A Stranger's House Page 9

  Getting as far as King Street felt like a rush of oxygen after surviving for days in thin air. As I walked past the St Radegund pub I began to feel more relaxed. I straightened my back and breathed in deeply, enjoying air that wasn’t tainted by Damien Newbold’s presence. Crossing over, I was assailed by a series of smells, beginning with smoke and beer from the King Street Run, where two pot-bellied men were standing outside, puffing away. Loud sports commentary leaked through the pub’s swing doors.

  Those smells were overtaken by garlic and seared meat from a Turkish restaurant – making my mouth water. Further up the street, the scent of tea and coffee wafted out from a shop with lots of jazzy teapots in the window. By an Italian cafe I was sure I could detect cake too, a sweet chocolatey aroma. Perhaps I would have to visit later. Laughter rang out from inside, overlaying a cacophony of cheerful voices. It all sounded so normal and reassuring.

  Regent Street is estate agent territory in Cambridge. I started at the town end, and peered in at the first window.

  Blimey. I half closed my eyes to see if that made the prices look any less scary, but really it was a job for a general anaesthetic. I moved past the doorway to a second window that displayed properties to let, instead of those to buy. The houses in Cambridge were particularly notable for being beyond my means. The village properties didn’t look quite so impossible, but I’d still need to organise some steadier income if I was to have a hope of securing something. Perhaps if I kept to a diet of grit and river water I might be able to rent someone’s shed.

  The woman inside had me sat down before I’d really thought what I was doing. I knew full well I wasn’t ready for any of this yet. How long would it take her to realise I was a time waster? Still, there was no harm in seeing what was on offer.

  ‘These locations are all very convenient for the A14 if you need to be able to come into town,’ the lady said, handing me a sheaf of pamphlets. I presumed ‘convenient for the A14’ was putting a positive spin on ‘bordering a massive dual carriageway’, but didn’t say so.

  ‘It would be handy to be somewhere with shops and a railway station,’ I said, and another sheaf was produced, with a higher average price tag. At least I’d have something to focus on when I got back to Damien’s place. It might be as well to start trying to narrow down an area. Somewhere where I’d still be within reach of Steph, in a region I knew reasonably well, but without the daily danger of bumping into Saxwell St Andrew-ites.

  Back at River House I made tea and sat browsing through the house details. Shelford looked lovely. It wasn’t an awful lot cheaper than Cambridge, though. But what about Ely? From the details I’d got it looked as though it was big enough to have a greater range of accommodation and I loved it there. The cathedral and the river were beautiful, and there was that great bookshop.

  I flicked open my laptop and Googled some images, reminding me just how nice it was. Thank God I could take my work anywhere, and at least it brought in some kind of a living. With that thought I settled down to write up more material for my book and focused on it properly for the first time since I’d arrived.

  By the time I’d eaten supper I was feeling more positive, and decided to take control. I wasn’t going to sleep downstairs tonight. It was ridiculous, pandering to Damien Newbold’s stupid stipulations. I needed relaxation, and then a good night’s sleep. I made for the guest bathroom first and filled up the film-star style tub, setting all the jets going for good measure. I’d cleaned them, so it was only fair that I should get to enjoy them too. As I lay amongst the bubbles I heard the rain start to beat against the window. The climate had changed completely since the weekend.

  Just as I was well and truly settled, the house phone rang, but I didn’t bother getting out to answer it. If it was anyone who actually wanted me, they’d call my mobile. Damien’s friends could bloody well wait until he got home. I stretched back, letting my body float in the water, and smiled. I hoped he would find a whole load of really offensive messages on his return.

  As I padded across the landing I could hear that the wind was getting up. It squeezed itself through the gappy sash windows and moaned as it pushed its way down the chimney in one of the spare rooms.

  Upstairs in the attic the noise of the rain was louder, pounding on each of the four windows, but I didn’t care. I was marching to my own tune now, doing what I felt like.

  I put my book down on the bedside table, switched on the little lamp that sat there, and pulled back the duvet.

  Underneath, written on thick cream paper, was a note.

  Thought you’d end up here eventually.

  I’d gone to bed ridiculously early to try to catch up after my disturbed nights, but I found it very hard to get to sleep. My attempt to escape Damien and his plans for me had brought us together again. I felt like a puppet, dancing on the strings he was pulling. I stayed upstairs, but when I closed my eyes I saw the face of the man in the silver frame, laughing at me. What kind of person played these sort of mind games? And why?

  It was the phone that woke me, jolting me out of a deep slumber so that I sat up in less than a second with my heart racing. In spite of the tensions of the evening, I’d been in the throes of a vivid dream about Nate. My cheeks went hot when I thought about it. Where had that come from? And then, when I reached for my mobile, I realised it was him calling.

  As I picked up, the bedside clock’s illuminated hands caught my eye. It was only eleven fifteen.

  ‘Ruby?’

  His tone pushed the dream from my mind. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Thank God you’re okay.’ He paused for a moment, as though catching his breath. ‘I’m sorry to call you this late. I thought it was best you knew straightaway. I guess the police will be round to see you tomorrow morning anyway.’

  Foreboding and shock made my voice unsteady. ‘The police? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s Damien Newbold. He’s been murdered.’

  Chapter Ten

  Nate waited for her to take it in, listening to her strained breathing. It brought back his own past; his body was still reacting too.

  ‘What happened exactly?’ Ruby said at last.

  ‘I’ve just got off the phone with the police. They didn’t go into much detail, but they’re coming to talk to me in person. They found information about the house-sitting service where Newbold was staying, and my number as a missed call on his mobile. I rang him around eight.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Now I know why he wasn’t picking up …’

  There was a long pause. ‘Shit,’ she said at last. Then, after another moment, ‘The police were quick to call you.’

  ‘They wondered why I’d called him. And they wanted to know if I’d heard anything was amiss at River House.’ He’d had to sit down where he’d stood when they’d told him they’d called and got no reply. ‘They said they couldn’t raise you. I think they were worried that if someone was after him, they might have tried his permanent address first.’

  ‘Just like Maggie did,’ she said. Her voice was uneven. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ she added as though suddenly coming back to the present. ‘Nothing’s happened here. I heard the house phone go, but I was in the bath at the time, and I guessed the call wouldn’t be for me.’

  Nate could hear the acoustics change, and the sound of her movement. He guessed she was checking round the house, and fought the urge to tell her to be careful. There’d be no one there now, and anyway, she would be.

  ‘So who found him?’ she asked.

  ‘The woman who owns the cottage he was renting, apparently. She popped round mid-evening. I may be able to tell you more tomorrow, once I’ve talked to the police again. And they’ll want to get round to River House quite quickly I imagine; talk to you, look through Newbold’s stuff.’

  ‘God. They’ll want to see the address book Maggie found.’

  ‘Yes. Though she wasn’t the only one on his tail. I was returning a call of Newbold’s when I tried to get him this evening. He’d lef
t me a message about some other girlfriend who’d been trying to track him down through his work. For some reason he wanted to talk to me about it.’

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. ‘I sense this isn’t news to you.’ Hell. What was she playing at? ‘God, Ruby. It might be good if you stopped pissing me about. I know you don’t want me to chuck you out, but this is getting a bit counterproductive.’

  He heard her draw in a sharp breath, but Nate was through pussyfooting around.

  ‘Newbold had a love-sick student neighbour,’ she said at last. ‘He probably guessed she’d try to pump me for information and wanted you to warn me off.’

  ‘Right.’ The adrenaline was making something of a comeback.

  ‘I did wonder whether to mention her to you, but she’s only just crossed my radar, so I hadn’t had the chance to think it through properly. Besides, she’s just a kid.’

  He wished he was there with her. Over the phone was no good. ‘Murderers come in all shapes and sizes.’ Nate realised he was sounding like some kind of movie cop, but all the same, it was true. Then he heard her house phone ringing, as distant as she was. ‘You go. We’ll talk tomorrow. Call me if there’s anything to report.’

  The phone call was from the police again, checking up on me for the same reasons as Nate. They said they’d be round as soon as they could the following day so I set the alarm for six-thirty. After they’d rung off, I thought again about Emily, and what Nate had said about murderers. I wished I’d told him about her straightaway. It was as though by keeping her secret I’d made her seem guilty. And what about Damien Newbold? Maybe he’d recognised something in Emily that had unnerved him, something that might have unpredictable consequences. I guessed he knew damn well he could deal with Maggie and her rages and her passion, but Emily might have been a more uncertain proposition.

  I sat on the edge of the bed in the attic, shivering, and wondered how he’d died.

  I didn’t manage to sleep until after three and woke up confused about where I was, but the fact of Damien Newbold’s death hit home again in seconds, leaving me feeling as though I’d been punched.

  By seven a.m. I was at the kitchen table attempting to eat Weetabix once more. The estate agents’ details were still heaped up at one corner and, as I glanced at them, I realised with a jolt that I might need them sooner than I’d realised. What was my position, now that Damien Newbold was dead? I could be homeless within days. I’d need to ask Nate, but it felt horribly self-centred to be considering my housing needs when Damien was lying on a trolley in the local mortuary.

  I got up at last and clattered my bowl into the sink, ready to go back upstairs to do my make-up.

  My foot was on the bottom stair when I heard someone putting a key into the front door. Someone with an old set, who didn’t know that the locks had been changed.

  Chapter Eleven

  I felt my heart thudding uncomfortably and my stomach tightening. The key was taken out, put in again and the turn was attempted with more force. I could hear the person outside swearing quietly.

  Someone coming to River House after killing Damien Newbold? Someone with something to find, or tracks to cover?

  I stole back into the hall and crept towards the door, putting my eye to the spyhole. A woman’s distorted face came into view. No one I’d met before. Her dark hair was flying in the breeze and she looked mystified. Her face disappeared from view for a moment as she leant forward, perhaps to examine the lock. She was turning the key over in her hand now. Then she moved away from the door and, as I stepped back and glanced into the drawing room, I could see that she was peering in through the window. Moments later she returned to the front door and began clattering the brass lion’s head.

  I paused for a moment, trying to think logically. In my panic my mind refused to engage properly, but I held onto the fact that if she was knocking, she wasn’t trying to come in in secret.

  I went and opened up and, now that I could see her face to face, she was familiar. It was like collecting cards in happy families. This was the woman who had looked pleading and eager in Damien Newbold’s nudes collection. And presumably she had no idea that he was dead. In my initial panic I hadn’t thought about the much more likely possibility of her being an innocent bystander. What the hell was I going to tell her?

  She was looking at me with her head on one side, her mouth set in a grim, straight line. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but, if you don’t mind me asking, who the hell are you? And,’ she looked down at her key, ‘what the heck’s going on?’

  How many of Damien Newbold’s girlfriends had his door keys for heaven’s sake? What would he have done if they’d all turned up at once? Enjoyed the spectacle probably.

  I explained my presence.

  ‘House-sitter? I had no idea.’ Her eyes were fixed on a dark corner of the hall, but I didn’t get the impression that she was taking in what was in front of her. Her look was far away, focused on piecing together a puzzle she didn’t understand. ‘I knew Damien was going away, of course. And he told me to come in as usual, so everything would be in order when he got back.’

  My mind grappled with her words. ‘In order?’

  She nodded. ‘I come in and set Damien’s home to rights.’

  ‘A sort of housekeeper?’

  She nodded again, and raised her eyes to meet mine, but then her shoulders sagged. ‘Or indeed glorified dogsbody, cleaner, bottle washer. Call it what you will. When I want to feel good about myself I liken it to being a kind of household PA. Damien would describe me as “the woman who does”.’

  That was exactly how he had referred to her in his notes in fact. And judging by the painting, she definitely had done. It was interesting to note that he had asked her to come in as usual during his time away, when he’d told me that he’d called her off, since I was there to do the work instead. ‘I think I’ve been fulfilling the same role,’ I said, then added hastily, ‘well, almost.’

  ‘I noticed the folding bed through the window.’ Suddenly she laughed, her hair falling over one eye. ‘I think that’s why I wanted to share. Dogsbodies of the world unite.’

  ‘Why don’t you come in?’ I said. ‘I think it might be handy to have a chat, if you don’t mind. There are a couple of things it would be useful to check.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll need to get on and do my jobs, anyway. I hope I won’t be in your way. My name’s Tilly by the way; Tilly Blake.’

  ‘Ruby.’ It was all so friendly and polite and – on the surface – normal.

  As she came into the hall, I went towards the kitchen, but she stepped to one side and poked her head around the drawing room door. ‘I thought my eyes must be playing tricks on me when I looked through the window,’ she said, ‘but he really has put that seascape up over the mantelpiece in there. It’s normally in his bedroom. I wonder why he’s swapped it with the mirror. Seems a bit odd.’

  ‘I found the remains of the mirror in the bin,’ I said as she followed me through to the back of the house. ‘Broken, I’m afraid. So he must have brought the seascape down from upstairs.’

  She nodded.

  Well, the seascape hadn’t left an obvious gap on his bedroom wall. Did that mean he’d re-arranged his other paintings too? And how could I carry on producing chit-chat about paintings and cleaning routines when I knew he was dead? And she clearly didn’t.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, perching on one of the chairs. ‘It would be nice to have a drink before I start.’

  And, as I filled the kettle, I knew that I had to tell her, whether it was officially the right thing to do or not. However, my mind went blank when I tried to call up the words. I must have looked like a goldfish, my mouth forming a shape and then letting it go again as I abandoned each phrase I’d thought of starting. As I poured boiling water into our mugs I said instead, ‘I was quite surprised by the paintings in his bedroom.’

  Tilly rolled her eyes. ‘The one of Maggie Cook, you mean?�
� she said. ‘It is a bit “in your face”, isn’t it? She and Damien have had an on-off thing going for years. He says it’s mainly off these days, but I’m not so sure.’

  I turned my back on her to get the milk out of the fridge.

  ‘He certainly doesn’t seem to want to take her picture down, anyway.’ She sighed as I put her drink in front of her. ‘Thanks. Maggie’s an actor you know. Lives up to the dramatic stereotype too.’

  ‘And what about the other paintings?’ I said.

  Tilly shrugged. ‘I’m no expert, but I quite like the still life. Why do you ask?’

  My mind was still working on what she’d said, so that I didn’t reply for a moment and she continued with her next train of thought. ‘Where will you want to be this morning, by the way?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I was just wondering what order to do the rooms in, so I don’t disrupt you too much.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I suddenly saw my moment. ‘Tilly, look, I don’t think you need to do the cleaning today. I couldn’t work out how to tell you, but I’m afraid I had some awful news last night. Really awful …’

  I suppose there’s no mistaking someone’s meaning when they utter words like that. Even if one hasn’t had to deal with them in reality, one’s seen them uttered on a hundred different television dramas. I was sure Tilly knew what I was going to say before I said it, but it seemed precious little in the way of preparing her for the shock.

  She looked up at me, her eyes suddenly wide and scared. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid Damien Newbold’s been found dead.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked at last, her voice almost a whisper.

  I explained the call I’d had the previous night. ‘I’m so very sorry. I’m expecting the police here this morning, to come and look through the house.’