Twenty thousand pounds!

‘Maurice!’ she called out, excitedly.

There was no response.

‘Maurice!’

She smelled cigar smoke.

‘Maurice?’

The smell of cigar smoke became stronger.

‘Maurice? What do you think you’re doing? You’re smoking indoors – you know that I—’

A shadowy figure, with a glowing cigar, passed the open doorway to the hall.

‘Maurice, what on earth do you think you are doing?’ She jumped up, angrily. Had he taken leave of his senses, smoking indoors? He knew how asthmatic she was. Hurrying to the doorway, with the smell of cigar smoke even stronger there, she yelled, ‘Maurice!’

To her right, at the end of the hall, she heard the rattle of a lock. The front door opened and Maurice, returning from his evening constitutional, wrapped up in his coat, hat and gloves, entered.

‘Bloody hell, love, it’s cold out there tonight!’ he said.

32

Sunday 16 December

Jason raced into the kitchen. Emily was standing, looking bewildered and very shaken.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I – I –’ She grabbed the back of a chair, pulled it out, and lowered herself onto the seat. Then she buried her face in her hands. ‘God, oh God.’

‘Em, tell me. What?’ He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. She was panting, gasping for air. Hyperventilating, he realized. ‘Tell me,’ he said again, looking around, warily, his own nerves jangling.

Guessing what she was about to say.

‘I saw something,’ she blurted. ‘I saw – I don’t know – it was like lights moving across the floor, then they all just vanished into the wall there.’ She pointed at the far end of the room, where there was just a work surface and cupboards.

Should he tell her, he wondered? That he’d seen the same thing and it had nearly knocked him down the stairs, backwards? Which might have broken his neck and killed him. His mouth was dry. He did not know what to say. They’d both seen the woman and now they’d both seen this… whatever it was. Ball lightning of some kind?

‘Let’s both speak to Louise – she’s coming in the morning?’

‘Yes.’

He looked at his watch. Shit, he had to get on with the painting, had to get it finished tonight. Had to. Regardless of what nightmare was happening here that they did not understand.

He went over to the sink and opened a cupboard door beneath it, kneeling down.

‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

‘I spilt my coffee on the stairs. I tripped on that damned carpet – it’s so thick,’ he fibbed.

‘Go on and get on with your painting, I’ll clear it up.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded.

He retrieved his mug from the bottom of the stairs, made a fresh coffee and, feeling very nervous, went up the two flights to his studio, commanding the lights to switch on inside as he entered the open door.

The window facing the lake was wide open, the cold wind blowing straight through it. Had he left it open? Surely not. He closed and locked it in place, walked over to his desk, put his coffee down, then nervously peered out across the street at number thirty-four.