front door and strode into the lobby area. There was a lift ahead but Eleanor took the stairs to the side of it, leaping the steps two at a time.
The flat was on the third floor and it was here, as Eleanor fumbled with her keys, that he had an inkling of the terror she was now experiencing. The landing and stairwell were near silent, a distant sound of a television and, even more muted, laughter. Strange, thought Sam, how a building could soak up so much tragedy and then, within days, present as if nothing had ever happened.
Inside, Sam was struck by the cold. Eleanor lifted a pile of mail from the hallway.
‘Odd how the concierge feels it necessary to put pizza take-away flyers through the letterbox of a dead man,’ she said, her voice full of irritation.
She moved into the sitting room, a generous space that looked, through large windows, on to the street and the darkness of the park beyond. She flicked a switch to her left and a series of table lamps flickered on, bathing the room in a soft light.
The place shared the lived-in feel of the Scott family home. Worn, much-loved furniture; books everywhere; a mantelpiece choked with photographs of Eleanor and Wendy.
But then there was the temperature. And the ghost in the room. Was this, wondered Sam, where Scott had been found? Or did he lie down in his bed and slowly fall asleep?
Clearly Eleanor was not hanging around to weigh such questions up. She had headed over to an old wooden desk, its top inset with ink-spattered leather, and was slowly going through its drawers.
‘God knows how my father managed a Government department,’ she muttered. ‘This is bloody chaos.’
Sam could hear her frustration as she rummaged through office junk – the sound of pens, paper-clips and other small objects being pushed around impatiently.
Eleanor had opened the bottom drawer on the desk’s right hand when she paused.
‘Oh,’ she said.
Sam had moved to the window where he was casting an anxious eye on the street below. He turned to her. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s empty. And I mean completely empty. Strange, given that the other drawers are crammed.’
Sam noticed a movement just within the park, a figure emerging for a moment from the shadows cast by trees and streetlights. He squinted. Had his eyes deceived him? But then, as quickly, the figure retreated.
He felt that all-too-familiar grip of fear, the pounding in his chest. The horrible sense of life-threatening danger again.
‘It may be nothing,’ said Sam, ‘but I’m not sure we should hang around for long.’
He turned to look at Eleanor. She was still rooting through the drawers. She raised a hand in assent to him, then continued.
Sam was unsure of the time that had elapsed since the figure had appeared, but he sensed that it was only minutes later when he heard the engine. In contrast to the usual sound of London traffic, this was a vehicle driven with serious intent. Sam looked in the direction of the noise, saw a dark saloon heading towards the mansion block from the east. It then halted abruptly outside. At that point, he saw the figure re-emerge at the edge of the park, climb and then vault the railings to join four others who’d got out of the car.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Sam. It was as if he’d seen it but couldn’t register it. A spilt-second passed. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he barked. ‘Now!’
He turned to Eleanor. She had laid out a pile of papers and receipts on the desk’s surface and was going through them, one by one.
‘We don’t have time!’ he said, rushing to her. ‘Just grab them all.’
Eleanor snapped to attention. She swept the desk with an arm, pulling the paperwork into a wad. She then began searching frantically for something to put the papers in, settling for an old padded envelope from another drawer.
Sam grabbed her arm and ran to the
The flat was on the third floor and it was here, as Eleanor fumbled with her keys, that he had an inkling of the terror she was now experiencing. The landing and stairwell were near silent, a distant sound of a television and, even more muted, laughter. Strange, thought Sam, how a building could soak up so much tragedy and then, within days, present as if nothing had ever happened.
Inside, Sam was struck by the cold. Eleanor lifted a pile of mail from the hallway.
‘Odd how the concierge feels it necessary to put pizza take-away flyers through the letterbox of a dead man,’ she said, her voice full of irritation.
She moved into the sitting room, a generous space that looked, through large windows, on to the street and the darkness of the park beyond. She flicked a switch to her left and a series of table lamps flickered on, bathing the room in a soft light.
The place shared the lived-in feel of the Scott family home. Worn, much-loved furniture; books everywhere; a mantelpiece choked with photographs of Eleanor and Wendy.
But then there was the temperature. And the ghost in the room. Was this, wondered Sam, where Scott had been found? Or did he lie down in his bed and slowly fall asleep?
Clearly Eleanor was not hanging around to weigh such questions up. She had headed over to an old wooden desk, its top inset with ink-spattered leather, and was slowly going through its drawers.
‘God knows how my father managed a Government department,’ she muttered. ‘This is bloody chaos.’
Sam could hear her frustration as she rummaged through office junk – the sound of pens, paper-clips and other small objects being pushed around impatiently.
Eleanor had opened the bottom drawer on the desk’s right hand when she paused.
‘Oh,’ she said.
Sam had moved to the window where he was casting an anxious eye on the street below. He turned to her. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s empty. And I mean completely empty. Strange, given that the other drawers are crammed.’
Sam noticed a movement just within the park, a figure emerging for a moment from the shadows cast by trees and streetlights. He squinted. Had his eyes deceived him? But then, as quickly, the figure retreated.
He felt that all-too-familiar grip of fear, the pounding in his chest. The horrible sense of life-threatening danger again.
‘It may be nothing,’ said Sam, ‘but I’m not sure we should hang around for long.’
He turned to look at Eleanor. She was still rooting through the drawers. She raised a hand in assent to him, then continued.
Sam was unsure of the time that had elapsed since the figure had appeared, but he sensed that it was only minutes later when he heard the engine. In contrast to the usual sound of London traffic, this was a vehicle driven with serious intent. Sam looked in the direction of the noise, saw a dark saloon heading towards the mansion block from the east. It then halted abruptly outside. At that point, he saw the figure re-emerge at the edge of the park, climb and then vault the railings to join four others who’d got out of the car.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Sam. It was as if he’d seen it but couldn’t register it. A spilt-second passed. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he barked. ‘Now!’
He turned to Eleanor. She had laid out a pile of papers and receipts on the desk’s surface and was going through them, one by one.
‘We don’t have time!’ he said, rushing to her. ‘Just grab them all.’
Eleanor snapped to attention. She swept the desk with an arm, pulling the paperwork into a wad. She then began searching frantically for something to put the papers in, settling for an old padded envelope from another drawer.
Sam grabbed her arm and ran to the
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