A Stranger's House Read online

  She sighed. ‘It’s nothing really. But I think he must have talked to Robin, too. He knew I’d nipped over to see you yesterday.’ She leant forward and rested her forehead on her right hand. ‘So I think he at least guesses that you can’t have gone far, and, of course, Cambridge is one of the nearest towns you could have chosen to get lost in.’

  I went over to the kitchen window and opened it wider, not that it made much difference to the heat. I could feel my trousers sticking to my legs. When I turned back towards the room Steph’s brow was still furrowed.

  ‘God, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He’s not going to go trekking round the whole of Cambridge looking for me. And I could be in Newmarket or Bury St Edmunds for all he knows. In any case, he’s not likely to push it. It’s true that I don’t want him in my sight at the moment, but when all’s said and done, if he did come looking I’d just tell him where to go and stuff himself. Heck, I’d enjoy it, in fact. You can stop agonising.’

  ‘Do you think you should read his letter?’

  I recognised that look now. The brow had smoothed out and the eyes were alight with interest. ‘No.’ I shoved it into my back jeans pocket. ‘Let’s have some tea instead.’

  I’d bought a coffee cake, and we sat there, stuffing ourselves, whilst I wondered how tea could still seem like the best drink in the world when it was thirty degrees outside.

  ‘Nate hasn’t contacted you again about me being here, has he?’ I asked. I’d been worried he might have second thoughts, after what I’d overheard him say to her.

  ‘He called to thank me for recommending you.’

  I gave her a sharp look, but couldn’t detect any dishonesty. ‘You two aren’t a bit alike to look at.’

  ‘I know.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘His Mum’s Irish – that’s where he gets his colouring from.’

  ‘You seem close.’

  She nodded. ‘Definitely my favourite cousin. Our parents used to take us on holiday together until we were about ten. But then Nate’s mum had a difficult pregnancy with his youngest sister, and it all stopped.’ She sighed. ‘I got the impression his mum and dad’s marriage went through a rough patch around then. They came through it, but I think that was a factor too.’

  ‘Shame. Does he have kids himself?’

  She shook her head. ‘Confirmed bachelor.’

  I gave her a look.

  ‘There have been women in the past. And he certainly doesn’t lack eager candidates, but … well, he prefers his independence.’

  I wondered. It wasn’t normally as straightforward as that in my experience.

  ‘It’s no use you looking at me like that,’ she said, catching my expression. ‘It’s just the way he is. No psychoanalysis required.’

  Behind Steph’s back, as we chatted, I could see the house on the opposite side of Midsummer Passage. Like Damien Newbold’s place, it had a pair of bay windows facing towards the Common, but whereas the door to River House faced that way, towards the river, the door of this other place, Oswald House, opened onto the passageway. It meant I could see any comings and goings from the kitchen.

  The night before, when I’d popped in for a glass of water, I’d spotted a girl with dark hair talking to a man on the doorstep. And then a girl with curly, blonde hair had come out whilst I ate my lunch, just before Steph had arrived. I quickly realised that having this view from the kitchen, along with the entertainment of the fair from the front of the house, was a bonus. Once you know you’re housebound for most of each day, things like that become significant. It was in my nature to want to find things out – I’d made my living from it, in fact – and it was automatic to start probing for information. And then there was Damien Newbold himself. If I’d known of his existence earlier I could probably have put him in my latest book. He was shaping up as a likely candidate.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Steph said, looking at me suddenly.

  I sprang to attention. ‘I’m so sorry. I had a really rough night last night. I think I was drifting a bit. What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I mean I can just stop if I’m boring you.’

  ‘Go on.’ I gave her puppy eyes. ‘You know you have to forgive me when I’m at a low ebb.’

  She sighed elaborately and took another swig of tea. ‘I was asking what you thought of this place. And of Damien Newbold. I mean it’s my dream, to take on a job like this. I love looking round other people’s houses. I keep talking to Robin about moving, but it’s not really because I want a new place. Our house is fine; I just want the excuse to go burrowing round other people’s homes.’

  So I filled her in on everything I’d found out so far, though I had a feeling it might be against Nate Bastable’s company ethics. ‘It’s probably all covered by some house-sitters’ oath,’ I said. ‘In fact, you’re not even supposed to be here really. It says on page two of my instructions. “No visitors whatsoever without prior agreement from the owner.”’

  ‘But you took no notice.’ Steph curled a strand of hair round her left ear. ‘That’s really touching.’

  ‘Well, since Nate let you in yesterday I thought there was no going back.’

  ‘I see. Thanks.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, my eye caught by movement just over her shoulder, out in Midsummer Passage. ‘He’s there again.’

  Steph turned in her chair, following my gaze. ‘What are you on about?’

  It was the man I’d seen the night before, saying goodbye to the same girl on the doorstep of Oswald House.

  ‘She’s quite a stunner, isn’t she?’ said Steph. ‘Gorgeous colouring; such clear, pale skin with that dark hair.’

  ‘I’m trying to work them out,’ I said. ‘The people that live there, I mean. I think the stunner, and a blonde girl I saw earlier, must be students, sharing the house. But what about that man who’s leaving now?’

  Steph shrugged. ‘Looks too old.’

  I nodded. ‘But too young to be a parent. And it’s not quite the end of term yet, so too soon for him to be coming to pick up her stuff, anyway.’

  ‘Blimey, Ruby,’ Steph said. ‘One day in River House and you’re turning into Miss Marple, stuck in your own little microcosm.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got much choice as far as that goes, have I?’ I picked up a stray walnut from my plate and popped it into my mouth. The man and the girl were still talking on the doorstep.

  ‘He could be anyone.’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘But she looks sad, doesn’t she?’ And there was something odd about him too. The way he leant against the house wall; that eager stance. He was rather closer to her, physically, than he needed to be.

  ‘All right; she does look sad. A bit like you, in fact, but without the snippy attitude. She might have just been chucked off her course for all we know. Perhaps he’s broken the news. Let me guess. You were wondering if there was something going on between them?’

  I nodded. ‘He’s clearly hanging around.’

  ‘Well, he looks respectable …’

  We both knew that meant nothing. She was right though; he did. He was wearing a herringbone suit, for heaven’s sake. And bicycle clips. No one wearing that kind of kit could be up to anything too nefarious.

  Steph leant forward and squeezed my shoulder with a hot hand. ‘You don’t think maybe your view’s a bit skewed at the moment?’

  I decided not to dignify that question with a response. It would be a shame to come to blows. Instead, I asked her about her work, and then we chatted about everything and nothing for a few minutes.

  At last she got up to leave, though she made me show her the nudes before she went. As she looked at the paintings she shuddered. ‘You’re right, you know, Ruby. I’d say there is something pretty odd about Damien Newbold.’

  When she had gone, worry drove me to my laptop. I’d hardly looked at the material for my book since I’d found out about Luke, but I couldn’t funk it forever. I had a contract to fulfil and there would be bills to pay. More sizeable ones, no
w that I wasn’t going to be sharing them. Hell, what a mess.

  I hadn’t written up any of the material from my most recent set of interviews. I’d hardly been in the mood. It was immediately after I’d got back from my last research trip that all the upset blew up. Well, if you go away for three whole days, what can you expect?

  As I sat down at the computer I was conscious of Luke’s envelope in my back pocket, but I still didn’t want to open it. I felt a huge, boiling rage. Did he really have so little sense of what he’d done that he thought I’d be receptive to a letter? I wanted to go on ignoring the whole thing, altogether, for a long while yet. Not easy with the book to write.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you have to say on the subject,’ I muttered under my breath, attempting to banish Luke from my mind as I opened an email from my publicist. But the contents of the message made our recent history even harder to ignore, and my head started to pound. What had just happened could get me a whole load of media attention of the sort I’d rather not have. I wondered what to do, and spent some time trying to order information; I couldn’t manage anything more creative.

  By nine o’clock the creaky bed loomed large in the drawing room, in spite of its diminutive size. The time for me to try to sleep in it was drawing nearer. I was determined to stay up really late, in the hope that I’d be able to drop off more easily. I thought I’d begin by making use of Damien Newbold’s piano and went hunting for some sheet music. The bookcase nearby seemed the most likely place, but when I pulled out some promising-looking publications they turned out to be upmarket magazines with swanky, matt covers. Then I noticed that the piano stool was the sort where the seat lifts up, but the space underneath was empty. No music – unless it was very well hidden. So much for Steph’s fantasies about a man of culture. I tried playing ‘Clair de Lune’ from memory but kept hitting the wrong keys. The piano itself must have been tuned recently though. All the notes were in perfect order. I put Newbold down as a man who kept up appearances.

  In the end, I went to explore the basement, which I would have done later anyway. I’d poked my head round the door the day before, after I’d eaten my pizza, and it had looked quite inviting. The uncarpeted wooden stairs descended into the middle of a vast, open-plan room, taking up the entire area of the house. Damien Newbold had set it up as a sitting-cum-recreation room and it was as relaxed and slouchy as the drawing room was formal. There were lots of lamps dotted around: tall standards with white paper shades, and squat angular ones sitting on side tables and shelves. As I put them on, one by one, the duskiness outside took on the appearance of a velvety, midnight blue in contrast.

  A huge, squashy sofa ran along half the side of the room nearest the Common, with a window over it that reached to just above ground level outside. At the other end, a row of windows looked out onto a small paved area, with French windows in the middle, opening in front of steps that led up to the back garden. I’d seen them from above, and they emerged just behind Damien Newbold’s study, well to the right of the boot room. The corner under the boot room itself was home to a look-at-me, state-of-the-art TV and I flopped down on the sofa, ready to take full advantage.

  I flicked through endless channels, trying to find something that would remove Luke from my mind. How like life that one of the films showing happened to be Parenthood. Not something I wanted to focus on right now; to have gone from trying for a baby to this in a matter of days made me feel hollow. More flicking produced little choice. There was a game show where people were wobbling round on giant, slippery balls; a documentary about the mis-selling of insurance policies; and something about the secret life of snails, which ought to have been soothing, but wasn’t. I pressed the standby button and went to a long bench with cupboards in the base. It had DVD storage written all over it. When I looked inside I found Damien Newbold was even more organised than I’d hoped. He’d made a list of all the films he owned on the inside of the cupboard door; lots to choose from, and lots of recent stuff I hadn’t managed to catch at the cinema. It was hard to read the handwritten inventory at an angle in the half light, but I could see it was only stuck to the door with Blu-Tack, so I pulled it away, ready to bring it over to one of the lamps for a better look. It was as I touched it that I realised the texture of the paper was odd. It felt familiar, but out of context. The moment my fingers came into contact with its glossy reverse side, I knew what it was. Damien Newbold had written his DVD list on the back of a photograph.

  I turned it over, and the face that looked back at me was a face that I knew. It was the woman who beamed down from between the windows in Damien Newbold’s bedroom; the one who had been painted by Nico. This new portrait homed in on her head and shoulders, but even so you could see she was clothed. The photo revealed part of a V-necked dress and she was wearing a hat with an exaggeratedly broad brim. She was laughing to the camera, as though perhaps the photographer had got her to strike a dramatic pose, and she found it a huge joke. The paper was far better quality than you’d get from most processing services, and the whole thing had a classy feel. It was arty, and the woman it depicted definitely had a touch of star quality. Just as in the bedroom portrait, she looked happy, caught up on a wave of bliss. And yet there she’d been, her face hidden from view. I was about to put the photo back, although it seemed entirely wrong for it to be down there, when something else caught my eye. Halfway down the list of DVDs, on the reverse side, some writing had been crossed out. The person wielding the pen had made a thorough job of it, and the words had been obliterated.

  I played the whole of Skyfall without taking any of it in, despite the fact that I’d chosen it especially as easy watching because I’d seen it before.

  How many people write lists of all their DVDs? Wouldn’t you normally just go and look, if you wanted a reminder of what was there? Was it possible that Damien Newbold had whiled away an evening writing on the back of the photograph, simply to indicate his disdain for its subject? As a way of saying, you are nothing to me, and here’s what I’ll do with your picture? But, if that was the case, then why did he have a painting of that very same woman in pride of place on his bedroom wall?

  And so it was that I lay in bed in the drawing room once more that night, as sleepless as ever, listening to three of Damien Newbold’s antique clocks counting their way into the small hours. I’d opened the window again, and that was turning out to be a mixed blessing. Friday nights in Cambridge were noisier than in Saxwell, I discovered. People came past quite regularly, sounding steadily drunker as time wore on; presumably students and young career types, making their way home to grotty digs or yuppie flats, further up the river. As a backdrop to the occasional shouts and bursts of laughter, there was a smattering of traffic noise. Sirens periodically screamed their way along Victoria Avenue or Elizabeth Way.

  The events of the day whirled round in my head, but at last the reflections became blurred at the edges, the sounds outside less distinct, and reality started to fade away.

  The noise jolted me awake again with a start. Ringing. Hell, what time was it? I reached out and scrabbled for my bag, under the armchair by the bed. As I tried to find my mobile, my mind became focused enough to realise that the noise wasn’t coming from there.

  House phone? I scrabbled with the blanket and hoisted myself off the low bed, but when I reached the hall, the extension there was quiet. I had to pause, steady myself and think. Behind me. It was coming from somewhere in the drawing room after all. I was fully awake now, and at last I was regaining some sense of direction. Somewhere beyond the piano. Finally I had it: a mobile, which had been left, balanced on top of one of the books in the bookcase.

  ‘Hello?’ I must have got to it just before voicemail kicked in.

  There was a moment’s pause before a woman’s voice came on the line, deep and slurred: ‘I might have bloody known … And who the hell are you, bitch?’

  Chapter Five

  The woman who’d called rang off before I could answer her. I’d wante
d to explain that I wasn’t, in fact, some one night stand of Damien’s; had never even met the man and was beginning to wish I’d never heard of him either. Because she must have been imagining just the opposite, of course. She had naturally assumed that where Damien Newbold’s mobile was, Damien was too. Ergo, I must be with him, in the dead of night, close enough to his side to pick up his phone and answer for him.

  Well, I couldn’t blame her for latching onto that conclusion. Most people do, after all, keep their mobiles with them. It is their raison d’être, when all’s said and done. But dear Damien hadn’t taken his. Maybe after the row he’d had, involving the glass and the mirror, he’d decided he’d prefer not to be encumbered with it. He might have had the consideration to turn the bloody thing off though. Or he could have just taken it with him and screened his calls. Instead, he’d landed me with his crappy fallout.

  I veered between anger and anguish over the case of my mistaken identity. I didn’t like the idea that someone I didn’t even know was wishing me ill.

  By four o’clock in the morning I was sitting in the kitchen, drinking hot chocolate and eating Damien Newbold’s strawberries. Bugger him. I was definitely owed after my stay in his house so far. And since I was up anyway, I was thankfully not asleep when the next interruption occurred. An alarm going off – nothing as loud as a burglar or smoke alarm, instead it was a persistent chiming. If I hadn’t known I’d already switched Damien Newbold’s phone off, I’d have thought that was the source. For some reason the noise didn’t even set my heart racing, whereas the phone ringing earlier had thrown me into a panic. This time I just dragged myself to my feet, pushing my hot chocolate to one side, and padded back up the hallway towards the front door.

  It was soon clear where the noise was coming from. The parcel I’d taken in for Damien Newbold that morning was still on the hall table, where I’d left it whilst I pulled the glass out of my foot. Whatever was inside stopped bonging, just as I reached it. Right.