The Flat Read online

  The Flat

  Adam J. Wright

  This book is dedicated to my daughter, Hannah Wright, for her valuable insight into serial killers.

  Contents

  By The Same Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  By The Same Author

  DARK PEAK

  Chapter 1

  The flat isn’t perfect but that somehow makes me love it even more. Perfect would be boring, I tell myself as I step through the open door. The imperfections tell the stories of past tenants. Like the little dent in the wall, just inside the front door. It was probably made when the last people moved out; maybe they dinged the wall with the corner of their sofa as they struggled to get it out into the hallway, leaving a permanent mark of their stay here.

  Had they loved this flat as much as I’m sure I will love it? Or had they left under a cloud and crept away into the rainy night?

  The landlord, who lives in the basement and who doesn’t seem old enough to be a landlord, hadn’t been forthcoming about why the previous tenants left. “It doesn’t matter why they’re gone,” he said when Greg and I came to view the flat for the first time. “The point is, the flat is available. Do you want it or not?” He knew he had the upper hand. If we didn’t want the flat, there were plenty of people who would. It wasn’t every day you found a well-appointed flat with off-road parking in a huge Victorian building situated near the seaside town of Whitby. Northmoor House may have been split up into flats now but it’s still a magnificent building and each of its three floors is spacious, with more than enough room for a couple like me and Greg or even a small family.

  The sea view alone—not to mention the picturesque view of the North Yorkshire Moors through the rear windows—would make anyone snap up this place in a heartbeat.

  Which is what we did, and now this view belongs to us.

  I walk over to the big Victorian sash window and gaze out at the cliffs and the hazy, wintery horizon. There are dark clouds out there, in the distance, moving inland. They’ll reach us soon, along with a barrage of snow, probably. I won’t let it spoil my day. If it snows, it snows. By the time it gets here, all our furniture should be safe inside anyway, and then I can sit here with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and watch the flakes melting on the window, blurring the outside world.

  There’s a window box and even though there aren’t any flowers in it at the moment, I imagine how colourful it will look when I’ve planted it with purple hyacinths and red tulips.

  “You daydreaming again?”

  I turn to see Greg standing at the door, hands on his hips, one eyebrow cocked in amusement.

  “Maybe,” I say, smiling. “I’m just thinking about all the times I’ll get to stare out at this incredible view.”

  “Well just as long as you don’t spend all your time staring at the view. Gazing at the sea won’t pay the rent.” He joins me at the window and lets out a low whistle. “That’s some storm heading this way. They’d better get our stuff inside pretty soon.”

  “I’m sure they will,” I say, unable to believe that anything could go wrong today. It’s a day filled with promises and anticipation and marks the first day of our new life. Everything will go as planned and the furniture will remain dry.

  “Hmm, I’m not so sure,” Greg says, turning away from the window and heading for the door. “The removal men are complaining about the stairs and the fact that most of our stuff won’t fit in the lift.” He peers out into the hallway. “Maybe I should go down there and tell them to get their fingers out.”

  “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

  He turns back to me and narrows his eyes. “What are you on today?”

  “Nothing, what do you mean?”

  “Moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do in life but you’re wandering around like you don’t have a care in the world.”

  “I’m just happy, that’s all. Don’t you think living here is going to be amazing?”

  He looks around the room and shrugs. “It would be more amazing if there wasn’t mould on the bathroom tiles.”

  “I know the flat isn’t perfect but doesn’t that make it somehow more lovable?”

  “No, it makes it more damp.”

  The sound of a thud comes from down the hallway, followed by a muttered curse.

  “Sounds like the sofa has arrived,” Greg says. He steps aside, allowing the two removal men to manoeuvre the sofa into the flat. They set it down in the middle of the room and then, after throwing each other a look that says they regret ever taking this job, disappear back through the doorway.

  “Maybe I should make them a cup of tea,” I suggest. “It can’t be easy for them, having to carry everything up two flights of stairs.”

  “It’s only the big stuff,” Greg says. “The rest of it should fit into the lift. Besides, you can’t make a cup of tea, the kettle is packed away in one of the boxes.”

  “No, it isn’t” I tell him, shaking my head. “It’s in my car, along with the tea bags and a pint of milk. I unpacked it because I thought we might like a cuppa when we arrive.”

  Greg grins. “That’s just like you, prepared for anything. Okay, let’s put our feet up and have a brew. At least we have somewhere to sit now.” He drops down onto the sofa and lets out a long sigh.

  “Anyone would think you’d carried the sofa up here,” I tell him, patting him playfully on the head as I pass him and go out of the door.

  Once I’m in the hallway, I wonder if I should go down the stairs or take the lift. I’m not sure I trust the rickety-looking contraption that sits at the end of the hallway behind a wrought iron gate but I suppose it must be in good working order. There are laws and building regulations to make sure tenants aren’t put in danger, after all.

  Still, I decide to take the stairs and veer past the lift to the top of the staircase. But as I take the first couple of steps down, I realise the removal men are coming up with an armchair. There’s no way I’m going to be able to squeeze past them.

  I hesitate, wondering if I should wait for them to bring the chair up but then I hear a bang and one of the men says, “Bloody hell, Tony, be careful! You nearly bloody killed me! We need to take it nice and slow, okay?”

  The lift it is, then.

  I turn to the wrought iron gate and slide it aside. The metal clangs loudly, uninvitingly, as if warning me away. I step inside and realise why the removal men were complaining; there’s barely enough room for two people in here, never mind large pieces of furniture.

  The control panel, a stainless steel plate bolted to the wall, bears three metal buttons: 2,1,G. I press G for the ground floor and wait. Nothing happens. I press the button again. The lift remains unmoved by the action.

  “Bloody thing,” I curse under my breath. As I’m about to step out, I remember that I haven’t closed the gate.
There’s probably a safety catch or something that won’t allow the lift to work while the gate is open. I slide it shut, feeling claustrophobic as it locks into place with an ominous-sounding click.

  Praying the lift won’t take long to reach the ground floor, I try pressing the button again.

  I hear a low mechanical grinding sound from somewhere in the building and then a high-pitched squeal as the cables begin to move under protest. The lift lurches beneath my feet and begins its descent. Slowly.

  It takes almost 30 seconds to rumble down from the second floor to the first. As the first floor hallway comes into view, I wonder who lives here, beneath us. Maybe it’s someone we’ll make friends with. Our first friends in Whitby.

  The lift continues its slow descent and the first floor disappears, to be replaced, half a minute later, with the ground floor hallway and the building’s front door. My sigh of relief catches in my throat as I notice that another door—the one that leads to the basement flat—is also open. Rob North, the landlord, is leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, his eyes staring directly at me from behind his glasses.

  We’ve learned from the lease that the building is actually owned by a Fred and Wanda North, who live in Spain. We’ve surmised that Fred and Wanda retired to the Continent and left their son Rob in charge, probably allowing him to live in the basement flat as part of the deal. I try not to make quick judgements regarding people but Rob creeped me out from the moment I met him. He seems to be surrounded by a cloud of body odour and his skin is so pasty, it’s almost white. He looks as if he never gets out of his basement during daylight hours. His greasy long hair, sticking out from beneath a baseball cap, and the crumb-covered Star Wars T-shirt draped over his weighty frame add to the impression that he’s a gamer who spends most of his time sitting in front of a computer screen.

  Did he hear the lift and come up here to meet me? I suddenly wished I’d taken the stairs. I’ll definitely be taking them in future because I don’t want this guy being here every time I leave the flat. I tell myself I might be overreacting but there’s something about the landlord’s posture that suggests he’s waiting here for me.

  The lift comes to a dead stop and I slide the noisy gate aside.

  “Hey, Katy,” Rob says, offering me a short wave.

  “It’s Kate,” I tell him firmly. I haven’t been called Katy since I was ten-years-old, when my younger brother Max was still alive. Since Max’s death, no one else has ever called me Katy; I haven’t allowed them to.

  “Oh right,” Rob says, nodding. “Kate.” He licks his lips as if tasting my name.

  Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe he’s just trying to be friendly and I’m misreading it. God knows I’ve misread situations before…

  Just get to the car and get the kettle.

  I walk past Rob, trying to ignore the creeping sensation that crawls over my back as I pass him. Once the door is open and a blast of bitter, fresh air hits my face, I feel more confident and risk a look back into the building. Rob is gone, his door closed.

  Now, I feel a bit silly. I just breezed past the poor guy like I was too good to talk to him or something.

  Outside, a strong, cold wind blows across the gravelled parking area, heralding the storm which I can now see is closer than before. I walk around the removal van and stride over to my Mini, retrieving a small cardboard box containing the kettle, tea bags, six mugs, and a pint of milk from the boot.

  As I close the boot, I notice something on the moors, a flash of bright colour in the distance. Squinting, I see dozens of yellow hi-vis jackets and a couple of white Land Rovers. The police are out there, moving slowly across the land like a swarm of neon wasps in search of sugar. But the police aren’t looking for anything sweet, I realise with a sudden shock. They must be searching for Amy Donovan, a young woman who went missing from this area two days ago.

  I’ve heard about Amy’s disappearance on the TV News but haven’t taken much notice of the latest developments in the search for her because I’ve been so busy packing and getting ready for the move. Seeing the police here, though, so close to my new home, makes it all seem suddenly real.

  I watch the police for a few moments, wondering what the parents of Amy Donovan must be feeling. The anguish must be crushing them. At this point, the police are probably expecting to find a body, their hope of finding Amy alive slipping away with each passing hour.

  I turn away from the scene and quickly make my way back into the building, the box tucked under my arm. I half expect to see Rob at his door waiting for me but he isn’t there. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  But as I walk toward the stairs, I hear a door open behind me. Certain that he’s come out to talk to me, I put my head down and increase my pace slightly.

  “Have you seen my cat?”

  The voice is that of a woman. I stop in my tracks and turn around to see that the open door isn’t Rob’s at all but a door on the opposite side of the hallway. Probably the ground floor flat.

  An old woman has stepped out. She’s smartly dressed in a blue floral blouse beneath a white cardigan and a long dark blue skirt. Her hair is white and tightly-curled, her face worn and wrinkled, but there’s a spark in her dark eyes that belies her age. She holds an open tin of tuna in one hand and a fork in the other.

  “Have you seen him?” she asks. “He’s ginger. I don’t like to think of him outside in this weather. There’s a storm coming, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” I tell her. “It’s quite blustery out there.”

  She nods. “That’s why he has to come home. He can’t be out there in the snow. What if he gets a cold?”

  I’m sure the cat will find shelter long before the storm gets here but I can’t bear to think of the old lady sitting in her flat fretting about him.

  “I’ll have a look for him,” I suggest, placing my box on the floor next to her open door. Her flat is cosy-looking, filled with furniture and framed photographs. I can smell a cake baking in the kitchen, the sweet aroma of sponge and coconut making my stomach rumble.

  She smiles at me. “Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you. I’m not so good on my feet these days.”

  “Well you go and sit down and I’ll look for your cat. What’s his name?”

  “Winston.” She hands me the tuna and the fork solemnly, as if bestowing a great responsibility onto me. “If you tap on the tin he might come to you. If not, you’ll have to search for him, I’m afraid. He likes to hide.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find him,” I tell her, although I don’t feel as confident as my words might suggest. I step out into the wind, tapping on the tin and calling the cat’s name. Winston doesn’t appear. He probably has more sense than to be out in this weather and is snuggled up somewhere safe and warm.

  The door swings open and the two removal men come outside, sweating and panting after wrestling the armchair up the stairs. One of them sees me and grins. “Nearly there, love.” He and his colleague climb into the back of the van.

  I try to guess where a cat might hide around here but there aren’t any obvious spots. The parking area is just a flat gravelled area and beyond that, the moors stretch away into the distance. I tap the tin again and call out, “Winston. Come on, Winston.”

  This time there is a response but instead of seeing Winston come running out from under one of the cars, I hear one of the removal men shout, “Bloody hell there’s a cat in here!”

  I hear a flurry of movement in the van and then a fat ginger tomcat jumps out, licking his lips either in indignation of being ejected from the van—where he was no doubt snuggled in among our furniture—or from anticipation as he smells the tuna in the tin. He runs over to me, purring, and rubs his head and body against my jeans, walking around my legs in a tight circle and looking up at me with big green eyes.

  “Come on,” I say, “let’s get you inside.” I open the door and he runs in ahead of me.

  “Winston!” the old lady says, leaning over to scratch between the cat’s ea
rs. She looks up at me with an appreciative smile. “Thank you, dear. Would you like some cake?”

  “I’d love some,” I say, “but I really must get back upstairs. My name’s Kate, by the way. Kate Lumley. We’re moving in upstairs.” I hold out my hand.

  She shakes it, her fingers as cold as icicles. “I’m Ivy. Pop down anytime you want a cup of tea and a chat.”

  “I will,” I tell her, handing her the tin of tuna and the fork.

  She goes into her flat, talking to the cat in a soft voice, and closes the door. I pick my box up off the floor and make my way to the stairs, glad that I’ve already made a friend. Two friends if you count Winston.

  As I pass Rob North’s door, I see a spy hole at eye level. None of the other doors in the building seem to have one of those, only his.

  And I can’t shake the feeling that he’s standing behind the door right now, staring through it.

  Watching me.

  Chapter 2

  The storm hits us an hour later. The wind rattles the windows and throws hail and snow at the glass. The hailstones bounce off the panes like a thousand tiny marbles. I’m sitting in the armchair, by the same window I’d looked out of earlier. I don’t have the mug of hot chocolate I’d promised myself because I’m not sure which box contains the contents of our kitchen cupboard. So the mug in my hand contains tea made with slightly sour milk.

  All of our furniture is safely in the flat, the removal men long gone. Greg is standing at the rear window, looking out over the moors. He’s been standing there for at least ten minutes, seemingly transfixed by something.