Nathan found himself crushed into his driving seat by the bulk of Jenny Lyle, but he liked her and she was a good detective, with a natural nose for something not quite right. Besides, she was someone else to tell his news to.
She laughed. “Who’s the Daddy!”
“It’s just great.” Nathan banged the steering wheel.
“All planned out, is it?”
“Yeah, only we won’t be able to stop in our flat.”
“Babies aren’t very big.”
“Have you seen all the gear they come with? Em’s sister had one last year, you could hardly get in the door, prams, pushchairs, carrying things, baskets, cots, travelling cots, great bales of nappies. Yikes. I’ve changed my mind.”
They spun into the Cathedral Close.
“Be funny, living here,” Jenny said, heaving herself out of the small car.
“DCI does.”
“Like another world c different century.”
“Nice though.”
“Clock’d drive me nuts.”
It struck the half-hour as they walked along the row of houses. The patrol car was parked a few yards off.
“Here you go. The Precentor’s house.”
“What’s he do then? What’s precenting?”
“Dunno.”
A uniform came out of the side gate and hailed them. They followed him, skirting the large Georgian house by a path beside a trellis up which honeysuckle and roses twined in swags.
“OK c gardener says one of the clergy lives in what they call the garden flat, only it’s more a stone bungalow, down the end. She’s not been moved in long, a Reverend Jane Fitzroy c Gardener was working in the borders near the house, but he had to take a barrowload of compost down to the bin and it was then he heard this scream c proper, terrified scream, he said, frightened him to death. He went to the bungalow and banged, but there was nothing else except maybe someone grunting in their throat. He couldn’t tell, it panicked him c he banged again, then ran and got his phone and called us. Kelly Strong and me were by the canal, got here in five, we went down there—nothing, silent. Only when we started knocking and shouting there was a man’s voice, he yelled out at us. I called through the letter box c couldn’t see anything—there’s one of those felt strips on the other side—but he was in the hall. He said to get the hell out.”
“Who is he?”
“Won’t say.”
“Bloody hell. What’s he want?”
“Won’t say.”
“Gotta be high on drugs then, burglary gone wrong c What’s he sound like?”
“Nice sort of speaking voice—educated.”
Nathan gazed at the bungalow. Neat. Quiet. Prettily placed. He wouldn’t mind living at the bottom of a garden like this, in a bit of a flowery wilderness. Think of a baby growing up here.
The place looked empty and dead, curtains drawn, no movement. Only inside, something had happened, or was happening. There could be the body of someone murdered.
“Wait there. I’m going up to the door.”
The two uniforms and Jenny Lyle stood, as he told them. Nathan crept up the path. There was a silence so deep it terrified him. He pictured Freya Graffham, lying on the floor of her sitting room. He lifted the knocker and set it down, once, twice, not loudly, but as any visitor might knock. Silence. He knocked again and lifted the letter box and pressed his ear to it, desperate to hear some sound, anything living. Nothing.
He knocked again and was turning away when a man’s voice close up to the door on the other side said, “Go away.”
“This is DS Nathan Coates, Lafferton Police.”
“Go away.”
“I’d like a few words, sir, if I can just come in.”
“Please.”
“Just to reassure myself everything is OK.”
Silence.
“We had a report of unusual sounds. I’m sure it’s nothing. Only if you’d just open the door.”
“GO AWAY. If you knock again, or do anything else, I’ll kill her, do you understand that? Tell me you’ve heard what I said, please.”
Silence.
“I c heard.”
“So tell me you understand.”
“I understand.”
“I said, I would kill her. I have a knife, a very large, very sharp kitchen knife, and I will slit her throat. If you do not GO AWAY.”
Nathan backed off from the door, turned and sprinted up the garden to where the others were standing.
“We need to get out of earshot, come on.”
They followed him to the front of the main house.
“He has a knife c and someone, a woman, with him.”
“You sure, Sarge?”
“Yes, and even if I weren’t 100 per cent, it isn’t something to mess with. We need back-up.”
He jabbed the buttons on his mobile.
Fifteen minutes later, the close was lined with police cars. The Lafferton Acting Superintendent was in command, Simon Serrailler preparing to negotiate. Everyone else was standing by.
“I want this kept low-key,” the CO said, “and hopefully we can resolve it quickly. We have no idea what this man wants or hopes to achieve, whether he’s sane or under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
So far as we know he has no firearm. We know he is holding a woman but we don’t know if there are any others. We don’t need any two-way devices or to wire anything up at this stage. We’ll stay back and stay quiet. Simon? Let’s hope we can get this all over before it’s begun.”
Simon went quietly towards the bungalow. It was a calm, warm, sunlit afternoon. There were bees droning about the honeysuckle and roses, a butterfly on the trellis. The contrast between now and the stormy, lowering Yorkshire afternoon overhanging the sea was absolute, but he had the same sensation of being back in the thick of the action and in a heightened state of alert. He had trained as a negotiator and found the week’s intensive course fascinating; ever since, he had wished he would be called in to a major hostage situation to test his skills. This afternoon’s exercise seemed routine and domestic, by comparison.
The bungalow was silent in the sun, the curtains drawn. Nothing moved. Nothing could be seen. He had a sense of foreboding. No house with people in it should be so still. The team waited, looking towards him. Someone leaned out of the window of the big house next door. He could hear the distorted voices from a walkie-talkie.
He stood at the front door and knocked, suddenly and loudly so that whoever was inside would be startled.
He thought he heard a slight scraping sound, but then a blackbird started up from a bush beside him and flew across the garden, making its warning cry and blotting out any noise that might have come from the house. He lifted the letter box. There was a flap of fabric on the other side, so he could see nothing.
“Police. If you are inside there and able to hear me, would you please call out? I would like to talk to you.”
He waited. Silence.
“I would like to speak with you. Please tell me who you are.”
The silence was so dense, so absolute, that he almost turned and beckoned to the team to come down and bring the rammer to break down the door. If anyone was inside this bungalow he was surely no longer alive.
The blackbird sang from the lilac tree.
“What do you want?”
The voice was low and came from inches away on the other side of the letter flap.
“I’m DCI Simon Serrailler. I would like to know who is in there, please. Would you open the door so that I can check things are all right?”
“No.”
“In that case, perhaps you’d just tell me your name. If there is anything wrong, I’d like to try and help.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Will you tell me your name?”
There was a pause. Then, “Do you have to shout?”
“If you can hear me, no, I don’t.”
“Come to the window.”
“Which one?”
“At the front. She’s asleep.”
“Who is asleep? Can you tell me who you are and who else is in the house with you? The usual occupant is the Reverend Jane Fitzroy. Can you tell me if she’s in there with you?”
Now, there were footsteps, quietly receding. Serrailler waited. Then, signalling to the team that he had made contact, he walked to the front window. The curtains were drawn and, for a moment, there was no sound, no movement. Then one of the windows was pushed slightly ajar.