‘Something what?’

There had to be a rational explanation, he thought. Had to be. Might Louise, in her trance state, have hypnotized them both? Could that be it? Had she put them into a trance without their realizing and somehow conjured up the spirit of the dead vicar?

He clung to that thought.

Could that be it?

‘Something what?’ Emily asked again.

‘It’s fine, nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yep. I’m going to go up and get on. And I’ve still got stuff to unpack. You?’

She gestured with her arms. ‘About two hundred boxes to sort through.’

‘Want a hand?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s more important you get some rest, and that you knuckle down to your work. It’s not that long to your show. How many paintings do you have completed?’

‘Not many that I’m happy with. But I’m inspired here, brimming with ideas – I just want to get on.’ He pulled out his phone and showed her the picture he’d taken earlier of the miserable looking couple in their bright cagoules. ‘I’ve got the title for it! Romantic Dinner à Deux.’

She peered at it. ‘Oh my God!’ She turned to him. ‘Promise me – just promise me, solemnly – that we will never get like that!’

‘I promise. Orange never was your colour, anyway.’

She punched him playfully.

‘Do you like the title?’

‘I love it. Go! Go paint it!’

He walked to the door and made his way upstairs to his studio. As he entered, his phone pinged with a text.

A row of letters followed by a number appeared on the screen.

Simultaneously, he saw the same on his computer monitor.

J D E A D 0 9

He took a fast screenshot. An instant later they vanished.

51

Tuesday 18 December

Matt Johns had told him to take a screenshot the next time something appeared. Jason emailed him the one he had just taken, then picked up a new gesso board and placed it on his easel. He donned his apron and gloves, then assembled his painting tools, with difficulty, having to concentrate hard, his thoughts all over the place.

He walked over to the window. Watched a small group of people in white oversuits for a few moments: two of them on their hands and knees, around the area where the worker died. Did they need to be this thorough, he wondered? But at least the site was silent.

Then he picked up a pencil, returned to his easel, opened his photos on his phone and looked for the photographs he had taken in the pub, of the elderly couple in their bright cagoules.

They weren’t there.

They had to be! He’d shown one to Emily just ten minutes ago.

He searched again. Again.

His phone rang.

‘Jason, hi.’

It was Matt Johns.

‘You just sent me a blank email – did you forget the attachment?’

‘I’m sorry – it was a screenshot, as you asked for. I had more digits appear, another sequence, this time on my phone and laptop. I’ll check and send them again.’