her think he was a really interesting guy to communicate with. Hell, he was one of the highest-paid advertising copywriters in London right now. He wrote hot slogans for hot products. So surely he could write one for the hottest product of all — himself.

He was thirty-two. Single. He had this cool pad. His charcoal Aston DBS. He kept himself and his bank balance in shape. But for the past eight months, since his last short-lived relationship, he slept every night in an empty bed.

He sent Teresa Saunders a message: Thanks for accepting my friend request… J

Then he got dressed and headed out to work, checking his iPhone at every red light he stopped at. Fresh emails popped up every few seconds. But to his disappointment, nothing from Teresa Saunders.

Come on, he chided himself. Focus. Concentrate! They sat round the black glass table in the stark white boardroom of Bresson, Carter, Olaff — the agency he worked for. Croissants and brioches lay on plates, alongside jugs of coffee and expensive mineral water. The four-strong team from the client, as well as his three agency colleagues, including his boss, Martin Willis, watched the presentation on the big screen. Then they were shown mock-ups of the TV campaign, the magazine campaign, the online campaign and the in-store point-of-sale artwork. He should have been watching too, but instead he kept glancing at his iPhone, surreptitiously cupped in his hands beneath the table.

‘Don’t you think, Jobe?’

Hearing his name brought him back to earth with a start. He looked up to see fourteen eyeballs fixed on him — several of them through stupidly trendy glasses. He went bright red. He stammered. ‘Um, well, yes,’ although he had, in truth, no idea what they were referring to. He felt their stares, and his face burned as if a corrosive acid had been poured over his skin.

‘Are you with us, Jobe?’ Willis said.

‘Totally.’ He began perspiring.

‘You have the floor,’ Willis said.

‘Yes, right. Um… ah… OK.’

The female, whose name he had forgotten, said helpfully, ‘We’re referring to the Twitter aspect of the campaign.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, waiting for the light-bulb moment. But it didn’t happen. So he took a stab in the dark. ‘My thinking is that all these tweets start appearing, from people who have eaten MaximusBrek, saying how much energy they suddenly have. Also, when anyone tweets that they’re on a diet, MaximusBrek starts following them. We kind of anthropomorphize it, so MaximusBrek becomes like a person out there in cyberspace, right, rather than just a brand.’

He was greeted with frowns and blank stares.

‘Diabetics,’ the female client said. ‘I thought we planned to target the two and a half million diabetics in the UK with the low glycaemic index of MaximusBrek.’

‘Absolutely!’ Jobe said, remembering suddenly. ‘Diabetics are a shoo-in. What we’re going to do is engage with the diabetic blog sites, as well as Twitter and Facebook. MaximusBrek is going to be the diabetic’s new best friend — types one and two! We’re going to make it the biggest breakfast cereal ever — first for this nation, and then we’ll break it out globally!’

Then he made the mistake of glancing down at his iPhone again. Hey Jobe, nice to ‘meet’ you! Just checked out your photos — you look a really cool guy! Tell me more about yourself.

After the meeting, Martin Willis asked him to come up to his office. Willis was in his early forties, with trim ginger hair, and was dressed in a traditional business suit and an expensive open-neck white shirt. He had a hard, blunt Yorkshire accent. ‘Who are you with, Jobe? The Woolwich?’

‘The Woolwich?’ Jobe frowned.

‘Yeah, the Woolwich? Are you with them? Because you sure as hell aren’t with us.’

‘I’m not quite with you.’

‘No, you’re sodding not. You’re not with anyone today; you’re on planet Zog. You on drugs or something? Not well?’

‘No — nothing… and I’m not unwell.’

‘You realize you almost lost us one of our biggest new clients this morning with your behaviour? Every time anyone asked you a question you were somewhere else.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘I don’t do sorry.’

Back home, Jobe typed: Hey Teresa, nice to ‘meet’ you too! Your reply got me a load of verbal from my boss a bit earlier! He seemed to think it was more important for me to concentrate on a meeting I was in than read your message. What a Philistine!

Anyway, about me: I’m single and I work in advertising. I live on Wapping Wharf, near Tower Bridge. I’d love to meet you properly J

He posted the message then switched on the television, mixed himself a large vodka martini, took one sip, then checked his laptop before settling down to watch television. Whatever was on, he didn’t care. He needed a large drink tonight after the bollocking from Martin Willis — and what annoyed him most about it was that Willis was right. His mind had been all over the place in a crucially important meeting. God, Teresa Saunders was messing with his head and they hadn’t even met yet!

Yet!

And there was a reply from her, already.

I’d love to meet you too J

He replied immediately.

When’s good for you?

She replied immediately too.

Tonight?

She was keen!

OK! What time and where?

There was a long delay, and then the message appeared.

10.35 p.m. Hampstead Heath. 51°56′ 47.251''     N 0°17′ 41.938'' W.

Jobe frowned for a moment, then grinned. Compass co-ordinates. Teresa Saunders was a piece of work! Smart girl. He liked challenges.

He typed back:

See u there!

The reply arrived:

I want u 2 join me! x

He typed:

That’s my plan! x

She replied:

Promise? x

He grinned and typed:

I promise! x

He picked up his iPhone and flicked through to the compass app he had downloaded a long time back for a coffee advert he had written, in which a man and a woman teased each other by sending compass co-ordinates that came closer and closer until they finally met in a coffee shop. That was one of his most successful commercials. Teresa must have seen it, he figured. His own location showed as: 51°50′ 33.594''     N 0°06′ 15.631'' W.

It was 9 p.m. At a rough guess it would take him an hour to drive there. He made himself a toasted cheese sandwich, which he figured would absorb enough of the alcohol to put him safely below the limit, then on his laptop googled Hampstead Heath, working out the nearest street to the co-ordinates he had been given.

Shortly before half past nine he brushed his teeth, squirted on some cologne, pulled on his black leather jacket and pocketed a small torch. Then he took the lift down to the garage, climbed into his Aston Martin and tapped his destination into the satnav. His stomach was full of butterflies. But good butterflies!

His drive across London through the thin evening traffic was joyous. A Michael Kiwanuka CD was spinning, the dials in front of him were spinning, and the GPS numbers on his iPhone were spinning as he headed nearer and nearer to Hampstead. To Teresa Saunders. His dream girl!

He reached his destination with twenty minutes to spare. The Kiwanuka CD had finished and now a Louis Armstrong track was playing: ‘We Have All The Time In the World’.

And just how appropriate was that?

He parked his car, pulled the torch from his pocket and entered the heath. There was no one around and ordinarily, in such a strange, dark and isolated environment, he might have felt apprehensive, but tonight the knowledge that Teresa was heading through the darkness too — and might already be there — allayed his concerns.

He watched the compass co-ordinates on the app spinning away, until he reached 51°56′ 47.251''     N 0°17′ 41.938'' W.

Right in front of him was a park bench.

Oh yes! He was loving this!

He sat down, the butterflies going increasingly crazy in his stomach, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. But what if she disapproved of smokers? There was a smell of burnt wood in the air.

He slipped the pack back in his pocket and sat listening. Somewhere in the distance he heard a man calling out, ‘Oscar! Oscar! Here, boy! Oscar!’

A dog barked.

The man said, ‘Good boy, good boy!’

The dog barked again.

Then silence.

He waited. The air was chilly. After a while he checked his watch. Five minutes had passed. Another five minutes passed. He checked Facebook on his phone. Nothing. He sent a message.

I’m here!

Moments later a message came back.

So am I!

He looked around, then switched on the torch and shone the beam in every direction. It fell away into the darkness. He sent another message.

I can’t see you. Did I get the co-ordinates right? 51°56′ 47.251"     N 0°17′ 41.938" W.

The reply came almost before he had posted it.

Spot on!

He felt a sudden swirl of cold air; it went, almost as fast as it had come. Then he felt something digging into his back — something hard and flat that felt different from the rest of the bench.

He turned around and shone the beam onto it. It was a small brass plaque. Engraved, in tiny lettering, were the words: In memory of Teresa Saunders (1983–2011) who loved this heath. Tragically killed by lightning on this spot.

Another swirl of icy air engulfed him. Then he felt a touch, just the faintest touch, on his cheek. Like a kiss.

An instant later there was a crack, like a peal of thunder, directly above him. He looked up in shock to see a dark shape hurtling down towards him.

‘Poor bastard,’ the Police Sergeant said.

‘Must have been instant at least,’ the constable who had been first on the scene replied.

The fire brigade officers had rigged up some lights, and three of them were hurriedly attaching lifting gear from the rescue tender to the massive, blackened branch that pinned Jobe, by his crushed skull, to the ground.

The attending paramedic could find no pulse, and viewing the matter leaking from the unfortunate young man’s crushed head, was all too grimly aware that it was what he and his colleagues, with the gallows humour of their trade, called a ‘scoop-and-run job’. The Coroner’s Officer was on his way.

A man who had been walking his dog nearby was in shock. He had stood numbly watching, then several times had repeated crossly, almost shouting, to the attending officers beyond the police tape cordon, ‘They should have bloody cut it down — any fool could see it was an accident waiting to happen.’

Another police officer who had turned up, but had nothing to do, suddenly snapped on a pair of gloves, knelt and picked up an object. ‘iPhone,’ he said. ‘Might give us a clue who he is.’

He tapped the power key to wake it up, then studied the screen. ‘Looks like he was meeting someone here,’ he said. ‘Seems as if he had a date. Meant to be meeting her here at 10.35 p.m. — that’s half an hour ago. I haven’t seen any sign of a woman anywhere around.’

‘Not his night, is it?’ one of the fire officers replied. ‘Stood up, then this happens.’

‘Or maybe she broke it off and left,’ the Sergeant said.

Smoking Kills

A very short story based on a true incident

‘You have a last request?’

‘Uh-huh. Could I have a cigarette?’

‘I’m sorry, this is a no-smoking execution chamber.’

‘It’s not going to kill me, you know.’

‘You’re right about that, sunshine.’

The Stamp of a Criminal

Roy Grace’s first case

The dog was a wuss, Crafty Cunningham always said. An adorable wuss, certainly, but a wuss nonetheless.

His wife, Caroline, agreed. He was a big dog, a lot of dog, especially when he jumped on you, wet and muddy from the garden, and tried to lick your face. It was like having a sheep fall off a cliff and land on you. His name was Fluff, which was a ruddy stupid name, they both knew, for a dog of this size. The animal was still unable to grasp the fact that after eleven years (a ripe seventy-seven in dog time) he was no longer a tiny, fluffy puppy, but was a very large, overweight and usually smelly golden retriever.

They both loved him, despite the fact they had been badly advised on their choice of a puppy. They’d originally wanted a guard dog that would be happy roaming a big garden in Brighton, and wouldn’t need too many walks beyond that. Fluff needed two long walks daily, which he did not often get, which was why he was overweight. And as a guard dog he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Crafty was fond of telling their friends that the hound might drown a burglar in slobber, but that would be about his limit.

Crafty’s real name was Dennis, but he’d acquired the nickname back in his school days and it had stuck. He’d always been one for a crafty dodge. He used to play truant from school; he was a crafty dodger around the football pitch, and equally crafty at dodging trouble. And he was always one for getting something for nothing. His father had once said of him, with a kind of grudging respect, ‘Dennis is a lad who could follow you in through a turnstile and come out in front of you without having paid.’

Neither of them heard Fluff, early that April Tuesday morning, pad upstairs from the kitchen, where he usually slept, and flop down on their bedroom floor. Later, Crafty would tell the police he thought he had heard whimpering, around 5 a.m. he estimated, but because he wasn’t aware the dog was in the bedroom, he thought the sound was coming from Caroline, having a bad dream.

It was only when Crafty woke at 7 a.m., with that very distinct smell of damp dog in his nostrils, that he saw Fluff on the floor. To his surprise, the dog was shaking. ‘Fluff!’ he hissed, not wanting to wake Caroline, who never rose before 8.30. ‘What are you doing here, boy?’

The dog gave him a baleful look, stood up, still shaking, padded to the door, then turned back to him and gave a single bark that was much higher than his usual.

‘Ssshhhh, boy!’ Crafty said, but at the same time he thought the dog was behaving in a very strange way — almost as if he was trying to tell him something. Was he ill? ‘Need to go out, do you? What’s the matter? Why are you shaking?’ he whispered, then slipped out of bed, pushed his feet in his slippers, and unhooked his silk paisley dressing gown from the back of the door. It was cold in the room and he was covered in goosebumps, he realized. Spring was meant to be here, although there was still a wintry chill in the air. But that could not be why Fluff was shaking — he had too much fur on him to be cold, surely?

The dog barked again, trotted a short way down the stairs, then turned, looked up at his master and barked again.

‘You’re definitely trying to tell me something, aren’t you, boy?’

He was.

Detective Constable Roy Grace sat at his small desk in the detectives’ room, on the second floor of Brighton’s John Street police station, which was to be his home for the foreseeable future.

He put down his mug of coffee from the canteen, and removed his jacket. His desk, apart from a telephone, his radio next to it and a copy of yesterday’s briefing notes, was almost bare. He opened his attaché case and pulled out a few personal belongings, and started by pinning up in front of him a photograph of his fiancée, Sandy. She was smiling, leaning against a railing on the seafront, the wind blowing her long blonde hair. Next he placed in front of him a photograph of his parents. His father, Jack, stood proudly in his uniform bearing Sergeant stripes.

Roy had recently completed his two years as a probationer, walking the beat in Brighton as a Constable, and he had loved it. But right from his early teens he had dreamed of becoming a detective. He still could not really believe that he now was one.

This was his second day in his new role, and he loved the sound of his title. Detective Constable Grace. Detective! Sandy loved it too, and told him she was very proud of him. He sipped some coffee and stifled a yawn. He had been told he did not need to be in until 8 a.m., but he wanted to make a good impression — and perhaps bag an early worm — so he had arrived at the police station, in a smart blazer and slacks, at 7 a.m., hoping for a more challenging day than yesterday when, in truth, he’d felt a little bored. Wasn’t this supposed to be the second busiest police station in the UK? It had felt as quiet as a mortuary.

What he needed was a case to get his teeth into. Nothing had happened on his first day, apart from attending a briefing, some basic familiarization with the routines, and being given his shifts for the three months ahead. It had been a quiet Monday generally, blamed largely on the pelting rain. ‘Policeman Rain’ it was jokingly called, but it was true. Levels of crime fell dramatically when the weather was rubbish. Today looked better, an almost cloudless sky giving the promise of sunshine. And crime!

Yesterday, he reflected, had felt a bit like his first day at school, getting to know the ropes and his new colleagues. There had been a handful of follow-ups from crimes committed on the Sunday night — a string of break-ins, a couple of street robberies, several motor vehicle thefts, a racist attack on a group of Asians by one of the town’s nasty youth gangs, and a drugs bust on a private dwelling — but other detectives had been despatched to handle those. He had spent most of his first day chatting to colleagues, seeing what he could learn from them, and waiting for his Detective Sergeant, Bill Stoker, to give him an action; he hoped today would not be a repeat.

He did not have to wait long. The DS, a burly former boxer, ambled over, wearing a charcoal suit that looked a size too big for him and black shoes polished to a military shine. ‘Right, old son, need to send you out. Domestic burglary in Dyke Road Avenue. Sounds like a high-value haul. I’ll come with you — but I’ll let you lead. I’ve already got SOCO on standby.’

Grace hoped his excitement didn’t show on his face too much. He drove the unmarked Metro up past Brighton railway station, carefully sticking to the speed limit, across the Seven Dials roundabout and on up Dyke Road, then into Dyke Road Avenue, lined on both sides with some of the town’s swankiest houses.

‘Not many coppers living on this street,’ his Sergeant observed wryly. ‘Not many honest ones at any rate.’

There had been a big police corruption scandal some years back, which Roy Grace’s father had talked about, and which had left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth — police and public alike. He decided, from the Sergeant’s slightly bitter tone, not to probe. Just as he was about to make a non-committal comment, his colleague said, ‘Here, that’s it, over on the left, on that corner!’

Grace pulled over. There was a narrow driveway with in-and-out gates; both sets were open — and from their poor state of repair, it did not look as if they had been closed in years. ‘I think if I lived on this street, I’d keep my gates shut — open like that is an invitation,’ he said.

‘Most people don’t have a bloody clue about security,’ the Detective Sergeant said. ‘All right, before we get out of the car, what’s this place tell you at first glance?’

Roy Grace stared at the house. It was secluded from the street by a wooden fence badly in need of repair, rising above which, on the other side, was a tall, neatly trimmed privet hedge. The house itself was an Edwardian mansion, with window frames that, he could see from here, looked in poor condition. ‘Elderly people live here,’ Grace said. ‘They’ve probably owned the property for several decades, and never bothered with an alarm. There’s no box on the outside of the house.’

The Detective Sergeant raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think the occupants are elderly?’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘Mr and Mrs Cunningham.’

‘Old people get worried about money, sir. They don’t like to spend anything they don’t have to. So they haven’t done maintenance on the exterior for a very long time. But I suspect they are keen gardeners — and they have the time, which means they are retired. Look at the condition of the hedge. It’s immaculate — trimmed by a perfectionist.’

‘Let’s see if you’re right,’ Bill Stoker said, climbing out.

Grace looked at him. ‘Is there something you know about these people that I don’t?’

Stoker gave a non-committal shrug and a wry smile. The two men walked up the threadbare gravel of the driveway. An elderly Honda saloon was parked near the front door. From what they could see of the garden from their position, all the shrubbery was neatly tended, but close up, Grace could see the exterior of the house was in an even worse state of repair than he had first assessed, with large chunks of the pebbledash rendering missing and a few ominous patches of damp on the walls.

They entered the porch and rang the bell. Instantly, they heard the half-hearted bark of a dog, and a few moments later the door was opened by a wiry, energetic-looking man in his early seventies, Grace estimated. Grace shot Bill Stoker a quick glance; Stoker gave a small grin of approval.

‘Mr Cunningham?’

‘Yes?’

Grace pulled out his warrant card holder and flipped it open, to show his card and the Sussex Police badge. It was the first time he had used it, and he felt a deep thrill. ‘Detective Constable Grace and Detective Sergeant Stoker, from Brighton CID, sir. We understand you’ve had a break-in?’

The old man, dressed in a plaid shirt with a cravat, chinos and monogrammed velvet slippers, looked distinctly on edge and a tad lost. His hair was a little long and unkempt, giving him the air of an absent-minded professor. He did not look to Roy Grace like a man who had ever held a staid office job — possibly a former antiques dealer or someone in the arts world, perhaps. Definitely some kind of wheeler-dealer.

‘Yes, that’s right. Bloody awful. Thank you for coming. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.’

‘No trouble at all, sir,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

‘It’s shaken us up, I can tell you. Please come in. My wife and I have tried to be careful not to touch anything, but the ruddy dog’s trampled all over — I suppose what you fellows call — the crime scene.’

‘We’ll have SOCO take some paw prints, so we can rule him out as a suspect, sir.’ Bill Stoker said, entering the rather grand panelled hallway. Several fine-looking oil paintings were hung along the walls, and it was furnished with tasteful antiques. He knelt to stroke the dog which had padded over towards him, tongue out. ‘Hello, fellow!’ He rubbed the dog’s chest gently. ‘What’s your name?’ He asked, looking at the collar tag. ‘Fluff. You’re Fluff, are you?’ Then he heard a female voice.

‘Who is it, darling?’

‘The Police. CID. Two detectives.’

‘Oh, thank God.’

Caroline Cunningham was an elegant woman in her late sixties, with neatly coiffed hair and a face that was still handsome despite her wrinkles. She must have been very beautiful in her youth, Roy Grace thought. She was wearing a white blouse, black slacks and sparkly trainers.

Her husband introduced them, getting their names and ranks the wrong way round. Roy Grace corrected him.

‘Would you gentlemen like some tea or coffee?’ she asked.

Grace did fancy a coffee but was unsure it would be professional to accept. ‘We’re fine,’ he said, ‘Thank you very much.’ Then he noticed the look of dismay on Bill Stoker’s face. Ignoring it, he ploughed on. ‘I understand two officers attended an emergency call made at 7.10 a.m. today from this address, Mr and Mrs Cunningham?’

‘Correct. We didn’t know if the blighters… were still in the house. We were bloody terrified — and the dog was no damned use at all!’

‘My husband has a shotgun, but of course it’s locked away in the safe in the garage,’ she said.

‘Probably just as well, madam,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Once a firearm is involved, matters can turn very dangerous very quickly.’

‘I’d have given them both barrels and to hell with it,’ Crafty Cunningham said.

From the grimace on his face, Roy Grace had no doubt he meant it. ‘I think what would be most helpful is if you can you talk us through exactly what happened from the moment you discovered the break-in, then we’d like to go through what has been taken.’

‘I’m not sure we can remember exactly what’s been taken — but the majority of it, certainly,’ the old man replied.

‘Georgian silver mostly,’ Caroline Cunningham said. ‘They knew their stuff whoever did this. They didn’t seem to bother with much else.’

‘From what you are saying, you seem pretty certain it was more than one intruder?’ Grace said.

‘Damned right it was,’ Crafty said. ‘The buggers made themselves breakfast in the kitchen before they left! Two bowls of cereal, bread, butter and marmalade. Can you believe it?’

‘Maybe it would be a good idea if we could sit down and go through everything,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Then we’ll take a look around afterwards. Is there a room that the… er… intruders didn’t enter, to your knowledge?’

‘The conservatory,’ Caroline Cunningham said.

‘Let’s go in there.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like tea or coffee?’ she asked.

This time Grace looked at his Sergeant for a lead.

‘I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa,’ Stoker said. ‘Thank you.’

‘A coffee for me, please,’ Grace said. ‘But I’m a bit worried, if they’ve been in your kitchen, about contaminating any possible evidence.’

The couple looked at each other guiltily. ‘Erm, I’m afraid we have already been in there, and made ourselves something to eat — not that either of us had much of an appetite. But we had a feeling it was going to be a long morning,’ Crafty replied.

Bill Stoker looked at his watch. ‘Someone from SOCO should be along shortly to dust for prints. They’ll need to take both of yours, to know which ones to eliminate, if that’s all right?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Caroline Cunningham said.

‘And the dog’s, also?’ Her husband said, with a smile.

‘Have you lost a lot?’ Grace asked them.

‘Quite a bit, in value,’ Crafty replied.

‘Much of it sentimental. Bits and pieces I’d inherited from my parents,’ Caroline said. ‘And wedding presents. Christening cups and napkin rings. To be honest, we’re pretty numb. A lot’s happened in the last hour — hour and a half…’ She looked at the wall, and frowned. ‘No! Bastards.’

Grace followed her gaze and saw a rectangular shadow on the wall.

‘That was a beautiful antique French wall clock.’

‘Belonged to my great-grandfather,’ Crafty Cunningham said ruefully. ‘Bloody hell, what else has gone?’

‘I’m afraid people often keep finding things missing for weeks after a burglary,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Let’s go and sit down and take things slowly from the beginning.’

Tony Langiotti watched from his office window as the white Renault van came around the corner into the mews. His mews. He owned all eight of the lock-up garages, and the warehouse opposite. That meant no strangers with prying eyes could see who came and went. He put down his coffee, lit a cigarette, and with it dangling from his lips went outside to meet the two Welsh scumbags.

‘You’re fucking late. What kept you?’ he said to the van’s driver, Dai Lewellyn. The Welshman was in his early twenties, with a cratered, emaciated face and a hairstyle like his mother had just tipped a bowl of spaghetti on his head. ‘Stop to get your toenails varnished or something?’

‘We went to get breakfast, look you,’ Lewellyn said cheerily, in a sing-song voice.

‘We’ve been up since early, like, we were hungry, like,’ the other man, in the passenger seat said. His name was Rees Hughes. Both occupants of the van were dressed in postmen’s uniforms.

Langiotti hauled up the door of garage number 4, and signalled for them to drive in. Then he switched on the interior light and pulled the door back down behind them.

They were in a large space, eight lock-up garages wide, with all the internal walls knocked down. There were two other vans in there, a machine for manufacturing number plates, a number of old vending machines stacked against the far wall, and a line of trestle tables, which gave it the faint appearance of a village hall.

‘So what you tossers got for me?’ The cigarette dangled from Langiotti’s lips, with an inch of ash on the end.

‘I don’t like your tone,’ the fat one said in a mild rebuke, getting out of the van.

‘Yeah, well, I don’t like being kept waiting, see? So what you got for me?’ He walked around to the rear of the van, and saw the two large grey mail sacks lying there, each stamped GPO.

‘We did the Dyke Road Avenue House.’

‘Yeah? Any bother?’

‘No, there was no alarm, like you said. The dog wasn’t any trouble either, like you said it wouldn’t be.’

‘I do my research,’ Langiotti said. ‘You got some good gear for me?’

Dai pulled the first sack out; it clinked as he put it down, then he untied the neck and Langiotti peered in, taking a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and pulling them on. He removed a silver Georgian fruit bowl from the sack and held it up, turning it around until he could see the hallmark. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

‘We took the Georgian silver — we identified it from the pictures you gave us from the insurance company. There was a nice-looking clock we saw that wasn’t on the list, but it looked good to us.’

‘Anything else that wasn’t on the list?’

The two Welshmen looked at each other and shook their heads.’

‘I wouldn’t want to find out you’d nicked something that you didn’t tell me about, know what I mean? That you’d kept something for yourselves, yeah? It’s when people try to flog stuff on the side that trouble happens. That’s how you get nicked, you know what I’m saying?’

Dai Lewellyn pointed at the two sacks. ‘Everything we took is in these.’

Langiotti took each item out, carefully setting it down on the trestles. Then he ran through the haul, checking each item against the insurance inventory, and jotting numbers down on his notepad. When he had finished he said, ‘Right, by my reckoning, I’ve got a market value here of forty-five thousand quid, less what I’ll have to knock off. We agreed ten per cent of value, right?’

The two Welshmen nodded.

‘Right, come across to my office and I’ll square up, and give you tonight’s address. Got a good one for you tonight, I have.’

Their eyes lit up greedily.

The Cunninghams took the two detectives into the rooms where items had been stolen, making an inventory as they went. But with the couple constantly interrupting and contradicting each other, it took some time for Roy Grace and Bill Stoker to get a clear idea of the sequence of events and of what had been taken.

The dining room had been the most badly affected. Caroline Cunningham pointed out, tearfully, the bare sideboard where much of the fine silver had stood, as well as a Georgian silver fruit bowl, which, she told them, had been in her family for five generations, and had stood in the centre of the fine oval dining table.

Back in the conservatory again and sipping another cup of coffee, Grace studied his notes and asked them to go through the events of the early morning once more. Crafty Cunningham said he was roused by a whimpering sound, which he thought was his wife having a nightmare, and happened to notice on the beside clock that it was just past 5 a.m.; then he went back to sleep. He went downstairs at 7.10 a.m. to find the burglars had broken in through the toilet window, which was along the side of the house. The glass had been cut neatly, rather than broken, which meant their entry had been almost silent. They had left via the kitchen door, which the Cunninghams had found unlocked.

Roy Grace stared out at the large, beautifully tended garden, with its swimming pool and tennis court, and did a quick calculation. The burglars had entered before sunrise. OK, it was logical for them to have broken in while it was still dark. But why at 5 a.m.? That risked that daylight would be breaking when they left. Why not much earlier in the night? Or was this the last of a series of houses the perpetrators were burgling last night? But if that was the case, surely the police would have heard of other burglaries by now — it was nearly 9.30 a.m.

‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what time the intruders might have left?’ He addressed both the Cunninghams.

They shook their heads.

‘What time are your newspapers delivered?’

‘About a quarter to seven,’ Caroline Cunningham said.

‘If you could give me the details of your newsagent, we’ll check with the paperboy to see if he noticed anything unusual. Also, what time does your post normally arrive?’

‘About 7.30 a.m.,’ the old man said.

‘We’ll check with the post office also.’

Then the two detectives went back carefully over the inventory of stolen items, reading it all out to the couple and asking them several times if there was anything else that had been taken which they might have overlooked. It was clearly a big haul, and the burglars seemed to be professionals who knew exactly what they were taking.

As the Cunninghams showed the two detectives to the front door, thanking them for their help, Crafty suddenly said, ‘Oh my God, my stamps!’ He clapped his hand to his forehead in sudden panic.

‘Stamps, sir?’ Roy Grace asked.

Caroline Cunningham gave her husband an astonished look. ‘You didn’t check, darling?’

‘No… I… I… dammit, I didn’t!’

‘Where are they this week?’

Crafty looked bewildered for a moment. He stroked his chin.

‘My husband’s a stamp collector,’ Caroline explained. ‘But he’s paranoid about them. Twenty-five years ago his collection was stolen — we always suspected the housekeeper had something to do with it because he kept them hidden in a particular place in his den, and the thieves went straight to it. Ever since, he’s been paranoid — he changes the hiding place every few weeks.’

‘You don’t use a safe, sir?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘Never trusted them,’ Crafty replied. ‘My parents had a safe in their house jemmied open. I prefer my hiding places.’

‘I keep telling him he’s bloody stupid,’ his wife said. ‘But he won’t listen.’

‘What’s the value of your collection, Mr Cunningham?’ Bill Stoker asked.

‘About one hundred thousand pounds,’ he said absently, scratching his head now, thinking. ‘I… I had them under the carpet beneath the dining table,’ he said. ‘But then I moved them… um… ah, yes, of course, of course! I remember!’

With the rest of them in tow, he hurried through an internal door into the integral double garage. A large, elderly Rover was parked in there, along with an assortment of tools and two lawnmowers, one sitting on top of a hessian mat. He pulled the mower back and, like an excited child, knelt and lifted the mat.

Then he looked up in utter disbelief. ‘They’ve gone,’ he said lamely, looking gutted. ‘They’ve gone.’

Both detectives frowned. ‘You kept a hundred thousand pounds worth of stamps beneath an old mat in the garage?’ Bill Stoker said, incredulously.

‘They’re sealed,’ he said. ‘And there’s no damp in the garage.’

‘How easy would the stamps be to identify, sir?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘Very easy if someone tried to sell them as a single collection. They’re all British Colonial from the Victorian period and there are some very rare ones among them. But not so easy if they sold them individually or in strips.’

‘And you have them insured, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘No insurance stipulation about having them locked in a safe or a bank vault?’

He shook his head. ‘Only have to do that if the house is empty.’

‘Do you have any photographs of these stamps, Mr Cunningham?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘Yes, I do. I can make you a copy of the list the insurance company has.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the young detective said. ‘That would be very helpful. We’ll be organizing some house-to-house inquiries over the next few days.’

Afterwards in the car, heading back to the police station, Roy Grace said, ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’

‘About the Cunninghams?’

He nodded.

‘He’s dodgy,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Well dodgy.’

‘I sensed something. Couldn’t put my finger on it.’

Stoker touched the tip of his nose. ‘Copper’s nose. You’ll develop it more as you get experience, old son. Follow your instincts and you won’t often go wrong. He’s been known to us for years, but no one’s ever pinned anything on him.’

‘Known for what?’

‘Handling.’

‘Stamps?’

The DS shook his head. ‘High-end antiques. But anytime we ever tried to nick him, he could always produce receipts. He’s crafty, that one. I’ve talked to a few people who reckon he’s got away with everything but murder over the years. A lot of coppers would like to see him behind bars.’ He shrugged. ‘But doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, does it? And now he’s a sodding victim.’

‘Reckon that’s genuine?’

He nodded. ‘Could see how upset the missus is. They’ve had the tables turned, all right. Mind you, you sodding deserve it if you leave a hundred grand’s worth of stamps under a bleeding mat, right?’

Grace nodded thoughtfully, replaying the scene over in his mind. ‘The timing bothers me, sir — why do it at 5 a.m.? Why not earlier in the night?’

‘Police patrols get suspicious of vehicles out late at night. If the Cunninghams are correct and the villains broke in at 5 a.m., did their burgling, then made themselves some breakfast, it meant they were probably there a good hour or so. They’d have left around 6 a.m. perhaps, when people are starting to surface and be up and about. More vehicles on the road. Less suspicion. Nah, it’s an open-and-shut job. Let’s see if SOCO pick up any dabs.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll be there in the next half hour. We need to brief our press officer in the meantime. I’ll let you do it — be good practice.’

Shortly after 12.30 p.m., Tony Langiotti left his office, pulled his door shut behind him, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips, and sauntered out into the bright sunshine. He was in a sunny mood, looking forward to a nice pint or two and a bite to eat in the pub with a couple of mates.

He’d already made a deal this morning to offload the Georgian silver haul from last night, for a very tasty price indeed! The clock wasn’t proving quite so easy and he wished the tossers hadn’t bothered nicking it — the value was peanuts compared to the rest of the items. But he knew someone who would take it off his hands when he returned from a holiday in Spain later in the week.

He climbed into his large Jaguar, started the engine, and drove up to the Old Shoreham Road. A short distance on he halted at a red traffic light. As he waited for it to change, he glanced idly towards the parade of shops on his left; suddenly, the banner headline of The Argus newspaper, outside a newsagent’s, caught his eye.

Instantly, his mood darkened. Violently. It was too coincidental to be a different house.

‘What?’ he said aloud. ‘What?’ he repeated. ‘What the f—?’

£100,000 STAMP HAUL IN EXCLUSIVE HOVE MANSION RAID.

Ignoring that the lights had changed to green, and the hooting from behind, he sat and stared in disbelief for several moments. Then he jumped out, gave two fingers to the driver of the car behind, ran into the newsagent’s and grabbed a copy of the paper. He paid for it, then stood rooted to the spot reading it, ignoring the hooting outside from the obstruction his car was causing.

Thieves broke into a Dyke Road Avenue mansion early this morning and made off with a haul that included Georgian silver, valued at over £50,000, and a prized stamp collection, worth an estimated £100,000.

The house’s owner, retired Brighton businessman Dennis Cunningham, said to The Argus earlier this morning, ‘They clearly knew exactly what they were looking for. They only targeted our finest Georgian silver — and my stamps. And the cheek of them!’ he added, indignantly. ‘They helped themselves to breakfast while my wife and I were asleep upstairs!’

Detective Constable Roy Grace, in charge of the investigation, said, ‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry, and will make every effort to apprehend those responsible and recover the valuables, many of which are of great sentimental value to their rightful owners.

‘If any member of the public saw anything suspicious in the Dyke Road Avenue area between the hours of 4 a.m. and 7 a.m., please call Detective Constable Roy Grace at Brighton CID on the following number…’

Langiotti stormed out of the newsagent, jumped into his car, lit another cigarette to calm himself down, then accelerated away, his lunchtime plans out of the window, anger coursing through his veins.

‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘You jammy little Welsh bastards. Think you’re going to get away with cheating me out of a hundred grand? Well, boyos, you’ve got another thing coming.’

In the CID office at John Street police station, Roy Grace was hunched over his desk, an untouched sandwich beside him and a forgotten mug of coffee gone cold. He was concentrating hard, determined to impress Detective Sergeant Stoker with his work on this case. And he knew he was going to impress one person today — his beloved Sandy. The noon edition of The Argus lay beside him; it was the first time he had ever seen his name in print, and he was chuffed to bits. He could not wait to show it to her this evening.

In his notebook he wrote:

Look for similar modus operandi.

House-to-house enquiries.

Newsagents.

Stop all vehicles in Dyke Road Avenue during that time period tomorrow and ask if they saw anything.

Check all antique shops and stalls in Brighton regularly over coming weeks.

Check local and national stamp dealers for items they have been offered.

He was interrupted in mid-flow by his phone ringing. ‘DC Grace,’ he answered. ‘Brighton CID.’

‘I’m phoning about the Dyke Road Avenue robbery this morning,’ the male voice at the other end said, in a coarse Brighton accent.

Eagerly, Grace picked up his pen. ‘May I have your name and phone number, sir?’

‘You may not. But I’ve got inside information, see. There’s going to be another burglary tonight. 111 Tongdean Avenue, a house called The Gallops.’

Grace knew his home town well. This was considered by some to be an even smarter street than Dyke Road Avenue. ‘How do you know that, sir?’

‘Just trust me, I know. They’ll be going in around 5 a.m., and coming out soon after 6 a.m., disguised as postmen. Couple of Welshmen, from Cardiff.’

Any moment there was going to be a catch; Grace pressed on his questions, whilst waiting for it. Probably a demand for money.

‘Can you give me their names, sir?’

‘Dai Lewellyn and Rees Hughes.’

He wrote the names on the pad. ‘May I ask why you are giving me this information?’

‘Tell ’em they shouldn’t have been so greedy with the stamps.’

There was a click. The man had hung up.

Grace thought for some moments, feeling a buzz of excitement. If… if… if this tip-off was real, then he had a real chance to shine! Even better if he could catch the perps red-handed. But it could of course have been a crank call. He phoned the operator and asked for a trace on it, then he looked up the number of Cardiff’s main police station, called it, and asked to speak to the CID there. The duty detective was out at lunch, but Grace was told he would call back on his return.

A short while later the operator called to tell him the call had been made, as he had suspected, from a phone booth. She gave him the address of the booth, in a busy street near the Brighton & Hove Albion football stadium. Grace thanked her and immediately contacted the SOCO officer who had just finished at the Cunninghams’ house, asking him to get straight over to the phone box and take some prints from that — although Grace doubted whether whoever had made the call would have been dumb enough to have left any prints anywhere in the booth.

Then he hurried across the room to Bill Stoker’s tiny office, which was largely decorated with photographs of him in his former life as a professional boxer, and told him the developments.

‘Probably a crank,’ was the Detective Sergeant’s first reaction.

‘He was very specific.’

‘Let’s wait and see if Cardiff Police come back with anything on these two Taffies.’

An hour later, Grace received a call from Detective Constable Gareth Brangwen of the South Wales Constabulary. Before getting down to business he asked whether Grace was a football or a rugby man. ‘I’m a rugby man, sir,’ he said, ‘Out of preference.’

‘Good man!’ he said. ‘We’re going to get along fine, you and I! Now, what’s this about two of our undesirables over on your manor?’

The young DC gave him, as briefly as he could, the facts.

‘Well, we do have a Dai Lewellyn and Rees Hughes well known to us. They come from the same estate and they’ve given us plenty of trouble over the years. Housebreaking is their speciality, if you want to call it that. Both of them have form — they were last released from prison six months ago.’

Grace thanked him, hardly able to wait to give Bill Stoker the news.

There were several cars parked along both sides of Tongdean Avenue, so another one, a large plain Vauxhall, did not look out of place. Taking no chances, Roy Grace and another DC colleague, Jon Carlton, had arrived shortly before midnight for the stake-out.

They were parked across the road, a safe distance back from The Gallops, number 111, the target house. A quarter of a mile away, down a side street, other officers waited in an unmarked van. A second unmarked car, with two police officers seated inside, was parked in the street near the rear of the property. No one could go in or out without being seen from one of the roads.

There were to be no breaks, and no one leaving or entering any of the vehicles. If anyone, including Grace and Carlton, needed to urinate for the rest of the night, they’d have to do it into plastic jars, which they had with them.

One of the biggest decisions that had been made, fortunately by his superiors — so there would be no comeback on him at least — was not to inform the owners of The Gallops. The news would undoubtedly worry, if not downright terrify them. There would be no telling how the owners might react — perhaps by keeping the lights on all night long, which could blow the police’s chances of an arrest. The plan was to seize the perpetrators as they attempted to enter the house.

Grace was nervous as hell — so much was riding on this. Would they turn up, or would he have wasted hours of time for eight officers, and DS Stoker, who had also sacrificed his night’s sleep to be on standby for him? He’d have a very red face if there was a no-show, or if it all went, as Bill Stoker had charmingly put it, tits-up.

Grace wondered if he was noticing a pattern. The Gallops, which he had driven past in daylight earlier, was one of the largest houses in this street, but — like the Cunninghams’ house — one of the ones in poorest repair, and there was no burglar alarm box on the wall. There were also no gates to the entrance or exit of the in-and-out driveway.

His colleague was an experienced and chatty DC, who was hoping to move across to Major Crime work, which included all homicides. High-profile murder cases were the best jobs, the Gucci jobs, he told Roy Grace over several cigarettes, which they smoked cupped in their hands to conceal the glow in case their quarry approached unseen, and sickly sweet coffee that was becoming progressively more lukewarm. They were also the cases that got you noticed by your superiors, and which helped your promotion chances.

As the night wore on, it wasn’t promotion that was Grace’s worry, it was his growing fear of a no-show. Had he been sold a pup? Been naive in believing a crank caller?

But the names of the two Welshmen had checked out, hadn’t they? If it had been a crank call, whoever had made it had gone to a lot of trouble.

At a few minutes past five, DC Carlton yawned. ‘What time are you reckoning on calling it a day?’

The sky was lightening a fraction, Grace thought, and a few tiny streaks of grey and red were appearing. He felt tired, and shaky from too much coffee. He munched a Kit Kat chocolate bar, sharing it with Carlton. Then, just as he bit on the last morsel, both men stiffened.

Headlights appeared.

A white van drove slowly past them, with what looked like two men in the front. All the cars parked on this street, and on the driveways of the homes, were modern; this Vauxhall they were in was one of the cheapest, but it was inconspicuous. The van stuck out instantly. The vehicle was wrong for the street — certainly at this hour.

Grace radioed in. ‘Charlie Victor, Tango One approaching Tango Two.’

But the van carried on going and Grace’s heart sank. Then it turned around and came back, and pulled into a space less than a hundred yards in front of them. Two men climbed out. In the glow of a street light he could see they were dressed as postmen, carrying what looked like empty mail sacks. They looked furtively around at the seemingly deserted street, then scurried across the road, hurried along the pavement and down the driveway.

‘Now,’ he radioed urgently. ‘Tango One on scene. Charlie Victor going in. Unit Two, move forward!’

Grace signalled to his colleague to wait for a few more seconds, pulled his torch out of the glove compartment without switching it on, then as quietly as they could, they slipped out of the car and hurried across the road. The driveway of The Gallops was tarmac, and on their rubber-soled shoes they made little noise as they hurried around the side of the house. Then they stopped.

Right in front of them, barely twenty feet ahead, they saw the silhouettes of the two men. Then they heard a tinkle of glass. In the distance, Grace heard the roar of an engine being revved hard. He snapped on his torch, lighting up their startled faces, and yelled, ‘Police, don’t move!’ as both officers sprinted forwards.

‘Shite!’ One of the thieves shouted, dropping his tools and making a run for it across the lawn. Grace broke away to the right, sprinting hard to try to cut him off. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the other trying to climb the wall into the neighbour’s garden and being dragged back down by Carlton. But all his focus was on the sprinting man ahead of him. Gripping his torch, the beam jigging everywhere, Grace was gaining on him on the damp grass. Gaining. Then suddenly his quarry appeared to trip and plunge forward in the darkness. An instant later, as the ground gave way beneath him, he realized why.

For an instant he swayed wildly, then fell forward too, the torch rolling away from him onto the soft, tensioned cover of the swimming pool. He reached forward and grabbed an ankle, as the thief attempted to scramble away. Grace clung to it, as the Welshman kicked hard and swore, then moments later he broke free, leaving Grace floundering on the material, now sodden with chlorinated water, holding a trainer in his hand. He lurched to his feet, and stumbled forward through ankle-deep water, radioing for assistance.

Ahead he saw the Welshman haul himself back onto terra firma and sprint towards the end of the garden. Not bothering to pick up his torch, Grace sprinted on after him. Suddenly, appearing to change his mind, the thief turned and ran back towards the house, and seconds later was lit up by the beams of three different torches. He stopped in his tracks. Before he knew it he was face down on the ground, with two officers on top of him.

‘Out for an early morning stroll are we, sunshine?’ said one.

‘Bit careless forgetting a shoe when you got dressed, wasn’t it?’ said the other. ‘Got any mail for us then?’

Back at the police station, ignoring his Sergeant’s advice to go home and get some dry clothes and some kip, Grace insisted on going down into the custody block in the basement. Dai Lewellyn and Rees Hughes had been read their rights, and were now locked in separate cells, still dressed as postmen, waiting for a duty Legal Aid solicitor to arrive.

Grace, his tie awry, his clothes sodden, walked through the custody centre in the basement of the police station and peered through one of the cell doors. ‘Got everything you need?’

Lewellyn looked at him sullenly. ‘So, how did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘You know what I mean. You knew we were coming, didn’t you? Someone grassed us up, didn’t they?’

Grace raised his eyebrows. ‘A little bird told me you shouldn’t have been so greedy with the stamps. That mean anything?’

‘Stamps?’ Lewellyn said. ‘What do you mean, stamps? We didn’t have no stamps. You mean, like in postage stamps?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We didn’t take no stamps. Why would we take stamps? I don’t know nothing about no stamps.’

‘But you and your mate know all about Georgian silver?’ Grace asked.

Lewellyn was silent for some moments. ‘We might,’ he said finally. ‘But not stamps.’ He was emphatic.

‘Someone thinks you’ve been greedy over stamps.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Lewellyn said. ‘Who?’

‘A man who knows where you were yesterday and what you took.’

‘There’s only one bastard who knows where we was,’ he said, even more emphatically.

Roy Grace listened attentively.

The next two hours were taken up with formal interviews with the two men. In the end they admitted the burglary, but continued to deny any involvement with stamps, and indeed any knowledge of them.

Finally, shortly before 10 a.m., still in his damp clothes, with a search warrant signed by a local magistrate in his hand, along with the inventory folder and photographs of the valuables taken and a fresh team of officers, Grace arrived at West Southwick Mews. Their pissed-off co-operative Welsh prisoners had kindly supplied them with the exact address.

One officer broke the door down with the yellow battering ram, and they entered, found the switch and turned the lights on.

They were in a huge space, eight garages wide, and almost empty, bar a row of trestle tables — and what looked to Grace like a rather ugly antique clock.

Five minutes later, Tony Langiotti arrived for the start of his day, in his Jaguar, cigarette as ever dangling between his lips. As he drove into the mews and saw the police officers, he stamped on the brakes, and frantically threw the gear shift into reverse. But before he could touch the accelerator a police car appeared from nowhere, completely blocking off the exit behind him.

The cigarette fell from his lips and it took him several seconds to realize. By then it was burning his crotch.

There was not such a big hurry for Roy Grace’s last call of what was turning out to be a very long day or, rather, extended day. It was 2 p.m. and he’d had no sleep since yesterday. But he was running on an adrenaline high — helped by a lot of caffeine. So far everything had gone to plan — well, in truth, he had to admit, somewhat better than planned. Three in custody, and, if he was right, by the close of play there would be four. But, he knew, it might not be such an easy task to convince DS Stoker.

He went home to shower and change, wolf down some cereal and toast and to think his next — potentially dangerous — step through. If he was wrong, it could be highly embarrassing, not to mention opening the police up to a possible lawsuit. But he did not think he was wrong. He was increasingly certain, as his next bout of tiredness waned, that he was right. But speed again might be of the essence.

Whether it was because he was impressed with his results to date, or it gave him the chance to settle an old, unresolved score, DS Bill Stoker agreed to Grace’s request far more readily than he had expected, although to cover his back, he still wanted to run it by the Detective Inspector. He in turn decided to run it by the Chief Superintendent, who was out at a meeting.

Finally, shortly after 5 p.m., running on his second, or maybe even third or fourth wind, Roy Grace had all his ducks in a row. Accompanied by DS Stoker, who was looking as weary as Grace felt, he pulled up in the street outside the Cunninghams’ house. A van, with trained search officers, pulled up behind, and they all climbed out.

Roy Grace and Stoker walked up to the front door. Grace held in his hand his second document signed by a magistrate today. He rang the bell and waited. A few moments later, it was opened by the old man. He looked at them, and the entourage behind them, with a puzzled frown. ‘Good afternoon, officers,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Do you have some news for me?’

‘We have some good news and some bad news, Mr Cunningham,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The good news is we believe we have recovered your stolen clock.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Not so far, sir, but we have made some arrests and we are hopeful of recovering further items.’

‘Well, that’s good. So what’s the bad news?’

‘I have a warrant to search these premises, sir.’ Grace showed him the signed warrant.

‘What exactly is this about?’

‘I think you know that, sir,’ he said with a tired smile.

Trained police search teams, Roy Grace learned rapidly, missed few things. Not that the stamps had been hidden in a difficult place to find — they were beneath a crate of Champagne in the cupboard under the stairs that served as the Cunninghams’ wine cellar.

But it was three other items they found that were really to seal Crafty’s fate. The first was an insurance claim form that lay on his desk, faxed only this morning, but which he had already started to fill out with details of the missing stamps.

The second was another fax, lying beneath it, to a dealer in the US, offering the collection for sale to him.

The third was a fax back from the US dealer, offering slightly more than the £100,00 °Crafty had given the detectives as an estimate.

Later that night, even though he was exhausted, Roy Grace insisted on taking Sandy out to dinner to celebrate the first highly successful days of his new post, rather than going to the bar with the others officers. Four arrests! ‘We got lucky,’ he said. ‘If the Chief Superintendent hadn’t been out, and delayed us for several hours, and we had gone early, he might not have started filling in that insurance form. He might not have sent that damning fax. And he might not have had the damning reply.’ He pulled out the folded page from The Argus newspaper and showed it to her.

She read it then smiled at him. ‘I’m very proud of you.’ She raised her wine glass, and clinked it against his, and said with another smile, this one a tad wistful, ‘Now, how about asking me about my day?’

A Very Sexy Revenge

He saw her and beamed as he staggered down the aisle of the packed aircraft, towing his holdall which bashed into all the other passengers’ ankles. She was fit: slender and beautiful with long blonde hair cut elegantly, and smartly dressed. And she was sitting in his seat.

She saw him too, and hoped to hell the dishevelled, drunk-looking slob in the crumpled tan suit wasn’t heading for her row, then focused back on her crime novel. She smelled the fumes of alcohol before she heard his voice.

‘S’cuse me, you’re in my seat!’

She held up her ticket stub, barely glancing at him. ‘14A,’ she said, and turned back to her novel.

He squinted at his own ticket. ‘Mea culpa!’ he said. ‘I’m 14B. Next to you!’

He tugged open the overhead locker, and saw the large pink carrier bag. ‘Is that yours?’ he asked her.

She nodded, barely looking up from her book.

‘I’ll be careful not to crush it.’ He lifted it out, hefted his bag in first, then held up the large, almost weightless carrier. On the outside was printed Agent Provocateur.

‘Sexy underwear, is it?’ he said, squeezing his bulky frame into the seat beside her. She smelled fragrant. He reeked of booze and stale smoke.

‘You could sit in the aisle seat — it would give us more space,’ she said.

‘Nah, this is cosier!’ He gave her a wink. ‘Good book?’

Yes, it’s about a drunken dickhead on a plane, she nearly said. Instead she smiled pleasantly and said, ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve finished it.’

‘I’m Don,’ he said. ‘Been in Manchester at a business fair — I flog aircraft components. But don’t worry, none on this plane are mine — so we won’t crash, ha, ha!’

‘Good.’ She pulled her book closer to her face.

He pointed upwards. ‘That sexy underwear — going to wear it for your boyfriend, are you?’

He drank three Bloody Marys on the short flight — or four including the one he spilt down the front of his jacket. As the plane began its descent, he whispered, ‘You haven’t told me your name.’

‘Roxanna,’ she said, as politely as she could, and began rereading the same page yet again, waiting for his next bloody interruption.

‘Posh,’ he said. ‘I like it! Tell you what, Roxanna,’ he lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you and I meet sometime in London — you know? A couple of drinks, a nice little dinner?’

She looked down at his wedding ring, and said pointedly, ‘Would your wife be joining us?’

‘Nah, that’s over. Well, it’s on the rocks. She doesn’t understand me, you see.’

After the engines had been switched off, he stood up unsteadily and lifted her carrier bag and her small case down for her, then slipped her his business card. ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you wearing what’s in that bag — know what I mean? We could have a bit of fun.’

‘Oh, I will have fun, trust me.’

He held back the queue of passengers so she could go in front of him, but she insisted he went first. ‘Hope to see you sometime soon,’ he slurred.

Not if I see you first, she thought.

The kids were asleep, and Susie had prepared a candlelit dinner and opened a bottle of wine to welcome him home, as she always did. He held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

‘So, tell me about the trip? How was the fair?’ she asked over the avocado and prawns. ‘Tell me about the hotel — was it nice? And why did you have to stay on an extra couple of days?’ she quizzed as he carved into his steak.

After draining the bottle, he staggered upstairs, and threw his clothes on the floor as usual. Susie picked up his jacket, studying the tomato juice stain. ‘I’ll take that to the cleaner’s first thing,’ she said.

‘Yrrrrr,’ he groaned, almost asleep already.

As she began checking the pockets, she pulled out a folded square of paper from the right-hand one and opened it out. It was a receipt for Fifi briefs and a Fifi bra in black silk from Agent Provocateur.

On the back was written: Don, thanks for your wonderful generosity on this trip, as ever. And for making me a member of the mile high club on the flight back! I never knew an airplane toilet could be such fun! Roxy xxxxxxxxxxxx

The Knock

‘Who was that at the door?’

‘Some undertakers with a hearse.’

‘No one’s dead.’

‘They said they can wait.’

Dream Holiday

This was inspired by the true story that gave me the idea for my novel Dreamer

One of the things Annie liked best about going on holiday was deciding what she was going to wear in the evenings. She’d always had a passion for designer shoes, and of course, in her stylish opinion, if you bought new shoes, then a matching handbag was a must. Much to her husband’s dismay she regularly maxed her cards out on new outfits; she argued that it was her money, and he had to agree. And, to be fair, Nigel told her he was always extremely proud of how lovely she looked. Once he’d admitted to her, with that wry smile of his, that he got a secret kick out of seeing the envy on other men’s faces when they looked at her.

She was particularly excited about this holiday because it was the first time that the two of them were going away alone, without the kids. Thank you, Aged Ps, as Nigel called his mum and dad-in-law! They weren’t actually that elderly at all, and were relishing taking care of Chloe, who was four, and Zak, who was going through his terrible twos. Zak had turned from an angelic baby into, at times, a demon out of a horror movie, with frequent tantrums, often involving hurling his food around the room. Although she would miss the children, the thought of having a week free of Zak was deeply enticing.

At least he liked attending the day nursery, and she was grateful for the respite that it gave her. She was able to continue her business as a hairdresser from home for three days a week without constant interruptions from him and it enabled her to afford to pay for her luxuries herself.

They were going to Montreux, a beautiful lakeside town on a sheltered bay, with fairy-tale views across the placid water of Switzerland’s Lake Geneva — or Lac Léman, its Swiss name that Nigel liked to call it by — to the Alps. The hotel, a magnificent building in grand Belle Époque style, had once been a palace, and all the guests dressed for evening cocktails on the terrace. Dinner, in the majestic dining room with its starched linen and fine-crystal glasses, where the waiters wore black tailcoats and white gloves, was a magical experience.

It was there, after a particularly fine dinner, that Nigel had proposed to her. It had taken him two years to get round to it, although, he had confessed to her shyly, he knew he wanted to marry her the moment he had first set eyes on her.

Nigel was an analyst for a stockbroking firm in the City, and was incapable of acting spontaneously. Analyst stood for anal, she sometimes chided him. He scrutinized everything, always thought through every single detail with the greatest care. Sometimes that drove her to distraction. He could spend hours online, poring over restaurant menus and wine lists, before deciding on where they would go to eat. He had already planned every minute of their holiday. And probably every second.

Their recent purchase of a new car had been a nightmare odyssey through websites and dealerships, weighing up the safety features for their precious children, all elaborately detailed by Nigel on a spreadsheet. They’d settled on a big Volvo off-roader, which ticked the most boxes, but then they had argued about the colour. Nigel wanted white, and Annie was dismayed. She told him that according to an article in a woman’s magazine, white was the colour people chose when they couldn’t decide on a colour! She wanted black or silver, or even navy blue.

‘But, darling,’ he had insisted, showing her a computer printout. ‘Read this. Yellow and white are the safest colours statistically. You are least likely to be involved in “a passive accident” in a yellow or white car. But I don’t think we want yellow, do we?’

Nigel tended to get his way because he always had statistics on his side. Besides, she knew, bless him, that he meant well, he had the best interests of his family at heart. So white it was. But one detail Nigel had overlooked, and which she teased him about mercilessly in the first weeks after they had got the new car, was that it would not fit in the garage of their house, near Hove Park, in the city of Brighton and Hove.

Well, that wasn’t strictly accurate. It did fit in the garage, but if you drove it in, it was impossible to open the doors, so the only way out would be through the sunroof — one of the options she had insisted on.

So the car became something she ribbed Nigel about, mercilessly. The big white elephant stuck on the driveway. But, she had to admit, it was comfortable, and inside you felt indestructible, like being in a tank.

It was Sunday night. The following Sunday, she thought, as she lay back against the headboard, flicking through the Style section of the Sunday Times, they would be luxuriating in that huge bed, beneath the soft, plump duvet, in Switzerland. Heaven! She could not wait, and her mind was too preoccupied with trying to remember all the things they must not forget to pack to concentrate on reading anything.

She kissed Nigel goodnight, switched off the light and snuggled down against the pillow, thinking, hiking boots, shorts, suntan lotion, nose block, sunhats…

The only downside to the holiday was the journey. She had never been happy about flying, even though Nigel had given her all the statistics, demonstrating to her that being in a commercial airliner was actually the safest place in the world — safer even than your own bed. But he could not convince her.

. . books, Kindle, swimsuits, insect repellent cream, first-aid kit…

There was a familiar rustling sound beside her. Nigel would never go to sleep on a Sunday night without having read the news and financial pages of every single one of the broadsheets. Every Sunday evening of their marriage she had fallen asleep to that sound.

Scrunch, she heard. Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. Then the thud of a discarded supplement landing on the floor on his side of the bed.

Scrunch, rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle.

Then a different sound.

A strange, deep, pulsing thump, thump, thump in the distance. Getting closer and louder.

Suddenly she was engulfed in a vortex of swirling air. She saw a propeller spinning in front of her eyes.

She screamed. Her eyes snapped open. She snapped on the light, gulping down air.

Nigel, fast asleep, stirred and murmured, ‘Wasser? Wassermarrer?’

The bedside clock said 3.15 a.m.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, upset at having woken him: he had an early start every workday and needed his sleep, especially on a Sunday night so that he was fresh for the week ahead — and the week before going on holiday was always a stressful one for him. ‘I’m sorry — just had a nightmare.’

She kept the light on for some minutes, lying there. It was a still, early June night. There was a faint scratching sound outside — a cat or an urban fox rummaging in a rubbish bag. Slowly, her breathing calmed. She turned out the light, and fell asleep again a short while later.

The next night, Monday, Annie had the dream again. It was exactly the same, only this time the propeller was even larger, and came even closer. Again her screaming woke Nigel, and it set Zak off screaming too; but she managed to calm her son down by recovering his ‘night’ teddy, which had fallen on his bedroom floor, and he went back to sleep with one of its paws in his mouth.

On Tuesday night she had the dream again. This time the propeller came even closer still. And this time she snapped on her bedside light and she told Nigel. ‘This is the third night running. I think this dream is telling me something.’

‘What do you mean? Telling you what?’ he asked, more than a little grumpily. Then he looked at the clock. ‘Shit, 4 a.m.’

‘I think it’s a premonition,’ she said. ‘It’s telling us we shouldn’t fly.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Annie, it’s you being afraid of flying! You have a bad dream every time before we fly.’

‘Not like this one.’

‘Can I go back to sleep?’

‘Go back to sleep.’

On Wednesday night, although she had been frightened to turn the light out for a long while, Annie slept a deep, dreamless sleep and woke refreshed, feeling positive and optimistic. Even Zak, for a change, was in a happy mood, gleefully pushing his big yellow digger truck around the floor, and making the accompanying sound effects.

After she had dropped the two children off at their nurseries, she returned for the first client of the day, Samantha Hardy, the wife of a work colleague of Nigel, who also lived locally, and chatted to her excitedly about their holiday. Samantha told her about a wonderful restaurant near Geneva she and her husband had eaten in, and promised to text her the name that evening when he got home.

On Thursday night Annie dreamed she was in a cloud. Cold, grey tendrils brushed her face, icy air thrashed her blonde hair around her face, making it feel as hard as whipcords, and chilling her body to the core. She was shivering with cold and fear. In the distance a thump, thump, thump became increasingly louder. Louder. Louder. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. The roar of an engine rising to a crescendo. She was rocking from side to side and screaming, trying to keep her balance. Then the propeller was right in front of her face, thrashing, thrashing, coming at her, thrashing; suddenly the air gripped her in a vortex, spun her, hurtled her straight into the propeller.

‘Darling! Darling! Annie! Annie! Darling! Annie! Annie!’

Nigel’s voice, panicky, distant.

Darkness.

Then a light came on.

A warm, bright glow. She blinked.

She was in bed, Nigel staring at her in alarm. ‘Darling. Annie, darling, it’s OK. Calm down. You were having a nightmare, it’s OK.’

Zak was screaming across the landing.

She was shaking, her heart thudding; she could hear the roaring of her blood in her ears. She was soaking wet, she realized. Drenched. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down her face, mingling with her tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she spoke in gulping sobs. ‘I’m sorry, Nigel, I can’t get on that plane on Saturday. Even if we get there safely, I’ll spend the whole week worrying about the flight home. I just can’t do it. I had the dream again. It’s telling me something.’

Her husband slipped out of bed, stomped out of the room and, uncharacteristically losing his temper, bellowed at Zak to shut up. It only made Zak’s screaming worse. Annie followed him in, found Zak’s night teddy on the floor again and gave it to him. Moments later he was calm once more. Then she stood for a while and stared at the little boy, thinking how deeply she loved him and Chloe. The thought of something happening to her — to her and Nigel — of never seeing them again. Of orphaning them. It was unbearable.

‘Planes don’t have propellers these days, Annie,’ he said. ‘Not large commercial planes. They haven’t for years — they’re all jets.’

‘I know about dreams,’ she replied. ‘I’ve read a lot. You dream in symbols. The propeller is the symbol. And anyhow, what about bird strikes? You read about those sometimes. There was a plane that had to land on the Hudson River in New York after a multiple bird strike. Do you remember, a few years ago?’

‘Yes, vaguely.’

‘The birds got sucked into the turbines and mangled up the fan blades — something like that. So jet engines do have propellers — sort of.’

Back in their bedroom she said, ‘I’m sorry, we’ll have to cancel the trip — or you go without me.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Annie! I’m not going without you!’ He sat down on the edge of the bed and thought for a moment. ‘Have you had any dreams about trains crashing? Cars crashing?’

She shook her head, then stepped out of her sodden nightdress. ‘Why don’t we drive? Take the White Elephant? It would be nice, give us a chance to use the sunroof.’

‘We only have a week,’ he said. Driving would take a whole day each way.’

‘If we left early on Saturday morning, on the Eurotunnel, we could get there by the evening. It’s about seven, eight hours’ drive, I seem to remember.’

‘We’d probably miss dinner on Saturday, and we’d have to leave a day early to come back — so we’d miss it the following Friday too.’

‘What about getting up really early?’

‘I thought we were going on holiday, not boot camp.’

She shrugged herself into a fresh nightdress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What about trains?’

‘I already looked into those before booking the flights.’

Of course you would have done, she thought.

‘The timings don’t work.’

‘Right.’

‘You’re sure you’ve had no premonitions about car accidents?’

‘No.’

They left the house at 3 a.m., caught a 5.15 a.m. Eurotunnel crossing, and, allowing for the one-hour time difference, were on the road heading out of Calais towards the autoroute by 7 a.m. French time. The satnav which Nigel, being Nigel, had already programmed the night before, told them their ETA in Montreux was 3.55 p.m.

Due to a couple of stops to take turns behind the wheel and for coffee, snacks and loo breaks, they arrived at the hotel shortly after 5 p.m., on a glorious, balmy afternoon. For the last half hour, travelling around the shore of the lake, they’d had the sunroof open, and despite feeling a little tired, Annie felt happy — and relieved that they’d made the right decision. And, hey, they still had time to unpack, have a rest and make it for cocktails on the terrace.

She had already decided what she would wear that night. A pair of cobalt-blue suede Manolo Blahniks, and a totally stunning handbag to match, with a Stella McCartney A-line cocktail dress that stopped a couple of inches too high above her knees. Naughty, she knew, but it showed off her legs, by far her best asset — although for knocking on thirty and having had two sprogs, she didn’t reckon the rest of her was too bad either. Tits still firm, stomach reasonably flat. So far, so good…

Out of curiosity, Nigel went online and checked the easyJet flight they would have been on. It had landed ten minutes early, shortly after midday. He told Annie.

‘But the thing is, darling, as I said to you. Even if we’d got here safely, I would have spent the entire holiday fretting about the flight home. I didn’t have the dream last night. We did the right thing.’

Nigel told her that if she felt they had done the right thing, then they had.

The first two days of their stay were blissful. Tired from the journey, they spent much of Sunday chilling, relaxing on loungers beside the hotel’s infinity pool and reading. On Monday they went hiking up in the mountains and, later, Annie had a massage. On their third day, Tuesday, in the personal organizer section of Nigel’s phone was, Picnic lunch on boat. Dep. 11 a.m., return 4 p.m.

‘Couldn’t be more perfect weather for a day on the water, could it?’ Nigel said, pulling on his Dyke Golf Club baseball cap to cover his balding dome. He cast off the mooring rope of the brown-varnished, clinker-built dinghy they had rented. There was an outboard, if they wanted to use it, but Nigel was keen to row. He patted his stomach, which Annie had noticed was definitely in an expansionist mode these past few years, although he was a long way from what one could call fat. ‘Promised myself I’d lose this by the end of the week,’ he said.

‘Let me know when you get tired and I’ll have a go on the oars too,’ she said.

‘You can take over when we get to France, and row back!’ he said with a grin, and pointed at the craggy peaks of the Alps on the far shore. Deeper into the mountain range, some of the peaks were still snow-capped, but the visibility was not good enough to see them today.

‘How far is it across?’ she asked.

‘About fourteen kilometers — nine miles,’ he said.

‘Quite a row!’

‘Could do it in a couple of hours — shall we try? We can use the outboard to motor back.’

‘Do we have to pay extra if we get back after 4 p.m.?’

‘There’s an hourly charge, but it’s not exorbitant.’

‘Let’s go for it. Splice the main brace, Sir Francis!’

It was a baking hot morning, with a faint breeze, the blue sky smudged with just a few wispy cirrus clouds high above them. Annie sat back, watching Nigel in his pink shorts, white polo shirt and trainers steadily rowing, keeping up a good speed. She breathed in the smells of boat varnish and rope and the fresh, faintly reedy tang of the water, and listened to the steady splash of the oars. In the distance, she saw a ferry crossing, and a large pleasure boat heading along the lake in front of them.

Suddenly, her phone pinged with a text. She pulled it out of her bag and looked at the display. ‘From Mummy,’ she said, opening it.

All fine here. Zak good as gold. Taking them to Drusilla’s Park today. Hope you’re having a nice time!

She sent a reply that they were — they were having a really lovely time. Then as she put her phone away she said to Nigel, ‘Zak, good as gold!’

‘Respect to your parents, I’d say!’

An hour later the mountains of the French Alps ahead of them grew steadily larger and higher as they rowed nearer, but the far shore was still a long way off. Nigel had pulled off his top and, moving carefully in the boat, making sure not to rock it too much and capsize, he made his way over to Annie so she could rub sun cream onto his back and chest.

‘Want me to take over yet?’ she asked.

He was sweating heavily but looking relaxed and cheery. ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’ He took his hands from the oars to pat the big roll of flesh that was his stomach. ‘Is it looking any smaller?’

‘Definitely, darling!’

Suddenly, she felt a sudden swirl of cold air; it was so fleeting that for an instant she thought she had imagined it. Then from the faint frown that crossed Nigel’s face, she knew he’d felt it too. But it was gone, as suddenly as it had come. A couple at the next-door table on the terrace last night, who told them they came to Montreux every year for their holiday, said to be careful out on the lake — there were strange eddies and currents, and treacherous mists could descend quickly and with little warning.

But of course Nigel had checked the weather forecast carefully this morning with the concierge. It was going to be a fine day on the lake as well as on the shore. No mists were forecast. A perfect day for boating!

But, almost imperceptibly, the water seemed to be getting choppier; although not unpleasantly rough, it was definitely no longer as calm as it had been. She commented on it to Nigel.

‘It’s because the breeze is coming from the Montreux side — the lee shore,’ he explained. ‘We’re heading towards the windward shore, so the further out we get, the choppier it will become.’

As he spoke, a wave, from the wake of some bigger craft, broke over the bow, sprinkling a few droplets over Nigel’s back — and she felt a few of them on her face; nice and refreshing, but at the same time, staring at the darkening water, she felt a faint tinge of apprehension. They were a long way out now, in a very small craft. She turned her head and looked back at Montreux, so far in the distance it took her a moment to identify their hotel.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t go any further,’ she said.

Nigel looked at his watch. ‘Twelve thirty. Hmm, it is taking longer than I thought.’ He looked over his shoulder at the French shore. ‘It will take a good hour more at least to get there.’

‘Longer, I’d say,’ she replied dubiously.

‘We could go up the lake a little way instead, and then drift and have lunch in around half an hour. How does that sound?’

She nodded. ‘OK. Or we could row back a little towards the lee shore — it would be nicer to eat not rocking around so much.’ She suddenly had to grip the gunwales as the boat was rocked harshly by another, much bigger wave; the wash from a powerboat heading into the distance at high speed.

Nigel did not seem to need much persuading to turn the boat around. Annie offered to take over rowing, but he was fine, he said, and she could do some after lunch. But as he pulled on the oars he was looking less happy than when they had started out this morning, and the water was looking distinctly less happy too. Instead of getting calmer it was definitely getting a tad rougher all across the lake.

Above them the clouds were building up. Annie delved into the picnic hamper prepared by the hotel and brought out some bottled water. She took a long swig then offered some to Nigel. He shook his head. ‘When we stop, thanks, darling.’

After another ten minutes, to Annie’s relief, the water seemed a little calmer again. At 1 p.m. precisely, Nigel shipped his oars. ‘Lunch?’

‘Good plan,’ she said. ‘I’m ravenous!’

For several minutes, she knelt, keeping her head down, focused on the contents of the hamper. She pulled out a beer, which she opened and handed to Nigel, then peeled two hardboiled eggs, and carefully buttered two rolls. There were plates, knives and forks beautifully wrapped in linen napkins, wine glasses and a bottle of a local white wine, Dole, in a cooler bag. There was pâté in one container, slices of ham in another, tomato salad in a third, as well as an assortment of cheeses and fruits, and two miniature bars of Lindt chocolate.

‘I don’t think we’re going to starve!’ she said, carefully preparing a platter for Nigel. But to her surprise he did not comment. When she looked up to hand it to him, she could see why. Tendrils of mist were drifting by them like ghosts. She turned and the mist was everywhere, thin and hazy and wispy in places. It took her some moments to even spot the shore, and Montreux through it. ‘I thought the weather forecast was meant to be good, Nigel?’

‘That’s what it said on both the ones I checked online, and the concierge assured me of the same. This is probably just some kind of midday heat haze.’

‘More like a sea mist,’ she said.

‘This is a lake, not the sea, darling.’

‘That couple last night said something about sudden mists descending. Maybe we should head back while we can still see the shore — what do you think?’

He dipped his egg into the small pile of salt and pepper Annie had poured onto his plate, then bit into it, and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Maybe that would be wise. Might be best to use the outboard — get a bit closer to the shore and we’ll probably find it’s completely clear there.’

‘I’ll pack the picnic away.’

The boat rocked wildly as Nigel slid off his seat and edged his way, balancing with difficulty, to the stern. The mist was thickening by the second now. The temperature felt as if it had dropped twenty degrees. And suddenly, for a brief moment, Annie could see nothing at all — she was totally engulfed in the mist; she felt disoriented and giddy.

It cleared a fraction, and she could just make out Nigel, barely ten feet away; he was merely a shadow. But she could not see the shore, any shore in any direction. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said.

The temperature was dropping even further. Then, in the distance, she heard a steady, rhythmic thump, thump, thump.

It was getting louder by the second.

Thump, thump, thump.

Cold air suddenly swirled around her.

She could hear the roar of an engine. The thrashing of water.

‘Nigel!’ she called out, panicky. ‘Nigel, start the outboard, please, quickly.’

‘I’m trying — not sure which way I’m meant to turn this ruddy knob.’

She heard the clatter, clatter, clatter as he pulled the starting handle, but no sound of the motor firing. He pulled again.

The thump, thump, thump grew louder, closer. The thrashing sound was louder, closer. The roar of the engine was rising to a crescendo.

Icy air engulfed them. The boat was rocking wildly; strands of her hair whipped her face. The water erupted around them into foaming bubbles, as if some monster beneath them was rising from the deep. Then a shadow, tall as a house, bore down on them out of the mist.

‘NIGEL!’ she screamed.

An instant later she was in the water, spinning around and around in a crazed, choking vortex that was pulling her backwards and under.

An Englishman in a dark suit and a sombre club tie, accompanied by a uniformed police officer, greeted the grief-stricken sixty-year-old man as he stepped off the plane at Geneva airport.

‘Mr Donaldson?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Gavin Pearson, the British Consul, and this is Inspector Didier Motte of the Geneva Cantonal Police. I’m very sorry about your daughter, sir.’

Michael Donaldson thanked him, blinking away tears, and shook both their hands.

‘A terrible tragedy, and on their holiday,’ Inspector Motte said, sympathetically.

‘Would you like to have anything to eat or drink, or a rest, before we head off, Mr Donaldson?’ the Consul asked.

‘No, let’s go straight to the mortuary, get it over with, please,’ he replied.

They exchanged few words in the police car for several minutes. Michael Donaldson sat on the back seat, oblivious to the passing surroundings. Then he asked, ‘My son-in-law, Nigel. Presumably you’ve not found… not… recovered… his body yet?’

Inspector Motte, who was driving, responded in his broken English. ‘We are diving on the lake since the unfortunate accident happened, but there are a number of — how you say — courants, and the lake is deep in this part. It may take some time. And we are searching the lake all over, by air and water.’

They drove on in silence. Annie’s father caught a glimpse of the lake to his right, a cluster of vessels way out towards the middle, and the small black dot of a helicopter hovering low over the water, and hastily averted his gaze. He did not even notice them pulling up outside the mortuary building. The rear door of the car was opened by one of the men — he barely registered which — and he stepped out as if in a trance. He was here to identify his daughter’s body. He could not get his head around this.

As if sensing him faltering, as they entered the building, the Consul put his hand on his arm. ‘Mr Donaldson, are you absolutely certain you want to see her body? We could do this another way — identify her from her wedding ring, or items of her clothing, or even dental records or DNA, if you’d prefer?’

‘I want to see her,’ he said. ‘I want to see my baby one last time.’

‘Of course.’

‘Just tell me — I’m still not totally clear about how the accident happened. The English police who gave me and my wife the news only had very sketchy details. They were in a rowboat, quite far out on the lake, in bad weather? It doesn’t sound like my son-in-law — he was a very cautious man. Was… I’m saying was… he might still be alive, mightn’t he?’

‘I think by now, two days, we would have found him if he was alive,’ the Inspector said.

‘Apparently your daughter, Annie, and son-in-law, Nigel, rented a small day boat, with an outboard, and took a picnic lunch prepared by the hotel,’ the Consul said. ‘The weather forecast was good, but unfortunately, where you have a large mass of water surrounded by mountains, it will always be susceptible to sudden changes. A mist came down that no one predicted — very fast, apparently, and it was a tragic accident. The little boat was run down by a ferry. The captain has been arrested.’

‘That’s not going to bring them back,’ Annie’s father said grimly.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Consul said. ‘I’m truly sorry. I wish there was something I could do. Anything.’

‘There is one thing,’ Michael Donaldson said. ‘How much do you think my daughter suffered? I can’t imagine what it’s like to drown—’

‘Let me set your mind at rest,’ the Consul said, interrupting him. ‘I spoke to the pathologist. Your daughter didn’t drown — her death would have been instant.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ Donaldson asked with suspicion.

‘Well — I was hoping to spare you the details.’

‘I would like to know. I’d like to be able to at least tell my wife that our beloved daughter didn’t suffer.’

The Consul looked at him, hesitantly, then turned to the police officer as if for help. But Motte just stood in polite silence.

‘She didn’t drown, you say,’ Annie’s father prompted. ‘Was she struck on the head?’

‘No, she didn’t — she didn’t have a head injury. I’m afraid, in the collision with the ferry, your daughter was cut in half by the propeller.’

A Christmas Tradition

Susan took the black lace-trimmed teddy from the bottom drawer of her pine chest, where it had lain carefully washed and neatly folded for twelve months. The satin trickled through her fingers as she held it to her body and she was shocked how rough her hands felt in contrast to its softness, and by how drawn and tired her face looked in the mirror against its sheen.

She was frightened that Tony would not come back tonight, and she could not bear the thought of spending Christmas without him. They had never spent Christmas apart before, but she had a feeling this year was going to bring some break with tradition, and she was uneasy.

Thirty-three and growing old. Growing old and frightened, she thought as she parted the curtains and stared into the darkness, watching the fairy lights on her neighbour’s tree through the ghost of her own face at the window. A mist of fine rain clung like a swarm of midges to the glow of the street lamp, and tears clung to her eyelashes.

She looked up, wondering if he was up there now beyond the canopy of clouds. There were times on clear nights when she had seen navigation lights winking beneath the stars and had wondered if it was him, returning. The clouds frightened her, made her think back… but she suppressed the memory. It was Christmas Eve and he always managed to make it back, somehow.

She had had no message from him, although that was not unusual, and she understood how the wives and girlfriends of hostages must feel, never knowing, never hearing; except Tony wasn’t being held captive, unless it was by temptation. He was one of those mercurial and unpredictable men, with an aura of the untamed adventurer about him and an appetite for life that women found attractive. She had noticed his eyes roving at parties.

And yet he swore he had never been unfaithful. Until recently, Susan had believed him. Her friends had tried to tell her to forget him, to move on, and his long silence and her feeling about the break with tradition were beginning to convince her also. The stewardesses on the small private airline were chosen for their looks. Tony flew the world with them. It was hard to believe he could have always resisted.

Even so, she kept her hope and prepared the bed, let her long brown hair down because he liked it that way, put on his favourite perfume, moisturized her hands and ran them down her slender, freshly waxed legs, savouring their smoothness. She slipped out of her clothes, shivering from the cold air on her naked skin, and put on the teddy, which he had bought her for Christmas five years ago, and which it had become a tradition for her to wear in bed on Christmas Eve.

The first time they had made love was on Christmas Eve, up in her attic bedroom at her parents’ home in Wembley whilst they were out at a party. Afterwards they had lain in silence, the windowpanes drenched in the darkness of the night, wrapping paper rustling at the end of the bed when they moved their feet. She could still remember vividly how they had held each other tightly, urgently, pressing against each other for warmth and reassurance, and they had made one of those vows that young people in love make, and in time can so easily forget.

They vowed that whatever happened in the future, they would always make love on Christmas Eve.

So far, in fourteen years, neither of them had broken the vow. It had become a tradition between them, a night of intense sensuality that grew stronger each year, fuelling in Susan a sense of the magic of Christmas that she remembered as a child but once thought had been lost forever.

Tony had usually managed to wangle the rosters, and on those times when he had not been able to, and all looked impossible, fog had come down and grounded the aircraft, or there had been a mechanical problem and he had been released from duty. Once, in an act of sheer bravado, he had borrowed his boss’s plane and flown in from Monaco at midnight. She remembered that Christmas well. A tear rolled from her eye; her lashes crushed it and she smiled — she did not want him to arrive home and find her in tears.

She lit a candle, as she always did on Christmas Eve, placed it on Tony’s bedside table, slid his card beneath it, and slipped into bed. She read for a while, waiting, listening. It was ten past twelve. At half past she switched off her bedside light. The flame of the candle burned steadily, undisturbed. He liked to make love with a light on, liked to watch her, liked to unclip the fasteners of the teddy himself. ‘You’re my Christmas present,’ he would say, and then lean forward to kiss her. Everywhere.

For a long time they had given each other a stocking, but that was a tradition she had stopped, concentrating instead on the children. Christmas had been special to her childhood and she wanted it to be special to theirs too. But she had never dreamed that it would one day dominate her every waking moment. That it would become a point on the horizon to which each year was anchored. The port in the storm. The magical time when wounds could be healed and sadness forgotten and hope restored.

She had never dreamed that it would be memories of Christmases past that gave her the strength to get up each morning, to get through the spring and into the summer. And that August and September would be months of deep doldrums in which the memory had faded and doubt would seep into her like acid from a corroded battery, eating away, leaving wounds and pain and scars.

Then with the first crisp snap of an autumn chill the memory would come alive again and hope would wrap itself snugly around her with the knowledge that Christmas lay just beyond those first long nights of the autumn and the fierce equinox gales that would vandalize the landscape. Christmas would follow with calm, with serenity, with carols and games of Monopoly, with long walks and mince pies, with the laughter of old friends and the pleasure of old traditions. One very special tradition.

She closed her eyes, but knew, like all the Christmas Eves of her childhood, this was one of those nights when she could not even remember how to fall asleep. In the silence of the house she could hear the insistent rustling of paper, and she smiled — the kids already rummaging through their stockings. They wouldn’t actually open their presents tonight — she had taught them they must not until the morning — but they would be feeling the shapes of the packages, wondering, trying to guess. Then she heard the faint click of the front door and her breathing quickened.

It clicked again, shut. She waited for the next click of the deadlock, and the final clank of the safety chain, then his footsteps. Routine, she thought; she knew his routine so well and you had to be careful in marriage not to turn traditions into routines.

She lay and waited and it was the expectation that gave her her deepest arousal. He moved slowly, hanging up his coat then going into the kitchen and sifting through the mountain of post she had left waiting for him. Her stomach felt like a snowstorm that had been shaken inside a glass paperweight.

He was moving up the stairs, his pace lighter and quicker with every step, as if he sensed her excitement and it was charging his own. He opened the bedroom door and the candle jigged in the sudden draught, and shadows danced beyond her closed eyelids. Her lips released the smile they could no longer contain as she sensed his shadow in front of her now, felt the fresh sheets sliding back and the sudden cold air on her skin, and she knew he was watching, knew he was lowering his head to kiss her; she felt the caress of his hands, then his fingers, fumbling clumsily, as they always did, with the fastener.

‘My very special Christmas present,’ he said.

‘And mine,’ she murmured richly, as his lips touched her.

The morning was dry and cold and an east wind blew. Frost sparkled like powdered glass on the grass, and the crimson orb of the sun hung in the grey silk sky. It was the kind of magical Christmas morning she remembered from childhood.

Static crackled inside the house as she walked across the carpets, lighting the fire, putting out the glasses, paper rustling continuously now as the children tore open more presents. Static crackled inside her veins too, and she felt flooded with the same passion for life that Tony’s presence always fired in her.

She liked this time before the invasion of relatives started. Once they would have gone to church, but Tony did not like that any more, did not want to come with her; they had precious little time together and she could not bear to spend even an hour of it without him. It had become a morning to savour for themselves, a time of reflection and of peace. And a time, she hoped today, to forge a new understanding between them.

A time when the house always felt bright and cheery. The windows decanted light into the room, spreading it evenly so that everything seemed intensely alive, the colours rich, the textures of the carpets and the wallpaper and the curtains emerging from the monochrome shadows which shrouded them for the rest of the year. The holly looked fresh, the berries ripened to a vivid red.

The air became infused with smells of basting turkey, wood smoke and freshly uncorked bottles. There was a quietness outside, stronger than any Sunday, the silence of a night that lingered on into the day and would soon be pleasantly disturbed with laughter, and the clinking of glasses, the chatter and snores of discarded relatives retrieved again for the occasion, like the tangled fairy lights in the tired cardboard box.

And the draughts. Always the draughts.

‘Never known a house with so many draughts,’ her father said.

She watched the light bulbs swaying, the curtains shifting restlessly, the ball of wrapping paper that uncurled by itself and fluttered from time to time. Paper rustled with a roar like the pull of a retreating tide on shingle. Strands of silver lametta and tinsel shimmied between the needles of the tree. The children were engrossed. Lucy was changing her Barbie doll’s dress. Jamie was assembling his Scalectrix. Sometimes the coloured baubles on the tree would touch with sounds like wind chimes. Old logs settled into the grate and new ones crackled.

In the kitchen Susan was distracted by Tony and she kept duplicating jobs and spilling things. He was in a more passionate mood than she had ever known, and from his caresses she felt increasing currents of excitement in the pit of her stomach as fresh erotic images formed in her mind, and new desires pulled silky threads tight inside her. She broke a glass. It was lucky to break a glass, he had told her once, a long time ago. She reminded him and they laughed together now.

Car doors slammed outside. The family had begun to arrive. Her father walked with a stick after his heart surgery.

‘Never seen you look so well, Susan,’ he said.

They all told her how well she looked. Years had dropped from her face, they said.

Ronnie Bodkins, the chirpy oaf her sister had married, with his two lawnmower dealerships and his pearls of wisdom trawled from the Reader’s Digest, sat on the sofa and slurped his Pinot Noir (red wine, he assured everyone, was the best thing for your heart) and told his one joke that came out each year as if it came from the same tired box that contained the fairy lights.

Someone always fed him the question. This year it was her brother, Christopher. ‘How’s business, Ronnie?’ he asked.

‘Oh, can’t complain. Christmas is a good time for me. All the little women come in and buy their hubbies gardening presents. Could have fooled me there’s a recession. Well, it was the Good Lord himself who said that a great profit shall come unto the land!’

He always laughed at his joke. He was the only one.

Conversations edged on, the digging and probing of new ventures and old wounds. The morning passed for Susan in a haze of remembered pleasures, and a sense of anticipation she had never experienced before. She came into the drawing room for a quick glass of Champagne and looked at the clock. 1.15 p.m. Lunch, then the Queen’s speech. Some Like It Hot with Marilyn Monroe on the box. Followed by Downton Abbey. And then, probably, to bed. Except something was different about this Christmas and she hardly dared hope it could be true.

‘To absent friends.’

Her brother’s toast at the beginning of lunch was becoming a tradition too. They all raised their glasses. Susan raised hers the highest. She sensed the draught on her cheeks, felt it lifting her hair and lowering it again. Body language. There were signals between her and Tony the way there were between all lovers, a touch, a whisper, a wink. As the years had gone by their signalling had become stronger and they could communicate feelings without the banality of conversation. Tonight, Tony was saying. He wanted to make love again, tonight.

Normally, she stuffed herself, drank herself into a pleasant state of oblivion and collapsed in front of the box, dragging herself to her feet from time to time to make tea, to say farewells, to tidy up with a heavy heart and heave herself upstairs to bed. Instead, today she cut herself a thin sliver of turkey, took no potatoes and just a couple of sprouts, and sipped only her mineral water.

‘Not dieting, surely, darling?’ her mother asked.

She replied with a silent blush.

‘Four years now,’ her father said. His voice resonated in the silence the toast had left in its wake.

Four years since the small plane had gone down, crashed into trees outside the airfield only ten miles from the house. Just a simple error. He had forgotten to adjust the altimeter from Monaco’s sea level setting to Biggin Hill’s. Just the twiddle of a knob. But the magic of Christmas affected everyone in its own way.

‘It must be hard for you, darling,’ her mother said. ‘Christmas must be the time when you miss him the most.’

Susan shared her secret with the candles that tugged sharply on their wicks, and the paper chains that swayed gently, and she felt the draught as warm as breath blowing down her neck, and thought about the night ahead that might be heralding the start of a new tradition. ‘No,’ she said with a distant smile. ‘It’s the one day of the year I don’t miss him at all.’

Companionship

She moves slowly on her Zimmer, placing one foot after the other, stretching her neck forward towards her little room, a distant, distancing smile on her face, like a carapace.

Everyone thought the old lady had a tame pigeon, until they entered after her death, and found its feet were nailed to the windowsill.

My First Ghost

The following story is true. It is my own experience of living in a haunted house and if, when you have read it, you are still sceptical about the existence of ghosts, I will be very surprised. All I have done is to change the names of the house and the other people involved, to protect their privacy, although the armchair detectives among you would not have too much difficulty establishing the real names!

In 1989 I was fortunate to have made a substantial sum of money from my first two supernatural thrillers, Possession and Dreamer (the true story that inspired this latter book is in this anthology, titled Dream Holiday), and my then wife and I went house-hunting. We fell in love with a stunning Georgian manor house on the edge of a Sussex hamlet. It had a long history — before being a manor house it had been a monastery in the middle ages, and prior to that there had been a Roman villa in the grounds, part of which — a Roman fish keep — was still largely intact.

During our time there, archaeological students spent two years doing a dig to discover the remains of the villa — much to my wife Geraldine’s dismay, as it meant they dug up an area of a very fine lawn, and without success. However, after we sold the house in 1999, the next owners dug foundations for a new garage at the top of the long drive and unearthed, by accident, the ruins. Their building work was then delayed for two years by a court order to allow excavations to take place.

‘You’ll like this house, with what you write,’ the owner told me, mischievously, on our first viewing. ‘We have three ghosts.’

It turned out he was fibbing — the house, we were to discover later, actually had four. The first one manifested while we were in the process of moving in. I was standing in the front porch, on a beautiful spring morning, with my mother-in-law, Evelyn, a very down-to-earth lady, who was a senior magistrate. But she had a ‘fey’ side to her in that she was very open-minded about the paranormal, and always had a particular recurring, frightening dream whenever someone she knew was about to die. She had told me about this and had come to accept it, without ever being able to come up with a rational explanation beyond, perhaps, telepathy.

I liked her a lot and we had always got on really well, I guess in part because although in court she was a formidable, doughty lady, who acquired the soubriquet (which she greatly enjoyed) of ‘The Hanging Magistrate of Hove’, she was an enthusiastic reader of my work and was someone both totally unshockable and hugely intelligent, with whom I could converse on any topic from aliens to ancient Egypt, to modern politics.

From the front door where we were standing, there was a long, narrow corridor which ran from the front of the house through to an oak-panelled atrium at the rear, with four Doric columns, which led into the kitchen. This atrium was all that remained of the monastery which had originally been on the site, and you could still see the arches where the altar had been.

As we stepped aside to let the removals men leave the house to fetch another item, I suddenly saw a shadow, like the flit of a bird across a fanlight, in the interior of the house.

‘Did you see that?’ my mother-in-law asked, with a knowing look.

Despite the warmth of the sunlight, I felt a sudden chill. I could tell by the expression on her face at that moment that she had seen something uncanny. But I did not want to spook my wife on our very first day in the house. Geraldine and I were both townies, and this was our first move into the countryside. She was already apprehensive about the isolation of the property. The last thing I needed was for her to be unnecessarily scared by a ghost! So I shook my head and told Evelyn I had not seen anything. But in truth, I was feeling a little spooked by this.

Our first night was uneventful, and our Hungarian sheepdog, Boris, had been very happy and calm. I’d been told that dogs would often pick up on any supernatural occurrence way before their owners, so I took this as a good sign.

In the morning, Geraldine left for work at 8 a.m. After breakfast I went to my study to resume work on my third supernatural novel, Sweet Heart. Around 10.30 a.m. I went downstairs to make a cup of coffee. As I entered the atrium, on my way through to the kitchen, I saw tiny pinpricks of white light all around me. My immediate reaction was that it was sunlight, coming through the window in the far wall, reflecting off my glasses. I took them off, put them back on, and the pinpricks of light had gone.

I returned to my study, but when I went downstairs to make myself some lunch, the same thing happened again. And again, after removing my glasses and putting them back on once more, the pinpricks had gone. But I was left with a slightly uneasy feeling. In the afternoon, when I went downstairs to make a mug of tea, it happened again.

I said nothing to Geraldine when she arrived home that evening, and she did not see anything.

The next day around mid-morning, when I was alone in the house, I saw the pinpricks again, and at lunchtime. After lunch I took Boris for a walk. We’d only gone a short distance along the lane when an elderly man came up to me, introducing himself as Harry Stotting, a neighbour in the hamlet. ‘You are Mr James, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I am,’ I replied.

‘You’ve just moved into the big house?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘How are you getting on with your grey lady?’ he said, with a strange, quizzical look that immediately unsettled me.

‘What grey lady?’ I asked.

He then really spooked me. ‘I was the house-sitter for the previous owners. In winter, they used the atrium as a ‘snug’ because, as it adjoined the kitchen, it was always warm from the Aga. Six years ago I was sitting in the snug watching television, when a sinister-looking woman with a grey face, and wearing a grey silk crinoline dress, materialized out of the altar wall, swept across the room, gave me a malevolent stare, flicked my face with her dress, and vanished into the panelling behind me. I was out of there thirty seconds later, and went back in the morning to collect my things. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me back in there again!’

I was struck both by the sincerity of the man, and his genuine fear, which I could see in his eyes as he told me the story. It truly made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I returned to the house after our walk feeling very uncomfortable. I even wimped out of going through the atrium into the kitchen to make my afternoon cuppa! But when Geraldine came home in the evening, I said nothing — I suppose I did not want to believe it myself, and she was still extremely nervous about living in such an isolated house. One of the things you realize when you move into the depths of the countryside after living in an urban environment is the sheer darkness of the nights. In a city, it is never truly dark, ever — there is always an ambient glow from the street lighting. But on a cloudy or moonless country night, it is pitch back. I had tried to convince her that for a potential intruder total darkness was harder than ambient light, so we were safer. But she did not buy that.

The following Sunday, we had invited Geraldine’s parents to lunch. Whilst she was occupied putting the finishing touches to the meal, I took her mother aside and asked her what exactly she had seen that day we were moving in.

She described a woman, with a grey face, dressed in grey silk crinoline, moving across the atrium — exactly what the old man, Harry Stotting, had described to me.

I was stunned — and very spooked. Later, after her parents had left, I decided I had to tell Geraldine. She took it in the pragmatic way she had of dealing with most difficult issues in life. ‘You’ve met several mediums in your research — why don’t you ask one of them to come in and see what they find?’

A few days later, a medium who had helped me a lot during my writing of Possession came to the house, and I took her into the atrium and left her on her own, as she had requested.

An hour later she came up to my study, and yet again described exactly the woman in grey silk crinoline. She explained the pinpricks of light I kept seeing by telling me I was slightly psychic, so while I was not actually seeing the entire apparition, I was picking up some of its energy.

I asked her if there was anything I could do about this, and she told me that the apparition was of a deeply disturbed former resident of the house, and that it needed a clergyman to deal with it.

I felt a tad cynical about her response — but at the same time, I was now feeling deeply uncomfortable in what should have been the sanctuary of my own home. However, there was a vicar I knew who I thought would be able to help.

At the time he was officially the Vicar of Brighton — but with another hat, he was also the chief exorcist of the Church of England. That wasn’t his actual title, which was the less flaky-sounding Minister of Deliverance. A former monk with a double first from Oxford in psychology, and the son of two medics, he was as far from Max Von Sydow’s Father Merrin in The Exorcist as you could get. He is a delightful human being, with whom I had become good friends, and still am to this day. He is a modern thinker, a clergyman who has a problem with the biblical concept of God yet still retains an infectious faith.

Even so, I was a little surprised when he cheerfully entered the atrium, stood still for a couple of minutes, and then loudly and very firmly enunciated into thin air, ‘You may go now!’

He turned to me and said, ‘You should be fine now.’

Well, we were, until a mid-June day in 1994. My novel Host, which had been published the previous year by Penguin in hardback, had just been published both on two floppy discs, billed as the world’s first electronic novel, and in paperback. The thick paperback lay on a beautiful antique wooden chest which we kept in the atrium. I always put my latest book there for visitors to see. On this particular sunny morning, I was having breakfast around 7.45 a.m., while Geraldine was upstairs getting ready for work. Suddenly she called down, ‘I can smell burning!’

I suddenly realized that I could too. I turned around, and to my amazement, the copy of Host, on top of the wooden chest, was on fire!

I rushed over, grabbed the book, ran to the kitchen sink and threw it in, then turned the taps on to extinguish the flames.

There was, of course, a perfectly prosaic explanation: close to the book, on the chest, was a round glass paperweight. The hot June morning sun rays had been refracted through it, much the same way that as kids we used to set fire to things by letting the sun’s rays refract though a magnifying glass. But… the fact it had happened in this room which had had the apparition in it added a very sinister dimension.

The above story was only one of the spooky occurrences we had in this otherwise glorious house. The second happened the first weekend we spent there. It was on the Sunday morning and I said hello to our nearest neighbours, who lived in what had, in former days, been the coach house. ‘I just want to ask you,’ the cheery elderly occupant asked, ‘because my wife and I are very curious. Do you have anyone staying with a young baby this weekend?’

‘No,’ I told him.

‘Ah, must be your ghost again,’ he said, very matter-of-factly.

It turned out that he, and other neighbours across the narrow lane outside the house, would regularly hear a baby crying. We learned that in the 1920s the drawing room floor had been dug up because of damp and dry rot and the skeleton of a baby had been discovered — perhaps stillborn, or possibly even murdered way back in time.

In the grounds was a very narrow lake, a quarter of a mile long, and on the far side was a public footpath. During the decade we lived in the house, several residents of the hamlet and of surrounding villages told us how they had been chased off the footpath at dusk by a Roman centurion! To me, this was the least credible of the stories. But in many ways, one of the most credible was the one I was told the day I was collared by another of my neighbours.

The house used to own many hundreds of surrounding acres. Over time the land was sold off in parcels. Several houses had been built in the 1930s and 1950s along the far side of the lake. One day I was walking Boris along past them when the owner of one — a very down-to-earth factory manager in his forties — shouted, ‘I wish you would keep your bloody ghosts under control!’

He then told me, ‘Last Sunday, we held a christening party for my grandson here. At 4 p.m., all the guests had gone and I went and sat in the conservatory to read the Sunday Times. Suddenly the room turned icy and I shivered. I looked up and saw a monk in a cowled hood staring down at me. I thought at first it was one of my relatives playing a prank on me. I stood up and followed it into the kitchen. But he had vanished. The only person in there was my wife, doing the washing-up. There is no door out of the kitchen. She had not seen or heard anything.’

There was one more very spooky occurrence during our time there. At the front of the house were two sets of classic Georgian bay windows. One was in a spare bedroom, which we called the Blue Room, where we often put up guests, and all the time we lived there, I never felt comfortable entering it. Whenever we went away, we employed a house-sitter. On each occasion, when we returned home the house-sitter would have moved out of this room, giving a lame excuse about not liking the colour, or the morning sun, and slept somewhere else in the house.

As a postscript, I should add something of the house’s history. For much of the twentieth century it was owned by the Stobart family, the most famous member of which, Tom Stobart OBE, was a photographer, zoologist and author. A true adventurer, he was the cameraman who climbed Everest with Hunt and Hillary and took the photos of their ascent, was subsequently shot in the knee in Ethiopia, and tragically died far too young from a heart attack at the local railway station, Hassocks. One member of the family was — reputedly — a strange lady, who became a man-hating lesbian and subjected Tom’s sister Anne, who we befriended in the years before she died from a stroke, to such cruelty as a child she was never able to live a normal life or form normal relationships. Anne told us one day that this relative used to strap her hands to the side of the bed when she was a child to prevent her, should she be tempted, from touching herself.

Was she the grey lady in the atrium?

During the Second World War, the house was used to billet Canadian soldiers. After the war, during the second half of the twentieth century, three couples bought it — and subsequently divorced. We were the third. Was the grey lady in any way responsible?

I will always wonder.

Two Minutes

When he was a small boy, Rod Wexler loved to hang out on Brighton’s Palace Pier — long since renamed Brighton Pier. He liked looking down, through the holes in the metal gridding of the walkway, at the sinister, shadowy dark green water fifty feet below. And he was fascinated by the escapologist, the Great Omani, whose act (which the strange man repeated hourly, on the hour) was to tip a gallon of petrol into the sea below, drop a lighted taper to create a flaming circle, then tie himself up in a straitjacket, jump off the side of the pier into the flames, disappear below the surface, then emerge a minute or so later, triumphantly holding the straitjacket above his head, to a small ripple of applause.

From an early age Rod had always been obsessed with trying to work things out; there were so many mysteries in the world, and the Great Omani’s escape act was one of the first to consume him. What, he wondered, was so clever about escaping, when you tied yourself up in the first place? Now, if someone else had tied him up, that would be very different!

But he never got a chance to study the act for long. When the Great Omani spotted him, he would shout at him angrily that his act wasn’t free, and people had to pay to watch him by putting money in his hat. ‘I don’t take pennies, son. Minimum a shilling on this bit of the pier — so pay up or clear off!’

Rod did not think the act was worth a penny, let alone a shilling, which was an entire week’s pocket money. For him, there was much better value inside the amusement arcade. One row of wooden slot machines there, in particular, fascinated him.

They had their names displayed on the outside, such as Haunted House! Guillotine! Gulliver’s Lilliput World! You pushed a penny coin into the slot and things would start to happen. The interior would light up behind the glass viewing window. He liked the haunted house. A coffin lid would rise up to reveal a glowing skeleton. A spider would drop down and rise up. Doors would open and apparitions would appear and disappear. The lights would flicker. It was like a cross between a very spooky doll’s house and a miniature ghost train.

Rod had never been on the real ghost train, further down towards the end of the pier, because he’d seen people coming off it looking terrified; it scared him too much. Also, it was too expensive for his tiny budget. He could have six goes on these slot machines for the price of one sixpenny ghost train ride.

But the machine he liked the most, on which he spent most of his shilling each week, was the Guillotine!

He would push his penny coin into the slot, and then watch as a blindfolded Marie Antoinette was dragged to the guillotine, placed face down, and then after some moments a character would pull a lever, the blade would slide down, slice clean through her neck, and her head would drop into a basket. Then the lights would go out again.

Every time he watched, he wondered, was she still conscious after her neck had been severed and, if so, for how long? And what, if anything, did she think about while her head was lying in that basket, in those final moments of her existence?

Years later, as a forty-year-old adult, the attractions on the pier, like its name, had changed. The wooden penny-in-the-slot machines had been moved to a museum underneath the Arches, close to the pier, where they were maintained in working order. You could buy a bag of old penny coins and still activate the machines. He took his own kids to see them, but they weren’t impressed; they were more interested in computer games.

But his own fascination never went away. He was enjoying a successful career as an actuary for a reinsurance group, in which his natural curiosity was able to flourish. His job was to calculate the odds, much like a bookmaker might, of accidents and disasters happening. One role, for instance, was to calculate the odds against rainfall happening in particular regions. In some parts of the south of England, much though the country had a reputation for being wet, he was able to demonstrate that, in fact, there were only ninety-four days a year when it actually rained — he defined it as there being precipitation at some point during the twenty-four hours of the day.

Some of his friends called him a dullard, obsessed with facts and statistics. But he really, genuinely, loved his work. He liked to refute the saying that ‘No man on his deathbed ever said, “I wish I had spent more time in the office.”’

‘I would say that,’ he would announce proudly in the pub and at parties. And it was true. Rod loved his work, he really did. Facts and statistics were his life; these were the things that gave him his bang. He loved to analyse everything, and break it all down to its component elements. He loved to be able to tell people stuff they didn’t know — such as what was the most dangerous form of travel, what your percentage chances were of dying of a particular ailment, or how long you were likely to live if you reached fifty.

It used to infuriate his wife, Angie. ‘God, don’t you ever feel anything?’ she would ask him.

‘Feelings are dangerous,’ he would retort, which angered her further. But he wasn’t being frivolous, he genuinely believed that. ‘Life is dangerous, darling,’ he would say, trying to placate her. ‘No one gets out of here alive.’

Once at a dinner party, he had raised the subject of his childhood fascination with the slot machine with the guillotine. A neurosurgeon friend, Paddy Mahony, sitting opposite him had said that he reckoned after being guillotined, people could remain conscious for up to two minutes. Or was it ninety seconds? Rod could not quite remember, although it was pretty relevant now, since one moment he had been texting his mistress, Romy, and the next he had looked up to see all the traffic ahead of him on the fast lane of the M4 had stopped dead.

He was surprised at just how calm he felt as the bonnet of his Audi, bought for its safety points after analysis of crash statistics, slid under the tailgate of the truck. He frowned, thinking that there had been a law passed, surely, that they needed a bar to stop his car doing just what it was now doing — sliding under the tailgate while the occupants are decapitated. Like the guillotine.

Funny, he thought, to be lying on a wet road, looking up at exhaust pipes and bumpers and number plates and brake lights. Not the way he would have chosen to exit this world, but it certainly was interesting to see if Paddy was right. Although, of course, he could not see his wristwatch. That was still in the car attached to the rest of him.

‘Hello,’ he said to a woman who climbed out of one of those little Nissan Micras, a bilious purple colour. ‘Could you tell me the time?’ He mouthed. But no sound came out.

She screamed.

This was not going well. Then she vomited. Fortunately she did not splash him. His sense of smell was acute at that moment. He felt no pain, but smelled diesel and puke. It was normally a smell that instantly made him puke too. But not today. He heard a siren.

Suddenly, he remembered that old nuclear bomb thing of his youth. The four-minute warning. The warning you might get in the event of a pending nuclear attack. People being asked what they would do if they had only four minutes left to live.

That threat had sort of faded away and been forgotten.

He remembered another dinner party he’d been at a while ago. Everyone was asked what they would do in their last four minutes. Then someone, he could not remember who, had suggest just one minute. ‘That would really concentrate your mind!’ he had said.

Now, by Rod’s calculation, he would be lucky to have another minute. Strange, he thought, our obsession with the time. Here I am, able to count my future in seconds, and I’m not worrying how my wife and kids are going to cope. All I want to know is the bloody—

Gifts in the Night

During my research for the spooky novels I wrote in the late 1980s and the early 1990s, I interviewed a large number of people, from all walks of life, who believed they’d had a paranormal experience of some kind. Some years back, seated next to HRH Princess Anne at a charity dinner — she’s a sparky lady and great fun to talk to — she told me a very convincing story about a friend of hers who had a poltergeist in her home. And the late great comedian, Michael Bentine, made my hairs stand on end with stories about his father who carried out exorcisms.

I talked to mediums, clairvoyants, scientists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and became good friends with a truly extraordinary character, the late Professor Bob Morris, who had been appointed as the first Chair of Parapsychology in the UK, heading up the Koestler Parapsychology Unit at Edinburgh University. What made Bob Morris a fascinating man, to me, was that he was a scientist — a physicist — who had had a paranormal experience early in his life, which had opened his mind to the existence of the paranormal.

I learned from him an astounding statistic: that a survey was taken, in 1922, of scientists in Britain who believed in God. The results came out at 43 per cent. The same survey was repeated in 1988 and, very surprisingly, the results showed exactly the same percentage. But there had been a significant shift: fewer biologists now believed in God, but more mathematicians and physicists proclaimed themselves believers.

I listened to a large number of views and stories of strange experiences, and I talked to leading sceptics as well. For eighteen months, between 1990 and 1991, I hosted a regular Friday night radio phone-in show, taking calls from members of the public who had experienced something uncanny, or inexplicable, ranging from sightings of apparitions or bizarre coincidences to past-life memories or a sense of déjà-vu. In 1993 I was commissioned by the BBC to present a show in Scotland, in which I was given carte blanche to travel around interviewing people who claimed to have had paranormal encounters.

Many of the stories I was told were chilling, some were distressing, but the majority, when I examined them further, turned out to have credible rational explanations. I learned that both the Anglican Church and the Roman Catholic Church employ diocesan exorcists — although they are given the less dramatic titles of Ministers of Deliverance.

The role of a Minister of Deliverance is to investigate any apparent paranormal occurrence brought to the attention of the local vicar or priest, and for which they had had no explanation. But of major importance in this role is to rule out the paranormal wherever possible and produce rational explanations. As an example, there was a papal edict in the Catholic Church, issued over two centuries ago, warning priests not to confuse demonic possession with the tricks played on people’s minds as a result of grief, and stating that no exorcisms should be carried out on anyone within two years of them suffering a bereavement.

I became good friends with one Minister, a senior clergyman with considerable experience of people who claimed to have had paranormal encounters, and who is himself an extremely caring and rational man. I will call him Francis Wells. He is a modern-thinking clergyman, with a distinguished university background in psychology, who has deep faith but once confided in me that he had problems with the conventional biblical image of God. His primary objective in all cases brought to him was to try to find a rational explanation. For instance, he was regularly called in to investigate people deeply disturbed by occurrences following Ouija board sessions. His view of such sessions, after over thirty years of investigations, is that the Ouija does not open up channels to the spirit world, but rather opens up the Pandora’s box of demons that each and every one of us carries in our psyche.

I asked him if he had ever, in his career to date, experienced something that could not be explained in a rational way. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Twice.’

This is the first story. At his request, to respect their privacy, I have changed the names of the people involved.

In 1987 a young married couple, Geoff and Kerry Wilson, had recently had a baby son, Darren. Geoff worked as plumber and Kerry was on maternity leave from her local council job in Croydon. They had been living in a rented basement flat in Croydon and had saved enough money to put down the deposit on a small house on a brand new housing development in the area, built by a national brand-name company.

They moved in when Darren was three months old, and were blissfully happy to finally be in a home of their own. Kerry was a keen gardener, and was happy to be home alone with Darren, who was a delightful, happy and calm baby, while Geoff was away much of the day, and often late into the evenings, working his butt off now that he was the sole breadwinner of the family.

Four weeks after they had moved in, early on a late November morning, Kerry woke suddenly, feeling concerned that something was wrong. She looked at the clock and saw it was 7 a.m. The baby monitor was silent and she realized she had missed Darren’s normal 3 a.m. feed. She went through into his room and was confronted with every mother’s worst nightmare.

Darren lay face down against the mattress. She felt total panic as she gently turned his motionless body over. He was cold, and solid as wood, and his face was a deep mottled blue. The paramedics, who arrived twelve minutes later, were, tragically, unable to resuscitate him.

To add to the hell of the following hours, they then had to deal with the police interrogations. Whilst they were allocated a Family Liaison Officer, a kindly, sympathetic woman PC, they were also subjected to the house being treated as a crime scene, and grilled by two CID officers. They faced the further agony of knowing little Darren was to be subjected to a post-mortem in the mortuary. Police interviews, as well as interviews with a forensic psychologist and a forensic psychiatrist, continued for several days, making them feel — through their intense grief — like criminals and distracting them from the funeral arrangements.

Kerry, who had stopped drinking from the moment she had learned she was pregnant, took to the bottle; Geoff was arrested for drink-driving and faced losing his licence — and his livelihood. He was dependent on his van for his work.

Eventually, they were left alone. Darren’s body was released by the Coroner, and he was buried in a tiny white coffin. In the days following the funeral, Kerry and Geoff, occasionally joined by their parents, sat in desolation in the front room of the new house that had, just a short while ago, seemed so full of promise. The little garden at the rear, where Kerry had dug up beds on both sides of the lawn with an ambitious planting plan, looked increasingly sad, with the grass growing unkempt and weeds sprouting.

To make them feel even more isolated from normal life, most of the units on the estate were still, as yet, unsold, so they had few neighbours to talk to and share their grief with. Kerry’s best friend, Roz, put on a brave face but was totally freaked out, and kept giving excuses why she could not come over. There was just one other young couple, directly across the close — Rob and Mandy King. Mandy was seven months pregnant, and she and her husband felt a kinship with Geoff and Kerry. Kerry’s parents were as supportive as they could be; but they were almost equally grief-stricken and, after a while, they began to avoid contact as much as they could because they just distressed Geoff and Kerry more. Their neighbours, Rob and Mandy, became almost their sole lifeline.

Geoff ignored the brown envelopes of bills that fell daily onto the doormat. He really didn’t care about anything. He could function just sufficiently to make the occasional three-mile round trip to the supermarket, with his wife driving, to buy basic food and cheap wine. They were each drinking a bottle a day.

The doctor prescribed tranquilizers for Kerry, and also sleeping pills after her seventh consecutive night of lying awake crying. Geoff tried to cope without either. He spent his days sitting in front of the television, watching anything that was on, absorbing nothing. He used to like reading, but the pages on any book he picked up contained a meaningless jumble of words.

At 2 a.m. on a Wednesday night, three weeks on, Geoff woke, badly needing to pee and his head throbbing from the booze. He climbed out of bed without turning the light on — not wanting to wake Kerry — pulled on his dressing gown, found his slippers, and shuffled out onto the dark landing, heading to the toilet.

And he stopped in his tracks.

In his own words, this is what happened next:

I saw an endless stream of people, all in white robes, each carrying a small parcel wrapped in white cloth. They were coming out of the wall in front of me, to the right, crossing the landing, and disappearing into the wall on the left.

They were oblivious to me. One after another. Then another, then another. Silent, serious, men and women, some young, some not so young. All in these strange robes. All carrying a white parcel.

For some moments, I thought I must be dreaming. But I was awake. I did that cliché thing of pinching myself, and realized that I was very definitely awake. I stood there, quaking with fear, unsure what to do. I don’t remember for how long I stood there. Some of them seemed to half turn towards me, as if there was something they wanted to communicate, but then they carried on, fading into the wall on the left hand side.

I backed away, turned and dived into our bedroom, slamming the door shut, the noise waking Kerry.

‘Wossat?’ She murmured, sleepily.

I turned on the light. I had to wake her fully. She needed to see this — or convince me that I was hallucinating. I told her to go and take a look at the landing.

‘I’m so sleepy,’ she said.

I felt really bad about disturbing her. But I had to be reassured I wasn’t either hallucinating or going mad. Every inch of my flesh was covered in goosebumps. I’d never, ever, felt so spooked in my life.

‘Please go and look on the landing,’ I pleaded.

Finally, very reluctantly, she slipped out of bed, in her nightdress, padded across the floor and opened the door, with me right behind her.

Then she just stood there, mesmerized. I will always remember her face as she turned to me for as long as I live.

It was the face of someone who has stared into the pit of Hell.

We clutched each other, and stared at the procession of people. It went on and on and on. I don’t know for how long we stood there. These eerie people in white, carrying their parcels of white, all looking serious, purposeful, on a journey, heading towards a clear destination.

‘What’s going on?’ she murmured, terrified.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, equally terrified, but trying, unsuccessfully, to remain calm. I was having a dream, a nightmare, that was the only possible explanation.

Then Kerry lit a cigarette. That was another thing — she had given up smoking — her thirty-fags-a-day habit — for Darren. I’d given up too, in support. She handed me the Silk Cut, and I took a drag, inhaled the sweet smoke, and that was when I knew this was for real.

The next few minutes were a blur. I don’t remember us leaving the house and running across the road. All I can remember is hammering on the door of our neighbours, then finding the bell and ringing it, and a minute or so later seeing light come on behind the glass panel at the top of the door. Moments later, it opened and Rob stood there in his pyjamas, with a quizzical expression I will never forget. I almost hugged him in relief.

‘Need to use your phone!’ I blurted. ‘Police. I’m so sorry. I—’

Suddenly, away from the madness that our house had become, none of what we had experienced seemed real any more. I’ve never had any truck with God, or the supernatural, none of that shit. My dad died when I was twenty, when an Army truck rammed the back of his car during a motorway pile-up. My mum died of cancer two years later — triggered by shock and grief, my sister always reckoned. Thanks, God!

I dialled the 9s, then was struck dumb when the operator answered, asked me which service I required. When a Police operator came on the line, I suddenly felt very foolish. ‘We’ve got… well… I sort of think… intruders in our house,’ I managed, finally. And I felt a right dickhead as I replaced the receiver.

Rob’s wife, Mandy came downstairs in her dressing gown, wondering what the commotion was. ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted out. ‘There’s something strange going on in our house — I’ve just called the Police.’

Kerry suddenly collapsed on the sofa, sobbing. Mandy, bless her, sat down beside her and put an arm around her. And in a sudden moment of normality said, ‘I’ll make us all a cup of tea, shall I?’ She got up and went into the kitchen.

It seemed only moments later that streaks of blue light were skittering off the front windowpane. We heard a car pull up and I opened the front door to see two male uniformed officers standing there, one a middle-aged Sergeant, the other a much younger rookie constable, holding their caps in their hands.

Rob invited them in, and I stood in the little hallway, explaining what we had just seen to looks of extreme incredulity from Croydon’s finest. When I had finished, all too aware that what I had said sounded like the ramblings of a crazy, the Sergeant took a step forward and sniffed my breath.

‘Been drinking, have you, sir?’ he said, with extreme sarcasm.

‘No more than usual,’ I replied.

‘Walking out of the wall, are they, sir? All carrying something?’

I nodded.

‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’re bringing you Christmas presents. Was one of them dressed in red robes, with a long grey beard? I didn’t see any reindeer on the roof.’

Both their radios crackled into life. Both listened to the message. ‘We’re just attending at Ecclestone Close. We’ll be on our way in a minute,’ the Sergeant said.

‘Go and take a look,’ I said. ‘I’ve left the front door open.’

The Sergeant nodded at the rookie and pointed across the road with his finger. The young constable went out. Mandy came into the hall. ‘I’m just making a cuppa — would you both like one?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you, ma’am,’ the cynical cop replied. ‘There’s an accident on the A23 we need to attend.’

That made me feel bad. That I was keeping these officers from something far more important. Rob, the Sergeant and I stood there in awkward silence.

‘Nice development this estate,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Not been here before.’

‘We’ve only recently moved in,’ I said.

Moments later the front door was pushed open and the rookie stood there. His face was sheet white and he was shaking like a leaf. He could barely speak. ‘Sarge,’ he said. ‘I… I… I think you’d better go and take a look. I think I’m imagining things.’

Both officers strode back across the road and entered our house. I went into the living room and sat down beside Kerry, who was still sobbing, and tried to comfort her. Mandy brought us mugs of tea and a moment of normality returned as she asked us if we wanted milk and sugar.

Then there was a rap on the front door. I followed Rob as he went to answer it.

The Sergeant stood there, looking as shaken as his colleague, his face ashen. After some moments, the senior officer spoke. ‘I don’t know what to say Mr… er… Mr Wilson?’

I nodded.

‘It’s not someone playing a prank on you, is it?’

‘What do you think?’ I replied.

‘I didn’t… didn’t see… didn’t see any projector,’ the rookie said.

‘I don’t know what to think, sir,’ the Sergeant said. ‘I’ve not seen… not experienced… nothing… nothing like this in all the years I’ve been a police officer. I’m at a loss what to suggest. Has this happened before?’

‘No,’ I said very firmly.

‘I… I approached the… the intruders,’ he said. ‘I walked right through one and it was like stepping into a freezer. I think you’d better not go back to the house, not just yet.’

He was quivering all over, so much that I broke out in goosebumps myself at the sight of him.

‘They can stay the night here,’ Rob said kindly. ‘We’ll put them in the spare room.’

The two police officers looked like they could not wait to get away from here, but not because they needed to attend the other incident, the crash on the A23, the main London road. It looked to me as if they wanted, right then, to be anywhere but here. They seemed totally out of their comfort zone and, if nothing else, at least it gave me some reassurance that Kerry and I were not mad.

The Sergeant was holding his notebook in his hand and he tried to jot down some details, but his hand was shaking so much that after a few tries, he stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Williams — I mean Wilson,’ he said to me. ‘I think I’m as shook up as you are. I… I don’t know… are you and Mrs Wilson of any religious persuasion?’

I told him we were both sort of lapsed Anglicans. I’d been confirmed as a child, and so had Kerry. But neither of us had had much time for religion since, although both of us had had parental pressure to have little Darren confirmed.

The Sergeant said, ‘The only thing I can suggest is that you contact your local vicar in the morning and see what he has to say about this, Mr and Mrs Wilson.’

We stayed the night in our kind neighbours’ spare room, and in the morning ventured home. All was quiet there, back to normality. We packed some of our belongings into a suitcase and moved, temporarily, to Kerry’s parents’ home in Surbiton. Later that morning we drove to see our vicar — who we had never met before. He was a young clergyman, who although a tad sceptical at first, listened intently to our story. While we were sitting in his house, he phoned the police and asked to speak to the Sergeant who had attended last night, and was told he was currently off duty and to call back that evening.

At around 7 p.m. he called us at Kerry’s parents’ home, sounding shaken, telling us the Sergeant had verified our story, and that he was going to contact his diocesan Minister of Deliverance, Francis Wells, for advice.

A week passed, during which we heard nothing, and Kerry and I began to doubt our sanity, despite the fact that the two police officers had witnessed what we had witnessed. Then we received a phone call from Francis Wells, asking if he could come and see us at our house. He was insistent that both of us should be there.

We did some research on him, and learned that he was a highly respected clergyman, with particular interest in the paranormal, and came from an academic background. Both his parents were medics, and he had achieved a double first in psychology from Oxford. He seemed exactly the right person, with a practical mindset, to investigate the phenomena we had encountered, and Kerry and I felt reassured.

Kerry drove us to the house in my van, but refused to go in. Although it was the middle of the day, I was also too scared to go in alone. We waited outside, and after about twenty minutes, a bright red Alfa Romeo saloon pulled up, and out clambered a very good-looking man in his early thirties, dressed in a business suit, with a very pleasant and gentle demeanour.

Francis Wells was far from what we had been expecting — perhaps a priest in robes, holding a bell, book and candle, like something out of The Exorcist. He was so normal, so ordinary, and warm-hearted, instantly putting us at our ease and expressing his deepest sorrow at our loss. He asked if he could go inside and take a look at where the apparitions had appeared.

We agreed, although neither Kerry nor I would go further than the front room. We sat on the sofa, feeling very uncomfortable being back in the house, while he went upstairs. After what seemed an eternity, he came down and sat in a chair opposite us. Kerry found the strength to make us all a coffee and when she had handed out our cups, together with a plate of biscuits, he told us his findings, smiling benignly at us, as if to reassure me and my wife that we were not bonkers, and speaking in a soft, gentle voice.

He started by offering us prayers, and did not seem at all offended when we thanked him but told him that both of us had a problem with religion. He was totally understanding. ‘That is absolutely fine,’ he said. He sipped some coffee then continued. ‘Well, Geoff and Kerry, I’ve just been upstairs and all seems quiet, for now. I’ve been researching into the background of your home, and I’ve discovered something that may offer an explanation, however strange it might seem to you, for what has been happening. I’m assuming you both studied history as part of your curriculum at school?’

Yes, I told him, but it had never really grabbed me. Kerry, however, said it had been one of the few subjects she had loved.

The Minister of Deliverance nodded approvingly at her. ‘Do you remember the Great Plague? The bubonic plague?’

‘I remember a ditty we learned at school,’ Kerry said. ‘1665 no one left alive. 1666 London burned to sticks.’

The Minister smiled. ‘Indeed. But before that — three hundred years earlier — the bubonic plague started; it was called the Black Death. It wiped out over 30 per cent of our population. Towns and villages had plague burial pits. My team has discovered that this housing estate, where we are now, is on the site of an ancient plague burial ground. And the precise location of your house is over a pit where infant victims of the plague were buried.

He went on to tell us that he could not say whether it was the negative energy from all the young babies buried here that had caused the cot death of our baby son, Darren, or whether his death had for some reason triggered this eerie replay of parents bringing their dead infants here.

We put the house on the market, without ever telling prospective buyers about our experience. To our relief, the eventual purchasers were a middle-aged couple with grown-up children. We now live thirty miles away and have never been back.

Ghost Painting

This fictional account is based on the second of the two true stories that Francis Wells, the chief Minister of Deliverance of the Anglican Church, told me when I asked him if ever, during his experience of dealing with the paranormal, he had encountered anything for which he had no rational explanation, and which had convinced him of survival of some element of the human spirit beyond death. As before, to protect their privacy, I have changed the names of the people involved and the precise location. This incident occurred shortly after he had taken up a post which gave him direct responsibility for Sussex.

The house had a sad look about it, Meg Ryerson thought, as she stood in the rear garden with her husband, Paul, and the estate agent. Then they walked around to the front again, along the narrow passageway down the side and through the gate, squeezing past the bins.

The interior needed modernizing and the garden, which was a good-sized plot, had been badly neglected. But Meg did not mind that; she had always wanted a garden. The street itself was bright and pleasant, lined with a mixture of bungalows, semi-detached houses and small, detached ones, like number 8. But strangely, on this sunny morning, the house looked like it was permanently in the shade. Meg was good with colours; it had been one of her strengths at art college a decade ago. Perhaps, she thought, standing on the pavement in front of the house now, it was the drab grey paint on the pebbledash rendering on the walls that was doing it.

Whatever.

The house just wasn’t ticking many of the boxes on their list. She’d set her heart on somewhere with character, and her dream was one of those elegant white villas in one of the Regency terraces in the Clifton area of Brighton, steeped in history, with canopied windows and views over the rooftops towards the sea. But in all the particulars they had seen — and they had seen a lot, from just about every estate agency in the city of Brighton and Hove over the past three months — those houses had always been out of their price range.

This small, detached Edwardian house, with four bedrooms — two of them tiny — was in a pleasant but uninspiring street that ran south of Brighton’s Dyke Road Avenue. It ticked just two of the boxes on their list. The first was that it had a really nice outbuilding at the end of the garden which could, with some TLC, become a studio for Meg to paint in. The other was that it was in their price range — just.

‘It does have character,’ the agent said. ‘And of course the location is very sought after. Just a short walk from the Hove recreation ground and Hove Park. You could make this into a very lovely home.’

‘Position,’ Paul said to Meg. ‘Don’t they say that the three most important things in a property are location, location and location?’ He looked at the estate agent, who nodded confirmation.

Meg gave a wan, dubious smile, wondering what it would feel like to live here.

‘At the price they are asking,’ the agent said, ‘It’s a bargain.’

Paul led Meg a short distance away, down the street, out of earshot of the estate agent. ‘The thing is, darling, you have terrific taste. We could buy this, transform it, and in a couple of years we could make a good profit on it, and then be able to afford something we love more, perhaps in the Clifton area.’

Megan stared up at the mock-Tudor gables, then the brick-tiled carport and the integral garage, feeling a conflict of emotions. Paul was right: it was a great buy. It had a nice garden at the back, with three beautiful, mature trees, and the wooden structure at the far end could make a pleasant studio. But…

But.

It really was so suburban.

Was it John Lennon who said, Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans? What would happen if they bought this place and then, for whatever reason, they couldn’t sell it in a couple of years? She knew from experience that life never did work out the way you planned it. What if they ended up stuck here for years? Spending the rest of their lives here? Could she be happy in this house forever?

And suddenly she realized she was being ungrateful. There were many people who would love to live in this area, and she was lucky to have a husband who worked damned hard, in a job he didn’t particularly enjoy as an accountant in a small Brighton practice, to support her ambition to become a portrait painter. OK, so it didn’t have the character she had dreamed of, but they were still young — she was thirty-one and Paul was thirty-three — and if the family they had been hoping to start did come along, this was actually a good and safe location to bring up young children.

‘Why are the owners selling?’ she asked the agent, a smartly dressed woman about her own age. ‘They’ve only been here just over a year, right?’

‘The husband’s an economist with an oil company. From what I understand, he got offered a five-year contract in Abu Dhabi, with the chance to make a lot of money, tax-free. They had to make a quick decision, and they took it. They’ve already gone, and I’m told they are throwing in all the carpets and curtains — and they’ll sell you any of the furniture you’d like at a good price.’

‘Carpets and curtains cost a fortune,’ Paul said, ever the accountant. ‘That could save us several grand easily.’

Megan nodded. None of the rooms was furnished to her taste, but they could change that, she supposed, in time. Not having to buy curtains and carpets was a big saving — but not enough to justify buying a house you did not love.

But, she had to admit, the agent was right on one thing. This house was a bargain — and would be snapped up quickly.

They moved in on a Friday in late May. Megan was feeling a lot more positive about the house, and already thinking ahead to Christmas that year. The dining room was big enough to seat ten people at a pinch, unlike the one in their flat in Kemp Town where six had been a squeeze. They could have Paul’s parents, her brother, her sister and brother-in-law and their four-year-old over. Magic!

By Saturday afternoon, they had got the old-fashioned kitchen, their bedroom and the lounge straight. The dining room, the two spare bedrooms and the garage were still filled with unopened tea chests, put there by the removals company. The summer house at the end of the garden — in reality little more than a glorified shed — was a long way from being habitable, so she had made the lounge into a temporary studio, setting up her easel at one end, and laying out her paints on an old trestle beside it.

At around tea time they had both come close to losing the will to live, and were looking forward to an evening out at the trendy fish restaurant at The Grand — GB1 — with their best friends, Tim and Sally Hopwood.

For the past week, Megan had done nothing but pack, pack and then unpack. She’d been covered in dust from head to toe, and had begun to despair of ever looking human again. But tonight, hey, she was damned well making an effort! They were in their new home, and today was the start of their new life. She felt happy about the house now, loved the view from their bedroom out across the long, narrow garden, with the summer house at the far end — beneath the three beautiful old trees — that would, one day, be her studio. She had started making big plans for the garden, sketching out a design which included a Zen pond, a brick-walled vegetable plot and groups of shrubs.

Paul was in the small third bedroom, upstairs, facing the street, which he had commandeered as his home office, working away on his computer. Megan stepped out of the shower in her dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban, and sat down at her Victorian dressing table. She stared into the mirror, and began to apply her make-up.

And froze. A shiver snaked through her.

In the reflection she could see a middle-aged woman standing right behind her, on one leg, supported by crutches. The woman was staring at her, as if curious to watch the way she was applying her make-up.

For an instant she did not dare move. It felt as if a bolus of ice had been injected into her veins. She spun around.

There was nothing there.

She felt an icy chill crawl up her spine. She broke out in a rash of goose pimples that were so sharp they hurt her. She could, literally, feel her hair rising from her scalp, as if pulled by a magnet.

For some moments she wanted to shout for Paul to come up. But if she told him what she had just seen it would sound stupid, she thought. And besides, she knew that he was well aware she did not love this house, but had agreed to buying it and moving here because it was a good investment opportunity. With his logical mind, he would give her an explanation that would make perfect, rational sense.

So she said nothing.

They went to dinner with their friends and had a great time. Later, in the taxi heading home, nicely fuzzed with several glasses of the delicious wine Paul had chosen, Meg dismissed what she had seen earlier. It had been her imagination working overtime, she decided. They went to bed, and all was fine. All was fine again, throughout Sunday. And Monday.

On Tuesday, one of Paul’s clients had invited them both to a dinner at the Hotel du Vin in Brighton. Paul warned her in advance that the client was big in international media, rich and flash, and to dress to kill.

After several hours of retail therapy on the Monday, Megan again sat in front of her dressing table mirror at 6.30 p.m. on the Tuesday night, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Then she saw the one-legged woman again, standing behind her.

She spun around in her chair.

And again saw nothing.

But this time she was convinced it wasn’t her imagination.

In the back of the taxi on the way to dinner, she was about to tell Paul what she had seen when the cab driver, a strange little man, suddenly said, ‘Nice perfume, madam. Armani Code?’

‘Yes!’ she said, delighted. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I know these things, uh-huh.’

She grinned at Paul and squeezed his hand. Then she whispered to her husband, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Later.’

‘I’m all ears!’

Shortly before midnight as a taxi dropped them home, she waited until they had entered the house and closed the front door behind them. Then, emboldened by a little too much wine, she told Paul what she had seen on Saturday night, and again tonight.

Maybe it was because he had drunk too much also, but his reaction was less sceptical than she had been expecting. ‘If she’s appeared so vividly, why don’t you paint her portrait, darling?’

‘Maybe I will,’ she replied thoughtfully.

Despite a hangover the next morning, Meg set up a fresh canvas on her easel in the living room, then sketched in pencil, the way she always began any portrait, the woman’s head and shoulders. So clear was her memory of what she had seen that within half an hour she had begun painting. The face of a handsome woman in her early fifties, with elegant, brown wavy hair tinged grey in places, and wearing a soft green cardigan over a cream blouse, began to appear. As she stood back for a few moments, she noticed a sad expression in the woman’s face.

She reminded her of someone, and then she realized who. She looked a little like a younger, less beautiful and less vivacious sister of the actress Joan Collins.

She was so absorbed in her work that two hours passed without her being aware. Then the ringing of the doorbell cut through her concentration.

She was irritated by the interruption, and for a moment was tempted to ignore it and carry on. But there was a ton of stuff she had ordered online for the house, so she put down her brush and walked through to the front door, not wanting to risk missing a delivery.

To her surprise, a pleasant-looking silver-haired woman of about sixty stood there. She was dressed in a baggy tracksuit top, shapeless brown slacks and trainers. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Jenny Marples. My husband and I live right opposite you, at number 17. I’m also the local Neighbourhood Watch co-ordinator. Just thought I’d pop over and say hello to our new neighbours!’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Meg said, and she meant it. So far she’d not seen a soul in the street, and had been planning to pop round to all their immediate neighbours to introduce herself. She invited Jenny Marples in for a cup of tea, which the woman enthusiastically accepted.

They went first into the kitchen, which Meg was a little embarrassed about as it was so drab and still very untidy, part of the work surface and the table still piled with crockery and kitchen utensils she had not yet found a permanent home for. While the kettle was coming to the boil, Jenny Marples said, ‘We barely met the previous owners, you see, they were here for such as short time. They moved in, and then, almost before we’d even got to know their names, they’d gone! Overseas, I’m told.’

‘Abu Dhabi. Do you take milk? Sugar?’

She set their cups and saucers on a tray, shook out some chocolate digestives onto a plate, then led the way through into the living room.

‘You’re an artist?’ Jenny exclaimed.

‘A struggling one! I’m hoping to get some commissions.’

‘You’re good!’ her neighbour said. ‘That is really—’

Then she stopped in her tracks and peered more closely at the portrait on the easel. She turned, with a frown. ‘Is that yours, or did you find that here?’

‘It’s mine,’ Meg said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. ‘Sort of a work in progress.’ Then she caught the strange look on Jenny Marples’ face. ‘Found it here? What do you mean, exactly?’

‘Well… that’s extraordinary! You see—’ her neighbour’s voice trailed off. She stared back at Meg. ‘Is it someone you know?’

Meg felt her face redden. ‘Well, not exactly, no. I—’ She watched the woman’s face closely, feeling a deepening sense of unease as she peered even more intently at the portrait.

‘That’s Alwyn!’ she declared. ‘Alwyn Hughes! You painted this? You really painted this?’

‘I did.’

‘The likeness is incredible. I mean it, incredible. It’s her!’

‘Alwyn Hughes?’

‘You must have copied this from something? A photograph perhaps?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘She used to live here!’

Meg felt the goosebumps rising up her back. ‘When… when was that?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t. Please tell me.’

The two women sat down opposite each other on the sofas. Jenny looked at her strangely, then back at the portrait again. ‘You didn’t hear the story? The estate agent didn’t tell you?’

‘The estate agent told us the previous owners had only been here a short while. Shortly after they moved in, the husband was offered a very lucrative contract for a five-year posting in Abu Dhabi. My husband, Paul, who’s an accountant, explained to me that if you want to go into tax exile, you cannot own a home in the UK — so I understand that is the reason why they had to sell the house.’

Jenny Marples nodded. ‘That would make sense. They were such a nice couple; they fitted so nicely into the neighbourhood. We were all sorry when they left so suddenly.’ She sipped her tea, then glanced at her watch.

‘What didn’t the agent tell us?’ Meg asked.

‘It was really so sad, so sad. Alwyn and her husband moved here around the same time that my husband, Clive, and I did. She loved this house so much — well, you know,’ she said, tapping her nose in a conspiratorial way, ‘this is rather an exclusive area. A lot of people dream of living in Hove 4. It was a bit of a financial stretch for them, but her husband had a job with good prospects, she told me, and although they had mortgaged up to the hilt, their children had grown up and were off their hands, so she hoped that within a few years their financial situation would improve considerably. But they had the most terrible luck.’

She sipped more tea, and fell silent for some moments.

‘What was that?’ Meg prompted, shooting a glance at the portrait.

‘Well, she told me they’d been up to Yorkshire to spend Easter weekend with her husband’s parents, in Harrogate. On their way back down the M1 they’d been involved in one of those horrific multiple-vehicle motorway pile-ups. They were rear-ended by a lorry and shunted into a car in front. Her husband was killed instantly, and she was trapped in the car by her legs. They had to amputate one of them, her right leg, to free her.’

Meg felt as if she had been dunked in an ice bath. She recalled, so vividly, the woman she had seen in the mirror, standing behind her on one leg. Her left. Goosebumps crawled over every inch of her skin. ‘Poor woman,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor woman.’

‘Terrible.’

Jenny drained her tea. Meg offered her another cup, but the woman looked at her watch anxiously. ‘I have to be going,’ she said. ‘I have a charity fundraising committee meeting.’

‘What else can you tell me about Alwyn Hughes?’

She saw Jenny glance at the portrait, as if it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Well, the thing is — the thing that is so sad — is that she loved this house so much. But she had no sympathy from the mortgage company, nor their bank. Her husband hadn’t got any life insurance — well, he had, but he’d stopped payments apparently some months before because things weren’t going too well at work for him. She did her best to try to get a job, to earn enough to keep up with the mortgage payments, but who wants a middle-aged woman with one leg? The building society were in the process of foreclosing. She should have let them — they had some equity in the house, and she could have bought a little flat with it — but, poor thing, she couldn’t see through that. So she hung herself in their bedroom.’

The story is best told from Francis Wells’ perspective from now on.

I was approached by the Reverend Michael Carsey, a vicar of the Church of the Good Shepherd, and parish priest for the area of Hove 4 in the city of Brighton and Hove. He had been contacted by two of his parishioners, Paul and Meg Ryerson, with a story that he found convincing, but was uncertain how to deal with the situation. He suggested I should talk to them myself.

I visited their very pleasant house, and found them to be very down-to-earth people, both from Anglican backgrounds, but lapsed. The wife, Meg, was more of a believer than her husband, Paul — but that’s not to say he was a sceptic; in my view he was more of an agnostic.

I listened to their story, about the apparition of the one-legged woman, and the subsequent verification of her identity from a neighbour. I studied the portrait myself and compared it to photographs I was subsequently able to obtain of the deceased, Alwyn Hughes, and there was little doubt, in my own mind, that the two were the same person.

I decided that, perhaps owing to the manner of her death — suicide — the spirit of Alwyn Hughes was earthbound, which in layman’s terms means that the spirit was unaware the body was gone and was manifesting in familiar territory in an attempt to find it.

Whilst nothing of a specifically malevolent nature was occurring, the sightings of Alwyn Hughes were clearly deeply distressing to both Paul and Meg Ryerson, and affecting their quality of life. After interviewing them in depth I became further convinced that they genuinely believed what they had seen.

Neither of them had suffered any bereavement of a family member or friend within the past two years, and they were both, in my opinion, of sound mind, intelligent and rational people.

The tragic story they told me of the past occupants of their property checked out, with the death of Mrs Alwyn Hughes registered, following the inquest and the Coroner’s verdict, as suicide whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed.

I decided that the appropriate, if exceptional, action to be taken in the first instance should be a requiem mass, held in the room in the home where the sightings of the apparition had taken place.

On 3 June, I attended the Ryersons’ home, accompanied by a young curate, an extremely rational young man who had begun his career as an engineer and who, I knew from many conversations with him, had a problem, as I did myself at that time, with the conventional image of the Biblical God. So, if you like, we were two sceptics turning up to help two equally sceptical, but very scared and confused people. However, I had decided on a highly conventional approach. We were to hold a full requiem mass, essentially a full, high-Anglican funeral service, in an attempt to lay the unrested spirit to rest.

We set out on a table all the requisites for a full communion, and began the service, with Paul and Meg Ryerson standing in front of us. Part of the way through, as I had broken the bread and given them both the host and was about to offer the communion wine, suddenly each of them went sheet white and I saw them staring past me at something.

I turned around, and to my utter astonishment I saw a woman standing on one leg, on crutches, right behind me. She gave me a quizzical smile, as if uncertain what to do.

Totally spontaneously, I said to her, ‘You can go now.’

She smiled at me. Then, as if in a movie, she slowly dissolved, until she had vanished completely. I turned back around to face the Ryersons.

‘Incredible!’ Meg said.

‘That is unbelievable!’ her husband said.

‘What did you both see?’ I asked them.

Each of them, fighting to get it out first, described exactly what I had seen.

I was invited to their home, for a very boozy dinner, a year later. It looked, and felt, like a totally different house. It wasn’t just the complete décor makeover it had had. It was imbued with a positive energy that had been totally lacking, or suppressed, previously.

I often think back to that night I saw the one-legged lady, Alwyn Hughes. Had she been a product of my imagination? I think not. But if not, then what, in this rational world of ours, had I seen? A ghost?

Yes, I truly think so.

Timing Is Everything

It was finally Tuesday. Tuesdays were always a special day of the week for Larry Goodman, and this one seemed to have taken an extra-long time to arrive. He was excited, like a big kid, his tummy full of butterflies. Not long now! He shaved more closely than normal, applied an extra amount of his Bulgari cologne that the lady of his life particularly liked, dressed carefully, and ate a quick breakfast.

At 7 a.m. he kissed his wife goodbye. Elaine, who was breastfeeding their baby son, Max. She told him to have a great day at the office. He assured her he would, and left their swanky Staten Island home with a broad smile on his face. It was a beautiful, warm, cloudless morning, which made his mood even better, if that was possible. Oh yes, he would have a great day all right — well, a great morning at any rate!

Forty minutes later he alighted from the ferry onto Manhattan, took the subway up to 57th street, and walked the short distance to the midtown Holiday Inn. His secretary would cover for him, as she did every Tuesday and Friday morning at this same time, telling anyone who was looking for him that he had a breakfast meeting out with a client.

Bang on cue, his cell pinged with a text, just as he entered the foyer.

2130 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He cast a nervous eye around, but all he saw was a cluster of Japanese tourists, a group of elderly ladies, and a young couple standing at the front desk wearing huge backpacks. This was not a place where players from Wall Street hung out, nor high-powered attorneys.

He texted back:

Get naked xxxxxxxx

He rode the elevator up towards the twenty-first floor, feeling horny — and happy — as hell. Another text pinged:

I am. Hurry or I’ll have to start without you xxxxxxxxxxx

He grinned. Marcie had the dirtiest mind he’d ever known. And the most stunning body. And the most beautiful face. And the silkiest long, wavy, flaxen hair. And she smelled amazing.

They always met here, in this anonymous barn of a hotel where neither of them was likely to bump into anyone they knew. Marcie didn’t have to lie to her husband about where she was; he was so wrapped up in himself these days, she had told Larry, that he rarely bothered to ask her how her day had been, and even less what she had done.

But with Elaine it was different. Elaine quizzed Larry about every detail of every day, and all the more so since she was now home alone with just Max to occupy her. She called him every few hours, asking him where he was, how his meetings were going, telling him about Max — who had recently started to crawl. Luckily, Erin, his secretary, was a rock.

He was paranoid about divorce. He’d already been through one, brought about by his affair with Elaine, four years back, and it had almost wiped him out financially. He needed to be careful with Elaine, who did not suffer fools gladly and was no fool herself. She was a high-powered divorce lawyer, known affectionately by her colleagues as ‘Gripper’, owing to her legendary reputation for never letting go of any of her clients’ husbands until their balls had been squeezed dry.

Elaine was bored witless being home alone. But not for much longer — she was going back to work as soon as possible. He relished that happening, because then the incessant calls from her would stop. That was the one problem with their relationship having started as an affair — she was permanently suspicious of him, and never more so than now she had time on her hands to think, and fret.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped out, taking a moment to orient himself with the direction arrows for the room numbers. He popped the chewing gum out of his mouth, balled it into a tissue and stuck it in his pocket as he strode down the corridor towards room 2130. Then, his heart pounding with excitement, he stopped outside the door and savoured, for an instant, this delicious moment of anticipation. He could hear music pounding on the other side. Marcie was big into music; she always brought her iPod and two powerful little portable speakers. ‘Love Is All Around’ by Wet, Wet, Wet was playing, the song which had become his and Marcie’s song — corny but potent for them both.

He knocked.

The door opened almost instantly, and he gasped.

‘You lied!’ he said.

She had.

She wasn’t naked at all. Not totally, anyhow. She was wearing black suspenders. And a silver necklace, which he had given her. But nothing else.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around her bare midriff and buried his face into her stomach, then instantly began to explore her with his tongue.

She gasped. He breathed in her scents, the one she had sprayed on, and the natural scents of her body. ‘Oh my God, Marcie!’

‘Larry!’

She dug her hands so hard into his shoulders he was scared, for an instant, that her nails were going to score his skin. He didn’t want to have to try to explain scratch marks to Elaine, and that was one of Marcie’s dangers — she could be a bit too wild at times.

Then, as he stood, she tore at his clothes like a wild animal, her lips pressed to his, their tongues flailing, her deliciously cold hands slipping inside his boxers.

She pulled her head back a fraction, grinning, her hands moving around inside his pants. ‘Someone’s pleased to see me!’

‘Someone sure is! Someone’s been missing you like crazy all weekend.’

They stumbled across the small room, his trousers around his ankles, and fell, entwined, onto the bed.

‘God, I had such a shit weekend. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been dreaming of this, wanting you so badly,’ she said.

‘I’ve been wanting you so badly too, babe.’

‘Take me from behind.’

He took her from behind. Turned her over and took her again from the front. Then he slid down the bed, down between her slender legs, and pressed his tongue deep inside her. Then she sat on top of him.

Finally, sated, they lay in the soft bed in each other’s arms. ‘You’re amazing,’ she said.

‘You are too.’

Van Morrison was singing ‘Days Like This’, and Larry was thinking, Yes, this is life. Days like this are truly living life!

‘You’re the best lover ever,’ she said.

‘Funny, I was thinking the same about you!’

‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ Marcie teased.

‘Nah — just read about it in a magazine.’

She grinned. ‘So how was your weekend?’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Max vomited over me. Twice.’

‘Sweet.’ She traced a finger across his forehead. ‘But you love him?’

‘I do. It’s an amazing feeling to be a father.’

‘I’m sure you’re a great father.’

‘I want to be,’ he murmured. He glanced at his watch. Time flew when they were together. It had been 8 a.m. only a few moments ago, it seemed. He had a board meeting scheduled for 11.30 a.m. Just a few more minutes, then he’d have to jump in the shower, dress, take the subway back downtown to the reality of his job as a hedge fund manager. And not see Marcie again until Friday.

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘Lot of sirens outside.’

But he barely registered what she was saying — he was thinking for a moment about a tricky client meeting he was due to have this afternoon. A major client who was threatening to move a large amount of money to a rival firm.

His meetings with Marcie were affecting his work, he knew. Ordinarily he’d be at his desk by 7.30 a.m., and would begin his day by updating himself on all the overnight changes to the market positions of his clients, then scan the morning’s reports from the analysts. Recently, two days a week, he had been neglecting his work — and that was why he now had one very pissed-off client.

He listened some more to Van Morrison, savouring these last moments with Marcie and feeling too relaxed to care. He heard another siren outside. Then another.

Suddenly, his cell rang.

He rolled over and looked at the display. ‘Shit’, he said. It was Elaine. He pressed the decline call button.

Moments later, it rang again.

He declined the call again.

It rang a third time.

He put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s her,’ he said. ‘Third time. I’d better answer in case there’s a problem.’

She rolled over and silenced the music. And now, outside, they could hear a whole cacophony of sirens.

‘Hi darling,’ he said into the phone. ‘Everything OK?’

Elaine sounded panic-stricken. ‘Larry! Oh my God, Larry, are you OK?’

‘Sure! Fine! Never better — why?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the office — just about to go into a board meeting.’

‘In the office?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re in the office?’

‘Yeah, I’m in the office, hon.’

There was a long silence. Then she said, her voice almost a shriek, ‘You’re in your office?’

‘Yeah, I am. What’s the problem? What’s going on? Is everything OK? Is Max OK?’

‘You haven’t been hit on the head?’

‘Hit on the head?’

‘You’re in your office?’

‘Yes, shit, I’m in my office!’

‘What can you see?’

‘What can I see?’

‘Tell me what you can see out of your fucking window?’ she demanded.

‘I see beautiful blue sky. The East River. I—’

‘You goddamn liar!’ The phone went dead.

Marcie, rolling over, said, ‘What’s with all the sirens?’ She picked the television remote up from her bedside table, and pressed a button on it. The television came alive. She clicked through to a news channel. A panicky looking female news reporter, holding a microphone in her hand, was standing with her back to the building Larry recognized instantly. It was where he worked. Up on the eighty-seventh floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

The newscaster had not seen, yet, the horror unfolding behind her as the skyscraper collapsed in on itself. Terrified people were running past her, some with blood on their faces, many covered in grey dust.

‘Shit… what… what the—?’ he said, shooting a glance at his Tag Heuer watch, on which the time and the date were clearly displayed.

It was 9.59 a.m., 11 September 2001.

Content

Peter James
Short Shockers: Collection Two

When Your Number’s Up

Like You

Smoking Kills

The Stamp of a Criminal Roy Grace’s first case

A Very Sexy Revenge

The Knock

Dream Holiday

A Christmas Tradition

Companionship

My First Ghost

Two Minutes

Gifts in the Night

Ghost Painting

Timing Is Everything