‘Yep, coming.’ There’s hesitation in his voice, as he climbs the stairs, and follows her along another landing.

‘The attic room,’ he says, looking up a staircase towards a closed door, two brass dogs standing either side – guarding.

‘Mmm …’ Jan shines her torch up at a peeling red door. ‘If we take the house on, we’re to leave it locked. The owner doesn’t want it touched.’

‘Bit odd, don’t you think?’

Jan looks about her, flashing her torch into the shadowy corners, and back up at the door. She places her foot on the first step.

‘What are you doing?’ James says.

She takes another step. The stair splinters and cracks under her weight. She stumbles, grabs the banister for balance.

‘Are you OK?’

She ignores him, continues. Reaches for the handle as a thud comes from inside the room – the sound of laughter.

‘Someone’s in there,’ she blurts in a half-whisper. She turns, hurries back down the stairs, heart racing. ‘We should go.’ She swings back, looks up at the door once more. ‘Did you hear that?’

James’s eyes are wide, full of fear. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

They race down the hallway, away from the attic room. ‘I’m sure it’s just the old building stirring,’ she says.

But she knows what she heard.

They are not alone in Flynn House, and the sooner they leave the better. They won’t be back.

Chapter 2

January 2019

Alice

A woman in her late thirties steps into the shop. A slightly older man, putting Alice in mind of a spectacled Gary Barlow, follows.

‘Miss Hadley?’ the woman says. ‘Miss Alice Hadley?’

Alice nods from where she’s sitting behind the antique counter in the corner. She can tell they are police. No uniform, but a calm confidence. Shadows beneath their eyes that tell of overwork and lack of sleep. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for bad news, a heavy feeling, as though a bag of rocks is pressing against her chest, consuming her.

‘Your neighbour said we might find you here.’ The woman glances about her, studying the shelves full of sculptures.

Alice’s father bought her ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’ three years ago, with the royalties from his debut novel Where Doves Fly. A Victorian building on a cobbled path a hundred yards from the sea, nestled between a bookstore and a jewellery shop selling pieces made from the gemstone Whitby jet.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Barnum,’ the woman goes on, showing Alice her badge, eyes now on her. A weak smile appears on her lips then vanishes. ‘This is Detective Constable Marsh.’