the developer’s hoarding and out into the road. Police. She needed to call the police, then cursed as she realized she had left her phone in the car. She ran along the pavement. There was a phone box ahead and she dived into it, then saw to her dismay that it had been gutted by vandals.
She ran on towards the town centre, crossed one busy street and then another. A car coming towards her had a perspex panel on its roof. A police car.
She leapt out in front of it, flapping her arms frantically. It pulled up and the driver wound down his window.
‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please, I think there’s something very wrong . . . children very frightened . . . I . . .’
There was a WPC in the passenger seat and Kate was aware she was looking at her oddly.
‘Could you calm down and give us a little more detail?’ the driver said.
Kate explained, trying to gather her breath. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’
‘OK, jump in the back. We’ll go and take a look.’
The WPC spoke into her radio and the car accelerated.
‘Turn right up this track,’ Kate said.
‘There’s nothing up here – this is all part of the development site,’ the driver said.
‘No, there’s a house at the top . . . you must know it: a big Edwardian place,’ Kate replied.
‘Only house up there is the Hogarth place.’
‘Yes! Daniel Hogarth. That’s right,’ Kate said, remembering his name.
As they drove up through the tunnel of trees, she frowned. There was no snow on the ground yet it had been settling only minutes ago. Then the house came into view. It was still in darkness. The dull paintwork of her car glinted in the headlights. Then she gasped in shock as they neared the house and she could see it more clearly.
It had been gutted by fire.
The roof was gone completely and half of the walls had collapsed, leaving the charred rooms open to the elements. Pipes and wiring hung out like entrails. Kate swallowed, her heart crashing wildly inside her chest. ‘I-I-I came here . . . I-I went in . . . I—’
‘Happened five years ago,’ the driver said, halting the car.
The WPC turned to face her. ‘The parents were separated. The father was up north. The mother must have had some kind of breakdown – bought them all their presents, gave them a wad of cash then left them home alone, instructed them not to speak to anyone, and went off to Switzerland with a boyfriend. Sometime on Christmas Eve, while the kids were asleep, the house caught fire and they were all killed. The mother committed suicide after she was arrested.’
Kate sat in numbed silence and stared at the blackened shell where only a short while ago she had stood in the warm kitchen and smelled wood smoke and seen a tree surrounded by presents, and odd thoughts strayed through her mind.
She wondered whether, if she had stayed, the snow would have continued falling, and whether the kids would have got to open their presents. And she resolved that next year she would go back to the supermarket and, if Daniel was there again, she would accept his invitation to stay.
WHEN YOUR NUMBER’S UP
For as long as Gail had known Ricky Walters, he had dreamed of winning the lottery – the National Lottery, with its promise of £50 million, if not more. Much more.
Loadsamoney!
Moolah!
And he would win it, he knew; it was just a matter of time. He had a winning system, and besides, he had always been lucky. ‘You make your own luck in life. I was lucky meeting you,’ he told Gail. ‘Marrying you was like winning all the lotteries in the world at the same time!’
That was then. Now was ten years later. Five years ago, a clairvoyant in a tent at a charity garden party told Ricky she could see he was going to have a big lottery win. Gail had scoffed, but Madame Zuzu, in her little tent, had simply reinforced what Ricky already knew. He had absolute confidence. Absolute belief in his system.
It consumed him.
Yes, he was going
She ran on towards the town centre, crossed one busy street and then another. A car coming towards her had a perspex panel on its roof. A police car.
She leapt out in front of it, flapping her arms frantically. It pulled up and the driver wound down his window.
‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please, I think there’s something very wrong . . . children very frightened . . . I . . .’
There was a WPC in the passenger seat and Kate was aware she was looking at her oddly.
‘Could you calm down and give us a little more detail?’ the driver said.
Kate explained, trying to gather her breath. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’
‘OK, jump in the back. We’ll go and take a look.’
The WPC spoke into her radio and the car accelerated.
‘Turn right up this track,’ Kate said.
‘There’s nothing up here – this is all part of the development site,’ the driver said.
‘No, there’s a house at the top . . . you must know it: a big Edwardian place,’ Kate replied.
‘Only house up there is the Hogarth place.’
‘Yes! Daniel Hogarth. That’s right,’ Kate said, remembering his name.
As they drove up through the tunnel of trees, she frowned. There was no snow on the ground yet it had been settling only minutes ago. Then the house came into view. It was still in darkness. The dull paintwork of her car glinted in the headlights. Then she gasped in shock as they neared the house and she could see it more clearly.
It had been gutted by fire.
The roof was gone completely and half of the walls had collapsed, leaving the charred rooms open to the elements. Pipes and wiring hung out like entrails. Kate swallowed, her heart crashing wildly inside her chest. ‘I-I-I came here . . . I-I went in . . . I—’
‘Happened five years ago,’ the driver said, halting the car.
The WPC turned to face her. ‘The parents were separated. The father was up north. The mother must have had some kind of breakdown – bought them all their presents, gave them a wad of cash then left them home alone, instructed them not to speak to anyone, and went off to Switzerland with a boyfriend. Sometime on Christmas Eve, while the kids were asleep, the house caught fire and they were all killed. The mother committed suicide after she was arrested.’
Kate sat in numbed silence and stared at the blackened shell where only a short while ago she had stood in the warm kitchen and smelled wood smoke and seen a tree surrounded by presents, and odd thoughts strayed through her mind.
She wondered whether, if she had stayed, the snow would have continued falling, and whether the kids would have got to open their presents. And she resolved that next year she would go back to the supermarket and, if Daniel was there again, she would accept his invitation to stay.
WHEN YOUR NUMBER’S UP
For as long as Gail had known Ricky Walters, he had dreamed of winning the lottery – the National Lottery, with its promise of £50 million, if not more. Much more.
Loadsamoney!
Moolah!
And he would win it, he knew; it was just a matter of time. He had a winning system, and besides, he had always been lucky. ‘You make your own luck in life. I was lucky meeting you,’ he told Gail. ‘Marrying you was like winning all the lotteries in the world at the same time!’
That was then. Now was ten years later. Five years ago, a clairvoyant in a tent at a charity garden party told Ricky she could see he was going to have a big lottery win. Gail had scoffed, but Madame Zuzu, in her little tent, had simply reinforced what Ricky already knew. He had absolute confidence. Absolute belief in his system.
It consumed him.
Yes, he was going
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