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Contents ( 89)
  1. The Secret of Cold Hill
  2. Table of Contents
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. 79
  82. 80
  83. 81
  84. 82
  85. 83
  86. 84
  87. Acknowledgments
  88. About the Author
  89. The Cold Hill Ghost Stories

The man asked him for his contact details, thanked him and told him someone would be in touch.

He ended the call, turned back and carried on, applying the finishing touches to the painting. Thirty minutes later, removing the portrait of the dogs from the easel, he placed it safely and securely on the floor, face-out, to enable the paint to dry and harden.

It was 2.20 p.m. Feeling utterly shattered, but drawn by compulsion, he walked across to the window and looked out yet again. A square white tent had been placed a short distance in front of the crane. A group of people in blue oversuits and baggy overshoes stood around it, and a police officer with a clipboard stood a short distance in front of them.

Too exhausted to care right now, Jason lay down on the couch and was asleep in seconds.

41

Monday 17 December

He dreamed he was on a treadmill, pedalling harder and harder, trying to hand a finished gesso board to David, his framer, who was standing at the end of the treadmill, but never able to reach him.

Then a headless torso was dangling from the jaws of a mechanical digger. The legs twitching and kicking as if trying to break free of its grip.

Voices coming at Jason from every direction.

You could have saved him.

Why didn’t you try?

He was my husband.

He was my father.

He was my brother.

He was my son.

I loved him so much.

He was a good man.

You could have shouted louder, mister. You could have. You could have saved him, but all you thought about was your art, you selfish bastard.

Jason woke in darkness, in confusion, hot, sweaty, gripped with anxiety. What time was it? How long had he slept? Panicky, he looked at his watch.

Shit!

8.20 p.m.

He’d been asleep six hours! Why hadn’t Emily woken him? 8.20 p.m. The sketch of the spaniel had to be with his framer by 10 a.m. tomorrow. He did a mental calculation. It would take him a good twenty minutes to get there. Which left him approximately eleven hours to get it done – assuming he worked through the night – and he had no option but to.

The horror of what he had seen earlier came flooding back. He rolled over and peered out of the window, feeling the cold draught through the panes on his face. All looked dark out there, apart from one patch of bright light. Lit up by it was a solitary police officer, looking cold and bored, with crime scene tape either side of him. Beyond, the silhouettes of heavy machinery stood out against the moonlight, which cast a sinister glow on them.

I could have saved him.

How?

Impossible, he knew, no one would have heard him however loud he had shouted. But he still felt bad for not trying. Guilt as dark as the night leached into him, as if via osmosis.