The Flat Page 2

  “What are you looking at?” I ask him.

  “The police.”

  “Are they still out there? In this?”

  He nods and takes a sip of his tea. “They’re persistent.”

  “Well that’s good.” If it was my loved one that was lost, that’s what I’d want them to be: persistent. I join Greg at the window and watch the bright yellow hi-vis jackets move across the windswept moors. The grass and the heather is hidden beneath a sparkling white blanket of snow. “Do you think they’ll find her?”

  He frowns. “Find who?”

  “That woman. Amy Donovan. That must be what they’re doing, right? Looking for Amy?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Who’s Amy Donovan?”

  “The woman that went missing. We saw it on the News, remember?” But then I remember that Greg was at work when I saw the news report about Amy Donovan. The subject never came up in conversation until now. I’m surprised he hasn’t heard anything about it on the TV or radio but we’ve been busy with the move and all of our attention has been on packing.

  “Amy Donovan disappeared from one of the villages near here a couple of days ago,” I tell Greg. I can’t remember the name of the village but I remember thinking it was only a few miles from here.

  “Sounds a bit too close for comfort,” Greg says.

  “Yeah. She’s been missing for two days and no one knows where she is.”

  “Well I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it,” he says, finishing his tea. He takes the mug into the kitchen and then I hear a loud groan. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

  “What is it?” I rush into the kitchen to find Greg looking up at the ceiling above the kitchen sink. A pool of water has formed there and drops are dripping into the sink. “Oh no.”

  He lets out a sigh. “I’ll have to get the lad downstairs to come up and have a look at it.”

  “We don’t have to do that now,” I say, not wanting Rob North in the flat, at least not right now. “Look, it’s dripping into the sink so it’s not doing any damage to the kitchen.”

  I’m not sure if Greg is listening. He’s staring up at the pool of water above his head and stroking his chin, deep in thought.

  “The roof must be leaking into the attic,” he says finally. He turns to the stacks of boxes by the fridge. “I think there’s a bucket in here somewhere, isn’t there?” He starts to rummage through the boxes.

  “Yes, I think so. What are you going to do?”

  He points at the ceiling. “I’m going to go up there and put a bucket down to catch the water. At least that’ll stop it leaking into our flat.”

  This is just like Greg. As soon as he sees a problem, he leaps into action to fix it. I’m glad he’s going to tackle the leak himself and not get the landlord up here.

  He finds the bucket, and a small torch, and takes them into the living room, where his aluminium stepladder is leaning against the wall. Greg used the ladder when he was decorating our old flat in Manchester and insisted on bringing it with us when we decided to come to Whitby. At the time, I thought it would probably sit unused in our new home forever but he’s found a use for it already.

  “There must be an access hatch somewhere on this level,” he says, “Probably out here somewhere.” He opens the door and angles the stepladder out through the opening and into the hallway. I pick up the bucket and torch and follow him.

  “Aha!” he says when he spies a hatch in the ceiling. It isn’t a small hatch at all; it’s a big oblong that runs almost half the length of the hallway. A small brass ring set into a brass plate seems to be the method by which it opens.

  “I’ve seen these before,” Greg says. “If I pull on that ring, the hatch pivots down like a ramp. There might even be steps. I won’t need the ladder.”

  “You’ll need it to reach the ring,” I tell him, aware of a rumbling noise in the building. It sounds like someone is using the lift.

  “Of course,” he says. “You hold the ladder steady and we’ll have this thing open in no time.”

  I don’t share his enthusiasm; I don’t want him climbing into an unknown loft. There could be anything up there. What if he cuts himself on something or, worse, falls through the ceiling?

  He sets the ladder up underneath the brass ring, unfolding it until the metal catches lock into place and then pressing his hands down on the top step to assure himself it’s secure. I take hold of it to keep it steady.

  “Be careful, Greg.”

  “Careful is my middle name,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at me. “Hand me the torch.”

  I do so but as soon as Greg has his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, there’s a shout from the end of the hallway. “Hey, you can’t go up there!”

  I turn in that direction to see Rob North in the lift, pulling back the iron gate. He has a face like thunder and his big hands are tightened into meaty fists. As soon as the gate is out of his way, he storms along the hallway towards us.

  Greg steps down from the ladder. “I was just going up there to stop the water from leaking into our flat.”

  “You can’t go up there,” Rob repeats. “It’s not allowed!”

  “Okay, okay,” Greg says, holding up his hands. I’ve seen him hold his own over much less—he once had a trolley rage incident with an old lady in Lidl over a cucumber—but he’s obviously thinking that this is our first night here and it’s best not to start off on the wrong foot. “Now that you’re here,” he tells Rob, “you can have a look at the leak yourself.”

  Rob looks like he’s about to argue but then acquiesces. “Fine.”

  “It’s this way,” Greg says, leading the landlord into our flat. I stay outside on the pretext of folding up the ladder but the truth is, I don’t want to go into the flat while Rob is there. Something about him just creeps me out. I’m probably being totally unfair on the poor guy but I can’t help what I feel. Best to keep those thoughts to myself though; if Greg learns of my unease, he’ll probably expect me to start accusing Rob kidnapping Amy Donovan or something equally horrendous.

  And the worst part is that Greg would be totally justified in thinking that. It’s happened before, after all. It would be the Simon Coates case all over again.

  Rob comes out of the flat, casts me a glance I can’t interpret, and strides away down the hallway to the lift. I take the ladder into the flat to escape his gaze.

  Greg is standing in the kitchen, looking up at the water collecting on the ceiling. “He’s going to fix it,” he tells me. “He’s just gone downstairs to get his tools.”

  “That’s all right, then,” I say, fixing a smile that I don’t really feel onto my face. When we arrived here earlier, I felt so happy but now I just feel hollow inside. How can my mood deteriorate so drastically in just a couple of hours? Maybe it’s the storm making me feel this way.

  But then a thought hits me and I know that it isn’t the storm at all. Something about what just happened in the hallway doesn’t make sense.

  Greg looks at me closely. He must see something in my face because he asks, “You okay?”

  “Greg, how did he know you were going into the attic?”

  He frowns. “Hmm? What do you mean?”

  “The landlord. How did he know to come up here and stop you going into the attic?”

  Greg thinks about that for a moment and then goes out into the hallway. He points down the hallway towards the lift. “That’s how,” he says, satisfied that he’s solved the mystery.

  I peek out and look at what he’s pointing at. A small white camera is fixed on the wall above the lift. It points along the hallway towards our front door, its lifeless black eye staring directly at me.

  I retreat into the flat. “What’s that doing there?”

  Greg shrugs. “It’s a security camera.”

  “That means it’s watching us.”

  “That’s what security cameras do, Kate.”

  I pull him into the flat, out of the camera’s gaze. “No, I
mean he was watching us. A security camera recording what happens in a hallway is one thing but he knew you were going into the attic as soon as we got out there which means he must be watching a live feed.”

  He widens his eyes and puts on a creepy voice. “I bet he has a whole bank of monitors down in the basement and he sits there day and night watching all the tenants as they go about their daily lives.”

  “Stop it, Greg, it isn’t funny.” His description frightens me because it’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Greg is making light of it but I wonder if he’s closer to the truth than he realises.

  Later, as I lay in bed with Greg snoring beside me, my thoughts return to the incident in the hallway. Something about it still doesn’t feel right, even considering the camera in the hallway.

  Outside, the storm has abated, the only trace of its passing a strong wind that howls over the moors beyond our bedroom window.

  Another noise out there, something other than the wind, alerts my senses. I sit up bed, listening. I’m sure the sound was the gentle click of a car door being gently closed. Then I hear an engine start and the crunch of gravel beneath tyres. There is a brief pause and then I hear a car driving away.

  I reach for my phone on the bedside table and check the time. 2:09 a.m. I should be asleep by now but I have a problem going to sleep in strange places and, for now at least, the flat qualifies as a strange place. Give it a couple of nights and I should be sleeping as soundly as Greg.

  Obviously I’m not the only one still awake tonight, though. Sliding out of bed and padding over to the window, I look out and see the rear lights of a car slip into the dark night.

  The headlights cut through the night as he takes the road that leads across the moors. The moon, almost full and reflecting off the snow on the ground, makes the moors appear like some ghostly otherworld.

  Despite his eagerness to get to his destination, he keeps his speed well below the limit. He can’t afford to be stopped by the police, that would be a stupid mistake. When the authorities find his sleeping angel on the moors, they’ll cast a net and question anyone who was in this area. It wouldn’t do to have a speeding offence on record that places him here. And in the early hours of the morning as well. They’d descend on him like crows on a piece of roadkill. No, that won’t do at all.

  So he pushes down the anticipation that swells inside his body and forces himself to remain calm. He turns the radio on, realising as he reaches for the button that his hand is shaking. He’s waited too long for this. He should have come last night but the police were sniffing around, tramping over the moors in their yellow coats and making him wary.

  They were on the moors again today, searching the ground even as the storm raged about them. He wondered if he should stay away from his sleeping angel again tonight but the urge to see her is too strong. Besides, the police are looking in the wrong place; they’re days away from finding what they seek.

  The slow, heavy pounding of a doom metal song fills the car. The steady funereal rhythm calms him; it’s as if the monotonous beat merges with the beating of his heart and slows his organ’s pace to that of a dirge.

  When he finally reaches his destination, he pulls the car over to the side of the road and kills the engine. He climbs out into the cold night. The savage wind blows over him and he stands with his arms spread and his eyes closed for a few moments, relishing the numbing sensation on his skin. He imagines that he is trapped under ice, in a freezing, watery void. For a couple of seconds, he actually feels that he can’t move his limbs and finds himself unable to take a breath for fear that icy water will rush into his lungs.

  His eyes snap open and he waits for the feeling to pass. When he can breathe again, he fills his lungs with the dark, bitter night air and moves away from the road, walking through the snow-covered grass and heather towards his sleeping angel. He’s leaving footprints that mark his passage but there’s another storm coming soon—grey clouds are already collecting over the sea—and a fresh fall of snow will obliterate all trace of him ever being here.

  He finds the dip in the land easily and eases himself down the snowy bank to the place where his angel awaits. When he left her here, the natural depression in the landscape was filled with water. Now, the water has frozen and his beauty is encased in ice. This is exactly what he needs.

  Dropping to his knees, he uses his hand to wipe snow away from a section of the ice and sees her face, illuminated by the moonlight. She’s so beautiful he could cry. So serene. So perfect. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Her blonde hair spread about her face like a heavenly halo, accented by the bright red ribbon that he lovingly tied into her golden locks.

  Now, he does cry. While the wind and snow whip about him, he looks down at his sleeping angel and weeps with love for her.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I wake to find Greg’s side of the bed empty. The sun is beating in through the window and I feel too hot. Throwing the duvet off my body, I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen, where I find a note on the table.

  Didn’t want to wake you. Off to new job. Have a good day. See you later. I Love You. Greg xxx

  I grin at the words. Greg is such a softie sometimes and still thoughtful even after seven years of marriage. I hope the first day at his new job goes okay. I feel kind of guilty about it because if it wasn’t for me, he’d still be happily working at his old job in Manchester and not starting a new one in Middlesbrough, which is an hour’s drive from here.

  My therapist told me not to dwell on the past, that what’s done is done, but my stupid mistake isn’t isolated in the past; it’s still affecting us now. Greg is working somewhere new, we’re living somewhere else. These things are all down to me. I can’t blame anyone else or say it’s just the way life goes. My mistake ripped our old life away, tore it up into tiny pieces and let it drift away on the wind like shreds of old newspaper.

  I make myself a coffee and take it to my desk, which is situated in the living room, close to the window. My computer fires up as soon as I touch the space bar on the keyboard and I type in the password. There’s a folder on here, nested away inside the Documents folder, that is titled SC. The innocuous-looking title stands for Simon Coates. The folder contains audio recordings of my interviews with his wife Stella, notes I wrote up while I was investigating Simon, and scans of the newspaper articles that spelled the end of my career as an investigative journalist.

  I open the folder, therapist be damned.

  The various files appear on the screen and I select a newspaper article from The Sun. The headline blares at me.

  COATES CLEARED BY POLICE! SAYS HE WILL SUE FOR DAMAGES AFTER BEING WRONGLY ACCUSED OF MURDER!

  The photograph shows Simon Coates leaving a police station in Manchester, flanked by his solicitor and a number of police officers who are holding the press at bay. I was supposed to be there that day, standing among the throng of reporters and photographers outside the station, but I stayed at home and watched the proceedings on TV.

  Because, unlike those other members of the press, I was personally involved in the Simon Coates case. I’d written an article that had implied that Simon may have been responsible for the death of his 4-year-old son, Danny.

  A week before the photo was taken at the police station, Stella Coates rang me at the Manchester Recorder and said she had a story to tell. I knew who she was from the News, of course. Her son Danny’s tragic death had been reported in the papers and on the Internet.

  I met Stella in a cafe near the Recorder offices and, as she dabbed at her eyes with a scrunched up piece of tissue, she told me that she thought her husband Simon had murdered Danny.

  That surprised me. According to the police report, the boy had wandered away from his back garden while his father was distracted by a phone call inside the house. The garden backed onto fields that stretched for half a mile before meeting a stream. It was in this stream that Danny’s body had been discovered, an hour after he’d gone missing.

&
nbsp; According to the police investigation, Danny had simply slipped down the muddy bank and was unable to get out of the stream, which was deep and fast-flowing due to heavy rainfall the night before.

  Stella, however, was convinced that Simon had taken the boy to the stream and drowned him there. She told me that Simon hated the boy and often told her how much better their life would be “without kids.” She was certain that Danny had been murdered but was afraid to voice her suspicions to the police because her husband was himself a police constable and Stella was afraid the department would close ranks and ignore her. Going to a local newspaper, she thought, would give her a voice.

  Looking back at the situation now, I know I should have refused to publish her story. She had no evidence other than her own suspicions and to accuse Simon Coates of murdering his son was libel. I did some perfunctory investigation, asking neighbours if they’d seen anything suspicious and inquiring about the Coates family but I didn’t turn up anything that could secure a conviction or even be used in a court of law. A couple of people had seen someone standing by the stream earlier that day but no one could testify it was Simon Coates.

  Despite the lack of evidence, I jumped in with both feet and since I was the editor-in-chief of the Manchester Recorder’s crime section, as well as the only crime reporter—the paper was small—I was able to get my article into the paper without a senior member of staff using common sense and rejecting it.

  I didn’t exactly accuse Simon Coates of murder, despite what the headline above the Sun’s photo exclaimed. I framed the story as a discussion about unknown causes of death among children and how some mysteries surrounding such deaths might never be solved.

  I mentioned a number of cases where foul play might be involved and no one would be any the wiser because of the lack of evidence. One of those cases was the death of Danny Coates. I suggested that perhaps some of these cases should be re-examined.